[illustration: charles lamb at the age of fifty-one. by henry meyer. from the original painting at the india office, reproduced by permission of the secretary of state for india in council.] bell's miniature series of great writers charles lamb by walter jerrold london george bell & sons table of contents the story of his life his principal writings: poetry the drama stories verses criticism essays letters the essays of elia his style chronological list of works posthumous works and collected edition biography and criticism list of illustrations charles lamb at the age of . _by henry meyer_ _frontispiece_ christ's hospital the dining hall, christ's hospital sketch of charles lamb at the age of _by g. f. joseph, a.r.a._ holograph letter to john clare the peasant poet, august, charles lamb the story of his life charles lamb's biography should be read at length in his essays and his letters--from them we get to know not only the facts of his life but almost insensibly we get a knowledge of the man himself such as cannot be conveyed in any brief summary. he is as a friend, a loved friend, whom it seems almost sacrilegious to summarize in the compact sentences of a biographical dictionary, of whom it would be a wrong to write if the writing were to be used instead of, rather than as an introduction to, a literary self-portrait, more striking it may be believed than any of the canvases in the uffizi gallery. when he was six-and-twenty charles lamb wrote thus in reply to an invitation from wordsworth to visit him in cumberland: i have passed all my days in london ... the lighted shops of the strand and fleet street; the innumerable trades, tradesmen and customers, coaches, waggons, playhouses; all the bustle and wickedness round about covent garden; the very women of the town; the watchmen, drunken scenes, rattles; life awake, if you awake, at all hours of the night; the impossibility of being dull in fleet street; the crowds, the very dirt and mud, the sun shining upon houses and pavements, the print shops, the old bookstalls, parsons cheapening books, coffee houses, steams of soups from kitchens, the pantomimes--london itself a pantomime and a masquerade--all these things work themselves into my mind, and feed me, without a power of satiating me. the wonder of these sights impels me into night walks about her crowded streets, and i often shed tears in the motley strand from fulness of joy at so much life. all these emotions must be strange to you; so are your rural emotions to me. but consider, what must i have been doing all my life, not to have lent great portions of my heart with usury to such scenes? in whimsical exaggeration lamb sometimes wrote of his aversion from country sights and sounds, adopting that method partly perhaps for the purpose of rallying his correspondents, and partly for the purpose of accentuating his own "unrural notions." he was a londoner of londoners. in london he was born and educated, and in london--with a few of his later years in what is now but an outer suburb--he passed the fifty-nine years of his life. beyond some childish holidays in pleasant hertfordshire, a few brief trips into the country--to coleridge at stowey and at keswick, to oxford and cambridge, and one short journey to paris--he had no personal contact with the outer world. he delighted in his devotion to london, and stands pre-eminent as the londoner in literature. charles lamb was the son of john lamb, who had left his native lincolnshire--probably from the neighbourhood of stamford--as a child, and who finally found himself attached to one samuel salt, a bencher of the inner temple, in the capacity of "his clerk, his good servant, his dresser, his friend, his 'flapper,' his guide, stop-watch, auditor, treasurer." salt's chambers were at , crown office row, and there john lamb lived with a family consisting of himself, his wife, an unmarried sister, sarah lamb ("aunt hetty"), a son john, aged twelve, and a daughter mary, aged eleven, when on th february, , there was born to him another son to whom was given the now familiar name. seven children had been born from to , but of them all these three alone survived. the father and his employer are sketched, unforgetably, in lamb's essay on "the old benchers of the inner temple," salt, under his own name, and lamb under that of lovel: "i knew this lovel. he was a man of an incorrigible and losing honesty. a good fellow withal and 'would strike.' in the cause of the oppressed he never considered inequalities, or calculated the number of his opponents." the whole passage must be read in the essay itself. from his father charles lamb inherited at once his literary leanings and his humour, both heightened to an incalculable degree. we have elia's word for it that john lamb the elder "was the liveliest little fellow breathing" with a face as gay as garrick's, and we know further that he published a small volume of simple verse. from the father, too, the family derived a heavier inheritance, which was to cast its shadow over their lives from the day of charles's early manhood to the day half a century later, when his sister mary, the last survivor of the family circle, was laid to rest. lamb's mother, elizabeth field, is--for obvious reasons--the only member of the immediate family circle whom we do not meet in his writings. his maternal grandmother--the grandame who is to be met in his verses and in some of his essays--was for over half a century housekeeper at blakesware in hertfordshire, and with her, as a small boy, charles spent pleasant holidays. little charles lamb was sent for a time to "a humble day-school, at which reading and writing were taught to us boys in the morning, and the same slender erudition was communicated to the girls, our sisters, etc., in the evening." in a letter to coleridge ( th july, ) we have a hint that lamb may have had yet earlier teaching in an infant school in the temple for he writes: "mr. chambers lived in the temple; mrs. reynolds, his daughter, was my schoolmistress"; though it may be that the lady referred to was employed in mr. bird's school. this school, kept by william bird "in the passage leading from fetter lane into bartlett's buildings," was the one to which mary lamb appears to have owed her regular training; but samuel salt had a goodly collection of old books in his chambers, and among these the brother and sister browsed most profitably, to use his own expressive word, acquiring an early liking for good literature and learning to take their best recreation in things of the mind. but if from the "school room looking into a discoloured dingy garden" mary lamb was presumed to be able to acquire a sufficiency of knowledge, it was seen that her younger brother needed something more than mr. bird could give to fit him for a life in which he would have to take an early place as bread-winner. john lamb's friendly employer--whom lovers of lamb can never recall but to honour--secured a nomination for the boy to christ's hospital, and thither in his eighth year the little fellow was transferred from the home in the temple. should a zealous compiler seek to arrange an autobiography of charles lamb from his writings he would not have a difficult task, and he would find two delightful essays devoted to the famous school--so long the distinguishing feature of newgate street--where "blue-coat boys" passed the most importantly formative period of their lives. handicapped somewhat by a stuttering speech charles lamb did not perhaps join in all the boyish sports of his fellows, though there are many testimonies to the regard in which he was held by his school-mates, and the fact is stressed that though the only one of his surname at christ's hospital, he was never "lamb" but always "charles lamb," as though there were something of an endearment in the constant use of his christian name. "the christ's hospital or blue-coat boy, has a distinctive character of his own, as far removed from the abject qualities of a common charity-boy as it is from the disgusting forwardness of a lad brought up at some other of the public schools." in the essay from which this is quoted, charles lamb, looking back a quarter of a century after leaving the old foundation, summed up the characteristics of his school as reflected in the character of its boys of whom he and the close friend he made there are the two whose names are the most commonly on the lips of men. it is, indeed, worthy of remark that from amid the countless boys educated at christ's hospital since it was founded three centuries and a half ago by "the flower of the tudor name ... boy patron of boys," the names that stand out most prominently are those of the two who were at the school together--charles lamb and samuel taylor coleridge. it was at that old "hospital," recently, alas, demolished, that these men, so different in genius, so similar in many of their intellectual tastes, began a memorable friendship that was only to be broken by death more than half a century later. a schoolfellow's description of him may help us to visualize the elusive figure of which we have no early portraits, and the later portraits of which are understood to be wanting in one regard or another. his countenance, says this early observer, was mild; his complexion clear brown, with an expression that might lead you to think that he was of jewish descent. his eyes were not each of the same colour: one was hazel, the other had specks of grey in the iris, mingled as we see red spots in the bloodstone. his step was plantigrade, which made his walk slow and peculiar, adding to the staid appearance of his figure. [illustration: christ's hospital.] for seven years--from october until november --charles lamb remained at christ's hospital, and then, close upon fifteen years of age, returned to his parents in the temple. his brother john had obtained an appointment in the south sea house, probably through the kindly offices of samuel salt, who was a deputy-governor, and at some unascertained date between and , charles found employment in the same office; not, however, for long, for in april of he was appointed clerk in the accountant's office of the east india house, at a commencing salary of £ per annum. this same year which thus saw the founding of charles lamb's humble fortunes, saw also the beginning of the break-up of his home, for the immortal old bencher, samuel salt, died, and the lamb family was left without its mainstay. john lamb the elder was past work, already, we may believe, passing into senility; and john lamb the younger, who appears to have been prospering in the south sea house, had presumably set up his bachelor home elsewhere. salt bequeathed to his clerk and factotum a pension of £ a year, and various legacies amounting to about £ . the old home in the temple had to be given up, but whither the family first removed is not known. four years later they were living in little queen street--now a portion of kingsway--off holborn, in a house on the west side, the site of which is now covered by a church. at the end of --though his first known verses are dated five years earlier--charles lamb had, so far as we are aware, the pleasure of seeing himself for the first time "in print," and curiously enough here at the earliest beginning of his life as author he was intimately associated with coleridge; indeed, his "effusion," a sonnet addressed to mrs. siddons, appeared in "the morning chronicle" on th december, with the signature "s. t. c." coleridge, we learn from lamb's letters, altered the sonnet and was welcome to do so, and the poem properly appears in both of their collected works; the recension is certainly not an improvement on the original. in the spring of a small volume of coleridge's poems was published, four sonnets by lamb being included in it; and in may, , was written the earliest of the rich collection of lamb's letters which have come down to us. in this letter we have the first mention of the shadow which overhung the lamb family. my life has been somewhat diversified of late. the six weeks that finished last year and began this, your very humble servant spent very agreeably in a madhouse at hoxton. i am got somewhat rational now, and don't bite any one. but mad i was; and many a vagary my imagination played with me, enough to make a volume, if all were told.... coleridge, it may convince you of my regard 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. it is assumed that the closing reference here is to lamb's romantic love for a---- w----; the "anna" of some of his sonnets written about this time, the "alice w----" of the later "dream children," and other of the essays, and that it was to the unhappy course of a deep love that charles lamb owed his brief period of mental aberration. this year, , which was to close in tragic gloom, was indeed marked almost throughout by unhappiness, lightened only by the close and friendly correspondence with coleridge. from these letters we learn that besides his own mental trouble, his sister had been very ill, his brother was laid up and demanded constant attention, having a leg so bad that for a time the necessity of amputation appeared to be probable.[ ] through it all charles lamb was conscious of being "sore galled with disappointed hope," and felt something of enforced loneliness, consequent upon his being, as he described himself, "slow of speech and reserved of manners"; he went nowhere, as he put it, had no acquaintance, and but one friend--coleridge. it is difficult, in reading much in these letters, to realize that the writer was but just come of age in the previous february. the first twenty or so of the letters of lamb which have come down to us are addressed to coleridge ( - ). between the seventh of the series ( th july, ) and the eighth ( th september, ) there is a gap of time at the close of which happened the tragedy that coloured the whole of charles lamb's subsequent life and caused him to give himself up to a life of devotion to which it would not be easy to find a parallel. [footnote : it is curious that a quarter of a century later, when writing of his brother in "dream children," lamb speaks of his being lame-footed, and of having his limb actually taken off.] the story is best told in the poignant simplicity of lamb's first letter to coleridge after the calamity: my dearest friend, white, or some of my friends, or the public papers, by this time may have informed you of the terrible calamities that have fallen on our family. i will only give you the outlines: my poor dear, dearest sister, in a fit of insanity, has been the death of her own mother. i was at hand only time enough to snatch the knife out of her grasp. she is at present in a madhouse, from whence i hear 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 friends; but, thank god, i am very calm and composed, and able to do the best that remains to do. write as religious a letter as possible, but no mention of what is gone and done with. with me "the former things are passed away," and i have something more to do than to feel. god almighty have us all in his keeping! c. lamb. mention 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. at the inquest the only possible verdict was returned, that of homicide during temporary insanity, against the young woman who, in her frenzy, had killed her own mother and destroyed a home which she had been working hard, as a mantua maker, to help support. the awful shock had, perhaps, a steadying effect on charles lamb. here he was at the age of one-and-twenty suddenly placed in a position that might have tried a strong-minded man in his prime; his brother, a dozen years his senior, so far as we are aware mixed himself as little as might be with the family tragedy; poor mary had to be placed in an asylum and supported there, and a pledge taken for her future safe-guarding, while in the home a physically feeble old aunt and a mentally feeble old father had to be looked after and companioned. humbly and unhesitatingly he who was but little more than a youth in years took up a task which it is painful even to contemplate; the simple spirit in which he did so may be realized from a noble letter which he sent to his friend at the time. the shattered family removed from little queen street to , chapel street, pentonville, and there in the following year aunt hetty died. in the spring of old john lamb also passed away, and mary returned to share her brother's home, to be tended always with loving solicitude, though ever and again she had to be removed during recurring attacks of her mental malady. in this brief summary of the story of charles lamb's life it is not necessary to keep referring to this fact, though it should be borne in mind that from time to time throughout their lives, mary, affected now by solitariness and now by the over-excitement of seeing many friends, had to be placed under restraint for periods varying from a few weeks to several months. in this spring of , too, with mary's return to share her brother's life, began a new trouble. they were, as lamb put it, "in a manner marked," and had frequently to change their lodgings until they were once more domiciled in the sanctuary of the temple, where they had been born and where they had passed their childhood and youth. [illustration: christ's hospital: the dining hall.] in the first feeling of his horror after his mother's death, and with a sense of all the responsibility that had fallen upon his shoulders lamb had disclaimed any further interest in literature, had asked coleridge not to mention it, not to include his name in a projected volume. yet he was to find in reading and in writing--and in the friendship of those who cared for reading and writing--at once a solace and a joy in his own life and a passport to the affections of generations of readers. in there was published a new edition of coleridge's poems, "to which are now added poems by charles lamb and charles lloyd." in the summer of the same year he spent a week at nether stowey with coleridge,[ ] and in the autumn he and lloyd passed a fortnight with southey in hampshire. he was consolidating the friendships which were to bind him ever closer to letters. with coleridge, as we have seen, he was on terms of intimacy, and when that poet went abroad for a while southey became lamb's most intimate correspondent. the keenly sensitive young man later resented being dubbed "gentle-hearted," and an apparent assumption of lofty superiority on the part of his friend, stung him to a memorable retort. we may take the story from one of lamb's own letters to southey: samuel taylor coleridge, to the eternal regret of his native devonshire, emigrates to westphalia: "poor lamb" (these were his last words), if he wants any knowledge, he may apply to me. in ordinary cases i thank him. i have an "encyclopaedia" at hand; but on such an occasion as going over to a german university, i could not refrain from sending him the following proposition to be by him defended or oppugned (or both) at leipsic or gottingen. [footnote : coleridge, disabled by some slight accident, was unable to accompany his friends on their walks during this visit of the lambs, and once when they had left him he wrote the beautiful poem, "this lime tree bower my prison," which he "addressed to charles lamb, of the india house, london." in it that friend was referred to in this passage: yes! they wander on in gladness all; but thou, methinks, most glad, my gentle-hearted charles! for thou hast pined and hungered after nature, many a year, in the great city pent, winning thy way with sad yet patient soul, through evil and pain and strange calamity! ] the theses, as given in the letter to coleridge, are as follows: theses quædam theologicæ. first, whether god loves a lying angel better than a true man? second, whether the archangel uriel could affirm an untruth? and if he could, whether he would? third, whether honesty be an angelic virtue, or not rather to be reckoned among those qualities which the school men term _virtutes minus splendidæ_? fourth, whether the higher order of seraphim illuminati ever sneer? fifth, whether pure intelligences can love? sixth, whether the seraphim ardentes do not manifest their virtues by the way of vision and theory; and whether practice be not a sub-celestial and merely human virtue? seventh, whether the vision beatific be anything more or less than a perpetual re-presentment to each individual angel of his own present attainments and future capabilities, somehow in the manner of mortal looking-glasses, reflecting a perpetual complacency and self-satisfaction? eighth, and last. whether an immortal and amenable soul may not come to be condemned at last, and the man never suspect it before hand? the poet did not reply, and the misunderstanding between the two was happily not long continued. i have sometimes doubted whether coleridge ever knew lamb so well as lamb knew coleridge, though of his affection for the brother and sister there can be no doubt; of them he wrote at the end of his life: dear to my heart, yea as it were my heart. in his "sidelights on charles lamb," too, mr. bertram dobell rescued a remarkably interesting testimony "minuted down from the lips of coleridge," which shows that the poet came to know lamb better than when he sent his provocative message: charles lamb has more totality and individuality of character than any other man i know, or have ever known in all my life. in most men we distinguish between the different powers of their intellect as one being predominant over the other. the genius of wordsworth is greater than his talent, though considerable. the talent of southey is greater than his genius, though respectable; and so on. but in charles lamb it is altogether one; his genius is talent, and his talent is genius, and his heart is as whole and one as his head. the wild words that come from him sometimes on religious subjects would shock you from the mouth of any other man, but from him they seem mere flashes of fireworks. if an argument seem to his reason not fully true, he bursts out in that odd desecrating way; yet his will, the inward man, is, i well know, profoundly religious. watch him, when alone, and you will find him with either a bible or an old divine, or an old english poet; in such is his pleasure. in was published "a tale of rosamund gray and poor blind margaret," a story of which lamb wrote in the following year: "rosamund sells well in london, malgré the non-reviewal of it," and in also, lloyd and lamb published a joint volume of "blank verse." it was in the spring of --a pleasant beginning of the new century for them--that the lambs, after having had all too frequently to change their lodgings owing to the "rarity of christian charity," which objected to housing a quiet couple because of their affliction, at length found pleasant residence in , mitre court buildings. writing to his friend, thomas manning--one of the correspondents with whom he was ever in the happiest vein--lamb expatiated upon the moving very much in the style of his later essays: i am going to change my lodgings, having received a hint that it would be agreeable, at our lady's next feast. i have partly fixed upon most delectable rooms, which look out (when you stand a tip-toe) over the thames and surrey hills, at the upper end of king's bench walks in the temple. there i shall have all the privacy of a house without the encumbrance, and shall be able to lock my friends out as often as i desire to hold free converse with my immortal mind; for my present lodgings resemble a minister's levee, i have so increased my acquaintance (as they call 'em), since i have resided in town. like the country mouse, that had tasted a little of urban manners, i long to be nibbling my own cheese by my dear self without mouse-traps and time-traps. by my new plan, i shall be as airy, up four pair of stairs, as in the country; and in a garden, in the midst of enchanting, more than mahometan paradise, london, whose dirtiest, drab-frequented alley, and her lowest-bowing tradesman, i would not exchange for skiddaw, helvellyn james, walter, and the parson into the bargain. o! her lamps of a night! her rich goldsmiths, print-shops, toy-shops, mercers, hardwaremen, pastry-cooks! st. paul's churchyard! the strand! exeter change! charing cross, with the man _upon_ a black horse! these are thy gods, o london! ain't you mightily moped on the banks of the cam? had you not better come and set up here? you can't think what a difference. all the streets and pavements are pure gold, i warrant you. at least i know an alchemy that turns her mud into that metal,--a mind that loves to be at home in crowds. here we have the voice of the best of london-lovers, and here we have also a hint of the way in which he was finding himself too much "accompanied"--to use a phrase from one of his unpublished letters. he frequently chafed against the number of visitors who ate up his day, and at times had even to resent the way in which an intimate friend would be over-zealous in entertaining him, when for his own part he would rather have been alone. one special evening in each week was set apart for cards and conversation, and those occasions are perhaps among the best remembered features of early nineteenth-century literary life. representative evenings will be found described in various works.[ ] the company was not limited to literary folk, though many notable men of letters were to be met there, along with humbler friends, for the lambs were catholic in their friendships, and had nothing of the exclusiveness of more pretentious salons. "we play at whist, eat cold meat and hot potatoes, and any gentleman that chooses smokes." at these gatherings mary lamb moved about observantly looking after her diverse guests, while lamb himself, it has been said, might be depended upon for at once the wisest and the wittiest utterance of the evening. here it was that he made his whimsical reproach to a player with dirty hands: "i say, martin, if dirt were trumps what a hand you'd have." and it was on some such occasion, too, that he retorted on wordsworth, who had said that the writing of "hamlet" was not so very wonderful: "here's wordsworth says he could have written 'hamlet'--_if he had the mind_." [footnote : in talfourd's "memorials" of lamb; in hazlitt's essay "of persons one would wish to have seen."] in the opening years of the century lamb contributed epigrams and paragraphs to "the albion," "the morning chronicle," and "the morning post" (thanks to coleridge's introduction). his latest contribution to the first-named journal helped to bring about its sudden demise. one of the latest which was pointed at sir james mackintosh (author of "vindicæ gallicæ") may serve as a specimen of the personal epigram in which lamb considered himself happiest: though thou'rt like judas an apostate black, in the resemblance one thing thou dost lack, when he had gotten his ill-purchased pelf, he went away and wisely hanged himself; this thou may'st do at last; yet much i doubt, if thou hast any bowels to gush out. lamb's position after ten years at the india house had no doubt considerably improved, but he was glad of the opportunity of making an additional couple of guineas a week as epigrammatist to "the morning post." he did not, however, continue long at the work; it was too severe a tax to be ever wondering how this, that, or the other person or event could be hit off in a few lines of copy, and the irksomeness he felt, combined with the editorial exactions, caused him to give it up. in came a memorable visit by the lambs to coleridge at keswick, a visit which resulted in charles lamb's thinking kindlier of mountains than he had hitherto done, without in any way lessening his strong local attachment to the metropolis. of the day in which he climbed skiddaw he said: "it was a day that will stand out, like a mountain, i am sure, in my life"; a happy simile which would not have occurred to one who stood, so to speak, on a familiar footing with mountains. the life in the temple was roughly divided into two portions: the first, at mitre court buildings, extended from the spring of to that of ; then there seems to have been a brief stay of a few weeks at , southampton buildings, holborn, and at the end of the following may or beginning of june, the lambs moved into , inner temple lane, which "looks out upon a gloomy churchyard-like court, called hare court, with thin trees and a pump in it.... i was born near it, and used to drink at that pump when i was a rechabite of six years old." here lamb and his sister lived until , continuing in their pleasant weekly evenings to afford a memorable centre for the meeting of memorable men. at one of these meetings when it was being debated, whom it was the different members of the company would like best to meet from among the notable men of letters of the past, lamb promptly fixed upon sir thomas browne and fulke greville. how many of us in such a debate to-day would as promptly name charles lamb! during the first half of these years in the temple, charles lamb had written much that now endears him to us; but little, it is to be feared, that made the great body of contemporary readers aware of his existence. in he essayed dramatic authorship, had had his farce, "mr. h.," performed at drury lane, had been present on the occasion of its solitary appearance when it was incontinently damned, and had himself taken part in the damnatory hissing. at the beginning of was published the "tales from shakspeare," for which he and his sister were jointly responsible, and for which they received a sum of sixty guineas; in came another book for children in "the adventures of ulysses," and in the same year the "specimens of english dramatic poets contemporary with shakspeare." during the second half of the stay in the temple--the years at , inner temple lane, which have been regarded as the happiest portion of his life--lamb made but slight advance in literary reputation, but he was already firmly established in the favour of the few who had been privileged to know him, to hear his stammered wit, his spoken wisdom. though this period from to is not marked by the production of notable books, it was during this time that he contributed to leigh hunt's "reflector," wrote his "recollections of christ's hospital" for the "gentleman's magazine," and his "confessions of a drunkard" for a friend's publication. here were most elia-like precursors of the famous "essays." in the autumn of the lambs removed from the temple in which they had passed the greater part of their lives, taking rooms over a brazier's shop at , russell street, covent garden, at the corner of bow street, where, as mary lamb put it, they had "drury lane theatre in sight of our front, and covent garden from our back windows." covent garden, as charles said, "dearer to me than any garden of alcinous, where we are morally sure of the earliest peas and 'sparagus." one of the first letters from the new lodgings lamb whimsically addressed as from "the garden of england." the half dozen years during which he lived here forms from a literary point of view the most memorable period of lamb's life. here he arranged for the publication of the two precious little volumes of his "works" which were issued in the summer of --volumes which he found "admirably adapted for giving away," having no exaggerated idea of the sensation which the publication was likely to make. that publication was arranged, apparently, at the request of the publishers, the brothers ollier, whom he now numbered among his friends. writing to southey of the venture he said: "i do not know whether i have done a silly thing or a wise one, but it is of no great consequence. i run no risk and care for no censure." here in russell street lamb continued his sociable weekly evenings--changed from wednesdays to thursdays--here, indeed, he had to chafe anew at the difficulty of having himself to himself; he was never c. l., he declared, but always c. l. and co. he had, indeed, something of a genius for friendship; however much he might wish to be alone, he was, there can be little doubt, ever genial, ever his wise and whimsical self, even when suffering under the untimely advent of "mr. hazlitt, mr. martin burney, or morgan demigorgon"; he had to suffer--or imagine that he suffered--from the effects of a personal charm of which he was wholly unaware; but if he had not been so friendlily accessible the world would probably have lacked record of many of the delightful hints which help towards our realization of one of the most attractive personalities in our literary history. [illustration: sketch of charles lamb at the age of forty-four. by g. f. joseph, a.r.a. from the original in the print room of the british museum.] lamb was already in middle age--in his forty-sixth year--when there came to him an opportunity of expressing himself in the way best suited to his genius. early in there was started a new periodical under the simple title of "the london magazine." several of lamb's friends were among the contributors, and he also was probably invited to write for it at an early date. his first contribution appeared in the number for august signed "elia" (call it "ellia," said he), the name having occurred to lamb's memory as that of a whilom fellow-clerk of his thirty years earlier at the south sea house; for several years he continued his contributions to this remarkable miscellany, finding in the personal informal essay the most congenial medium for expressing his mature wisdom, his whimsical humour, his radiant wit. by the close of there were essays enough to make a volume, and in , such duly appeared. even with this lamb was not to touch popularity--it may be doubted whether he ever did that in his lifetime. he was known, admired, loved by a large circle of friends and acquaintances, but his work made little impression, we may believe, upon the wider reading public; it was, however, fully appreciated by those of his contemporaries best able to judge, and "elia" came to be recognized as one of the literary mainstays of a magazine which counted among its contributors, de quincey, allan cunningham, b. w. procter, william hazlitt, hartley coleridge, horace smith, and many more writers of note in their day. little more than six months after lamb's first essay signed "elia" had appeared in the "london," the editor of that magazine was wounded in a duel and died, and in the summer of the periodical changed hands, but retained its brilliant staff of contributors, and acquired the services of thomas hood, then a young man of two-and-twenty, as a "sort of sub-editor." the new proprietors gave monthly dinners to their writers, and here lamb would meet some of his old friends and many new. hood has recorded his first meeting with elia in the offices of the magazine, and his account may be quoted, affording as it does something like a glimpse of lamb in his habit as he lived at the time of the full maturity of his powers: i was sitting one morning beside our editor, busily correcting proofs, when a visitor was announced, whose name, grumbled by a low ventriloquial voice, like tom pipes calling from the hold through the hatchway, did not resound distinctly on my tympanum. however, the door opened, and in came a stranger,--a figure remarkable at a glance, with a fine head, on a small spare body, supported by two almost immaterial legs. he was clothed in sables, of a bygone fashion, but there was something wanting, or something present about him, that certified he was neither a divine, nor a physician, nor a school master: from a certain neatness and sobriety in his dress, coupled with his sedate bearing, he might have been taken, but that such a costume would be anomalous, for a _quaker_ in black. he looked still more like (what he really was) a literary modern antique, a new-old author, a living anachronism, contemporary at once with burton the elder, and colman the younger. meanwhile he advanced with rather a peculiar gait, his walk was plantigrade, and with a cheerful "how d'ye do," and one of the blandest, sweetest smiles that ever brightened a manly countenance, held out two fingers to the editor. the two gentlemen in black soon fell into discourse; and whilst they conferred the lavater principle within me set to work upon the interesting specimen thus presented to its speculations. it was a striking intellectual face, full of wiry lines, physiognomical quips and cranks, that gave it great character. there was much earnestness about the brows, and a deal of speculation in the eyes, which were brown and bright, and "quick in turning"; the nose, a decided one, though of no established order; and there was a handsome smartness about the mouth. altogether it was no common face--none of those _willow-pattern_ ones, which nature turns out by thousands at her potteries;--but more like a chance specimen of the chinese ware, one to the set--unique, antique, quaint. no one who had once seen it, could pretend not to know it again. it was no face to lend its countenance to any confusion of persons in a comedy of errors. you might have sworn to it piecemeal,--a separate affidavit for every feature. in short his face was as original as his figure; his figure as his character; his character as his writings; his writings the most original of the age. after the literary business had been settled, the editor invited his contributor to dinner, adding "we shall have a hare"-- "and--and--and--and many friends?" the hesitation in the speech, and the readiness of the allusion were alike characteristic of the individual, who his familiars will perchance have recognized already as the delightful essayist, the capital critic, the pleasant wit and humorist, the delicate-minded and large-hearted charles lamb! this gives us at once something of a glimpse of lamb as he appeared to the eyes of his contemporaries, and an indication of the impression which his genius had made on another man of genius. with his elia essays he may be said to have crowned his achievements in the eyes of those who knew him, and, in fact, his active work, or that part of it which counts, may be said to have ended with the production of these essays, which he wrote at first for the "london," and occasionally later for other periodicals. in came another removal. during the summer, or when busy over some piece of writing, lamb had stayed a while at dalston or other semi-rural place away from the time-wasting friends and fascinations of town. thus when it was decided to leave russell street the move was made to semi-suburban quietude and retirement. when you come london-ward you will find me no longer in covt gard. i have a cottage, in colebrook row, islington. a cottage, for it is detach'd; a white house, with good rooms; the new river (rather elderly by this time) runs (if a moderate walking pace can be so termed) close to the foot of the house; and behind is a spacious garden, with vines (i assure you), pears, strawberries, parsnips, leeks, carrots, cabbages, to delight the heart of old alcinous. you enter without passage into a cheerful dining-room, all studded over and rough with old books, and above is a lightsome drawing-room windows, full of choice prints. i feel like a great lord, never having had a house before.... i heard of you from mr. pulham this morning, and that gave a fillip to my laziness, which has been intolerable. but i am so taken up with pruning and gardening, quite a new sort of occupation to me. i have gather'd my jargonels, but my windsor pears are backward. the former were of exquisite raciness. i do now sit under my own vine, and contemplate the growth of vegetable nature. i can now understand in what sense they speak of father adam. i recognize the paternity, while i watch my tulips. were lamb a matter-of-fact correspondent it might be pointed out that tulips are not much to watch in september. during the winter of - he suffered from ill health, and in april, , he was allowed to retire from the east india house with a pension of two-thirds of his salary, less a small sum to assure an annuity for his sister in the event of his dying first. for thirty-three years had he continued in his office, and his salary had gradually grown from the modest £ of the beginning to ten times that amount at his retirement, so that he became a superannuated man with an income ample for the modest requirements of himself and mary. on the subject of his retirement he wrote some touching letters to friends such as wordsworth and bernard barton, and also in his accustomed manner made the crucial event the subject of a delightful "elia" essay. he had before expatiated on the excellent position of the authors who were not "authors for bread"--men who like himself were employed in business during the day and had to dally with literature in off hours. certainly lamb's "hack work," the work done for the booksellers during the early part of the century, was his least memorable achievement, and we cannot help feeling what a boon it was to lamb himself and to letters that he was chained so long to the desk's dead wood, instead of being dependent on the favour of the booksellers for his livelihood, and upon the popular taste of the moment for his themes. in , during a summer holiday at cambridge, lamb met an orphan girl, emma isola, then eleven years of age, whom he and mary later adopted, and the letters have many references to the welcome companionship of emma, who gave something of a new interest in life to the brother and sister.[ ] in the household removed again, this time to the chase, enfield. two years later they gave up the house of their own and boarded with a mr. and mrs. westwood, their next-door neighbours. in mary, who had had frequently to be "from home," as it has been euphemistically put, was under the charge of mr. and mrs. walden at bay tree cottage, edmonton, when charles decided to live under the same roof with her, even during her periods of mental derangement, and followed her thither, in the not unpeaceful evening of a day made black by morning storms. [footnote : emma isola married edward moxon, the publisher.] how much mary's companionship meant to him may be gathered from an open-hearted letter which he had written in to dorothy wordsworth--and it meant no less in the years that followed: i have every reason to suppose that this illness, like all her former ones, will be but temporary; but i cannot always feel so. meantime she is dead to me and i miss a prop. all my strength is gone, and i am like a fool, bereft of her co-operation. i dare not think, lest i should think wrong; so used am i to look up to her in the least and the biggest perplexity. 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 imperfections 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 me. on th july, , coleridge died, and the blow was a terrible one to charles lamb; "we die many deaths before we die," he had said of the departure of friends; and the passing of coleridge may be said to have come as a fatal shock, for he survived him but five months, and during that time was heard to say again and again, as though the fact were too stupendous to believe, not to be realized, "coleridge is dead!" taking his usual morning walk in the fourth week of december, lamb stumbled and fell, bruising his face; the bruise did not seem serious, but erysipelas supervened, and on th december, , the beloved friend, the noble man, passed into the great silence. he was buried in edmonton churchyard, and there, nearly thirteen years later, was laid by him the dear sister who had so long watched over him, whom he had so long guarded. * * * * * "'saint charles,' said thackeray to me, thirty years ago, putting one of charles lamb's letters to his forehead."[ ] [footnote : edward fitzgerald's "letters."] his principal writings the writings of charles lamb fall more or less naturally into four or five groups--with, of course, inevitable overlappings--and it is better to consider them thus, rather than in the strict order of their production. poetry it was in poetry that he made his first essays, as we have seen, and this is not to be wondered at in one who had early read the old poetic treasures of our literature, and in the close companion of so deeply poetic a man as coleridge. he was, indeed, himself essentially a poet, though his work in verse falls far below that which he achieved in prose. the perusal of a slim volume of the sonnets of william lisle bowles was the small occasion from which sprang the great event of lamb's and coleridge's commencing to write poetry. to the sonnet form lamb returned again and again, sometimes most felicitously, for two or three of his sonnets have that haunting quality which makes them remain in the mind. this one, with its familiar close, may stand as representative of the days when bowles was still the god of his poetic idolatry: the lord of life shakes off his drowsihed, and 'gins to sprinkle on the earth below those rays that from his shaken locks do flow; meantime, by truant love of rambling led, i turn my back on thy detested walls, proud city! and thy sons, i leave behind, a sordid, selfish, money-getting kind; brute things, who shut their ears when freedom calls. i pass not thee so lightly, well-known spire, that minded me of many a pleasure gone, of merrier days, of love and islington; kindling afresh the flames of past desire. and i shall muse on thee, slow journeying on to the green plains of pleasant hertfordshire. in his blank verse--and couplets--of the same period, the time when he was yet in the early twenties of his age, lamb shows himself an apt disciple of cowper (to whom, by the way, he addressed a brief poem in this form "on his recovery from an indisposition"). these, however, were but the steps of a born writer learning his craft by more or less conscious imitation, and lamb was not long in finding his feet and indicating his peculiar individuality. he had learned much from the free expressions of the old dramatic poets, and in such pieces as "the old familiar faces"--a poignant cry from a suffering soul--or in his unconventional sonnet, "the gipsy's malison," written more than thirty years later, we have some of the most markedly individual of his poems. he was not a poet, he declared--running counter to the judgement of some of his later critics--but essentially a prosaic writer. all that he wrote in verse, apart from the plays, would come within the compass of a small volume, and perhaps half of that would be occupied with album verses, slight _vers d'occasion_, such as are more often the products of prose-writers' leisure than of a poet who sings because he must. he felt his way to prose through poetry as so many lesser writers have done, and on the way uttered perhaps a dozen pieces, which for one reason or another will ever make a lasting appeal to readers. the sense of tragedy in "the old familiar faces"--more remarkable in that it was tragedy realized and expressed at the age of three-and-twenty--the weird imagination of "the gipsy's malison," the sweet portraiture of "hester," the fancy of "a farewell to tobacco," and the "ode to the treadmill," will ensure that portion of his work to which they belong, sharing the immortality of the essays of elia. the drama as an earnest student of dramatic literature lamb early turned his attention to the theatre, and was moved with an ambition to write for the stage. in his twenty-fourth year he started upon a piece to be entitled "pride's cure," and his letters about this time contain many references to its progress and give various extracts from it--extracts which by themselves might suggest that the play would be a notable one, but the event turned out otherwise. at the end of the piece was submitted under the title of "john woodvil" to kemble, and a year later it was rejected. "john woodvil" is poor indeed as a play; it has some capital scenes, it has some beautiful passages, but of dramatic story or characterization there is nothing. the play is concerned with the fortunes of the woodvils, a devonshire family, at the time of the restoration. sir walter woodvil is a cromwellian, living in hiding with his younger son, simon, while john holds high revel with boon companions. sir walter's ward, margaret, who is beloved by john, finds that young man's affection cooling, and thus leaves him and goes (disguised as a boy) to join her guardian in sherwood forest. then john, in a moment of intoxication, blabs to one of his companions of his proscribed father's whereabouts, and follows it up by quarrelling with that companion, who forthwith sets off with another to arrest sir walter. the old man believes that his son has betrayed him and promptly dies of a broken heart. the play ends with the reconciliation of john and margaret. a ridiculously slight story for a five-act play. much in the writing of it shows the author's loving study of seventeenth-century models, as may be seen from this speech of simon's on being asked what are the sports he and his father use in the forest: not many; some few, as thus:-- to see the sun to bed, and to arise, like some hot amourist with glowing eyes, bursting the lazy bands of sleep that bound him, with all his fires and travelling glories round him. sometimes the moon on soft night clouds to rest, like beauty nestling in a young man's breast, and all the winking stars, her handmaids, keep admiring silence, while those lovers sleep. sometimes outstretcht, in very idleness, nought doing, saying little, thinking less, to view the leaves, thin dancers upon air, go eddying round; and small birds, how they fare, when mother autumn fills their beaks with corn, filch'd from the careless amalthea's horn; and how the woods berries and worms provide without their pains, when earth has nought beside to answer their small wants. to view the graceful deer come tripping by, then stop, and gaze, then turn, they know not why, like bashful younkers in society. to mark the structure of a plant or tree, and all fair things of earth, how fair they be. lamb's next attempt on the theatre was the prose farce of "mr. h----," in which a wholly inadequate motif was made to supply material for two acts. the piece was played once (drury lane, th december, ) and damned. the eponymous hero, who chooses to be known merely by his initial, creates quite a sensation at bath, as he is believed to be a nobleman travelling incognito. hitherto always rejected by the ladies on account of his unfortunate patronym, he has wooed successfully under an initial, when he nearly spoils all by betraying that his name is--hogsflesh! he is forthwith shunned, but his ladylove remains faithful to him on his making the very natural change of hogsflesh into bacon. in his method and atmosphere, lamb had passed from the seventeenth to the late eighteenth century; he got a hearing, but he did not get--and it must be admitted that he did not deserve--success. the farce is interesting as containing in an inquisitive landlord, jeremiah pry, the original, it may be assumed, of a whole family of paul prys, of which to-day john poole's is the best remembered. two other dramatic pieces were written by lamb in his later years: "the wife's trial, or, the intruding widow" (founded upon crabbe's "the confidant"), in blank verse, and a second farce, "the pawnbroker's daughter," in prose. in these two pieces he had made distinct advances, yet neither was perhaps suited for stage representation. in "the wife's trial" we have a couple--mr. and mrs. selby--five years married, on whose hospitality a widow forces herself owing to some mysterious hold which she has over the wife. mrs. selby had been secretly married as a schoolgirl, though her husband left her at the church door and had died abroad. the widow striving to use this knowledge for purposes not far removed from blackmail, is neatly hoist with her own petard, and the slight play ends with the cordial reconciliation of the selbys. in "the pawnbroker's daughter" once more the story is of the slightest, though the farce seems more fitted for the stage than "mr. h----." marion, the daughter of a pawnbroker, is, against her father's wishes, wooed by a gentleman, and, thanks to the trick of a maid, goes off with her lover while carrying some valuable jewels with which her father has entrusted her. there are two other lovers, pendulous--who has been unjustly hanged and only reprieved just in time to save his life--and marian flyn, and out of their by-play comes the reconciliation of all. the feelings of the half-hanged man had earlier been dealt with by lamb in a letter "on the inconveniences resulting from being hanged," which he contributed (as "pensilis") to "the reflector" in . stories after essaying poetry and the drama (for both of which he maintained a lifelong liking, writing in each form during his latest years), the next kind of literary expression on which lamb ventured was that of stories and verses for children. in "rosamund gray," which is scarcely a tale for children but rather a classic novelette, he gives the story of a young orphan girl living at widford in hertfordshire with her blind grandmother. the girl is beloved by young allan clare, and one evening, wandering in sheer joy over the scenes of past delightful rambles, she is assailed by a villain. her blind grandmother finding her gone from the cottage dies of a broken heart, and poor rosamund, disgraced and terrified, seeks the home of allan and his sister and there dies. it is a terrible story told with a beautiful simplicity. of how far it may have been founded on fact we do not know, but in rosamund, lamb seems to have depicted something of a likeness of the "fair-haired maid" with whom he had been in love, and in elinor clare there can be no doubt that he portrayed much of the character of his own loved sister. the first of lamb's known publications professedly for children was "the king and queen of hearts: showing how notably the queen made her tarts, and how scurvily the knave stole them away: with other particulars pertaining thereto," and this was only recovered about ten years since after having been forgotten for the best part of a century. the booklet, which was issued anonymously, consists of a number of rough pictures, each accompanied by half a dozen lines of hudibrastic verse; the inspiration being of course the old nursery rhyme about the tarts made by the queen of hearts and their subsequent fate. the "tales from shakspeare," which followed, were written by both charles lamb and his sister: indeed the work seems at first to have been intended for mary's hand alone, but her brother undertook the telling of the stories of the tragedies, and to use his own words, out of the twenty tales he was "responsible for lear, macbeth, timon, romeo, hamlet, othello, for occasionally a tail-piece or correction of grammar, for none of the cuts, and for all of the spelling." when the work was originally produced it had illustrations to which lamb objected. his reference to tail-pieces is possibly an indication that he sometimes rounded off the stories for his sister, just as he certainly completed the preface for her. though the dual authorship of the volume is referred to in the preface the publisher put charles lamb's name as author of the whole on the title-page of the book. the "tales" are of course designed for young readers--they are told, as it has been recognized, with a kind of wordsworthian simplicity--as an introduction to "the rich treasures from which the small and valueless coins are extracted." how admirably they have served their purpose for generations of readers is to be seen in the long succession of editions in which the work has been issued. again did brother and sister collaborate in the next of the children's books associated with the name of lamb, and again charles was responsible for but about a third of the whole. of the ten tales in "mrs. leicester's school" he wrote but three. these stories, which are supposed to be told by young girls to their school-mates, are simple records of childish experiences recounted with childish naïveté. they met with some success during the lifetime of their authors--ten editions being disposed of in something under twenty years--and still hold their own, both as gift books for the young and as parts of that wonderfully varied, yet almost wholly delightful body of literature, associated with the name of lamb. here, as later in the "essays of elia," we have recollections of the actual events of their own childhood permeating the invented narratives and imparting a new interest to the whole. coleridge prophesied remarkably about this little book, when in talking to a friend he said: it at once soothes and amuses me to think--nay, to know--that the time will come when this little volume of my dear and well-nigh oldest friend, mary lamb, will be not only enjoyed but acknowledged as a rich jewel in the treasury of our permanent english literature; and i cannot help running over in my mind the long list of celebrated writers, astonishing geniuses, novels, romances, poems, histories, and dense political economy quartos, which, compared with "mrs. leicester's school," will be remembered as often and praised as highly as wilkie's and glover's epics and lord bolingbroke's philosophies compared with "robinson crusoe!" in the "adventures of ulysses" lamb sought to provide what he termed a supplement to fénelon's long-popular "adventures of telemachus." he took the story from chapman's translation of homer's "odyssey," that translation which a few years later was to inspire john keats with one of his finest sonnets. in a preface, a model of concise expression, the author of the tale explained: by avoiding the prolixity which marks the speeches and the descriptions in homer, i have gained a rapidity to the narration which i hope will make it more attractive, and give it more the air of a romance, to young readers; though i am sensible that, by the curtailment, i have sacrificed in many places the manners to the passion, the subordinate characteristics to the essential interests of the story. the attempt is not to be considered as seeking a comparison with any of the direct translations of the "odyssey," either in prose or verse; though if i were to state the obligations which i have had to one obsolete version, i should run the hazard of depriving myself of the very slender degree of reputation which i could hope to acquire from a trifle like the present undertaking. if chapman's translation of homer was "obsolete" in , it was yet to be restored to the favour of readers, thanks to the loving homage of lamb and keats. "chapman is divine," wrote the author of the "adventures of ulysses" to a friend, "and my abridgement has not quite emptied him of his divinity." in his story lamb shows how he had recognized the moral value of the story of ulysses, of "a brave man struggling with adversity," but wisely leaves that moral to be insensibly impressed upon the reader, for he not only refrained from formulating a definite "moral" in such a case, but has explicitly recorded his repugnance from the method. verses in "poetry for children" we have again a work for which brother and sister were jointly responsible, and again--though we cannot exactly allot the parts--charles, as we learn from his letters, wrote but about one third of the whole. three years after publication the two small volumes in which this work had been issued were out of print, though a number of the pieces were included by the publisher in a "poetry book" compilation. in lamb wanted a copy and could not get it, indeed the little work had disappeared in the most complete fashion, and another half century was to pass before a copy was to be recovered, and then it came from australia, closely followed by one of an american edition, "pirated" in . it is strange that charles and mary lamb, "an old bachelor and an old maid," as he put it, should have been so successful as caterers for children. that they were successful there is no doubt, and there is no reason why this "poetry for children" of theirs should not--now happily recovered in its entirety--go on pleasing and influencing many generations of young readers; that they _do_ please the little ones of to-day i have readily proved. the verses are on the simplest themes, set forth in varied metres, but chiefly such metres as children can most readily remember, and though they are for the most part didactic, they are didactic in a way which the child does not resent. there is no telling a tale and then trying to enforce a moral from its consideration, but the moral is a natural part of the whole, and doubtless has its healthy effect. "prince dorus" is a pleasant little story in easy verse, telling of a king who fell in love with a great princess, but was in despair because his love was not requited: "this to the king a courteous fairy told and bade the monarch in his suit be bold; for he that would the charming princess wed, had only on her cat's black tail to tread, when straight the spell would vanish into air, and he enjoy for life the yielding fair." at length he succeeds in this seemingly simple exploit, and in place of the cat there springs up a huge man who foretells that when married the king shall have a son afflicted with a huge nose, a son who shall never be happy in his love: till he with tears his blemish shall confess discern its odious length and wish it less. it is a pleasant little story marked with lamb's keen sense of humour. "beauty and the beast" is a booklet in verse for young readers. it was published shortly after "prince dorus," and is believed--though the evidence as to authorship is inconclusive--to have been written by charles or mary lamb. it is a simple rendering in hudibrastic verse of a familiar nursery story. perhaps a very slight piece of evidence in favour of the lamb authorship may be found in the fact that it shares with "prince dorus" the sub-title, "a poetical version of an ancient tale." criticism in the mid-part of the period during which charles lamb was writing, either on his own account or in collaboration with his sister, the books for children to which reference has just been made, he was also engaged upon the work which was to bring him before the world as a great critic, as the first of the neo-elizabethans if i may substitute that nickname for the time-honoured one which calls him the last of the elizabethans. for us, to-day, with our bountiful acknowledgment of all that we owe to the great body of dramatic poets who flourished during the latter part of the sixteenth century and the first half of the seventeenth, for us with our many collected editions of the works of these men it is somewhat difficult to realize the benighted condition in which our fellows were situated a century ago. elizabethan drama to by far the greater number of our great grandparents meant shakespeare and shakespeare alone; to us shakespeare is only the sun of a great dramatic planetary system, and the corrected view is largely owing to the efforts of one revolutionary critic, and that critic was charles lamb. his earliest letters show that he had revelled in this by-way of literature, and had there found much that was of the best comparatively forgotten, or at least wholly neglected, and he gladly availed himself of an opportunity afforded for selecting striking passages from the english dramatic poets. "specimens are becoming fashionable," he wrote. "we have 'specimens of ancient english poets,' 'specimens of modern english poets,' 'specimens of ancient english prose writers,' without end. they used to be called 'beauties'! you have seen 'beauties of shakspeare'? so have many people that never saw any beauties in shakspeare." lamb was not by any means, however, an imitator of the unfortunate clerical forger, dodd, in the scheme which he had in hand. when we turn to the "specimens" themselves we discover them to be fine indeed, and in reading them and the brief but pregnant notes upon them, we marvel at the sureness of the touch and the maturity of the writer. the notes, or commentary, rarely extend beyond a score of lines, and are most often far below that, yet they are always wonderfully pertinent; there is "no philology, no antiquarianism, no discussion of difficult or corrupt passages," no pedantry in fact, or dry-as-dustism. it must not be forgotten when we look over the volume with scenes from the plays of kyd, peele, marlowe, dekker, marston, chapman, heywood, middleton, tourneur, webster, ford, jonson, beaumont, fletcher, massinger, shirley and others--it must not be forgotten that lamb was pleading the merits of these dramatic poets before a generation to which some of them were but names and the rest practically non-existent. the suggestion which lamb throws out in the preface that he had desired to show "how much of shakspeare shines in the great men his contemporaries" is amply borne out in his brief notes upon his selections. this can best be proved by giving some of the editorial comments from the collection itself, comments which fully establish lamb in his high place among the clearest sighted if least voluminous of our true critics: heywood is a sort of _prose_ shakspeare. his scenes are to the full as natural and affecting. but we miss _the poet_, that which in shakspeare always appears out and above the surface of _the nature_. heywood's characters, his country gentlemen, etc., are exactly what we see (but of the best kind of what we see) in life. shakspeare makes us believe, while we are among his lovely creations, that they are nothing but what we are familiar with, as in dreams new things seem old: but we awake, and sigh for the difference. * * * * * the insipid levelling morality to which the modern stage is tied down would not admit of such admirable passions as these scenes are filled with. a puritanical obtuseness of sentiment, a stupid infantile goodness, is creeping among us, instead of the vigorous passions and virtues clad in flesh and blood, with which the old dramatists present us. those noble and liberal casuists could discern in the differences, the quarrels, the animosities of man, a beauty and truth of moral feeling, no less than in the iterately inculcated duties of forgiveness and atonement. with us all is hypocritical meekness. a reconciliation scene (let the occasion be never so absurd or unnatural) is always sure of applause. our audiences come to the theatre to be complimented on their goodness. they compare notes with the amiable characters in the play, and find a wonderful similarity of disposition between them. we have a common stock of dramatic morality out of which a writer may be supplied without the trouble of copying from originals within his own breast. to know the boundaries of honour, to be judiciously valiant, to have a temperance which shall beget a smoothness in the angry swellings of youth, to esteem life as nothing when the sacred reputation of a parent is to be defended, yet to shake and tremble under a pious cowardice when that ark of an honest confidence is found to be frail and tottering, to feel the true blows of a real disgrace blunting that sword which the imaginary strokes of a supposed false imputation had put so keen an edge upon but lately; to do, or to imagine this done in a feigned story, asks something more of a moral sense, somewhat a greater delicacy of perception in questions of right and wrong, than goes to the writing of two or three hackneyed sentences about the laws of honour as opposed to the laws of the land or a commonplace against duelling. yet such things would stand a writer nowadays in far better stead than captain ager and his conscientious honour; and he would be considered a far better teacher of morality than old rowley or middleton if they were living. * * * * * though some resemblance may be traced between the charms in macbeth and the incantations in this play, which is supposed to have preceded it, this coincidence will not detract much from the originality of shakspeare. his witches are distinguished from the witches of middleton by essential differences. these are creatures to whom man or woman plotting some dire mischief might resort for occasional consultation. those originate deeds of blood, and begin bad impulses to men. from the moment that their eyes first meet with macbeth's, he is spellbound. that meeting sways his destiny. he can never break the fascination. these witches can hurt the body: those have power over the soul. hecate in middleton has a son, a low buffoon: the hags of shakspeare have neither child of their own, nor seem to be descended from any parent. they are foul anomalies, of whom we know not whence they are sprung, nor whether they have beginning or ending. as they are without human passions, so they seem to be without human relations. they come with thunder and lightning, and vanish to airy music. this is all we know of them.--except hecate, they have no names; which heightens their mysteriousness. their names, and some of the properties, which middleton has given to his hags, excite smiles. the weird sisters are serious things. their presence cannot co-exist with mirth. but in a lesser degree the witches of middleton are fine creations. their power too is, in some measure, over the mind. they raise jars, jealousies, strife, _like a thick scurf o'er life_. here surely we have the right stuff. terse, pregnant sentences; few words, but going to the very heart of the matter. that lamb was justly proud of his pioneer work in this field of literary research is certain, for in a short autobiography which he prepared for a friend's album--in what has been called "the briefest, and perhaps the wittiest and most truthful autobiography in the language"--he wrote as follows: he also was the first to draw the public attention to the old english dramatists, in a work called "specimens of english dramatic writers who lived about the time of shakspeare," published about fifteen years since. of lamb's work in this field the elder disraeli admirably said, "he carries us on through whole scenes by a true, unerring motion. his was a poetical mind, labouring in poetry." within the century that has elapsed since lamb was engaged in exploring the forgotten old tomes in which lay buried so much excellent literature, the study which he started has taken its place as one of the most important of its kind, and a large library might be formed of the books and reprints which may be looked upon as direct descendants of that modest single octavo volume of . during his later years lamb devised something in the nature of a supplement when he prepared further extracts from the garrick collection of plays in the british museum for hone's "table book" ( ), and these extracts are now generally bound up with the earlier ones in a single work. essays in giving this summary account of lamb's writings it has been thought best only to keep to a very roughly chronological method, leaving his letters to be touched upon last. finding earliest expression in poetry, he then turned to the drama, fully equipped with knowledge and a fine enthusiasm, but lacking some of the most vitally essential qualities necessary to success; he then passed more or less by force of circumstance--the need of making money and the desire to help his sister in her newly-found work--to the writing of prose and verse for children; and later he began to make wider use of the fine critical instinct of which he had given early indications in his correspondence. all of these were to be in a measure overshadowed by his achievement as essayist. that work as essayist was chiefly the product of his prime--of the days of the "london magazine"--but he had made several notable contributions of this character during the preceding twenty years; essays which are now to be found in different posthumous collections of his writings--"eliana," "critical essays," "essays and sketches," "miscellaneous prose," and so on. when, thanks to the kindly offices of coleridge, lamb became a contributor to the "morning post," he proposed to furnish some imitations of burton, the author of the "anatomy of melancholy," but these, not unnaturally, being adjudged unsuitable for a daily newspaper found a place in the "john woodvil" volume of . yet it was in the journal named that on st february, , appeared a brief essay in the form of a letter on "the londoner." in this essay we have lamb using the same phrases that he had employed a year earlier in writing to wordsworth. in - lamb was contributing essays (including "on the inconveniences resulting from being hanged," "recollections of christ's hospital," and on "the melancholy of tailors") to leigh hunt's "reflector," to the "gentleman's magazine," and the "champion." eight of these essays were included in the two volume "works" of . it was with the establishment of the "london magazine" in that, as has been said, lamb's great opportunity came and was greatly taken. the magazine began, as we have seen, in january, and the editor soon gathered around him a remarkably brilliant body of contributors. to their number in august was added "elia," whose modest signature--later to become perhaps the most widely-known pen-name in our literature--was appended to an article on "the south sea house." thenceforward--with the occasional missing of a month here or there, balanced by other months presenting two--the essays appeared with such regularity that twenty-eight months later there were twenty-seven of the twenty-eight essays which were gathered into the volume published in as "the essays of elia." the publication of the essays in volume form did not by any means indicate that the author had worked out his vein; indeed, while the book was passing through the press he was writing other essays for the "london," though not with the same regularity; afterwards he contributed to the "new monthly" and other magazines. such of this later work as he chose to preserve formed "the last essays of elia," published ten years after the earlier work. letters all through his working life as man of letters lamb was engaged in manifesting that side of his genius which whilst known to but few persons during his lifetime was to be one of those most widely and most lovingly known afterwards. he was of the greatest of our letter-writers. it was perhaps but another aspect of the essayist--or rather we might say that his work as essayist was the crowning development of his sedulous habit of being himself when communing on paper with his intimate friends. it has been suggested that such finished works as are many of lamb's letters were, so to speak, built up bit by bit, and then copied as completed wholes before being despatched to those for whom they were designed. whether written with a running pen, as a large proportion of them undoubtedly were, or written with the patience of the essayist ponderingly in search of the _mot juste_, they are always true lamb, individual expressions far removed from the ordinary letters of ordinary folk; they are at once informing revelations of the writer in his relations with his fellows, and they are always marked by essentially literary qualities. in his letters will be found not infrequently--both in idea and in expression--the germs of his essays. lamb was first revealed to the reading public as a great letter-writer in talfourd's "memorials of charles lamb" nearly seventy years ago. since that time each further publication of the letters has brought fresh material to light which has but gone to strengthen lamb's position as one of the first two or three letter-writers whose epistles have taken their places in english literature. if we must "place" our great men, there are not wanting critics who would accord lamb a position at the very head of those in this particular branch. "to an idler like myself, to write and receive letters are both very pleasant;" thus lamb in one of his earliest letters to coleridge, and there can be little doubt that in this occupation he frequently found the truth of the statement that the labour we delight in physics pain. in communion with men of kindred tastes he must often have lost the sense of his haunting troubles in intellectual and external interests. two or three scraps from the letters have been quoted in the first chapter but as their peculiarly rich wit and humour, using that much-abused word in its fullest significance, can best be shown by example, we may here give a couple more. the first is from a letter written in , and addressed to manning, the correspondent with whom lamb was most entertainingly whimsical. the second letter, given in its entirety, was addressed in to thomas hood. holcroft had finished his life when i wrote to you, and hazlitt has since finished his life--i do not mean his own life, but he has finished a life of holcroft, which is going to press. tuthill is dr. tuthill. i continue mr. lamb. i have published a little book for children on titles of honour: and to give them some idea of the difference of rank and gradual rising, i have made a little scale, supposing myself to receive the following various accessions of dignity from the king, who is the fountain of honour.--as at first, , mr. c. lamb; , c. lamb, esq.; , sir c. lamb, bart,; , baron lamb of stamford; , viscount lamb; , earl lamb; , marquis lamb; , duke lamb. it would look like quibbling to carry it on further, and especially as it is not necessary for children to go beyond the ordinary titles of sub-regal dignity in our own country, otherwise i have sometimes in my dreams imagined myself still advancing, as th, king lamb; th, emperor lamb; th, pope innocent, higher than which is nothing but the lamb of god. puns i have not made many (nor punch much), since the day of my last; one i cannot help relating. a constable in salisbury cathedral was telling me that eight people dined at the top of the spire of the cathedral, upon which i remarked that they must be very sharp set. but in general i cultivate the reasoning part of my mind more than the imaginative. do you know kate * * *. i am so stuffed out with eating turkey for dinner, and another turkey for supper yesterday (turkey in europe and turkey in asia), that i can't jog on. it is new year here. that is, it was new year half a year back, when i was writing this. nothing puzzles me more than time and space, and yet nothing puzzles me less, for i never think about them. the persian ambassador is the principal thing talked of now. i sent some people to see him worship the sun on primrose hill at half past six in the morning th november; but he did not come, which makes me think the old fire-worshippers are a sect almost extinct in persia. have you trampled on the cross yet? the persian ambassador's name is shaw ali mirza. the common people call him shaw nonsense. while i think of it, i have put three letters besides my own three into the india post for you, from your brother, sister, and some gentleman whose name i forget. will they, have they, did they, come safe? the distance you are at cuts up tenses by the root. dear hood,--if i have anything in my head i will send it to mr. watts. strictly speaking he should have had my album verses, but a very intimate friend importuned me for the trifles, and i believe i forgot mr. watts, or lost sight at the time of his similar souvenir. jamieson conveyed the farce from me to mrs. c. kemble, _he_ will not be in town before the th. give our kind loves to all at highgate, and tell them that we have finally torn ourselves out right away from colebrooke, where i had _no_ health, and are about to domiciliate for good at enfield, where i have experienced _good_. "lord what good hours do we keep! how quietly we sleep!" see the rest in the complete angler. we have got our books into our new house. i am a drayhorse if i was not asham'd of the indigested dirty lumber as i toppled 'em out of the cart, and blest becky that came with 'em for her having an unstuff'd brain with such rubbish. we shall get in by michael's mass. 'twas with some pain we were evuls'd from colebrook. you may find some of our flesh sticking to the door posts. to change habitations is to die to them, and in my time i have died seven deaths. but i don't know whether every such change does not bring with it a rejuvenescence. 'tis an enterprise, and shoves back the sense of death's approximating, which tho' not terrible to me, is at all times particular distasteful. my house-deaths have generally been periodical, recurring after seven years, but this last is premature by half that time. cut off in the flower of colebrook. the middletonian stream and all its echoes mourn. even minnows dwindle. _a parvis fiunt minimi._ i fear to invite mrs. hood to our new mansion, lest she envy it and rote us. but when we are fairly in, i hope she will come and try it. i heard she and you were made uncomfortable by some unworthy to be cared for attacks, and have tried to set up a feeble counter-action through the table book of last saturday. has it not reach'd you, that you are silent about it? our new domicile is no manor house, but new, and externally not inviting, but furnish'd within with every convenience. capital new locks to every door, capital grates in every room, with nothing to pay for incoming and the rent £ less than the islington one. it was built a few years since at £ , expense, they tell me, and i perfectly believe it. and i get it for £ exclusive of moderate taxes. we think ourselves most lucky. it is not our intention to abandon regent street, and west end perambulations (monastic and terrible thought!) but occasionally to breathe the fresher air of the metropolis. we shall put up a bedroom or two (all we want) for occasional ex-rustication, where we shall visit, not be visited. plays too we'll see--perhaps our own. urbani sylvani, and sylvan urbanuses in turns. courtiers for a spurt, then philosophers. old homely tell-truths and learn-truths in the virtuous shades of enfield. liars again and mocking gibers in the coffee-houses and resorts of london. what can a mortal desire more for his bi-parted nature? o the curds and cream you shall eat with us here! o the turtle soup and lobster sallads we shall devour with you there! o the old books we shall peruse here! o the new nonsense we shall trifle with over there! o sir t. browne!--here. o mr. hood and mr. jerdan there! thine, c(urbanus) l(sylvanus) (elia ambo)-- inclos'd are verses which emma sat down to write, her first, on the eve after your departure. of course they are only for mrs. h.'s perusal. they will shew you at least that one of our party is not willing to cut old friends. what to call 'em i don't know. blank verse they are not, because of the rhymes.--rhimes they are not, because of the blank verse. heroics they are not, because they are lyric, lyric they are not, because of the heroic measure. they must be called emmaics.-- * * * * * the full charm of the long early letters, with their pleasant expatiations on literary themes can scarcely be sampled without doing violence. the various editions in which the letters are obtainable will be found referred to in the bibliographical list at the end of this little book. in illustration of their continued appreciation it may be mentioned that three editions have been published during the past year or so, each of which contains letters denied to the others. the latest edition--that of mr. e. v. lucas--is also the fullest, both in the number of letters included and in the elaboration of its annotatory matter. * * * * * [illustration: holograph letter to john clare, "the peasant poet." reduced facsimile from the original in the british museum.] [transcript of the handwritten letter to john clare.] india house aug dear clare, i thank you heartily for your present. i am an inveterate old londoner, but while i am among your choice collections, i seem to be native to them, and free of the country. the quantity of your observation has astonished me. what have most pleased me have been recollections after a ramble, and those grongar hill kind of pieces in eight syllable lines, my favourite measure, such as cowper hill and solitude. in some of your story telling ballads the provincial phrases sometimes startle me. i think you are too profuse with them. in poetry slang [underlined] of every kind is to be avoided. there is a rustick cockneyism as little pleasing as ours of london. transplant arcadia to helpstone. the true rustic style, the arcadian english, i think is to be found in shenstones. would his schoolmistress, the prettiest of poems, have been better, if he had used quite the goody's own language? now and then a home rusticism is fresh & startling, but where nothing is gained in expression, it is out of tenor. it may make people [crossed out] folks smile and stare, but the ungenial coalition of barbarous with refined phrases will prevent you in the end from being so generally tasted, as you deserve to be. excuse my freedom, and take the same liberty with my puns [underlined]. i send you two little volumes of my spare hours. they are of all sorts, there is a methodist hymn for sundays, and a farce for saturday night. pray give them a place on your shelf. pray accept a little volume, of which i have duplicate, that i may return in an equal number to your welcome presents-- i think i am indebted to you for a sonnet in the london for august. since i saw you i have been in france, and have eaten frogs. the nicest little rabbity things you ever tasted. do look about for them. make mrs. clare pick off the hind quarters, boil them plain, with parsley and butter. the four [crossed out] fore quarters are not so good. she may let them hop off by themselves. yours sincerely, cha^s lamb. the essays of elia "shakespeare himself might have read them and hamlet have acted them; for truly was our excellent friend of the genuine line of yorick." thus it was that leigh hunt referred to the essays which without doubt stand as the most characteristic of charles lamb's contributions to literature. his reputation, as was recognized and acknowledged within a few years of his death, "will ultimately rest on the essays of elia, than which our literature rejoices in few things finer." the intimate footing upon which he puts himself and his reader, is perhaps not so much a peculiarity of his own as it is the dominant note always in the work of your born essayist. he discourses high truth or fresh philosophy, truest poetry, richest wit, or the most delicate humour, he presents personal experiences with that simplicity of pure camaraderie which assumes that the reader could do the same--if he had the mind, as lamb himself put it when wittily snubbing wordsworth. in most books, as de quincey has pointed out, the author figures as a mere abstraction, "without sex or age or local station," whom the reader banishes from his thoughts, but in the case of lamb and that brilliant line of authors to which he belongs, we must know something of the man himself, and as i have said earlier, we get it abundantly scattered up and down his writings. even if we do not happen to be acquainted with the actual biography, we can build up in our minds on reading the essays of elia a life story not far removed from actuality, though it would be wanting in any hint of tragedy. it is this intimacy which at once attracts and repels readers, attracts all those who are, in however small a degree, kindred spirits, and repels, perhaps, others. the quaintness, oddity, flippancy, are wrought together with deep thought, poetry, and feeling to a wonderful degree. the very diversity of theme and manner--this varying change from grave to gay, from lively to severe--is indeed but a reflection of life itself, which with the most fortunate of us dashes our smiles with tears, and even to the most unfortunate imparts something of pleasure and delight. the "essays of elia" may fittingly be dealt with as at once the most representative and the finest of his writings. great as is the range of their subjects, it will be found that they are more or less unified by the author's individuality both in point of view and in treatment, that they are all informed with what has been termed lamb's calm and self-reposing spirit, that they are all more or less strongly marked by that style which, based upon a loving study of the elizabethan and seventeenth-century writers, was yet for the most part distinguished by concision and ease. he took from his models their richness of language without their prolixity, their felicity of expression without their tendency to the elaboration of conceits; he unconsciously employed their varied styles, to form an individual style of his own. it is only possible in one small section of a small volume such as this to indicate a portion of the wealth in the elia series, so varied are the themes which inspired the essayist: the delicious drollery of the "dissertation upon roast pig"; the immortal characterization of "mrs. battle's opinions upon whist"; the pleasant personal touches in a score of the essays; the cry of stifled affection in "dream children"; the whimsicality of "popular fallacies"; each of these, and as many again unspecified might be made the subject of separate comment. indeed, for variety in unity there are few books to compare with our elia. in the opening essay--the first of the series to appear in the "london magazine," the one to stand in the forefront of the volume--lamb blends reminiscences with fancy, as he continued to do frequently throughout the series, in a way that is as suggestive to the seeker after autobiographical data as it is engaging to the reader in search of nothing further than the rich delight which comes of passing time with a literary gem. lamb pictures "the south sea house" as it was when he knew it thirty years earlier--he speaks of it as forty years. there is a presentation of the old place, fallen more or less completely upon days of desuetude, with some wonderfully-limned portraits of the officials. here is the deputy-cashier, thomas tame: he had the air and stoop of a nobleman. you would have taken him for one, had you met him in one of the passages leading to westminster hall. by stoop, i mean that gentle bending of the body forwards, which, in great men, must be supposed to be the effect of an habitual condescending attention to the applications of their inferiors. while he held you in converse, you felt strained to the height in the colloquy. the conference over, you were at leisure to smile at the comparative insignificance of the pretensions which had just awed you. his intellect was of the shallowest order. it did not reach to a saw or a proverb. his mind was in its original state of white paper. a sucking babe might have posed him. what was it then? was he rich! alas, no! thomas tame was very poor. both he and his wife looked outwardly gentle folks, when i fear all was not well at all times within. she had a neat meagre person, which it was evident she had not sinned in over-pampering; but in its veins was noble blood. she traced her descent, by some labyrinth of relationship, which i never thoroughly understood--much less can explain with any heraldic certainty at this time of day--to the illustrious but unfortunate house of derwentwater. this was the secret of thomas's stoop. this was the thought, the sentiment, the bright solitary star of your lives, ye mild and happy pair, which cheered you in the night of intellect, and in the obscurity of your station! this was to you instead of riches, instead of rank, instead of glittering attainments, and it was worth them all together. you insulted none with it; but, while you wore it as a piece of defensive armour only, no insult likewise could reach you through it. _decus et solamen._ then at the close elia says, "reader, what if i have been playing with thee all this while--peradventure the very names, which i have summoned up before thee, are fantastic--insubstantial--like henry pimpernel and old john naps of greece; be satisfied that something answering to them has had a being. their importance is from the past." the names may have been mostly fantastic--in one case we know that it was not, for "henry man, the wit, the polished man of letters" is known to delvers among dead books--the types are immortal. in this first essay we find in such sentences as "their sums in triple columniations, set down with formal superfluity of cyphers," an illustration of lamb's wonderful use of what an antipathetic critic might term an informal superfluity of syllables. the next essay, reflecting the atmosphere of "oxford in the vacation," was written presumably during a holiday visit to the university of cambridge, though elia touching upon matters concerning church holidays breaks off with-- ... but i am wading out of my depths. i am not the man to decide the limits of civil and ecclesiastical authority--i am plain elia--no selden, nor archbishop usher--though at present in the thick of their books here in the heart of learning, under the shadow of mighty bodley. then follows a passage eminently characteristic of elia's happy manner of playing with a theme: i can here play the gentleman, enact the student to such a one as myself, who has been defrauded in his young years of the sweet food of academic institution, nowhere is so pleasant to while away a few idle weeks at one or other of the universities. their vacation, too, at this time of the year, falls in pat with _ours_. here i can take my walks unmolested, and fancy myself of what degree of standing i please. i seem admitted _ad eundem_. i fetch up past opportunities. i can rise at the chapel-bell, and dream that it rings for _me_. in moods of humility i can be a sizar, or a servitor. when the peacock vein rises, i strut a gentleman commoner. in graver moments, i proceed master of arts. indeed i do not think i am much unlike that respectable character. i have seen your dim-eyed vergers, and bed-makers in spectacles drop a bow or curtsey as i pass, wisely mistaking me for something of the sort. i go about in black, which favours the notion. only in christ church reverend quadrangle i can be content to pass for nothing short of a seraphic doctor. the walks at these times are so much one's own--the tall trees of christ's, the groves of magdalen! the halls deserted, and with open doors inviting one to slip in unperceived, and pay a devoir to some founder or noble or royal benefactress (that should have been ours), whose portrait seems to smile upon their over-looked beadsman, and to adopt me for their own. then, to take a peep in by the way at the butteries, and sculleries, redolent of antique hospitality: the immense caves of kitchens, kitchen fire-places, cordial recesses; ovens whose first pies were baked four centuries ago; and spits which have cooked for chaucer! not the meanest minister among the dishes but is hallowed to me through his imagination, and the cook goes forth a manciple. the next essay, "christ's hospital five and thirty years ago," should be read along with an earlier one, which does not belong actually to the elia series, "recollections of christ's hospital." in the later essay lamb affected to look at the school as it might have been to a scholar less fortunately circumstanced than himself, a boy far from his family and friends, and the boy whom he selected was that one of his school companions whom he knew best and with whom in manhood he had sustained the closest friendship--s. t. coleridge. that friend he thus apostrophizes in a passage which has frequently been quoted: come back into memory, like as thou wert in the day-spring of thy fancies, with hope like a fiery column before thee--the dark pillar not yet turned--samuel taylor coleridge--logician, metaphysician, bard! how have i seen the casual passer through the cloisters stand still, entranced with admiration (while he weighed the disproportion between the _speech_ and the _garb_ of the young mirandula), to hear thee unfold, in thy deep and sweet intonations, the mysteries of jamblichus or plotinus (for even in those years thou waxedst not pale at such philosophic draughts), or reciting homer in his greek, or pindar, while the walls of the old grey friars re-echoed to the accents of the inspired charity-boy! "the two races of men," divides men into those who borrow and those who lend, the theme being followed out with great humour, and going on to those "whose treasures are rather cased in leather covers than closed in iron coffers," and then giving pleasant bits about coleridge--under his _nomme de guerre_ of comberbatch--and his theory that "the title to property in a book ... is in exact ratio to the claimant's powers of understanding and appreciating the same." "should he go on acting upon this theory," adds elia, "which of our shelves is safe?" "new year's eve" suggests a train of reflections--not, in the platitudinous manner of looking back over the errors of the past year and making good resolutions for the coming one--but on mortality generally, and on the passing of time and the passing of life: i am not content to pass away like a weaver's shuttle! these metaphors solace me not, nor sweeten the unpalatable draught of mortality. i care not to be carried with the tide, that smoothly bears human life to eternity; and reluct at the inevitable course of destiny. i am in love with this green earth; the face of town and country; the unspeakable rural solitude, and the sweet security of streets. i would set up my tabernacle here. i am content to stand still at the age to which i am arrived; i and my friends; to be no younger, no richer, no handsomer. i do not want to be weaned by age; or drop like mellow fruit, as they say, into the grave. next comes the immortal "mrs. battle's opinions on whist,"--mrs. battle, whose wish for "a clear fire, a clean hearth, and the rigour of the game" has become almost proverbial so commonly is it repeated, whose heart-whole devotion to her game will make true elians whist players when bridge is forgotten. in "a chapter on ears," elia expatiates upon his insensibility to music; in "all fool's day" he puts wisdom under motley in a truly shakespearian fashion, with the fine conclusion, "and take my word for this, reader, and say a fool told it you, if you please, that he who hath not a dram of folly in his mixture, hath pounds of much worse matter in his composition." "the quakers' meeting" is a delicate and impressive verbal representation of the spirit of quakerdom as revealed to one not a quaker but ready to appreciate the quietist spirit. those who have never attended a meeting of the kind feel that they have realized its significance when they come across a passage such as this: more frequently the meeting is broken up without a word having been spoken. but the mind has been fed. you go away with a sermon, not made with hands. you have been in the milder caverns of trophonius; or as in some den, where that fiercest and savagest of all wild creatures, the tongue, that unruly member, has strangely lain tied up and captive. you have bathed with stillness--o, when the spirit is sore fettered, even tired to sickness of the janglings and nonsense noises of the world, what a balm and a solace it is, to go and seat yourself for a quiet half hour, upon some undisputed corner of a bench, among the gentle quakers! then follows a quaint elian touch of humour in the application of a line of wordsworth's far from that poet's intention: "their garb and stillness conjoined, present an uniformity, tranquil and herd-like--as in the pasture--'forty feeding like one.'" an encounter in a coach with a loquacious gentleman whom he took to be a school-master set lamb musing on the differences between "the old and the new school-master," on the way in which the pedagogue is differentiated by the very conditions of his labours not only from his boys but from his fellows generally; he is a man for whom life is in a measure poisoned, "nothing comes to him not spoiled by the sophisticating medium of moral uses." incidentally too, elia informs us that the school-master is so used to teaching that he wants to be teaching you. one of these professors, upon my complaining that these little sketches of mine were anything but methodical, and that i was unable to make them otherwise, kindly offered to instruct me in the method by which young gentlemen in his seminary were taught to compose english themes. the jests of a school-master are coarse or thin. the next essay--the only one in "the essays of elia" volume which had not appeared in the "london magazine"--is a pretty bit about "valentine's day." this is followed by an inquiry into the existence of "imperfect sympathies," the writer declaring that he had been trying all his life--without success--to like scotsmen, and that he had the same imperfect sympathy with jews. the scotsmen are too precise, too matter of fact at once in their own statements and those to which alone they will attend. this would of itself be sufficient to establish the "imperfect sympathy," for in another connection lamb had declared his preference for "a matter of lie man." "witches and other night fears" is an examination, in which whimsicality is blent with deep seriousness, of the night terrors of imaginative childhood; elia showed how a picture in an old time bible history had shaped his fears and made his nights hideous for several years of his early childhood, though he holds that "it is not book, or picture, or the stories of foolish servants, which create these terrors in children. they can at most but give them direction." he suggests that the kind of fear is purely spiritual, and incidentally gives a characteristically quaint turn in "my night-fancies have long ceased to be afflictive. i confess an occasional nightmare; but i do not, as in early youth, keep a stud of them." in "my relations" we have an excellent instance of lamb's veiled autobiography; he begins by saying that he has no brother or sister and at once proceeds to a close and analytical portrait of his "cousin," james elia, that supposed personage being charles lamb's own brother john, who died in november, , a few months after the original appearance of this essay. "mackery end in hertfordshire," continues the theme of relations with another striking piece of portraiture in another supposed cousin of elia's, bridget (really mary lamb). in limning his sister he was of course hampered somewhat by her terrible affliction, but wonderfully has he surmounted it, and delightful indeed it is to follow the narrative of the "cousins'" visit to unknown cousins at the old place in "the green plains of pleasant hertfordshire." dealing with the subject of "modern gallantry" elia shows how it is wanting in the true spirit of gallantry which should consist not in compliments to youth and beauty but in reverence to sex. "the old benchers of the inner temple" is one of the essays richest at once in personal recollections, in wonderful portraiture, and in those subtle literary touches which impart their peculiar flavour to the whole. a sketch of the author's father as lovel was quoted from this essay in the opening chapter. elia's observation, his felicity of expression, his originality of thought, a hint of his playfulness, may all be recognized in the very commencement of this delicious essay: i was born, and passed the first seven years of my life in the temple. its church, its halls, its gardens, its fountain, its river, i had almost said--for in those young years, what was this king of rivers to me but a stream that watered our pleasant places?--these are my oldest recollections. i repeat, to this day, no verses to myself more frequently, or with kindlier emotion, than those of spenser, where he speaks of this spot: "there when they came, whereas those bricky towers, the which on themmes brode aged back doth ride, where now the studious lawyers have their bowers, there whylome wont the templar knights to bide, till they decayd through pride." indeed, it is the most elegant spot in the metropolis. what a transition for a countryman visiting london for the first time--the passing from the crowded strand or fleet street, by unexpected avenues, into its magnificent ample squares, its classic green recesses! what a cheerful, liberal look hath that portion of it, which, from three sides, overlooks the greater garden, that goodly pile "of building strong, albeit of paper hight," confronting, with massy contrast, the lighter, older, more fantastically shrouded one named of harcourt, with the cheerful crown office row (place of my kindly engendure) right opposite the stately stream, which washes the garden-foot with her yet scarcely trade-polluted waters, and seems but just weaned from her twickenham naiades! a man would give something to have been born in such places. what a collegiate aspect has that fine elizabethan hall, where the fountain plays, which i have made to rise and fall, how many times! to the astoundment of the young urchins, my contemporaries, who, not being able to guess at its recondite machinery, were almost tempted to hail the wondrous work as magic! what an antique air had the now almost effaced sun-dials with their moral inscriptions, seeming co-evals with that time which they measured, and to take their revelations of its flight immediately from heaven, holding correspondence with the fountain of light! how would the dark line steal imperceptibly on, watched by the eye of childhood, eager to detect its movement, never catched, nice as an evanescent cloud, or the first arrests of sleep! "ah! yet doth beauty like a dial-hand steal from his figure, and no pace perceived!" what a dead thing is a clock, with its ponderous embowelments of lead and brass, its pert or solemn dullness of communication, compared with the simple altar-like structure and silent heart-language of the old dial! it stood as the garden god of christian gardens. why is it almost everywhere vanished? in this essay, too, we have a happy sentence where, noting an error into which his memory had betrayed him, elia wrote of his own narratives: "they are, in truth, but shadows of fact--verisimilitudes, not verities--or sitting but upon the remote edges and outskirts of history." dealing with "grace before meat" elia takes up an unconventional position and defends it with spirit. it is something of an impertinence to offer up thanks before an orgy of superfluous luxuries, a "grace" is only fitting for a poor man sitting down before the necessaries for which he may well feel thankful. even such a theme lamb finds a fruitful occasion for pertinent literary illustration and criticism, contrasting--from milton's "paradise lost"--the feast proffered by the tempter to christ in the wilderness with "the temperate dreams of the divine hungerer." with "my first play" elia returned to one of those autobiographic themes in which he is so often at his happiest. he represents the emotions of the child of six or seven at the theatre and contrasts them with those that follow when the child has reached his teens. "at school all play-going was inhibited." he concludes, and, most readers will agree, concludes with justice, that "we differ from ourselves less at sixty and sixteen, than the latter does from six." "dream children," again, has much in it of the story of the writer's childhood, blent with sorrow over his brother's recent death and interwoven with a fanciful imagining of what might have been. elia pictures himself talking to his two children of his own childhood's days when visiting grandmother field: when suddenly, turning to alice, the soul of the first alice looked out at her eyes with such a reality of re-presentment, that i became in doubt which of them stood there before me, or whose that bright hair was; and while i stood gazing, both the children gradually grew fainter to my view, receding, and still receding till nothing at last but two mournful features were seen in the uttermost distance, which, without speech, strangely impressed upon me the effects of speech: "we are not of alice, nor of thee, nor are we children at all. the children of alice call bartrum father. we are nothing, less than nothing, and dreams. we are only what might have been, and must wait upon the tedious shores of lethe millions of ages before we have existence, and a name"--and immediately awaking, i found myself quietly seated in my bachelor arm-chair, where i had fallen asleep, with the faithful bridget unchanged by my side--but john l. (or james elia) was gone for ever. this little essay, the most beautiful of the series, is as essentially pathetic as anything in our literature, bringing tears to the eyes at every reading though known almost by heart. the essay on "distant correspondents," in the form of a playful epistle to a friend, b. f. (_i.e._, barron field, also a contributor to the "london magazine") has much that is characteristic of the writer. in it he plays--as he does in other letters to distant friends--on the way in which "this confusion of tenses, this grand solecism of two presents" renders writing difficult; in it he airs his fondness for a pun and enlarges upon the fugacity of that form of fun, its inherent incapacity for travel; and in it, too, he gives some indication--we have several such indications in his letters--of his fondness for hoaxing his friends with invented news about other friends, or with questions on supposititious problems set forth as actualities. the next essay, "the praise of chimney-sweepers," might be cited as one of those most fully representing the characteristics of lamb's work as essayist. it has its touches of personal reminiscences, it deals with an out-of-the-way subject in a surprisingly engaging manner, and it is full of those quaint turns of expression, those more or less recondite words which elia re-introduced from the older writers, jeremy taylor, sir thomas browne, etc., as he had re-introduced the dramatic writings of the seventeenth century. here is a passage which may be said to be thoroughly representative at once of elia's manner of looking at things, as well as his own manner of describing them. elia is discussing "saloop." i know not by what particular conformation of the organ it happens, but i have always found that this composition is surprisingly gratifying to the palate of a young chimney-sweeper--whether the oily particles (sassafras is slightly oleaginous) do attenuate and soften the fuliginous concretions, which are sometimes found (in dissections) to adhere to the roof of the mouth in these unfledged practitioners; or whether nature, sensible that she had mingled too much of bitter wood in the lot of these raw victims, caused to grow out of the earth her sassafras for a sweet lenitive; but so it is, that no possible taste or odour to the senses of a young chimney-sweeper can convey a delicate excitement comparable to this mixture. being penniless, they will yet hang their black heads over the ascending steam, to gratify one sense if possible, seemingly no less pleased than those domestic animals--cats--when they purr over a new-found sprig of valerian. there is something more in these sympathies than philosophy can inculcate. in this essay also we have an example--one of how many!--of lamb's happiness in hitting upon an illustration, even though it be of the ludicrous; mentioning the wonderful white of the sweep-boy's teeth he adds, "it is, as when 'a sable cloud turns forth her silver lining on the night.'" "a dissertation upon roast pig" is perhaps the most widely known of all the essays of elia. its delightful drollery, its very revelling in the daintiness of sucking-pig, its wonderfully rich literary presentation, its deliberate acceptance of wild improbability as historic basis, all unite to give it special place in the regard of readers. the theme is of course familiar. it is that of a small chinese boy playing with fire who burnt down his father's flimsy hut so that a whole litter of piglings was roasted in the conflagration. the boy touched one of the incinerated little ones to feel if it were alive; burnt his fingers and applied them to his mouth. his father returned and did the same, and thus roast sucking-pig became a new dish. lamb plays with his subject with an inimitable mock earnestness. our ancestors were nice in their method of sacrificing these tender victims. we read of pigs whipt to death with something of a shock, as we hear of any other obsolete custom. the age of discipline is gone by, or it would be curious to inquire (in a philosophical light merely) what effect this process might have towards intenerating and dulcifying a substance, naturally so mild and dulcet as the flesh of young pigs. it looks like refining a violet. yet we should be cautious, while we condemn the inhumanity, how we censure the wisdom of the practice. it might impart a gusto. the subject charles lamb professed to take from a chinese manuscript of his friend manning's, and there have not been wanting critics who have sought for literary germs from which this essay might have sprung. such will find in the seventeenth-century "letters writ by a turkish spy" the origin of roasted meat referred to the days of sacrifice when one of the priests touching a burning beast hurt his fingers and applied them to his mouth--with precisely the same sequel which followed on bo-bo's escapade. "a bachelor's complaint of the behaviour of married people" is a delicate--perhaps partly ironical--description of a bachelor's objections to his married friends flaunting their happiness in his face. in the last three of the essays we have lamb as critic of the stage--partly, as in the dramatic specimens, of its literature, "on the artificial comedy of the last century;" and partly on its actors, "on some of the old actors" and "on the acting of munden." here again we have proofs of his instinctive critical power, his finely perfected method of expressing his appreciation of men and books. the "last essays of elia," published the year before lamb's death, open with a "character of the late elia"--an admirable piece of self-portraiture in which lamb hit off with great felicity some of his own characteristics, physical and intellectual. in the first of the essays, "blakesmoor in h----shire," the author let his memory and fancy play about the old house, lately razed, in which his grandmother field had held sway as housekeeper, in which as child he had passed many happy holidays. its tapestries, its haunted room, its "tattered and diminished 'scutcheon," its justice hall, its "costly fruit garden, with its sun-baked southern wall," its "noble marble hall, with its mosaic pavements, and its twelve cæsars--stately busts in marble--ranged round," each of these recalled by memory suggests some deep thought or some pleasant turn. the opening passage at once sets the note of the whole, and may be taken as a representation of lamb's contemplative mood: i do not know a pleasure more affecting than to range at will over the deserted apartments of some fine old family mansion. the traces of extinct grandeur admit of a better passion than envy; and contemplations on the great and good, whom we fancy in succession to have been its inhabitants, weave for us illusions, incompatible with the bustle of modern occupancy, and vanities of foolish present aristocracy. the same difference of feeling, i think, attends us between entering an empty and a crowded church. in the latter it is chance but some present human frailty--an act of inattention on the part of some of the auditory--or a trait of affectation, or worse, vain-glory on that of the preacher--puts us by our best thoughts, disharmonizing the place and the occasion. but wouldst thou know the beauty of holiness? go alone on some week-day, borrowing the keys of good master sexton, traverse the cool aisles of some country church: think of the piety that has kneeled there--the congregations, old and young, that have found consolation there--the meek pastor, the docile parishioner. with no disturbing emotions, no cross conflicting comparisons, drink in the tranquillity of the place, till thou thyself become as fixed and motionless as the marble effigies that kneel and weep around thee. "poor relations" is a beautiful example of humour--provoking to smiles while touching to tears--with a wonderful introductory piling up of definitions: "a poor relation--is the most irrelevant thing in nature,--a piece of impertinent correspondency,--a preposterous shadow, lengthening in the noontide of your prosperity,--an unwelcome remembrancer," and so on. "this theme of poor relations is replete with so much matter for tragic as well as comic associations that it is difficult to keep the account distinct without blending." the essay includes three or four admirable examples of elia's felicity in drawing typical characters with just that touch of oddity that makes them live as individuals. the theatre which we have seen always made its triple appeal to lamb--from the study, from the front, and from the boards--inspired the next three essays, "stage illusions," "to the shade of elliston," and "ellistoniana." the first is an example of subtle criticism showing how it is that we get enjoyment out of unlovely attributes on the stage, thanks to the "exquisite art of the actor in a perpetual sub-insinuation to us," that things are not altogether what they seem to be. in the two essays on elliston we have at once an eloquent tribute to a stage-magnate of his day and a fine character portrait. "detached thoughts on books and reading," might be cited as one of the most characteristic of the essays of elia. it illustrates the writer's happiest style, and indicates his taste. in its opening passages are words and phrases which have become quotations "familiar in the mouth as household words" to all book-lovers. lamb takes as his text a remark made by lord foppington in vanbrugh's "relapse": "to mind the inside of a book is to entertain one's self with the forced products of another man's brain. now i think a man of quality and breeding may be much amused with the natural sprouts of his own." an ingenious acquaintance was so much struck with this bright sally of his lordship, that he has left off reading altogether, to the great improvement of his originality. at the hazard of losing some credit on this head, i must confess that i dedicate no inconsiderable portion of my time to other people's thoughts. i dream away my life in others' speculations. i love to lose myself in other men's minds. when i am not walking, i am reading; i cannot sit and think. books think for me. i have no repugnances. shaftesbury is not too genteel for me, nor jonathan wild too low. i can read anything which i call a _book_. there are things in that shape which i cannot allow for such. in this catalogue of _books which are no books_--_biblia a-biblia_--i reckon court calendars, directories, pocket books, draught boards, bound and lettered on the back, scientific treatises, almanacks, statutes at large; the works of hume, gibbon, robertson, beattie, soame jenyns, and, generally, all those volumes which "no gentleman's library should be without"; the histories of flavius josephus (that learned jew), and paley's "moral philosophy." with these exceptions, i can read almost anything. i bless my stars for a taste so catholic, so unexcluding. i confess that it moves my spleen to see these _things in books' clothing_ perched upon shelves, like false saints, usurpers of true shrines, intruders into the sanctuary, thrusting out the legitimate occupants. to reach down a well-bound semblance of a volume, and hope it some kind-hearted playbook; then, opening what "seem its leaves," to come bolt upon a withering population essay. to expect a steele, or a farquhar, and find--adam smith; to view a well-arranged assortment of block-headed encyclopædias (anglicanas or metropolitanas) set out in an array of russia, or morocco, when a tithe of that good leather would comfortably re-clothe my shivering folios; would renovate paracelsus himself, and enable old raymund lully to look himself again in the world. i never see these impostors, but i long to strip them to warm my ragged veterans in their spoils. he passes on to a consideration of the fitting habiliments of books; the sizes which appealed to him; the where and when to read: "i should not care to be caught in the serious avenues of some cathedral alone and reading 'candide'!"--"the old margate hoy" gives reminiscences of a visit to the popular resort--with some uncomplimentary asides at hastings--in the days of the boy, "ill-exchanged for the foppery and freshwater niceness of the modern steampacket," the boy that asked "no aid of magic fumes, and spells, and boiling cauldrons." "the convalescent" expatiates upon the allowable egoism of the occupant of a sick bed, upon his "regal solitude," and goes on to show "how convalescence shrinks a man back to his primitive state." the essay was inspired by that ill-health which led to lamb's retirement from the india house in . at the close he indulged his pen in his conversational fondness for a pun: in this flat swamp of convalescence, left by the ebb of sickness, yet far enough removed from the terra firma of established health, your note, dear editor, reached me, requesting--an article. _in articulo mortis_, thought i; but it is something hard--and the quibble, wretched as it was, relieved me. in the "sanity of true genius" elia set out to controvert the idea expressed by dryden in his best remembered line-- "great wits to madness nearly are allied," and does so in a most convincing manner if, with him, we understand by the greatness of wit poetic talent. as he says: "it is impossible for the mind to conceive of a mad shakespeare." the ground of the mistake is, that men, finding in the raptures of the higher poetry a condition of exaltation, to which they have no parallel in their own experience, besides the spurious resemblance of it in dreams and fevers, impute a state of dreaminess and fever to the poet. but the true poet dreams being awake. he is not possessed by his subject but has dominion over it. in the groves of eden he walks familiar as in his native paths. he ascends the empyrean heaven, and is not intoxicated. he treads the burning marl without dismay; he wins his flight without self-loss through realms of chaos "and old night." or if, abandoning himself to that severer chaos of a "human mind untuned," he is content awhile to be mad with lear, or to hate mankind (a sort of madness) with timon; neither is that madness, nor this misanthropy, so unchecked, but that--never letting the reins of reason wholly go, while most he seems to do so--he has his better genius whispering at his ear, with the good servant kent suggesting saner counsels; or with the honest steward flavius recommending kindlier resolutions. where he seems most to recede from humanity, he will be found the truest to it. "captain jackson" is an unforgettable picture of a poor man who would _not_ be poor; his manners made a plated spoon appear as silver sugar-tongs, a homely bench a sofa, and so on. as elia concludes: there is some merit in putting a handsome face upon indigent circumstances. to bully and swagger away the sense of them before strangers, may not always be discommendable. tibbs and bobadil, even when detected, have more of our admiration than contempt. but for a man to put the cheat upon himself; to play the bobadil at home; and, steeped in poverty up to the lips, to fancy himself all the while chin-deep in riches, is a strain of constitutional philosophy, and a mastery over fortune, which was reserved for my old friend captain jackson. with the next essay of this collection, that on "the superannuated man," we come to one of the most notable of the series of elia's transmutations of matters of private experience into precious literature. the paper is as autobiographic as any of his letters: some slight changes--as of the east india house to the name of a city firm--are made, but for the rest it is a record of his retirement with a revelation of the feelings attendant upon the change from having to go daily to an office for thirty-six years to being suddenly free: for the first day or two i felt stunned, overwhelmed. i could only apprehend my felicity; i was too confused to taste it sincerely. i wandered about, thinking i was happy and knowing that i was not. i was in the condition of a prisoner in the old bastile, suddenly let loose after a forty years' confinement. i could scarce trust myself with myself. it was like passing out of time into eternity--for it is a sort of eternity for a man to have all his time to himself. it seemed to me that i had more time on my hands than i could ever manage. from a poor man, poor in time, i was suddenly lifted up into a vast revenue; i could see no end of my possessions; i wanted some steward, or judicious bailiff, to manage my estates in time for me. and here let me caution persons grown old in active business, not lightly, nor without weighing their own resources, to forego their customary employment all at once, for there may be danger in it. i feel it by myself, but i know that my resources are sufficient; and now that those first giddy raptures have subsided, i have a quiet home-feeling of the blessedness of my condition. i am in no hurry. having all holidays, i am as though i had none. if time hung heavy upon me i could walk it away; but i do not walk all day long, as i used to do in those old transient holidays, thirty miles a day, to make the most of them. if time were troublesome, i could read it away, but i do not read in that violent measure, with which, having no time my own but candlelight time, i used to weary out my head and eyesight in bygone winters. i walk, read, or scribble (as now) just when the fit seizes me. i no longer hunt after pleasure; i let it come to me. i am like the man "---- that's born, and has his years come to him, in some green desert." "the genteel style in writing" is a delightful enforcement of the "ordinary criticism" that "my lord shaftesbury, and sir william temple, are models of the genteel style in writing," though elia prefers to differentiate them as "the lordly and the gentlemanly." the essay is, for the most part, a plea, with illustrations, for a consideration of sir william temple as an easy and engaging writer. "barbara s----" is a slight anecdote expanded into a sympathetic little story of a child-actress who, instead of her half-guinea salary, being once handed a guinea in error, virtuously took it back and received the moiety. "the tombs in the abbey" is an indignant protest--in the form of a letter to southey--against the closing of westminster abbey and st. paul's cathedral, except during service times, to all but those who could afford to pay for admission; it closes with a touch of humour where elia suggests that the abbey had been closed because the statue of major andré had been disfigured, and adds: "the mischief was done about the time that you were a scholar there. do you know anything about the unfortunate relic?" then, in "amicus redivivus," we have an accident to a friend, george dyer, who had walked absent-mindedly into the new river opposite lamb's very door, made to supply matter for treatment in elia's pleasantest vein. "some sonnets of sir philip sydney" gives a dozen of sidney's sonnets with appreciatory comment. "newspapers thirty years ago" is particularly interesting for its reminiscences of the days when lamb wrote half a dozen daily jests for "the morning post" at sixpence per jest, and for its sketches of daniel stuart and fenwick, two diversely typical journalists of a century since. "barrenness of the imaginative faculty in the productions of modern art" is a criticism of the prevailing taste in art matters, inspired by martin's "belshazzar's feast," and contrasts the modern methods of painting as--a dryad, "a beautiful naked figure recumbent under wide-stretched oaks" (a figure that with a different background would do just as well as a naiad), with the older method illustrated by julio romano's dryad, in which was "an approximation of two natures." "rejoicings upon the new year's coming of age" is a graceful, sparkling piece of humorous fancy: i should have told you, that cards of invitation had been issued. the carriers were the _hours_; twelve little, merry whirligig foot-pages, as you should desire to see, that went all round, and found out the persons invited well enough, with the exception of _easter day_, _shrove tuesday_, and a few such _moveables_, who had lately shifted their quarters. well, they all met at last, foul _days_, fine _days_, all sorts of _days_, and a rare din they made of it. there was nothing but, hail! fellow _day_,--well met--brother _day_--sister _day_,--only _lady day_ kept a little on the aloof, and seemed somewhat scornful. yet some said _twelfth day_ cut her out and out, for she came in a tiffany suit, all white and gold, like a queen on a frost-cake--all royal, glittering, and _epiphanous_. the rest came--some in green, some in white--but old _lent and his family_ were not yet out of mourning. rainy _days_ came in, dripping; and sun-shiny _days_ helped them to change their stockings. _wedding day_ was there in his marriage finery, a little the worse for wear. _pay day_ came late, as he always does; and _doomsday_ sent word--he might be expected. "the wedding" describes such a ceremony at which elia had assisted, and illustrates at once his sympathy with the young people and with their parents--"is there not something untender, to say no more of it, in the hurry which a beloved child is in to tear herself from the paternal stock and commit herself to strange graftings." "the child angel" is a beautiful poetic apologue in the form of a dream. in "old china," one of the most attractive of this varied series, elia is ready with reminiscences of the days when the purchase of the books, pictures, or old china that they loved, meant a real sacrifice, and the things purchased were therefore the more deeply prized. do you remember the brown suit, which you made to hang upon you, till all your friends cried shame upon you, it grew so threadbare--and all because of that folio beaumont and fletcher, which you dragged home late at night from barker's in covent garden? do you remember how we eyed it for weeks before we could make up our minds to the purchase, and had not come to a determination till it was near ten o'clock of the saturday night, when you set off from islington, fearing you should be too late--and when the old bookseller, with some grumbling, opened his shop, and by the twinkling taper (for he was setting bedwards) lighted out the relic from his dusty treasures--and when you lugged it home wishing it were twice as cumbersome--and when you presented it to me; and when we were exploring the perfectness of it (_collating_ you called it)--and while i was repairing some of the loose leaves with paste, which your impatience would not suffer to be left till daybreak--was there no pleasure in being a poor man? or can those neat black clothes you wear now, and are so careful to keep brushed, since we have become rich and finical, give you half the honest vanity, with which you flaunted it about in that overworn suit--your old corbeau--for four or five weeks longer than you should have done, to pacify your conscience for the mighty sum of fifteen--or sixteen shillings, was it?--a great affair we thought it then--which you had lavished on the old folio. now you can afford to buy any book that pleases you, but i do not see that you ever bring me home any nice old purchases now. when you came home with twenty apologies for laying out a less number of shillings upon that print after lionardo, which we christened the "lady blanch"; when you looked at the purchase, and thought of the money,--and thought of the money, and looked again at the picture--was there no pleasure in being a poor man? now, you have nothing to do but walk into colnaghi's, and buy a wilderness of lionardos. yet do you? "confessions of a drunkard" and "popular fallacies" complete the tale of the "essays of elia" that were collected into volume form as such. the first-named essay had been issued originally in . it is an attempt to set forth from a drunkard's point of view the evils of drunkenness, and was first published in a periodical with a purpose over twenty years before its inclusion in the second edition of the "last essays of elia." to accentuate the fact that it was purely a literary performance--an attempt to project himself into the mind of a drunkard willing to allow others to profit by his example--lamb reprinted it in the "london magazine" as one of his ordinary contributions. there have not been wanting matter-of-fact people (with whom our elia has recorded his imperfect sympathy) who have accepted this essay as pure biography; because details tally with the author's life they think the whole must do so. we have but to follow the story of lamb's life with understanding to realize how wrong is this impression. the closing dozen of essays in brief, grouped under the title of "popular fallacies," discuss certain familiar axioms and show them--in the light of fun and fancy--to be wholly fallacious. such is the variety of those two volumes which by common consent--by popular appreciation and by critical judgement--have their place as lamb's most characteristic work. throughout both series we find delicate unconventionality, the same choice of subjects from among the simplest suggestions of everyday life, lifted by his method of treatment, his manner of looking at and treating things, out of the sphere of every day into that of all days. however simple may be the subject chosen it is always made peculiarly his own. his style the style is the man. the rule was thus confined within the compass of a brief sentence by a distinguished french naturalist, and if there be examples which form exceptions to that rule, charles lamb is certainly not one of them. markedly individual himself he reveals that individuality in his writings so strongly that there are not wanting critics who consider themselves able to decide from the turn of a phrase or the use of a word whether lamb did or did not write any particular piece of work which it may have been sought to father on him. in the manner of presentation of his writings we have at once the revelation of catholic literary taste and wide reading combined with the deep seriousness and the almost irresponsible whimsicality of the man himself. the man who was loved by all who knew him in the flesh--so true is it that _le style c'est l'homme_--reveals himself as a man to be loved by those who can only know him through the medium of the written word. where he has given rein to his fancy or his imagination, he is humorous, whimsical, inventive; where he is dealing with matters of serious fact or criticism he is simple, clear, and to the point. quotations already given would go to illustrate this, but two further contrasting passages may be added. the first is from "table talk," the second from a critical essay on the acting of shakespeare's tragedies. it is a desideratum in works that treat _de re culinaria_, that we have no rationale of sauces, or theory of mixed flavours; as to show why cabbage is reprehensible with roast beef, laudable with bacon; why the haunch of mutton seeks the alliance of currant jelly, the shoulder civilly declineth it; why a loin of veal (a pretty problem), being itself unctuous, seeketh the adventitious lubricity of melted butter; and why the same part in pork, not more oleaginous, abhorreth it; why the french bean sympathizes with the flesh of deer; why salt fish points to parsnip, brawn makes a dead set at mustard; why cats prefer valerian to heartsease, old ladies _vice versa_--though this is rather travelling out of the road of the dietetics, and may be thought a question more curious than relevant; why salmon (a strong sapor _per se_) fortifieth its condition with the mighty lobster sauce, whose embraces are fatal to the delicater relish of the turbot; why oysters in death rise up against the contamination of brown sugar, while they are posthumously amorous of vinegar; why the sour mango and the sweet jam, by turns, court and are accepted by the compilable mutton hash--she not yet decidedly declaring for either. we are as yet but in the empirical stage of cookery. * * * * * so to see lear acted--to see an old man tottering about the stage with a walking-stick, turned out of doors by his daughters on a rainy night, has nothing in it but what is painful and disgusting. we want to take him into shelter and relieve him. that is all the feeling which the acting of lear ever produced on me. but the lear of shakespeare cannot be acted. the contemptible machinery by which they mimic the storm which he goes out in, is not more inadequate to represent the horrors of the real elements, than any actor can be to represent lear: they might more easily propose to personate the satan of milton upon a stage, or one of michael angelo's terrible figures. the greatness of lear is not in corporal dimension but in intellectual: the explosions of his passions are terrible as a volcano; they are storms turning up and disclosing to the bottom that sea, his mind, with all its vast riches. it is his mind which is laid bare. this case of flesh and blood seems too insignificant to be thought on; even as he himself neglects it. on the stage we see nothing but corporal infirmities and weakness, the impotence of rage: while we read it, we see not lear, but we are lear--we are in his mind, we are sustained by a grandeur which baffles the malice of daughters and storms; in the aberrations of his reason, we discover a mighty irregular power of reasoning, immethodized from the ordinary purposes of life, but exerting its powers, as the wind bloweth where it listeth, at will upon the corruptions and abuses of mankind. what have looks or tones to do with that sublime identification of his age with that of the heavens themselves, when in his reproaches to them for conniving at the injustice of his children, he reminds them that "they themselves are old"? what gesture shall we appropriate to this? what has the voice or the eye to do with such things? from the olden time of authorship thy patent should be dated, and thou with marvell, browne, and burton mated. thus did bernard barton, the quaker poet, close a sonnet which he addressed to elia, and there is keen criticism in the few words. with the three writers mentioned lamb was in rarest sympathy; many are the references to them in his books and in his letters. with andrew marvell he shows his kinship in his verse, with the authors of "the religio medici" and of "the anatomy of melancholy," in diverse ways in his prose. now fanciful and euphemistic with these, he is, as soon as occasion calls for plainer statement, clear and simple in expression. as one critic has put it, he was so steeped in the literature of the past that it became natural for him to deal with a theme more or less in the manner in which that theme would have been dealt with by that writer in the past most likely to have made it his own. this is perhaps slightly exaggerated, but it has something of truth in it. "for with all his marked individuality of manner there are perhaps few english writers who have written so differently on different themes." placing special emphasis on his favourites--which besides the three named included jeremy taylor, chapman, and wither, to say nothing of the whole body of the dramatists of our literary renaissance--it may be said that his wide reading, his loving study, among the authors of our richest literary periods went far towards forming his style, though it must be remembered--it cannot be forgotten with a volume of his essays or letters in hand--that there is always that marked but indescribable "individuality of manner" which pervades the varied whole. hazlitt, touching upon the characteristics of charles lamb, in the essay in which he--not very felicitously--brackets elia and geoffrey crayon in the "spirit of the age," says: he is borne along with no pompous paradoxes, shines in no glittering tinsel of a fashionable phraseology; is neither fop nor sophist. he has none of the turbulence or froth of new-fangled opinions. his style runs pure and clear, though it may often take an underground course, or be conveyed through old-fashioned conduit pipes. mr. lamb does not court popularity, nor strut in gaudy plumes, but shrinks from every kind of ostentatious and obvious pretension into the retirement of his own mind. that mind was, as has been said, stored with a wealth from among the best of english literature, and when lamb expressed himself it was always in pure literary fashion. he was a bookman writing for those who love things of the mind which can only be passed from generation to generation by means of books. in this we may recognize the reason--wholly unconscious to the writer--for the allusiveness of his style: it is often that subtle allusiveness which takes for granted as much knowledge in the reader as in the writer of the thing or passage to which allusion is made. in the sixteenth century such allusiveness was generally fruit of an extensive knowledge of the ancient classics; but though the references differ, the manner is much the same in charles lamb as in jeremy taylor and sir thomas browne. less confident critics than those mentioned at the beginning of this section may yet readily recognize the general individuality of the style in which elia revealed himself through the medium of his pen. to his lifelong habit of browsing among old books, his especial fondness for the writers of the sixteenth century, he owed no small part of the richness of his vocabulary, which enabled him frequently to use with fine effect happy old words in place of current makeshifts. in one of his early letters to coleridge where he mentions having just finished reading chapman's homer, lamb, seizing upon a phrase in that translation, says with gusto, "what _endless egression of phrases_ the dog commands." the word arrided him (to employ another, the use of which he recovered for us), and he could not forbear making a note of it. he had, indeed, something of an instinctive genius for finding words that had passed more or less into desuetude, and a happy way of re-introducing them to enrich the plainer prose of his day. he did it naturally, even as though inevitably, and without any such air of coxcombical affectation as would have destroyed the flavour of the whole. lamb was so thoroughly imbued with the thought and modes of expression of the rich elizabethan and stuart periods that his use of obsolescent words was probably more often than not quite unconscious. the egotism of elia's style in addressing his readers has been said to be founded on that of sir thomas browne, and in a measure there can be little doubt that it was so--but only in a measure, for it is something the same egotism as that of montaigne, is, indeed, the natural attitude of the familiar essayist who must be egotistic, not from self-consciousness but from the lack of it. in putting his opinions and experiences in the first person, we feel that lamb did so almost unconsciously, because it was for him the easiest way of expressing himself. it was not, in fact, egotism at all in the commonly accepted sense of meaning, too frequent or self-laudatory use of the personal pronoun. chronological list of works those books with an asterisk against their date were only in part the work of charles lamb. * . poems on various subjects, by s. t. coleridge (included four sonnets signed c. l., described in the preface as by "mr. charles lamb of the india house"). * . poems on the death of priscilla farmer, by her grandson, charles lloyd (included "the grandame," by lamb). * . poems by s. t. coleridge, second edition, to which are now added poems by charles lamb and charles lloyd. * . blank verse by charles lloyd and charles lamb. . a tale of rosamund gray and old blind margaret (afterwards simply entitled "rosamund gray"). . john woodvil, a tragedy; with fragments of burton. . the king and queen of hearts: showing how notably the queen made her tarts and how scurvily the knave stole them away with other particulars belonging thereunto. * . tales from shakespear, designed for the use of young persons. vols. (by charles and mary lamb, though only the name of the former appeared on the original title-page.) * or . mrs. leicester's school, or the history of several young ladies related by themselves (by charles and mary lamb). . the adventures of ulysses. . specimens of english dramatic poets who lived about the time of shakespeare. * . poetry for children. entirely original. by the author of "mrs. leicester's school." . prince dorus; or flattery put out of countenance. a poetical version of an ancient tale. [ . beauty and the beast; or a rough outside with gentle heart. a poetical version of an ancient tale; credited to lamb by some authorities but on inconclusive evidence.] . the works of charles lamb. in vols. . elia. essays which have appeared under that title in the "london magazine" (now known as "essays of elia"): the south-sea house. oxford in the vacation. christ's hospital five-and-thirty years ago. the two races of men. new year's eve. mrs. battle's opinions on whist. a chapter on ears. all fools' day. a quakers' meeting. the old and the new schoolmaster. valentine's day. imperfect sympathies. witches and other night fears. my relations. mackery end in hertfordshire. modern gallantry. the old benchers of the inner temple. grace before meat. my first play. dream-children: a reverie. distant correspondents. the praise of chimney-sweepers. a complaint of the decay of beggars in the metropolis. a dissertation upon roast pig. a bachelor's complaint of the behaviour of married people. on some of the old actors. on the artificial comedy of the last century. on the acting of munden. . album verses, with a few others. . satan in search of a wife. . the last essays of elia. preface. blakesmoor in h----shire. poor relations. stage illusion. to the shade of elliston. ellistoniana. detached thoughts on books and reading. the old margate hoy. the convalescent. sanity of true genius. captain jackson. the superannuated man. the genteel style in writing. barbara s----. the tombs in the abbey. amicus redivivus. some sonnets of sir philip sydney. newspapers thirty-five years ago. barrenness of the imaginative faculty in the productions of modern art. rejoicings upon the new year's coming of age. the wedding. the child angel. old china. confessions of a drunkard. popular fallacies. ii. posthumous works and collected editions . poetical works of charles lamb. . letters of charles lamb, with a sketch of his life, by thomas noon talfourd. vols. . the final memorials of charles lamb. by t. n. talfourd. . eliana. collected by j. e. babson. . works. centenary edition, with memoir by charles kent. . life, letters and writings of lamb. edited by percy fitzgerald. - . lamb's works and correspondence. edited by alfred ainger. vols. . letters of charles lamb (being talfourd's two works in one with additions). edited by w. carew hazlitt. bohn's standard library. . bon mots of charles lamb, etc. edited by walter jerrold. - . the works of charles lamb. edited by william macdonald. vols. - . the works of charles lamb. edited by e. v. lucas. vols. . letters of charles lamb. edited by alfred ainger. new edition. vols. eversley series. iii. biography and criticism see entries under and , etc., in preceding section. . charles lamb: a memoir. by barry cornwall. . lamb, his friends, haunts, books. by percy fitzgerald. . charles lamb. by alfred ainger in the english men of letters series (revised and enlarged edition, ). . in the footprints of lamb. by b. e. martin. . the lambs: new particulars. by w. c. hazlitt. . charles lamb and the lloyds. edited by e. v. lucas. . lamb and hazlitt: further letters and records, hitherto unpublished. edited by w. c. hazlitt. . sidelights on charles lamb. by bertram dobell. . life of charles lamb. by e. v. lucas. vols. the above list does not include separate editions of the "essays" and other works; most of lamb's writings are obtainable to-day in cheap and convenient forms. charles lamb a memoir by barry cornwall preface. in my seventy-seventh year. i have been invited to place on record my recollections of charles lamb. i am, i believe, nearly the only man now surviving who knew much of the excellent "elia." assuredly i knew him more intimately than any other existing person, during the last seventeen or eighteen years of his life. in this predicament, and because i am proud to associate my name with his, i shall endeavor to recall former times, and to bring my old friend before the eyes of a new generation. i request the "courteous reader" to accept, for what they are worth, these desultory labors of a lover of letters; and i hope that the advocate for modern times will try to admit into the circle of his sympathy my recollections of a fine genius departed. no harm--possibly some benefit--will accrue to any one who may consent to extend his acquaintance to one of the rarest and most delicate of the humorists of england. b. w. procter. _may_, . contents. chapter i. introduction. biography: few events. one predominant. his devotion to it. tendency to literature. first studies. influence of antique dwellings. early friends. humor. qualities of mind. sympathy for neglected objects. a nonconformist. predilections. character. taste. style. chapter ii. birth and parentage. christ's hospital. south sea house and india house. condition of family. death of mother. mary in asylum. john lamb. charles's means of living. his home. despondency. alice w. brother and sister. chapter iii. jem white. coleridge. lamb's inspiration. early letters. poem published. charles lloyd. liking for burns, &c. quakerism. robert southey. southey and coleridge. antijacobin. rosamond gray. george dyer. manning. mary's illnesses. migrations. hester savory. chapter iv. (migrations.) "john woodvil." blackesmoor. wordsworth. rickman. godwin. visit to the lakes. morning post. hazlitt. nelson. ode to tobacco. dramatic specimens, &c. inner temple lane. reflector. hogarth and sir j. reynolds. leigh hunt. lamb, hazlitt, and hunt. russell street and theatrical friends. chapter v. my recollections. russell street. personal appearance. manner. tendency of mind. prejudices. alleged excesses. mode of life. love of smoking. his lodgings. his sister. costume. reading aloud. tastes and opinions. london. love of books. charity. wednesday parties. his companions. epitaph upon them. chapter vi. london magazine. contributors. transfer of magazine. monthly dinners and visitors. colebrook cottage. lamb's walks. essays of elia: their excellence and character. enlarged acquaintance. visit to paris. miss isola. quarrel with southey. leaves india house. leisure. amicus redivivus. edward irving. chapter vii. specimen of lamb's humor. death of mr. norris. garrick plays. letters to barton. opinions on books. breakfast with mr. n. p. willis. moves to enfield. caricature of lamb. albums and acrostics. pains of leisure. the barton correspondence. death of hazlitt. munden's acting and quitting the stage. lamb becomes a boarder. moves to edmonton. metropolitan attachments. death of coleridge. lamb's fall and death. death of mary lamb. postscript appendix charles lamb. chapter i. _introduction.--biography: few events.--one predominant.--his devotion to it.--tendency to literature.--first studies.--influence of antique dwellings.--early friends.--humor.--qualities of mind.--sympathy for neglected objects.--a nonconformist.--predilections.--character.--taste.-- style._ the biography of charles lamb lies within a narrow compass. it comprehends only few events. his birth and parentage, and domestic sorrows; his acquaintance with remarkable men; his thoughts and habits; and his migrations from one home to another,--constitute the sum and substance of his almost uneventful history. it is a history with one event, predominant. for this reason, and because i, in common with many others, hold a book needlessly large to be a great evil, it is my intention to confine the present memoir within moderate limits. my aim is not to write the "life and times" of charles lamb. indeed, lamb had no influence on his own times. he had little or nothing in common with his generation, which was almost a stranger to him. there was no reciprocity between them. his contemplations were retrospective. he was, when living, the centre of a small social circle; and i shall therefore deal incidentally with some of its members. in other respects, this memoir will contain only what i recollect and what i have learned from authentic sources of my old friend. the fact that distinguished charles lamb from other men was his entire devotion to one grand and tender purpose. there is, probably, a romance involved in every life. in his life it exceeded that of others. in gravity, in acuteness, in his noble battle with a great calamity, it was beyond the rest. neither pleasure nor toil ever distracted him from his holy purpose. everything was made subservient to it. he had an insane sister, who, in a moment of uncontrollable madness, had unconsciously destroyed her own mother; and to protect and save this sister--a gentle woman, who had watched like a mother over his own infancy--the whole length of his life was devoted. what he endured, through the space of nearly forty years, from the incessant fear and frequent recurrence of his sister's insanity, can now only be conjectured. in this constant and uncomplaining endurance, and in his steady adherence to a great principle of conduct, his life was heroic. we read of men giving up all their days to a single object--to religion, to vengeance, to some overpowering selfish wish; of daring acts done to avert death or disgrace, or some oppressing misfortune. we read mythical tales of friendship; but we do not recollect any instance in which a great object has been so unremittingly carried out throughout a whole life, in defiance of a thousand difficulties, and of numberless temptations, straining the good resolution to its utmost, except in the case of our poor clerk of the india house. this was, substantially, his life. his actions, thoughts, and sufferings were all concentred on this one important end. it was what he had to do; it was in his reach; and he did it, therefore, manfully, religiously. he did not waste his mind on too many things; for whatever too much expands the mind weakens it; nor on vague or multitudinous thoughts and speculations; nor on dreams or things distant or unattainable. however interesting, they did not absorb him, body and soul, like the safety and welfare of his sister. subject to this primary unflinching purpose, the tendency of lamb's mind pointed strongly towards literature. he did not seek literature, however; and he gained from it nothing except his fame. he worked laboriously at the india house from boyhood to manhood; for many years without repining; although he must have been conscious of an intellect qualified to shine in other ways than in entering up a trader's books. none of those coveted offices, which bring money and comfort in their train, ever reached charles lamb. he was never under that bounteous shower which government leaders and persons of influence direct towards the heads of their adherents. no dives ever selected him for his golden bounty. no potent critic ever shouldered him up the hill of fame. in the absence of these old-fashioned helps, he was content that his own unassisted efforts should gain for him a certificate of capability to the world, and that the choice reputation which he thus earned should, with his own qualities, bring round him the unenvying love of a host of friends. lamb had always been a studious boy and a great reader; and after passing through christ's hospital and the south sea house, and being for some years in the india house, this instinctive passion of his mind (for literature) broke out. in this he was, without doubt, influenced by the example and counsel of samuel taylor coleridge, his school-fellow and friend, for whom he entertained a high and most tender respect. the first books which he loved to read were volumes of poetry, and essays on serious and religious themes. the works of all the old poets, the history of quakers, the biography of wesley, the controversial papers of priestley, and other books on devout subjects, sank into his mind. from reading he speedily rose to writing; from being a reader he became an author. his first writings were entirely serious. these were verses, or letters, wherein religious thoughts and secular criticisms took their places in turn; or they were grave dramas, which exhibit and lead to the contemplation of character, and which nourish those moods out of which humor ultimately arises. so much has been already published, that it is needless to encumber this short narrative with any minute enumeration of the qualities which constitute his station in literature; but i shall, as a part of my task, venture to refer to some of those which distinguish him from other writers. lamb's very curious and peculiar humor showed itself early. it was perhaps born of the solitude in which his childhood passed away; perhaps cherished by the seeds of madness that were in him, that were in his sister, that were in the ancestry from which he sprung. without doubt, it caught color from the scenes in the midst of which he grew up. born in the temple, educated in christ's hospital, and passed onwards to the south sea house, his first visions were necessarily of antiquity. the grave old buildings, tenanted by lawyers and their clerks, were replaced by "the old and awful cloisters" of the school of edward; and these in turn gave way to the palace of the famous bubble, now desolate, with its unpeopled committee rooms, its pictures of governors of queen anne's time, "its dusty maps of mexico, dim as dreams, and soundings of the bay of panama." these things, if they impressed his mind imperfectly at first, in time formed themselves into the shape of truths, and assumed significance and importance; as words and things, glanced over hastily in childhood, grow and ripen, and enrich the understanding in after days. lamb's earliest friends and confidants, with one exception, were singularly void of wit and the love of jesting. his sister was grave; his father gradually sinking into dotage; coleridge was immersed in religious subtilties and poetic dreams; and charles lloyd, sad and logical and analytical, was the antithesis of all that is lively and humorous. but thoughts and images stole in from other quarters; and lamb's mind was essentially quick and productive. nothing lay barren in it; and much of what was planted there, grew, and spread, and became beautiful. he himself has sown the seeds of humor in many english hearts. his own humor is essentially english. it is addressed to his own countrymen; to the men "whose limbs were made in england;" not to foreign intellects, nor perhaps to the universal mind. humor, which is the humor of a man (of the writer himself or of his creations), must frequently remain, in its fragrant blossoming state, in the land of its birth. like some of the most delicate wines and flowers, it will not bear travel. apart from his humor and other excellences, charles lamb combined qualities such as are seldom united in one person; which indeed seem not easily reconcilable with each other: namely, much prudence, with much generosity; great tenderness of heart, with a firm will. to these was superadded that racy humor which has served to distinguish him from other men. there is no other writer, that i know of, in whom tenderness, and good sense, and humor are so intimately and happily blended; no one whose view of men and things is so invariably generous, and true, and independent. these qualities made their way slowly and fairly. they were not taken up as a matter of favor or fancy, and then abandoned. they struggled through many years of neglect, and some of contumely, before they took their stand triumphantly, and as things not to be ignored by any one. lamb pitied all objects which had been neglected or despised. nevertheless the lens through which he viewed the objects of his pity,--beggars, and chimney-sweepers, and convicts,--was always clear: it served him even when their short-comings were to be contemplated. for he never paltered with truth. he had no weak sensibilities, few tears for imaginary griefs. but his heart opened wide to real distress. he never applauded the fault; but he pitied the offender. he had a word of compassion for the sheep-stealer, who was arrested and lost his ill-acquired sheep, "his first, last, and only hope of a mutton pie;" and vented his feelings in that sonnet (rejected by the magazines) which he has called "the gypsey's malison." although he was willing to acknowledge merit when it was successful, he preferred it, perhaps, when it was not clothed with prosperity. by education and habit, he was a unitarian. indeed, he was a true nonconformist in all things. he was not a dissenter by imitation, nor from any deep principle or obstinate heresy; nor was he made servile and obedient by formal logic alone. his reasoning always rose and streamed through the heart. he liked a friend for none of the ordinary reasons; because he was famous, or clever, or powerful, or popular. he at once took issue with the previous verdicts, and examined the matter in his own way. if a man was unfortunate, he gave him money. if he was calumniated, he accorded him sympathy. he gave freely; not to merit, but to want. he pursued his own fancies, his own predilections. he did not neglect his own instinct (which is always true), and aim at things foreign to his nature. he did not cling to any superior intellect, nor cherish any inferior humorist or wit. perhaps no one ever thought more independently. he had great enjoyment in the talk of able men, so that it did not savor of form or pretension. he liked the strenuous talk of hazlitt, who never descended to fine words. he liked the unaffected, quiet conversation of manning, the vivacious, excursive talk of leigh hunt. he heard with wondering admiration the monologues of coleridge. perhaps he liked the simplest talk the best; expressions of pity or sympathy, or affection for others; from young people, who thought and said little or nothing about themselves. he had no craving for popularity, nor even for fame. i do not recollect any passage in his writings, nor any expression in his talk, which runs counter to my opinion. in this respect he seems to have differed from milton (who desired fame, like "blind thamyris and blind maeonides"), and to have rather resembled shakespeare, who was indifferent to fame or assured of it; but perhaps he resembled no one. lamb had not many personal antipathies, but he had a strong aversion to pretence and false repute. in particular, he resented the adulation of the epitaph-mongers who endeavored to place garrick, the actor, on a level with shakespeare. of that greatest of all poets he has said such things as i imagine shakespeare himself would have liked to hear. he has also uttered brave words in behalf of shakespeare's contemporary dramatists; partly because they deserved them, partly because they were unjustly forgotten. the sentence of oblivion, passed by ignorant ages on the reputation of these fine authors, he has annulled, and forced the world to confess that preceding judges were incompetent to entertain the case. i cannot imagine the mind of charles lamb, even in early boyhood, to have been weak or childish. in his first letters you see that he was a thinker. he is for a time made sombre by unhappy reflections. he is a reader of thoughtful books. the witticisms which he coined for sixpence each (for the morning chronicle) had, no doubt, less of metallic lustre than those which he afterwards meditated; and which were highly estimated. _effodiuntur opes_. his jests were never the mere overflowings of the animal spirits, but were exercises of the mind. he brought the wisdom of old times and old writers to bear upon the taste and intellect of his day. what was in a manner foreign to his age, he naturalized and cherished. and he did this with judgment and great delicacy. his books never unhinge or weaken the mind, but bring before it tender and beautiful thoughts, which charm and nourish it as only good books can. no one was ever worse from reading charles lamb's writings; but many have become wiser and better. sometimes, as he hints, "he affected that dangerous figure, irony;" and he would sometimes interrupt grave discussion, when he thought it too grave, with some light jest, which nevertheless was "not quite irrelevant." long talkers, as he confesses, "hated him;" and assuredly he hated long talkers. in his countenance you might sometimes read--what may be occasionally read on almost all foreheads--the letters and lines of old, unforgotten calamity. yet there was at the bottom of his nature a buoyant self- sustaining strength; for although he encountered frequent seasons of mental distress, his heart recovered itself in the interval, and rose and sounded, like music played to a happy tune. upon fit occasion, his lips could shut in a firm fashion; but the gentle smile that played about his face showed that he was always ready to relent. his quick eye never had any sullenness: his mouth, tender and tremulous, showed that there would be nothing cruel or inflexible in his nature. on referring to his letters, it must be confessed that in literature lamb's taste, like that of all others, was at first imperfect. for taste is a portion of our judgment, and must depend a good deal on our experience, and on our opportunities of comparing the claims of different pretenders. lamb's affections swayed him at all times. he sympathized deeply with cowper and his melancholy history, and at first estimated his verse, perhaps, beyond its strict value. he was intimate with southey, and anticipated that he would rival milton. then his taste was at all times peculiar. he seldom worshipped the idol which the multitude had set up. i was never able to prevail on him to admit that "paradise lost" was greater than "paradise regained;" i believe, indeed, he liked the last the best. he would not discuss the poetry of lord byron or shelley, with a view of being convinced of their beauties. apart from a few points like these, his opinions must be allowed to be sound; almost always; if not as to the style of the author, then as to the quality of his book or passage which he chose to select. and his own style was always good, from the beginning, in verse as well as in prose. his first sonnets are unaffected, well sustained, and well written. i do not know much of the opinion of others; but to my thinking the style of charles lamb, in his "elia," and in the letters written by him in the later (the last twenty) years of his life, is full of grace; not antiquated, but having a touch of antiquity. it is self-possessed, choice, delicate, penetrating, his words running into the innermost sense of things. it is not, indeed, adapted to the meanest capacity, but is racy, and chaste, after his fashion. perhaps it is sometimes scriptural: at all events it is always earnest and sincere. he was painfully in earnest in his advocacy of hazlitt and hunt, and in his pleadings for hogarth and the old dramatists. even in his humor, his fictitious (as well as his real) personages have a character of reality about them which gives them their standard value. they all ring like true coin. in conversation he loved to discuss persons or books, and seldom ventured upon the stormy sea of politics; his intimates lying on the two opposite shores, liberal and tory. yet, when occasion moved him, he did not refuse to express his liberal opinions. there was little or nothing cloudy or vague about him; he required that there should be known ground even in fiction. he rejected the poems of shelley (many of them so consummately beautiful), because they were too exclusively ideal. their efflorescence, he thought, was not natural. he preferred southey's "don roderick" to his "curse of kehama;" of which latter poem he says, "i don't feel that firm footing in it that i do in 'roderick.' my imagination goes sinking and floundering in the vast spaces of unopened systems and faiths. i am put out of the pale of my old sympathies." charles lamb had much respect for some of the modern authors. in particular, he admired (to the full extent of his capacity for liking) coleridge, and wordsworth, and burns. but with these exceptions his affections rested mainly on writers who had lived before him; on _some_ of them; for there were "things in books' clothing" from which he turned away loathing. he was not a worshipper of the customs and manners of old times, so much as of the tangible objects that old times have bequeathed to us; the volumes tinged with decay, the buildings (the temple, christ's hospital, &c.) colored and enriched by the hand of age. apart from these, he clung to the time present; for if he hated anything in the extreme degree, he hated change. he clung to life, although life had bestowed upon him no magnificent gifts; none, indeed, beyond books, and friends (a "ragged regiment"), and an affectionate, contented mind. he had, he confesses, "an intolerable disinclination to dying;" which beset him especially in the winter months. "i am not content to pass away like a weaver's shuttle. any alteration in this earth of mine discomposes me. my household gods plant a terrible fixed foot, and are not rooted up without blood." he seems never to have looked into the future. his eyes were on the present or (oftener) on the past. it was always thus from his boyhood. his first readings were principally beaumont and fletcher, massinger, isaac walton, &c. "i gather myself up" (he writes) "unto the old things." he has indeed extracted the beauty and innermost value of antiquity, whenever he has pressed it into his service. chapter ii. _birth and parentage.--christ's hospital.--south sea house and india house.--condition of family.--death of mother.--mary in asylum.--john lamb.--charles's means of living.--his home.--despondency.--alice w.-- brother and sister._ on the south side of fleet street, near to where it adjoins temple bar, lies the inner temple. it extends southward to the thames, and contains long ranges of melancholy buildings, in which lawyers (those reputed birds of prey) and their followers congregate. it is a district very memorable. about seven hundred years ago, it was the abiding-place of the knights templars, who erected there a church, which still uplifts its round tower (its sole relic) for the wonder of modern times. fifty years since, i remember, you entered the precinct through a lowering archway that opened into a gloomy passage--inner temple lane. on the east side rose the church; and on the west was a dark line of chambers, since pulled down and rebuilt, and now called johnson's buildings. at some distance westward was an open court, in which was a sun-dial, and, in the midst, a solitary fountain, that sent its silvery voice into the air above, the murmur of which, descending, seemed to render the place more lonely. midway, between the inner temple lane and the thames, was, and i believe still is, a range of substantial chambers (overlooking the gardens and the busy river), called crown office row. in one of these chambers, on the th day of february, , charles lamb was born. he was the son of john and elizabeth lamb; and he and his brother john and his sister mary (both of whom were considerably older than himself) were the only children of their parents. john was twelve years, and mary (properly mary anne) was ten years older than charles. their father held the post of clerk to mr. samuel salt, a barrister, one of the benchers of the inner temple; a mild, amiable man, very indolent, very shy, and, as i imagine, not much known in what is called "the profession." lamb sprang, paternally, from a humble stock, which had its root in the county of lincoln. at one time of his life his father appears to have dwelt at stamford. in his imaginary ascent from plain charles lamb to pope innocent, one of the gradations is lord stamford. his mother's family came from hertfordshire, where his grandmother was a housekeeper in the plumer family, and where several of his cousins long resided. he did not attempt to trace his ancestry (of which he wisely made no secret) beyond two or three generations. in an agreeable sonnet, entitled "the family name," he speaks of his sire's sire, but no further: "we trace our stream no higher." then he runs into some pleasant conjectures as to his possible progenitors, of whom he knew nothing. "perhaps some shepherd on lincolnian plains," he says, first received the name; perhaps some martial lord, returned from "holy salem;" and then he concludes with a resolve,-- "no deed of mine shall shame thee, gentle name," which he kept religiously throughout his life. when charles was between seven and eight years of age, he became a scholar in christ's hospital, a presentation having been given to his father, for the son's benefit. he entered that celebrated school on the th of october, , and remained there until the d november, , being then between fourteen and fifteen years old. the records of his boyhood are very scanty. he was always a grave, inquisitive boy. once, when walking with his sister through some churchyard, he inquired anxiously, "where do the naughty people lie?" the unqualified panegyrics which he encountered on the tombstones doubtless suggesting the inquiry. mr. samuel le grice (his schoolfellow) states that he was an amiable, gentle youth, very sensible, and keenly observing; that "his complexion was clear brown, his countenance mild, his eyes differing in color, and that he had a slow and peculiar walk." he adds that he was never mentioned without the addition of his christian name, charles, implying a general feeling of kindness towards him. his delicate frame and difficulty of utterance, it is said, unfitted him for joining in any boisterous sports. after he left christ's hospital, he returned home, where he had access to the large miscellaneous library of mr. salt. he and his sister were (to use his own words) "tumbled into a spacious closet of good old english reading, and browsed at will on that fair and wholesome pasturage." this, however, could not have lasted long, for it was the destiny of charles lamb to be compelled to labor almost from, his boyhood. he was able to read greek, and had acquired great facility in latin composition, when he left the hospital; but an unconquerable impediment in his speech deprived him of an "exhibition" in the school, and, as a consequence, of the benefit of a college education. the state of christ's hospital, at the time when lamb was a scholar there, may be ascertained with tolerable correctness from his two essays, entitled "recollections of christ's hospital" and "christ's hospital five and thirty years ago." these papers when read together show the different (favorable and unfavorable) points of this great establishment. they leave no doubt as to its extensive utility. although, strictly speaking, it was a charitable home for the sustenance and education of boys, slenderly provided, or unprovided, with the means of learning, they were neither lifted up beyond their own family nor depressed by mean habits, such as an ordinary charity school is supposed to generate. they floated onwards towards manhood in a wholesome middle region, between a too rare ether and the dense and abject atmosphere of pauperism. the hospital boy (as lamb says) never felt himself to be a charity boy. the antiquity and regality of the foundation to which he belonged, and the mode or style of his education, sublimated him beyond the heights of the laboring classes. from the "christ's hospital five and thirty years ago," it would appear that the comforts enjoyed by lamb himself exceeded those of his schoolfellows, owing to his friends supplying him with extra delicacies. there is no doubt that great tyranny was then exercised by the older boys (the monitors) over the younger ones; that the scholars had anything but choice and ample rations; and that hunger ("the eldest, strongest of the passions") was not a tyrant unknown throughout this large institution. lamb remained at christ's hospital for seven years; but on the half- holidays (two in every week) he used to go to his parents' home, in the temple, and when there would muse on the terrace or by the lonely fountain, or contemplate the dial, or pore over the books in mr. salt's library, until those antiquely-colored thoughts rose up in his mind which in after years he presented to the world. amongst the advantages which charles derived from his stay at christ's hospital, was one which, although accidental, was destined to have great effect on his subsequent life. it happened that he reckoned amongst his schoolfellows one who afterwards achieved a very extensive reputation, namely, samuel taylor coleridge. this youth was his elder by two years; and his example influenced lamb materially on many occasions, and ultimately led him into literature. coleridge's projects, at the outset of life, were vacillating. in this respect lamb was no follower of his schoolfellow, his own career being steady and unswerving from his entrance into the india house until the day of his freedom from service--between thirty and forty years. his literary tastes, indeed, took independently almost the same tone as those of his friend; and their religious views (for coleridge in his early years became a unitarian) were the same. when coleridge left christ's hospital he went to the university--to jesus college, cambridge; but came back occasionally to london, where the intimacy between him and lamb was cemented. their meetings at the smoky little public house in the neighborhood of smithfield--the "salutation and cat"--consecrated by pipes and tobacco (orinoco), by egg-hot and welsh rabbits, and metaphysics and poetry, are exultingly referred to in lamb's letters. lamb entertained for coleridge's genius the greatest respect, until death dissolved their friendship. in his earliest verses (so dear to a young poet) he used to submit his thoughts to coleridge's amendments or critical suggestions; and on one occasion was obliged to cry out, "spare my ewe lambs: they are the reflected images of my own feelings." it was at a very tender age that charles lamb entered the "work-a-day" world. his elder brother, john, had at that time a clerkship in the south sea house, and charles passed a short time there under his brother's care or control, and must thus have gained some knowledge of figures. the precise nature of his occupation in this deserted place, however (where some forms of business were kept up, "though the soul be long since fled," and where the directors met mainly "to declare a dead dividend"), is not stated in the charming paper of "the south sea house." charles remained in this office only until the th april, , when he obtained an appointment (through the influence, i believe, of mr. salt) as clerk in the accountant's office of the east india company. he was then seventeen years of age. about three years after charles became a clerk in the india house, his family appear to have moved from crown office row into poor lodgings at no. little queen street, holborn. his father at that time had a small pension from mr. salt, whose service he had left, being almost fatuous; his mother was ill and bedridden; and his sister mary was tired but, by needle-work all day, and by taking care of her mother throughout the night. "of all the people in the world" (charles says), "she was most thoroughly devoid of all selfishness." there was also, as a member of the family, an old aunt, who had a trifling annuity for her life, which she poured into the common fund. john lamb (charles's elder brother) lived elsewhere, having occasional intercourse only with his kindred. he continued, however, to visit them, whilst he preserved his "comfortable" clerkship in the south sea house. it was under this state of things that they all drifted down to the terrible year . it was a year dark with horror. there was an hereditary taint of insanity in the family, which caused even charles himself to be placed, for a short time, in hoxton lunatic asylum. "the six weeks that finished last year and began this ( ), your very humble servant spent very agreeably in a madhouse, at hoxton." these are his words when writing to coleridge. mary lamb had previously been repeatedly attacked by the same dreadful disorder; and this now broke out afresh in a sudden burst of acute madness. she had been moody and ill for some little time previously, and the illness came to a crisis on the d of september, . on that day, just before dinner, mary seized a "case-knife" which was lying on the table, pursued a little girl (her apprentice) round the room, hurled about the dinner forks, and finally, in a fit of uncontrollable frenzy, stabbed her mother to the heart. charles was at hand only in time to snatch the knife out of her grasp, before further hurt could be done. he found his father wounded in the forehead by one of the forks, and his aunt lying insensible, and apparently dying, on the floor of the room. this happened on a thursday; and on the following day an inquest was held on the mother's body, and a verdict of mary's lunacy was immediately found by the jury. the lambs had a few friends. mr. norris--the friend of charles's father and of his own childhood--"was very kind to us;" and sam. le grice "then in town" (charles writes) "was as a brother to me, and gave up every hour of his time in constant attendance on my father." after the fatal deed, mary lamb was deeply afflicted. her act was in the first instance totally unknown to her. afterwards, when her consciousness returned and she was informed of it, she suffered great grief. and subsequently, when she became "calm and serene," and saw the misfortune in a clearer light, this was "far, very far from an indecent or forgetful serenity," as her brother says. she had no defiant air, no affectation, nor too extravagant a display of sorrow. she saw her act, as she saw all other things, by the light of her own clear and gentle good sense. she was sad; but the deed was past recall, and at the time of its commission had been utterly beyond either her control or knowledge. after the inquest, mary lamb was placed in a lunatic asylum, where, after a short time, she recovered her serenity. a rapid recovery after violent madness is not an unusual mark of the disease; it being in cases of quiet, inveterate insanity, that the return to sound mind (if it ever recur) is more gradual and slow. the recovery, however, was only temporary in her case. she was throughout her life subject to frequent recurrences of the same disease. at one time her brother charles writes, "poor mary's disorder so frequently recurring has made us a sort of marked people." at another time he says, "i consider her as perpetually on the brink of madness." and so, indeed, she continued during the remainder of her life; and she lived to the age of eighty-two years. charles was now left alone in the world. his father was imbecile; his sister insane; and his brother afforded no substantial assistance or comfort. he was scarcely out of boyhood when he learned that the world has its dangerous places and barren deserts; and that he had to struggle for his living, without help. he found that he had to take upon himself all the cares of a parent or protector (to his sister) even before he had studied the duties of a man. sudden as death came down the necessary knowledge: how to live, and how to live well. the terrible event that had fallen upon him and his, instead of casting him down, and paralyzing his powers, braced and strung his sinews into preternatural firmness. it is the character of a feeble mind to lie prostrate before the first adversary. in his case it lifted him out of that momentary despair which always follows a great calamity. it was like extreme cold to the system, which often overthrows the weak and timid, but gives additional strength and power of endurance to the brave and the strong. "my aunt was lying apparently dying" (writes lamb), "my father with a wound on his poor forehead, and my mother a murdered corpse, in the next room. i felt that i had something else to do than to regret. _i had the whole weight of the family upon me;_ for my brother--little disposed at any time to take care of old age and infirmity--has now, with his bad leg, exemption from such duties; and i am now left alone." in about a month after his mother's death ( d october), charles writes, "my poor, dear, dearest sister, the unhappy and unconscious instrument of the almighty's judgment on our house, is restored to her senses; to a dreadful sense of what has passed; awful to her mind, but tempered with a religious resignation. she knows how to distinguish between a deed committed in a fit of frenzy and the terrible guilt of a mother's murder." in another place he says, "she bears her situation as one who has no right to complain." he himself visits her and upholds her, and rejoices in her continued reason. for her use he borrows books ("for reading was her daily bread"), and gives up his time and all his thoughts to her comfort. thus, in their quiet grief, making no show, yet suffering more than could be shown by clamorous sobs or frantic words, the two--brother and sister-- enter upon the bleak world together. "her love," as mr. wordsworth states in the epitaph on charles lamb, "was as the love of mothers" towards her brother. it may be said that his love for her was the deep life-long love of the tenderest son. in one letter he writes, "it was not a family where i could take mary with me; and i am afraid that there is something of dishonesty in any pleasures i take without her." many years afterwards (in , the very year in which he died) he writes to miss fryer, "it is no new thing for me to be left with my sister. when she is not violent, _her rambling chat is better to me than the sense and sanity of the world."_ surely there is great depth of pathos in these unaffected words; in the love that has outlasted all the troubles of life, and is thus tenderly expressed, almost at his last hour. john lamb, the elder brother of charles, held a clerkship, with some considerable salary, in the south sea house. i do not retain an agreeable impression of him. if not rude, he was sometimes, indeed generally, abrupt and unprepossessing in manner. he was assuredly deficient in that courtesy which usually springs from a mind at friendship with the world. nevertheless, without much reasoning power (apparently), he had much cleverness of character; except when he had to purchase paintings, at which times his judgment was often at fault. one of his sayings is mentioned in the (elia) essay of "my relations." he seems to have been, on one occasion, contemplating a group of eton boys at play, when he observed, "what a pity it is to think that these fine ingenuous lads will some day be changed into frivolous members of parliament?" like some persons who, although case-hardened at home, overflow with sympathy towards distant objects, he cared less for the feelings of his neighbor close at hand than for the eel out of water or the oyster disturbed in its shell. john lamb was the favorite of his mother, as the deformed child is frequently the dearest. "she would always love my brother above mary," charles writes in , "although he was not worth one tenth of the affection which mary had a right to claim. poor mary! my mother never understood her right." in another place (after he had been unburdening his heart to coleridge), he writes cautiously, "_since_ this has happened,"-- the death of his mother,--"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 to struggle with difficulties. thank god, i can unconnect myself with him, and shall manage my father's moneys myself, if i take charge of daddy, which poor john has not hinted a wish at any future time to share with me." mary herself, when she was recovering, said that "she knew she must go to bethlehem for life; that one of her brothers would have it so; the other would not wish it, but would be obliged to go with the stream." at this time, reckoning up their several means of living, charles lamb and his father had together an income of one hundred and seventy or one hundred and eighty pounds; out of which, he says, "we can spare fifty or sixty pounds at least for mary whilst she stays in an asylum. if i and my father and an old maid-servant can't live, and live comfortably, on one hundred and thirty or one hundred and twenty pounds a year, we ought to burn by slow fires. i almost would, so that mary might not go into a hospital." she was then recovering her health; had become serene and cheerful; and charles was passionately desirous that, after a short residence in the lunatic establishment wherein she then was, she should return home: "but the surviving members of her family" (these are sir thomas talfourd's words), "especially john, who enjoyed a fair income from the south sea house, opposed her discharge." charles, however, ultimately succeeded in his pious desire, upon entering into a solemn undertaking to take care of his sister thereafter. he provided a lodging for her at hackney, and spent all his sundays and holidays with her. i never heard of john lamb having contributed anything, in money or otherwise, cowards the support of his deranged sister, or to assist his young struggling brother. soon after this time charles took his sister mary to live with himself entirely. whenever the approach of one of her fits of insanity was announced by some irritability or change of manner, he would take her, under his arm, to hoxton asylum. it was very afflicting to encounter the young brother and his sister walking together (weeping together) on this painful errand; mary herself, although sad, very conscious of the necessity for temporary separation from her only friend. they used to carry a strait jacket with them. in the latter days of his father's life, charles must have had an uncomfortable home. "i go home at night overwearied, quite faint, and then to cards with my father, who will not let me enjoy a meal in peace. after repeated games at cribbage" (he is writing to coleridge), "i have got my father's leave to write; with difficulty got it: for when i expostulated about playing any more, he replied, 'if you won't play with me, you might as well not come home at all.' the argument was unanswerable, and i set to afresh." soon after this, the father, who at last had become entirely imbecile, died; and the pension which he had received from mr. salt, the old bencher, ceased. the aunt, who had been taken for a short time to the house of a rich relation, but had been sent back, also died in the following month. "my poor old aunt" (chailes writes), "who was the kindest creature to me when i was at school, and used to bring me good things; when i, schoolboy-like, used to be ashamed to see her come, and open her apron, and bring out her basin with some nice thing which she had saved for me; the good old creature is now lying on her death-bed. she says, poor thing, she is glad she has come home to die with me. i was always her favorite." thus charles was left to his own poor resources (scarcely, if at all, exceeding one hundred pounds a year); and these remained very small for some considerable time. his writings were not calculated to attract immediate popularity, and the increase of his salary at the india house was slow. even in (november), almost fifteen years later, the addition of twenty pounds a year, which comes to him on the resignation of a clerk in the india house, is very important, and is the subject of a joyful remark by his sister mary. the impression made, in the first instance, on charles lamb, by the terrible death of his mother, cannot be explained in any condensed manner. his mind, short of insanity, seems to have been utterly upset. he had been fond of poetry to excess; almost all his leisure hours seemed to have been devoted to the books of poets and religious writers, to the composition of poetry, and to criticising various writers in verse. but afterwards, in his distress, he requests coleridge to "mention nothing of poetry. i have destroyed every vestige of past vanities of that kind. never send me a book, i charge you. i am wedded" (he adds) "to the fortunes of my sister and my poor old father." at another time he writes, "on the dreadful day i preserved a tranquillity, not of despair." some persons coming into the "house of misery," and persuading him to take some food, he says, "in an agony of emotion, i found my way mechanically into 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." a few days later, he says to his friend, "you are the only correspondent, and, i might add, the only friend i have in the world. i go nowhere and see no acquaintance." at this time he gave away all coleridge's letters, burned all his own poetry, all the numerous poetical extracts he had made, and the little journal of "my foolish passion, which i had a long time kept." subsequently, when he becomes better, he writes again to his friend, "correspondence with you has roused me a little from my lethargy, and made me conscious of my existence." charles was now entirely alone with his sister. she was the only object between him and god, and out of this misery and desolation sprang that wonderful love between brother and sister, which has no parallel in history. neither would allow any stranger to partake of the close affection that seemed to be solely the other's right. doubts have existed whether charles lamb ever gave up for the sake of mary the one real attachment of his youth. it has been considered somewhat probable that alice w. was an imaginary being--some celia, or campaspe, or lindamira; that she was in effect one of those visions which float over us when we escape from childhood. but it may have been a real love, driven deeper into the heart, and torn out for another love, more holy and as pure: for he was capable of a grand sacrifice. no one will, perhaps, ever ascertain the truth precisely. it must remain undiscovered--magnified by the mist of uncertainty--like those hesperian gardens which inspired the veises of poets, but are still surrounded by fable. for my own part, i am persuaded that the attachment was real. he says that his sister would often "lend an ear to his desponding, love-sick lay." after he himself had been in a lunatic asylum, he writes to coleridge, that his "head ran upon him, in his madness, as much almost as on another person, _who was the more immediate cause of my frenzy._" later in the year he burned the "little journal of his foolish passion;" and, when writing to his friend on the subject of his love sonnets, he says, "it is a passion of which i retain nothing." it is clear, i think, that it was love for a real person, however transient it may have been. but the fact, whether true or false, is inexpressibly unimportant. it could not add to his stature: it could not diminish it. his whole life is acted; and in it are numerous other things which substantially raise and honor him. the ashes (if ashes there were) are cold. his struggles and pains, and hopes and visions, are over. all lie, diffused, intermingled in that vast space which has no name; like the winds and light of yesterday, which came and gave pleasure for a moment, and now have changed and left us, forever. in contrast with this apocryphal attachment stands out his deep and unalterable love for his sister mary. "god love her," he says; "may we two never love each other less." they never did. their affection continued throughout life, without interruption; without a cloud, except such as rose from the fluctuations of her health. it is said that a woman rises or falls with the arm on which she leans. in this case, mary lamb at all times had a safe support; an arm that never shook nor wavered, but kept its elevation, faithful and firm throughout life. it is difficult to explain fully the great love of charles for his sister, except in his own words. whenever her name occurs in the correspondence, the tone is always the same; always tender; without abatement, without change. "i am a fool" (he writes) "bereft of her cooperation. i am used to look up to her in the least and biggest perplexities. to say all that i find her, would be more than i think anybody could possibly understand. she is older, wiser, and better than i am; and all my wretched imperfections i cover to myself, by resolutely thinking on her goodness. she would share life and death with me." this (to anticipate) was written in , when she was suffering from one of her attacks of illness. after she became better, he became better also, and opened his heart to the pleasures and objects around him. it was open at all times to want, and sickness, and wretchedness, and generally to the friendly voices and homely realities that rose up and surrounded him in his daily walk through life. during all his years he was encircled by groups of loving friends. there were no others habitually round him. it is reported of some person that he had not merit enough to create a foe. in lamb's case, i suppose, he did not possess that peculiar merit; for he lived and died without an enemy. chapter iii. _jem white.--coleridge.--lamb's inspiration.--early letters.--poem published.--charles lloyd.--liking for burns, &c.--quakerism.--robert southey.--southey and coleridge.--antijacobin.--rosamond gray.-george dyer.-manning.--mary's illnesses.--migrations.--hester savory._ after the pain arising from the deaths of his parents had somewhat subsided, and his sorrow, exhausting itself in the usual manner, had given way to calm, the story of lamb becomes mainly an account of his intercourse with society. he was surrounded, during his somewhat monotonous career, by affectionate and admiring friends, who helped to bring out his rare qualities, who stimulated his genius, and who are in fact interwoven with his own history. one of the earliest of these was his schoolfellow james (familiarly jem) white. this youth, who at the beginning of this period was his most frequent companion, had great cleverness and abundant animal spirits, under the influence of which he had produced a small volume, entitled "original letters of sir john falstaff and his friends." these letters were ingenious imitations of the style and tone of thought of the celebrated shakespearian knight and his familiars. beyond this merit they are, perhaps, not sufficiently full of that enduring matter which is intended for posterity. nevertheless they contain some good and a few excellent things. the letter of davy (justice shallow's servant) giving an account to his master of the death of poor abram slender is very touching. slender dies from mere love of sweet ann page; "master abram is dead; gone, your worship. a' sang his soul and body quite away. a' turned like the latter end of a lover's lute." white's book was published in ; and one of the early copies was sold at the roxburgh sale for five guineas. is it possible that the imitations could have been mistaken for originals? afterwards, the little book could be picked up for eighteenpence; even for sixpence. it was always a great favorite with lamb. he reviewed it, after white's death, in the _examiner_. lamb's friendship and sympathy in taste with white induced him to attach greater value to this book than it was, perhaps, strictly entitled to; he even passes some commendation on the frontispiece, which is undoubtedly a very poor specimen of art. it is remarkable how lamb, who was able to enter so completely into hogarth's sterling humor, could ever have placed any value upon this counterfeit coin. but lamb had a great regard for jem white. they had been boys together, school-fellows in christ's hospital; and these very early friendships seldom undergo any severe critical tests. at all events, lamb thought highly of white's book, which he used often to purchase and give away to his friends, in justification of his own taste and to extend the fame of the author. the copy which he gave me i have still. white, it seems, after leaving christ's hospital as a scholar, took some office there; but eventually left it, and became an agent for newspapers. in one of the elia essays, "the praise of chimney-sweepers," lamb has set forth some of the merits of his old friend. undoubtedly jem white must have been a thoroughly kind-hearted man, since he could give a dinner every year, on st. bartholomew's day, to the little chimney-sweepers of london; waiting on them, and cheering them up with his jokes and lively talk; creating at least one happy day annually in each of their poor lives. at the date of the essay (may, ) he had died. in lamb's words, "james white is extinct; and with him the suppers have long ceased. he carried away with him half the fun of the world when he died--of my world, at least. his old clients look for him among the pens; and, missing him, reproach the altered feast of st. bartholomew, and the glory of smithfield departed forever." the great friend and mentor, however, of charles lamb's youth, was (as has frequently been asserted) samuel taylor coleridge, who was a philosopher, and who was considered, almost universally, to be the greater genius of the two. it may be so; and there is little doubt that in mere capacity, in the power of accumulating and disbursing ideas, and in the extent and variety of his knowledge, he exceeded lamb, and also most of his other contemporaries; but the mind of lamb was quite as original, and more compact. the two friends were very dissimilar, the one wandering amongst lofty, ill-defined objects, whilst the other "clung to the realities of life." it is fortunately not necessary to enter into any comparative estimate of these two remarkable persons. each had his positive qualities and peculiarities, by which he was distinguishable from other men; and by these he may therefore be separately and more safely judged. in his mature age (when i knew him) coleridge had a full, round face, a fine, broad forehead, rather thick lips, and strange, dreamy eyes, which were often lighted up by eagerness, but wanted concentration, and were adapted apparently for musing or speculation, rather than for precise or rapid judgment. yet he was very shrewd, as well as eloquent; was (slightly) addicted to jesting; and would talk "at sight" upon any subject with extreme fluency and much knowledge. "his white hair," in lamb's words, "shrouded a capacious brain." coleridge had browsed and expatiated over all the rich regions of literature, at home and abroad. in youth his studies had, in the first instance, been mainly in theology, he having selected the "church" for his profession. although he was educated in the creed and rites of the church of england, he became for a time a unitarian preacher, and scattered his eloquent words over many human audiences. he was fond of questions of logic, and of explaining his systems and opinions by means of diagrams; but his projects were seldom consummated; and his talk (sometimes) and his prose writing (often) were tedious and diffuse. his "christabel," from which he derived much of his fame, remained, after a lapse of more than thirty years, incomplete at his death. he gained much reputation from the "ancient mariner" (which is perhaps his best poem); but his translation of schiller's "wallenstein" is the only achievement that shows him capable of a great prolonged effort. lamb used to boast that he supplied one line to his friend in the fourth scene of that tragedy, where the description of the pagan deities occurs. in speaking of satan, he is figured as "an old man melancholy." "that was _my_ line," lamb would say, exultingly. i forget how it was originally written, except that it had not the extra (or eleventh) syllable, which it now possesses. there is some beautiful writing in this fourth scene, which may be read after mr. wordsworth's equally beautiful reference to the olympian gods and goddesses, in the fourth book of the "excursion," entitled "despondency corrected." the last explains more completely than the other the attributes of the deities specially named. the most elaborate (perhaps impartial) sketches of coleridge--his great talents, combined with his great weaknesses--may be found in hazlitt's essays, "the spirit of the age" and "my first acquaintance with poets;" and in the eighth chapter of mr. carlyle's "life of john sterling." in lamb's letters it is easy to perceive that the writer soon became aware of the foibles of his friend. "cultivate simplicity, coleridge," is his admonition as early as . in another place his remark is, "you have been straining your faculties to bring together things infinitely distant and unlike." again, "i grieve from my very soul to observe you in your plans of life veering about from this hope to the other, and settling nowhere." robert southey, whose prose style was the perfection of neatness, and who was intimate with coleridge throughout his life, laments that it is "extraordinary that he should write in so rambling and inconclusive a manner;" his mind, which was undoubtedly very pliable and subtle, "turning and winding, till you get weary of following his mazy movements." charles lamb, however, always sincerely admired and loved his old schoolfellow, and grieved deeply when he died. the recollection of this event, which happened many years afterwards (in ), never left lamb until his own death: he used perpetually to exclaim, "coleridge is dead, coleridge is dead," in a low, musing, meditative voice. these exclamations (addressed to no one) were, as lamb was a most unaffected man, assuredly involuntary, and showed that he could not get rid of the melancholy truth. at this distance of time, many persons (judging by what he has left behind him) wonder at the extent of admiration which possessed some of coleridge's contemporaries: charles lamb accorded to his genius something scarcely short of absolute worship; robert southey considered his capacity as exceeding that of almost all other writers; and leigh hunt, speaking of coleridge's personal appearance, says, "he had a mighty intellect put upon a sensual body." persons who were intimate with both have suggested that even wordsworth was indebted to him for some of his philosophy. as late as , lamb, when dedicating his works to him, says that coleridge "first kindled in him, if not the power, the love, of poetry, and beauty, and kindness." he must be judged, however, by what he has actually _done_. i am not here as the valuer of coleridge's merits. i have no pretensions and no desire to assume so delicate an office. his dreams and intentions were undoubtedly good, and, had he been able to carry them out for the benefit of the world, would have entitled himself to the name of a great poet, a great genius. his readiness to discuss _all_ subjects, and his ability to talk on most of them with ease, were marvellous. but he was always infirm of purpose, and never did justice to his own capacity. amongst other men of talent who have sung coleridge's praises should be named hazlitt, who knew him in , and has enshrined him in the first of his charming papers, entitled "winterslow essays." hazlitt admits his feebleness of purpose, but speaks of his genius, shining upon his own (then) dumb, inarticulate nature, as the sun "upon the puddles of the road." coleridge at that time was a unitarian minister, and had come to preach, instead of the minister for the time being, at shrewsbury. hazlitt rose before daylight (it was in january), and walked from wem to shrewsbury, a distance of ten miles, to hear the "celebrated" man, who combined the inspirations of poet and preacher in one person, enlighten a shropshire congregation. "never, the longest day i have to live" (says he), "shall i have such another walk as this cold, raw, comfortless one, in the winter of . when i got there [to the chapel], the organ was playing the one hundredth psalm; and when it was done, mr. coleridge rose and gave out his text--'and he went up into the mountain to pray, himself alone.' the preacher then launched into his subject, like an eagle dallying with the wind," &c. coleridge was at that time only five and twenty years of age; yet he seems even then to have been able to decide on many writers in logic and rhetoric, philosophy and poetry. of course he was familiar with the works of his friend wordsworth, of whom he cleverly observed, in reply to the depreciating opinion of mackintosh, "he strides on so far before you, that he dwindles in the distance." [ ] it would be very interesting, were it practicable, to trace with certainty the sources that supplied charles lamb's inspiration. but this must always be impossible. for inspiration, in all cases, proceeds from many sources, although there may be one influence predominating. it is clear that a great tragedy mainly determined his conduct through life, and operated, therefore, materially on his thoughts as well as actions. the terrible death of his mother concentrated and strengthened his mind, and prevented its dissipation into trifling and ignoble thoughts. the regularity of the india house labor upheld him. the extent and character of his acquaintance also helped to determine the quality of the things which he produced. had he seen less, his mind might have become warped and rigid, as from want of space. had he seen too much, his thoughts might have been split and exhausted upon too many points, and would thus have been so perplexed and harassed, that the value of his productions, now known and current through all classes, might scarcely have exceeded a negative quantity. then, in his companions he must be accounted fortunate. coleridge helped to unloose his mind from too precise notions: southey gave it consistency and correctness: manning expanded his vision: hazlitt gave him daring: perhaps even poor george dyer, like some unrecognized virtue, may have kept alive and nourished the pity and tenderness which were originally sown within him. we must leave the difficulty, as we must leave the great problems of nature, unexplained, and be content with what is self-evident before us. we know, at all events, that he had an open heart, and that the heart is a fountain which never fails. the earliest productions of lamb which have come down to us, namely, verses, and criticism, and letters, are all in a grave and thoughtful tone. the letters, at first, are on melancholy subjects, but afterwards stray into criticism or into details of his readings, or an account of his predilections for books and authors. at one or two and twenty, he had read and formed opinions on shakespeare, on beaumont and fletchcr, on massinger, milton, cowley, isaac walton, burns, collins, and others; some of these, be it observed, lying much out of the ordinary course of a young man's reading. he was also acquainted with the writings of priestley and wesley, and jonathan edwards; for the first of whom he entertained the deepest respect. lamb's verses were always good, steady, and firm, and void of those magniloquent commonplaces which so clearly betray the immature writer. they were at no time misty nor inconsequent, but contained proof that he had reasoned out his idea. from the age of twenty-one to the age of fifty- nine, when he died, he hated fine words and flourishes of rhetoric. his imagination (not very lofty, perhaps) is to be discovered less in his verse than in his prose humor, than in his letters and essays. in these it was never trivial, but was always knit together by good sense, or softened by tenderness. real humor seldom makes its appearance in the first literary ventures of young writers. accordingly, symptoms of humor (which, nevertheless, were not long delayed) are not to be discovered in charles lamb's first letters or poems; the latter, when prepared for publication in , being especially grave. they are entitled "poems by charles lamb of the india house," and are inscribed to "mary anne lamb, the author's best friend and sister." after some procrastination, the book containing them was published in , conjointly with other verses by coleridge and charles lloyd. "we came into our first battle" (charles says in his dedication to coleridge, in ) "under cover of the greater ajax." in this volume lloyd's verses took precedence of lamb's, at coleridge's suggestion. this suggestion, the reason of which is not very obvious, was very readily acceded to, lamb having a sincere regard for lloyd, who (with a fine reasoning mind) was subject to that sad mental disease which was common to both their families. lamb has addressed some verses to lloyd at this date, which indicate the great respect he felt towards his friend's intellect:-- "i'll think less meanly of myself, that lloyd will sometimes think of me." this joint volume was published without much success. in the same year lamb and his sister paid a visit to coleridge, then living at stowey, in somersetshire; after which coleridge, for what purpose does not very clearly appear, migrated to germany. this happened in the year . charles lloyd, one of the triumvirate of , was the son of a banker at birmingham. he was educated as a quaker, but seceded from that body, and afterwards became "perplexed in mind," and very desponding. he often took up his residence in london, but did not mingle much with society. an extreme melancholy darkened his latter days; and, as i believe, he died insane. he published various poems, and translated, from the italian into english blank verse, the tragedies of alfieri. his poems are distinguished rather by a remarkable power of intellectual analysis than by the delicacy or fervor of the verse. the last time i saw charles lloyd was in company with hazlitt. we heard that he had taken lodgings at a working brazier's shop in fetter lane, and we visited him there, and found him in bed, much depressed, but very willing to discuss certain problems with hazlitt, who carried on the greater part of the conversation. we understood that he had selected these noisy apartments in order that they might distract his mind from the fears and melancholy thoughts which at that time distressed him. it was soon after the publication of the joint volume that charles chronicles the different tastes of himself and his friend. "burns," he says, "is the god of my idolatry, as bowles of yours." posterity has universally joined in the preference of lamb. burns, indeed, was always one of his greatest favorites. he admired and sometimes quoted a line or two from the last stanza of the "lament for james, earl of glencairn," "the bridegroom may forget his bride," &c.; and i have more than once heard him repeat, in a fond, tender voice, when the subject of poets or poetry came under discussion, the following beautiful lines from the epistle to simpson of ochiltree: "the muse, nae poet ever fand her, till by himsel he learn'd to wander, adown some trotting burn's meander an' no think't lang." these he would press upon the attention of any one present (chanting them aloud), and would bring down the volume of burns, and open it, in order that the page might be impressed on the hearer's memory. sometimes--in a way scarcely discernible--he would kiss the volume; as he would also a book by chapman or sir philip sidney, or any other which he particularly valued. i have seen him read out a passage from the holy dying and the urn burial, and express in the same way his devotion and gratitude. lamb had been brought up a unitarian; but he appears to have been occasionally fluctuating in a matter as to which boys are not apt to entertain very rigid opinions. at one time he longed to be with superior thinkers. "i am always longing to be with men more excellent than myself," are his words. at another time he writes, "i have had thoughts of turning quaker lately." a visit, however, to one of the quaker meetings in , decides him against such conversion: "this cured me of quakerism. i love it in the books of penn and woodman; but i detest the vanity of man, thinking he speaks by the spirit." a similar story is told of coleridge. mr. justice coleridge's statement is, "he told us a humorous story of his enthusiastic fondness for quakers when at cambridge, and his attending one of their meetings, which had entirely cured him." in charles lamb (who had been introduced to southey by coleridge two years previously) accompanied lloyd to a little village near christchurch, in hampshire, where southey was at that time reading. this little holiday (of a fortnight) seems to have converted the acquaintanceship between southey and lamb into something like intimacy. he then paid another visit (which he had long meditated) to coleridge, who was residing at stowey. it must have been shortly after this first visit (for lamb went again to stowey, and met wordsworth there in ) that coleridge undertook the office of minister to a unitarian congregation at shrewsbury, and preached there, as detailed by hazlitt in the manner already set forth. in he took his departure for germany, and this led to a familiar correspondence between lamb and southey. the opening of lamb's humor may probably be referred to this friendship with a congenial humorist, and one, like himself, taking a strong interest in worldly matters. coleridge, between whom and lamb there was not much similarity of feeling, beyond their common love for poetry and religious writings, was absent, and lamb was enticed by the kindred spirit of southey into the accessible regions of humor. these two friends never arrived at that close friendship which had been forming between coleridge and lamb ever since their school-days at christ's hospital. but they interchanged ideas on poetical and humorous topics, and did not perplex themselves with anything speculative or transcendental. the first letter to southey, which has been preserved (july, ), announces that lamb is ready to enter into any jocose contest. it includes a list of queries to be defended by coleridge at leipsic or gottingen; the first of which was, "whether god loves a lying angel better than a true man?" some of these queries, in all probability, had relation to coleridge's own infirmities: at all events, they were sent over to him in reply to the benediction which he had thought proper to bequeath to charles on leaving england. "poor lamb, if he wants _any knowledge_ he may apply to _me_." i must believe that this message was jocose, otherwise it would have been insolent in the extreme degree. coleridge's answers to the queries above adverted to are not known; i believe that the proffered knowledge was not afforded so readily as it was demanded. it has been surmised that there was some interruption of the good feeling between coleridge and lamb about this period of their lives; but i cannot discern this in the letters that occurred between the two schoolfellows. the message of coleridge, and the questions in reply, occur in ; and in may, , there is a letter from lamb to coleridge, and subsequently two others, in the same year, all couched in the old customary, friendly tone. in addition to this, charles lamb, many years afterwards, said that there had been an uninterrupted friendship of fifty years between them. in one letter of lamb's, indeed ( th march, ), it appears that his early notions of coleridge being a "very good man" had been traversed by some doubts; but these "foolish impressions" were short-lived, and did not apparently form any check to the continuance of their life-long friendship. it is clear that lamb's judgment was at this time becoming independent. in one of his letters to coleridge, when comparing his friend's merits with those of southey, he says, "southey has no pretensions to vie with you in the sublime of poetry, but he tells a plain story better." even to southey he is equally candid. writing to him on the subject of a volume of poems which he had lately published, he remarks, "the rose is the only insipid poem in the volume; it has neither thorns nor sweetness." in or , lamb contributed to the annual anthology (which mr. cottle, a bookseller of bristol, published), jointly with coleridge and southey. in he was introduced by coleridge to godwin. it is clear that charles's intimacy with coleridge, and southey, and lloyd, was not productive of unmitigated pleasure. for the "antijacobin" made its appearance about this time, and denounced them all in a manner which in the present day would itself be denounced as infamous. some of these gentlemen (lamb's friends), in common with many others, augured at first favorably of the actors in the great french revolution, and this had excited much displeasure in the tory ranks. accordingly they were represented as being guilty of blasphemy and slander, and as being adorers of a certain french revolutionist, named lepaux, of whom lamb, at all events, was entirely ignorant. they wore, moreover, the subject of a caricature by gilray, in which lamb and lloyd were portrayed as toad and frog. i cannot think, with sir t. talfourd, that all these libels were excusable, on the ground of the "sportive wit" of the offending parties. lamb's writings had no reference whatever to political subjects; they were, on the contrary, as the first writings of a young man generally are, serious,--even religious. referring to coleridge, it is stated that he "was dishonored at cambridge for preaching deism, and that he had since left his native country, and left his poor children fatherless, and his wife destitute:" _ex his disce his friends lamb and southey._ a scurrilous libel of this stamp would now be rejected by all persons of good feeling or good character. it would be spurned by a decent publication, or, if published, would be consigned to the justice of a jury. the little story of rosamond gray was wrought out of the artist's brain in the year , stimulated, as lamb confesses, by the old ballad of "an old woman clothed in gray," which he had been reading. it is defective as a regular tale. it wants circumstance and probability, and is slenderly provided with character. there is, moreover, no construction in the narrative, and little or no progress in the events. yet it is very daintily told. the mind of the author wells out in the purest streams. having to deal with one foul incident, the tale is nevertheless without speck or blemish. a virgin nymph, born of a lily, could not have unfolded her thoughts more delicately. and, in spite of its improbability, rosamond gray is very pathetic. it touches the sensitive points in young hearts; and it was by no means without success--the author's first success. it sold much better than his poems, and added "a few pounds" to his slender income. george dyer, once a pupil in christ's hospital, possessing a good reputation as a classical scholar, and who had preceded lamb in the school, about this time came into the circle of his familiars. dyer was one of the simplest and most inoffensive men in the world: in his heart there existed nothing but what was altogether pure and unsophisticated. he seemed never to have outgrown the innocence of childhood; or rather he appeared to be without those germs or first principles of evil which sometimes begin to show themselves even in childhood itself. he was not only without any of the dark passions himself, but he would not perceive them in others. he looked only on the sunshine. hazlitt, speaking of him in his "conversation of authors," says, "he lives amongst the old authors, if he does not enter much into their spirit. he handles the covers, and turns over the pages, and is familiar with the names and dates. he is busy and self-involved. he hangs like a film and cobweb upon letters, or is like the dust upon the outside of knowledge, which should not too rudely be brushed aside. he follows learning as its shadow, but as such he is respectable. he browses on the husks and leaves of books." and lamb says, "the gods, by denying him the very faculty of discrimination, have effectually cut off every seed of envy in his bosom." dyer was very thin and short in person, and was extremely near-sighted; and his motions were often (apparently) spasmodic. his means of living were very scanty; he subsisted mainly by supervising the press, being employed for that purpose by booksellers when they were printing greek or latin books. he dwelt in clifford's inn, "like a dove in an asp's nest," as charles lamb wittily says; and he might often have been seen with a classical volume in his hand, and another in his pocket, walking slowly along fleet street or its neighborhood, unconscious of gazers, cogitating over some sentence, the correctness of which it was his duty to determine. you might meet him murmuring to himself in a low voice, and apparently tasting the flavor of the words. dyer's knowledge of the drama (which formed part of the subject of his first publication) may be guessed, by his having read shakespeare, "an irregular genius," and having dipped into rowe and otway, but never having heard of any other writers in that class. in absence of mind, he probably exceeded every other living man. lamb has set forth one instance (which i know to be a fact) of dyer's forgetfulness, in his "oxford in the vacation;" and to this various others might be added, such as his emptying his snuff-box into the teapot when he was preparing breakfast for a hungry friend, &c. but it is scarcely worth while to chronicle minutely the harmless foibles of this inoffensive old man. if i had to write his epitaph, i should say that he was neither much respected nor at all hated; too good to dislike, too inactive to excite great affection; and that he was as simple as the daisy, which we think we admire, and daily tread under foot. in charles lamb visited cambridge, and there, through the introduction of lloyd, made the important acquaintance of mr. thomas manning, then a mathematical tutor in the university. this soon grew into a close intimacy. charles readily perceived the intellectual value of manning, and seems to have eagerly sought his friendship, which, he says, (december, ), will render the prospect of the approaching century very pleasant. "that century must needs commence auspiciously for me" (he adds), "that brings with it manning's friendship as an earnest of its after gifts." at first sight it appears strange that there should be formed a close friendship between a youth, a beginner, or student in poetry (no more), and a professor of science at one of our great seats of learning. but these men had, i suppose, an intuitive perception of each other's excellences. and there sometimes lie behind the outer projections of character a thousand concealed shades which readily intermingle with those of other people. there were amongst lamb's tender thoughts, and manning's mathematical tendencies, certain neutral qualities which assimilated with each other, and which eventually served to cement that union between them which continued unshaken during the lives of both. lamb's correspondence assumed more character, and showed more critical quality, after the intimacy with manning began. his acquaintance with southey, in the first instance, had the effect of increasing the activity of his mind. previously to that time, his letters had consisted chiefly of witticisms (clever indeed, but not of surpassing quality), religious thoughts, reminiscences, &c., for the most part unadorned and simple. afterwards, especially after the manning era, they exhibit far greater weight of meaning, more fecundity, original thoughts, and brilliant allusions; as if the imagination had begun to awaken and enrich the understanding. manning's solid, scientific mind had, without doubt, the effect of arousing the sleeping vigor of lamb's intellect. a long correspondence took place between them. at first lamb sent manning his opinions only: "opinion is a species of property that i am always desirous of sharing with my friends." then he communicates the fact that george dyer, "that good-natured poet, is now more than nine months gone with twin volumes of odes." afterwards he tells him that he is reading burnet's history of his own times--"full of scandal, as all true history is." on manning quitting england for china ( ), the letters become less frequent; they continue, however, during his absence: one of them, surpassing the elia essay, to "distant correspondents," is very remarkable; and when the chinese traveller returned to london, he was very often a guest at lamb's residence. i have repeatedly met him there. his countenance was that of an intelligent, steady, almost serious man. his journey to the celestial empire had not been unfruitful of good; his talk at all times being full of curious information, including much anecdote, and some (not common) speculations on men and things. when he returned, he brought with him a native of china, whom he took one evening to a ball in london, where the foreigner from shanghai, or pekin, inquired with much naivete as to the amount of money which his host had given to the dancers for their evening's performance, and was persuaded with difficulty that their exertions were entirely gratuitous. manning had a curious habit of bringing with him (in his waistcoat pocket) some pods of the red pepper, whenever he expected to partake of a meal. his original intention (as i understood) when he set out for china, was to frame and publish a chinese and english dictionary; yet--although he brought over much material for the purpose--his purpose was never carried into effect. lamb had great love and admiration for him. in a letter to coleridge, in after years ( ), he says, "i am glad you esteem manning; though you see but his husk or shrine. he discloses not, save to select worshippers, and will leave the world without any one hardly but me knowing how stupendous a creature he is." during these years lamb's correspondence with coleridge, wordsworth, walter wilson, and manning (principally with manning) goes on. it is sometimes critical, sometimes jocose. he discusses the merits of various authors, and more than once expresses his extreme distaste for didactic writing. now, he says, it is too directly instructive. then he complains that the knowledge, insignificant and vapid as it is, must come in the _shape_ of knowledge. he could not obtain at newberry's shop any of the old "classics of the nursery," he says; whilst "mrs. barbauld's and mrs. trimmer's nonsense lay in piles about." his own domestic affairs struggle on as usual; at one time calm and pleasant, at another time troubled and uncomfortable, owing to the frequent recurrence of his sister's malady. in general he bore these changes with fortitude; i do not observe more than one occasion on which (being then himself ill) his firmness seemed altogether to give way. in , indeed, he had said, "i consider her perpetually on the brink of madness." but in may, , his old servant hetty having died, and mary (sooner than usual) falling ill again, charles was obliged to remove her to an asylum; and was left in the house alone with hetty's dead body. "my heart is quite sick" (he cries), "and i don't know where to look for relief. my head is very bad. i almost wish that mary were dead." this was the one solitary cry of anguish that he uttered during his long years of anxiety and suffering. at all other times he bowed his head in silence, uncomplaining. charles lamb, with his sister, left little queen street on or before ; in which year he seems to have migrated, first to chapel street, pentonville; next to southampton buildings, chancery lane; and finally to no. mitre court buildings, in the temple, "a pistol shot off baron masere's;" and here he resided for about nine years. it was during his stay at pentonville that he "fell in love" with a young quaker, called hester savory. as (he confesses) "i have never spoken to her during my life," it may be safely concluded that the attachment was essentially platonic. this was the young girl who inspired those verses, now so widely known and admired. i remember them as being the first lines which i ever saw of charles lamb's writing. i remember and admire them still, for their natural, unaffected style; no pretence, no straining for images and fancies flying too high above the subject, but dealing with thoughts that were near his affections, in a fit and natural manner. the conclusion of the poem, composed and sent after her death (in february, ) to manning, who was then in paris, is very sad and tender:-- my sprightly neighbor, gone before to that unknown and silent shore, shall we not meet, as heretofore, some summer morning? when from thy cheerful eyes a ray hath struck a bliss upon the day, a bliss that will not go away, a sweet forewarning. [ ] the most convincing evidence of coleridge's powers is to be found in his table talk. it appears from it that he was ready to discuss (almost) any subject, and that he was capable of talking ably upon most, and cleverly upon all. chapter iv. _(migrations.)--"john woodvil."--blackesmoor.--wordsworth.--rickman.-- godwin.--visit to the lakes.--morning post.--hazlitt.--nelson.--ode to tobacco.--dramatic specimens, &c.--inner temple lane.--reflector.--hogarth and sir j. reynolds.--leigh hunt.--lamb, hazlitt, and hunt.--russell street and theatrical friends._ it is not always easy to fix charles lamb's doings (writings or migrations) to any precise date. the year may generally be ascertained; but the day or month is often a matter of surmise only. even the dates of the letters are often derived from the postmarks, or are sometimes conjectured from circumstances. [ ] occasionally the labors of a drama or of lyric poems traverse several years, and are not to be referred to any one definite period. thus "john woodvil" (his tragedy) was begun in , printed in , and submitted to mr. kemble (then manager of drury lane theatre) in the christmas of that year, but was not published until . after this tragedy had been in mr. kemble's hands for about a year, lamb naturally became urgent to hear his decision upon it. upon applying for this he found that his play was--lost! this was at once acknowledged, and a "courteous request made for another copy, if i had one by me." luckily, another copy existed. the "first runnings" of a genius were not, therefore, altogether lost, by having been cast, without a care, into the dusty limbo of the theatre. the other copy was at once supplied, and the play very speedily rejected. it was afterwards facetiously brought forward in one of the early numbers of the edinburgh review, and there noticed as a rude specimen of the earliest age of the drama, "older than aeschylus!" lamb met these accidents of fortune manfully, and did not abstain from exercising his own shandean humor thereon. it must be confessed that "john woodvil" is not a tragedy likely to bring much success to a playhouse. it is such a drama as a young poet, full of love for the elizabethan writers, and without any knowledge of the requisitions of the stage, would be likely to produce. there is no plot; little probability in the story; which itself is not very scientifically developed. there are some pretty lines, especially some which have often been the subject of quotation; but there is not much merit in the characters of the drama, with the exception of the heroine, who is a heroine of the "purest water." lamb's friend southey, in writing to a correspondent, pronounces the following opinion: "lamb is printing his play, which will please you by the exquisite beauty of its poetry, and provoke you by the exquisite silliness of its story." in october, , lamb went to see the remains of the old house (gilston) in hertfordshire, where his grandmother once lived, and the "old church where the bones of my honored granddame lie." this visit was, in later years, recorded in the charming paper entitled "blakesmoor in h----shire." he found that the house where he had spent his pleasant holidays, when a little boy, had been demolished; it was, in fact, taken down for the purpose of reconstruction; but out of the ruins he conjures up pleasant ghosts, whom he restores and brings before a younger generation. there are few of his papers in which the past years of his life are more delightfully revived. the house had been "reduced to an antiquity." but we go with him to the grass plat, were he used to read cowley; to the tapestried bedrooms, where the mythological people of ovid used to stand forth, half alive; even to "that haunted bedroom in which old sarah battle died," and into which he "used to creep in a passion of fear." these things are all touched with a delicate pen, mixed and incorporated with tender reflections; for, "the solitude of childhood" (as he says) "is not so much the mother of thought as the feeder of love." with him it was both. lamb became acquainted with wordsworth when he visited coleridge, in the summer of . at that time his old schoolfellow lived at stowey, and the greater poet was his neighbor. it is not satisfactorily shown in what manner the poetry of wordsworth first attracted the notice of charles lamb, nor its first effect upon him. perhaps the verse of coleridge was not a bad stepping-stone to that elevation which enabled charles to look into the interior of wordsworth's mind. the two poets were not unlike in some respects, although coleridge seldom (except perhaps in the "ancient mariner") ventured into the plain, downright phraseology of the other. it is very soon apparent, however, that lamb was able to admit wordsworth's great merits. in august, (just after the completion of his visit to stowey), he writes, "i would pay five and forty thousand carriages" (parcel fares) "to read wordsworth's tragedy. pray give me an order on longman for the 'lyrical ballads.'" and in october, , the two authors must have been on familiar terms with each other; for in a letter addressed by lamb to wordsworth, "dear wordsworth," it appears that the latter had requested him to advance money for the purchase of books, to a considerable amount. this was at a time when lamb was "not plethorically abounding in cash." the books required an outlay of eight pounds, and lamb had not the sum then in his possession. "it is a scurvy thing" (he writes) "to cry, give me the money first; and i am the first of the lambs that has done this for many centuries." shortly afterwards lamb sent his play to wordsworth, who (this was previous to january, ) appears to have invited charles to visit him in cumberland. our humorist did not accept this invitation, being doubtful whether he could "afford so desperate a journey," and being (he says) "not at all romance-bit about nature;" the earth, and sea, and sky, being, "when all is said, but a house to live in." it is not part of my task to adjust the claims of the various writers of verse in this country to their stations in the temple of fame. if keats was by nature the most essentially a poet in the present century, there is little doubt that wordsworth has left his impress more broadly and more permanently than any other of our later writers upon the literature of england. there are barren, unpeopled wastes in the "excursion," and in some of the longer poems; but when his genius stirs, we find ourselves in rich places which have no parallel in any book since the death of milton. when his lyrical ballads first appeared, they encountered much opposition and some contempt. readers had not for many years been accustomed to drink the waters of helicon pure and undefiled; and wordsworth (a prophet of the true faith) had to gird up his loins, march into the desert, and prepare for battle. he has, indeed, at last achieved a conquest; but a long course of time, although sure of eventual success, elapsed before he could boast of victory. the battle has been perilous. when the "excursion" was published (in ), lamb wrote a review of it for "the quarterly review." whatever might have been the actual fitness of this performance, it seems to have been hacked to pieces; more than a third of the substance cut away; the warm expressions converted into cold ones; and (in lamb's phrase) "the eyes pulled out and the bleeding sockets left." this mangling (or amendment, as i suppose it was considered) was the work of the late mr. gifford. charles had a great admiration for wordsworth. it was short of prostration, however. he states that the style of "peter bell" does not satisfy him; but "'hartleap well' is the tale for me," are his words in . i have a vivid recollection of wordsworth, who was a very grave man, with strong features and a deep voice. i met him first at the chambers (they were in the temple) of mr. henry crabb robinson, one of the most amiable of men. i was a young versifier, and wordsworth was just emerging out of a cloud of ignorant contumely into the sunrise of his fame. he was fond (perhaps too fond) of reciting his own poetry before friends and strangers. i was not attracted by his manner, which was almost too solemn, but i was deeply impressed by some of the weighty notes in his voice, when he was delivering out his oracles. i forget whether it was "dion" or the beautiful poem of "laodamia" that he read; but i remembered the reading long afterwards, as one recollects the roll of the spent thunder. i met wordsworth occasionally, afterwards, at charles lamb's, at mr. rogers's, and elsewhere, and once he did me the honor to call upon me. i remember that he had a very gentle aspect when he looked at my children. he took the hand of my dear daughter (who died lately) in his hand, and spoke some words to her, the recollection of which, perhaps, helped, with other things, to incline her to poetry. hazlitt says that wordsworth's face, notwithstanding his constitutional gravity, sometimes revealed indications of dry humor. and once, at a morning visit, i heard him give an account of his having breakfasted in company with coleridge, and allowed him to expatiate to the extent of his lungs. "how could you permit him to go on and weary himself?" said rogers; "why, you are to meet him at dinner this evening." "yes," replied wordsworth; "i know that very well; but we like to take the _sting_ out of him beforehand." about a year after lamb's first knowledge of manning, his small stock of friends was enlarged by the acquisition of mr. john rickman, one of the clerks of the house of commons. "he is a most pleasant hand" (writes lamb), "a fine rattling fellow, who has gone through life laughing at solemn apes; himself hugely literate, from matter of fact, to xenophon and plato: he can talk greek with porson, and nonsense with me." "he understands you" (he adds) "the first time. you never need speak twice to him. fullest of matter, with least verbosity." a year or two afterwards, when rickman went to ireland, lamb wrote to manning, "i have lost by his going what seems to me i never can recover--_a finished man_. i almost dare pronounce you never saw his equal. his memory will come to me as the brazen serpent to the israelites." robert southey also, when writing to his brother (in ), says, "coleridge and rickman, with william taylor, make my trinity of living greatness." a voluminous correspondence took place between southey and rickman, ranging from to , in the course of which a variety of important subjects--namely, history, antiquities, political economy, poor law, and general politics were deliberately argued between them. from this it appears that southey, whose reading was very extensive, must have had great trust in the knowledge and judgment of rickman. lamb's acquaintance with godwin, holcroft, and clarkson was formed about this time. godwin had been introduced to lamb, by coleridge, in . the first interview is made memorable by godwin's opening question: "and pray, mr. lamb, are you toad or frog?" this inquiry, having reference to gilray's offensive caricature, did not afford promise of a very cheerful intimacy. lamb, however, who accorded great respect to godwin's intellect, did not resent it, but received his approaches favorably, and indeed entertained him at breakfast the next morning. the acquaintance afterwards expanded into familiarity; but i never observed the appearance of any warm friendship between them. godwin's precision and extreme coldness of manner (perhaps of disposition) prevented this; and lamb was able, through all his admiration of the other's power, to discern those points in his character which were obnoxious to his own. some years previously, charles had entertained much dislike to the philosopher's opinions, and referred to him as "that godwin;" and afterwards, when eulogizing the quick and fine intellect of rickman, he says, "he does not want explanation, translations, limitations, as godwin does, when you make an assertion." when godwin published his "essay on sepulchres," wherein he professed to erect a wooden slab and a white cross, to be _perpetually_ renewed to the end of time ("to survive the fall of empires," as miss lamb says), in order to distinguish the site of every great man's grave, lamb speaks of the project in these terms: "godwin has written a pretty absurd book about sepulchres. he was affronted because i told him that it was better than hervey, but not so good as sir thomas browne." sufficient intimacy, however, had arisen between them to induce lamb to write a facetious epilogue to godwin's tragedy of "antonio; or, the soldier's return." this came out in , and was very speedily damned; although lamb said that "it had one fine line;" which indeed he repeated occasionally. godwin bore this failure, it must be admitted, without being depressed by it, although he was a very poor man, and although he was "five hundred pounds _ideal_ money out of pocket by the failure." in lamb visited coleridge, who was then living near keswick, in cumberland. for the first time in his life he beheld lakes and mountains; and the effect upon him was startling and unexpected. it was much like the impression made by the first sight of the alps upon leigh hunt, who had theretofore always maintained that those merely great heaps of earth ought to have no effect upon a properly constituted mind; but he freely confessed afterwards, that he had been mistaken. lamb had been more than once invited to visit the romantic lake country. he had no desire to inspect the ural chain, where the malachite is hidden, nor the silver regions of potosi; but he was all at once affected by a desire of "visiting remote regions." it was a sudden irritability, which could only be quieted by travel. charles and his sister therefore went, without giving any notice to coleridge, who, however, received them very kindly, and gave up all his time in order to show them the wonders of the neighborhood. the visitors arrived there in a "gorgeous sunset" (the only one that lamb saw during his stay in the country), and thought that they had got "into fairy-land." "we entered coleridge's study" (he writes to manning, shortly afterwards) "just in the dusk, when the mountains were all dark. such an impression i never received from objects of sight, nor do i suppose i ever can again. glorious creatures, skiddaw, &c. i shall never forget how ye lay about that night, like an intrenchment; gone to bed, as it seemed, for the night." they went to coleridge's house, in which "he had a large, antique, ill- shaped room, with an old organ, never played upon, an aeolian harp, and shelves of scattered folios," and remained there three weeks, visiting wordsworth's cottage, he himself being absent, and meeting the clarksons ("good, hospitable people"). they tarried there one night, and met lloyd. they clambered up to the top of skiddaw, "and went to grassmere, ambleside, ullswater, and over the middle of helvellyn." coleridge then dwelt upon a small hill by the side of keswick, quite "enveloped on all sides by a net of mountains." on his return to london, lamb wrote to his late host, saying, "i feel i shall remember your mountains to the last day of my life. they haunt me perpetually. i am like a man who has been falling in love unknown to himself, which he finds out when he leaves the lady." he soon subsided, however, into his old natural metropolitan happiness. wordsworth was not in the lake country when lamb visited coleridge; but after his return the great poet visited charles in london, passed some time there, and then departed for yorkshire, where he went in order to be married. at this time lamb contributed (generally facetiae) to various newspapers, now forgotten. one of them, it was said jocosely, had "two and twenty readers, including the printer, the pressman, and the devil." but he was still very poor; so poor that coleridge offered to supply him with prose translations from the german, in order that he might versify them for the "morning post," and thus obtain a little money. in one of his letters lamb says, "if i got or could but get fifty pounds a year only, in addition to what i have, i should live in affluence." about the time that he is writing this, he is recommending chapman's "homer" to coleridge; is refusing to admit coleridge's _bona fide_ debt to himself of fifteen pounds; is composing latin letters; and in other respects deporting himself like a "gentleman who lives at home at ease;" not like a poor clerk, obliged to husband his small means, and to deny himself the cheap luxury of books that he had long coveted. "do you remember" (his sister says to him, in the essay on "old china") "the brown suit that grew so threadbare, all because of that folio of beaumont and fletcher that you dragged home late at night from barker's, in covent garden; when you set off near ten o'clock, on saturday night, from islington, fearing you should be too late; and when you lugged it home, wishing it was twice as cumbersome," &c. these realities of poverty, very imperfectly covered over by words of fiction, are very touching. it is deeply interesting, that essay, where the rare enjoyments of a poor scholar are brought into contrast and relief with the indifference that grows upon him when his increased income enables him to acquire any objects he pleases. those things are no longer distinguished as "enjoyments" which are not purchased by a sacrifice. "a purchase is but a purchase now. formerly it used to be a triumph. a thing was worth buying when we felt the money that we paid for it." ( .) the intimacy of that extraordinary man, william hazlitt, was the great gain of lamb at this period of his life. if lamb's youngest and tenderest reverence was given to coleridge, hazlitt's intellect must also have commanded his later permanent respect. without the imagination and extreme facility of coleridge, he had almost as much subtlety and far more steadfastness of mind. perhaps this steadfastness remained sometimes until it took the color of obstinacy; but, as in the case of his constancy to the first napoleon, it was obstinacy riveted and made firm by some concurring respect. i do not know that hazlitt had the more affectionate nature of the two; but assuredly he was less tossed about and his sight less obscured by floating fancies and vast changing projects (_muscae volitantes_) than the other. to the one are ascribed fierce and envious passions; coarse thoughts and habits--(he has indeed been crowned by defamation); whilst to coleridge have been awarded reputation and glory, and praise from a thousand tongues. to secure justice we must wait for unbiassed posterity. i meet, at present, with few persons who recollect much of hazlitt. some profess to have heard nothing of him except his prejudices and violence; but his prejudices were few, and his violence (if violence he had) was of very rare occurrence. he was extremely patient, indeed, although earnest when discussing points in politics, respecting which he held very strong and decided opinions. but he circulated his thoughts on many other subjects, whereon he ought not to have excited offence or opposition. he wrote (and he wrote well) upon many things lying far beyond the limits of politics. to use his own words, "i have at least glanced over a number of subjects--painting, poetry, prose, plays, politics, parliamentary speakers, metaphysical lore, books, men, and things." this list, extensive as it is, does not specify very precisely all the subjects on which he wrote. his thoughts range over the literature of elizabeth and james's times, and of the time of charles ii.; over a large portion of modern literature; over the distinguishing character of men, their peculiarities of mind and manners; over the wonders of poetry, the subtleties of metaphysics, and the luminous regions of art. in painting, his criticisms (it is prettily said by leigh hunt) cast a light upon the subject like the glory reflected "from a painted window." i myself have, in my library, eighteen volumes of hazlitt's works, and i do not possess all that he published. besides being an original thinker, hazlitt excelled in conversation. he was, moreover, a very temperate liver: yet his enemies proclaimed to the world that he was wanting even in sobriety. during the thirteen years that i knew him intimately, and (at certain seasons) saw him almost every day, i know that he drank nothing stronger than water; except tea, indeed, in which he indulged in the morning. had he been as temperate in his political views as in his cups, he would have escaped the slander that pursued him through life. the great intimacy between these two distinguished writers, charles lamb and william hazlitt (for they had known each other before), seems to have commenced in a singular manner. they were one day at godwin's, when "a fierce dispute was going on between holcroft and coleridge, as to which was best, 'man as he was, or man as he is to be.' 'give me,' says lamb, 'man as he is _not_ to be.'" "this was the beginning" (hazlitt says,) "of a friendship which, i believe, still continues." hazlitt married in , and his wife soon became familiar with mary lamb. indeed, charles and his sister more than once visited the hazlitts, who at that time lived at winterslow, near salisbury plain, and enjoyed their visits greatly, walking from eight to twenty miles a day, and seeing wilton, stonehenge, and the other (to them unaccustomed) sights of the country. "the quiet, lazy, delicious month" passed there is referred to in one of miss lamb's pleasant letters. and the acquaintance soon deepened into friendship. whatever good will was exhibited by hazlitt (and there was much) is repaid by lamb in his letter to southey, published in the "london magazine" (october, ), wherein he places on record his pride and admiration of his friend. "so far from being ashamed of the intimacy" (he says), "it is my boast that i was able, for so many years, to have preserved it entire; and i think i shall go to my grave without finding or expecting to find such another companion." lamb's respect for men and things did not depend on repute. his fondness for old books seldom (never, perhaps, except in the single case of the duchess of newcastle) deluded him into a respect for old books which were without merit. he required that excellence should be combined with antiquity. a great name was generally to him simply a great name; no more. if it had lasted through centuries, indeed, as in the case of michael angelo, then he admitted that "a great name implied greatness." he did not think that greatness lay in the "thews and sinews," or in the bulk alone. when nelson was walking on the quay at yarmouth, the mob cried out in derision, "what! make that little fellow a captain!" lamb thought otherwise; and in regret for the death of that great seaman, he says, "i have followed him ever since i saw him walking in pall mall, _looking just as a hero should look_" (_i.e._, simply). "he was the only pretence of a great man we had." the large stage blusterer and ostentatious drawcansir were never, in lamb's estimation, models for heroes. in the case of the first napoleon also, he writes, "he is a fine fellow, as my barber says; and i should not mind standing bareheaded at his table to do him service in his fall." this was in august, . the famous "ode to tobacco" was written in , and the pretty stories founded on the plays of shakespeare were composed or translated about the year ; lamb taking the tragic, and his sister the other share of the version. these tales were to produce about sixty pounds; to them a sum which was most important, for he and mary at that time hailed the addition of twenty pounds to his salary (on the retirement of an elder clerk) as a grand addition to their comforts. charles was at this period (february, ) at work upon a farce, to be called "mr. h.;" from which he says, "if it has a 'good run' i shall get two hundred pounds, and i hope one hundred pounds for the copyright." "mr. h." (which rested solely upon the absurdity of a name, which after all was not irresistibly absurd) was accepted at the theatre, but unfortunately it had _not_ "a good run." it failed, not quite undeservedly perhaps, for (although it has since had some success in america) there was not much probability of its prosperity in london. it was acted once ( th december, ), and was announced for repetition on the following evening, but was withdrawn. lamb's courage and good humor did not fail. he joked about it to wordsworth, said that he had many fears about it, and admitted that "john bull required solider fare than a bare letter." as he says, in his letter to the poet, "a hundred hisses (hang the word, i write it like kisses) outweigh a thousand claps. the former come more directly from the heart. well" (he adds), "it is withdrawn, and there's an end." in were published "specimens of dramatic poets contemporary with shakespeare;" and these made lamb known as a man conversant with our old english literature, and helped mainly to direct the taste of the public to those fine writers. the book brought repute (perhaps a little money) to him. soon afterwards he published "the adventures of ulysses," which was intended to be an introduction to the reading of "telemachus," always a popular book. these "adventures" were derived from chapman's "translation of homer," of which lamb says, "chapman is divine; and my abridgment has not, i hope, quite emptied him of his divinity." in or about miss lamb's pretty little stories called "mrs. leicester's school" (to which charles contributed three tales) were published; and soon afterwards a small book entitled "poetry for children," being a joint publication by brother and sister, came out. "it was done by me and mary in the last six months" (january, ). it does not appear to what extent, if at all, it added to the poor clerk's means. in the same year (as miss lamb writes in december, ), charles was invited by tom sheridan to write some scenes in a speaking pantomime; the other parts of which (the eloquence not of words) had been already manufactured by tom and his more celebrated father, richard brinsley. lamb and tom sheridan had been, it seems, communicative over a bottle of claret, when an agreement for the above purpose was entered into between them. this was subsequently carried into effect, and a drama was composed. this drama, still extant in the british museum, in lamb's own writing, appears to be a species of comic opera, the scene of which is laid in gibraltar, but is without a name. i have not seen it, but speak upon the report of others. in lamb moved once more into the temple, now to the top story of no. inner temple lane, "where the household gods are slow to come, but where i mean to live and die" (he says). from this place (since pulled down and rebuilt) he writes to manning, who is in china, "come, and bring any of your friends the mandarins with you. my best room commands a court, in which there are trees and a pump, the water of which is excellent cold-- with brandy; and not very insipid without." he sends manning some of his little books, to give him "some idea of european literature." it is in this letter (january, ) that he speaks of braham and his singing, which i have elsewhere alluded to; of kate with nine stars ********* ("though she is but one"); of his book (for children) "on titles of honor," exemplifying the eleven gradations, by which mr. c. lamb rises in succession to be baron, marquis, duke, and emperor lamb, and finally pope innocent, and other lively matters fit to solace an english mathematician self-banished to china. in july, , an abstinence from all spirituous liquors took place. lamb says that his sister has "taken to water like a hungry otter," whilst he "limps after her" for virtue's sake; but he is "full of cramps and rheumatism, and cold internally, so that fire don't warm him." it is scarcely necessary to state that the period of entire abstinence was very transient. a quarterly magazine, called "the reflector," was published in the autumn of , and contained essays by charles lamb and several other writers. amongst these are some of the best of lamb's earlier writings--namely, the paper on hogarth and that on the tragedies of shakespeare. it is singular that these two essays, which are as fine as anything of a similar nature in english criticism, should have been almost unnoticed (undiscovered, except by literary friends) until the year , when lamb's works were collected and published. the grand passage on "lear" has caused the essay on the shakespeare tragedies to be well known. less known is the essay on hogarth, although it is more elaborate and critical; the labor being quite necessary in this case, as the pretensions of hogarth to the grand style had been denounced by sir joshua reynolds. in affluence of genius, in variety and exuberance of thought, there surely can exist little comparison between reynolds and hogarth. reynolds was, indeed, the finest painter, especially the most superb colorist, of the english school. but hogarth was the greatest inventor,--the greatest discoverer of character,--in the english or any other school. as a painter of manners he is unapproached. in a kindred walk, he traversed all the passions from the lowest mirth to the profoundest melancholy, possessing the tragic element in the most eminent degree. and if grandeur can exist-- as i presume it can--in beings who have neither costume nor rank to set off their qualities, then some of the characters of hogarth in essential grandeur are far beyond the conventional figures of many other artists. pain, and joy, and poverty, and human daring are not to be circumscribed by dress and fashion. their seat is deeper (in the soul), and is altogether independent of such trivial accretions. in point of expression, i never saw the face of the madman (in the "rake's progress") exceeded in any picture, ancient or modern. "it is a face" (lamb says) "that no one that has seen can easily forget." it is, as he argues, human suffering stretched to its utmost endurance. i cannot forbear directing the attention of the reader to lamb's bold and excellent defence of hogarth. he will like both painter and author, i think, better than before. i have, indeed, been in company where young men, professing to be painters, spoke slightingly of hogarth. to this i might have replied that hogarth did not paint for the applause of tyros in art, but--for the world! the "reflector" was edited by an old christ's hospital boy, mr. leigh hunt, who subsequently became, and during their joint lives remained, one of lamb's most familiar friends. it was a quarterly magazine, and received, of course, the contributions of various writers; amongst whom were mr. barnes (of the "times"), barron field, dr. aikin, mr. landseer (the elder), charles lamb, octavius gilchrist, mitchell (the translator of aristophanes), and leigh hunt himself. i do not observe lamb's name appended to any of the articles in the first volume; but the second comprises the essays on hogarth and on burial societies, together with a paper on the custom of hissing at the theatres, under the signature of "semel damnatus." there is a good deal of humor in this paper (which has not been republished, i believe). it professes to come from one of a club of condemned authors, no person being admissible as a member until he had been unequivocally damned. i observe that in the letters, &c., of lamb, which were published in , and copiously commented on by sir thomas n. talfourd (the editor), there is not much beyond a bare mention of leigh hunt's name, and no letter from charles lamb to mr. hunt is published. it is now too late to remedy this last defect, my recent endeavors to obtain such letters having resulted in disappointment: otherwise i should have been very glad to record the extent of lamb's liking for a poor and able man, whom i knew well for at least forty years. i know that at one time lamb valued him, and that he always thought highly of his intellect, as indeed he has testified in his famous remonstrance to southey. and in mr. hunt's autobiography i find abundant evidence of his admiration for lamb, in a generous eulogy upon him. charles lamb, william hazlitt, and leigh hunt, formed a remarkable trio of men, each of whom was decidedly different from the others. only one of them (hunt) cared much for praise. hazlitt's sole ambition was to sell his essays, which he rated scarcely beyond their marketable value; and lamb saw enough of the manner in which praise and censure were at that time distributed, to place any high value on immediate success. of posterity neither of them thought. leigh hunt, from temperament, was more alive to pleasant influences (sunshine, freedom for work, rural walks, complimentary words) than the others. hazlitt cared little for these things; a fierce argument or a well-contested game at rackets was more to his taste; whilst lamb's pleasures (except, perhaps, from his pipe) lay amongst the books of the old english writers. his soul delighted in communion with ancient generations, more especially with men who had been unjustly forgotten. hazlitt's mind attached itself to abstract subjects; lamb's was more practical, and embraced men. hunt was somewhat indifferent to persons as well as to things, except in the cases of shelley and keats, and his own family; yet he liked poetry and poetical subjects. hazlitt (who was ordinarily very shy) was the best talker of the three. lamb said the most pithy and brilliant things. hunt displayed the most ingenuity. all three sympathized often with the same persons or the same books; and this, no doubt, cemented the intimacy that existed between them for so many years. moreover, each of them understood the others, and placed just value on their objections when any difference of opinion (not infrequent) arose between them. without being debaters, they were accomplished talkers. they did not argue for the sake of conquest, but to strip off the mists and perplexities which sometimes obscure truth. these men--who lived long ago--had a great share of my regard. they were all slandered, chiefly by men who knew little of them, and nothing of their good qualities; or by men who saw them only through the mist of political or religious animosity. perhaps it was partly for this reason that they came nearer to my heart. all the three men, lamb, hazlitt, and hunt, were throughout their lives unitarians, as was also george dyer; coleridge was a unitarian preacher in his youth, having seceded from the church of england; to which, however, he returned, and was in his latter years a strenuous supporter of the national faith. george dyer once sent a pamphlet to convert charles to unitarianism. "dear blundering soul" (lamb said), "why, i am as old a one goddite as himself." to southey lamb writes, "being, as you know, not quite a churchman, i felt a jealousy at the church taking to herself the whole deserts of christianity." his great, and indeed infinite reverence, nevertheless, for christ is shown in his own christian virtues and in constant expressions of reverence. in hazlitt's paper of "persons one would wish to have seen," lamb is made to refer to jesus christ as he "who once put on a semblance of mortality," and to say, "if he were to come into the room, we should all fall down and kiss the hem of his garment." i do not venture to comment on these delicate matters, where men like hazlitt, and lamb, and coleridge (the latter for a short time only) have entertained opinions which differ from those of the generality of their countrymen. during these years, mary lamb's illnesses were frequent, as usual. her relapses were not dependent on the seasons; they came in hot summers and with the freezing winters. the only remedy seems to have been extreme quiet when any slight symptom of uneasiness was apparent. charles (poor fellow) had to live, day and night, in the society of a person who was-- mad! if any exciting talk occurred, he had to dismiss his friend with a whisper. if any stupor or extraordinary silence was observed, then he had to rouse her instantly. he has been seen to take the kettle from the fire and place it for a moment on her head-dress, in order to startle her into recollection. he lived in a state of constant anxiety;--and there was no help. not to neglect charles lamb's migrations, it should be noted that he moved his residence from inner temple lane ("where he meant to live and die") into russell street, covent garden, in the latter part of the year . when there, he became personally acquainted with several members of the theatrical profession; amongst others, with munden and miss kelly, for both of whom he entertained the highest admiration. one of the (elia) essays is written to celebrate munden's histrionic talent; and in his letters he speaks of "fanny kelly's divine plain face." the barbara s. of the second (or last) series of essays is, in fact, miss kelly herself. all his friends knew that he was greatly attached to her. he also became acquainted with miss burrell--afterwards mrs. gould--but who, he says, "remained uncoined." subsequently he was introduced to liston and elliston, each of whom received tokens of his liking. the first was the subject of an amusing fictitious biography. in lamb's words, it was "a lying life of liston," uncontaminated by a particle of truth. munden, he says, had faces innumerable; liston had only one; "but what a face!" he adds, admitting it to be beyond all vain description. perhaps this subject of universal laughter and admiration never received such a compliment, except from hazlitt, who, after commenting on hogarth's excellences, his invention, his character, his satire, &c., concludes by saying, "i have never seen anything in the expression of comic humor equal to hogarth's humor, except liston's face." in the course of time, official labor becomes tiresome, and the india house clerk grows splenetic. he complains sadly of his work. even the incursions of his familiars annoy him, although it annoys him more when they go away. in the midst of this trouble his works are collected and published; and he emerges at once from the obscure shades of leadenhall street into the full blaze of public notice. he wakes from dullness and discontent, and "finds himself famous." [ ] as lamb's changes of residence were frequent, it may be convenient to chronicle them in order, in this place, although the precise date of his moving from one to another can scarcely be specified in a single instance. , charles lamb, born in crown office row, temple. , lives at no. little queen street, holborn. (early), lives at no. chapel street, pentonville. same year, lives in southampton buildings, chancery lane. same year, removes to no. mitre court buildings, temple. , removes to no. inner temple lane. , removes to russell street, covent garden. , removes to colebrook row, islington. , removes to enfield. , removes into lodgings in enfield. , lodges in southampton buildings. , lives at mrs. walden's, in church street, edmonton; where he dies on th december, . chapter v. _my recollections.--russell street.--personal appearance.--manner.-- tendency of mind.--prejudices.--alleged excesses.--mode of life.--love of smoking.--his lodgings.--his sister.--costume.--reading aloud.--tastes and opinions.--london.--love of books.--charity.--wednesday parties.--his companions.--epitaph upon them._ in the year or i first became personally acquainted with charles lamb. this was about the time of his removal from the temple. it was in the course of the year that his works had been first collected and published. they came upon the world by surprise; scarcely any one at that time being aware that a fine genius and humorist existed, within the dull shades of london, whose quality very few of the critics had assayed, and none of them had commended. he was thus thrown (waif-like) amongst the great body of the people; was at once estimated, and soon rose into renown. persons who had been in the habit of traversing covent garden at that time (seven and forty years ago) might, by extending their walk a few yards into russell street, have noted a small, spare man, clothed in black, who went out every morning and returned every afternoon, as regularly as the hands of the clock moved towards certain hours. you could not mistake him. he was somewhat stiff in his manner, and almost clerical in dress; which indicated much wear. he had a long, melancholy face, with keen, penetrating eyes; and he walked, with a short, resolute step, city-wards. he looked no one in the face for more than a moment, yet contrived to see everything as he went on. no one who ever studied the human features could pass him by without recollecting his countenance: it was full of sensibility, and it came upon you like a new thought, which you could not help dwelling upon afterwards; it gave rise to meditation, and did you good. this small, half-clerical man was--charles lamb. i had known him for a short time previously to , having been introduced to him at mr. leigh hunt's house, where i enjoyed his company once or twice over agreeable suppers; but i knew him slightly only, and did not see much of him until he and his sister went to occupy the lodgings in russell street, where he invited me to come and see him. they lived in the corner house adjoining bow street. this house belonged, at that time, to an ironmonger (or brazier), and was comfortable and clean,-- and a little noisy. charles lamb was about forty years of age when i first saw him; and i knew him intimately for the greater part of twenty years. small and spare in person, and with small legs ("immaterial legs" hood called them), he had a dark complexion, dark, curling hair, almost black, and a grave look, lightening up occasionally, and capable of sudden merriment. his laugh was seldom excited by jokes merely ludicrous; it was never spiteful; and his quiet smile was sometimes inexpressibly sweet: perhaps it had a touch of sadness in it. his mouth was well shaped; his lip tremulous with expression; his brown eyes were quick, restless, and glittering; and he had a grand head, full of thought. leigh hunt said that "he had a head worthy of aristotle." hazlitt calls it "a fine titian head, full of dumb eloquence." i knew that, before he had attained the age of twenty years, he had to make his way in the world, and that his lines had not been cast in pleasant places. i had heard, indeed, that his family had at one time consisted of a father and mother and an insane sister; all helpless and poor, and all huddled together in a small lodging, scarcely large enough to admit of their moving about without restraint. it is difficult to imagine a more disheartening youth. nevertheless, out of this desert, in which no hope was visible, he rose up eventually a cheerful man (cheerful when his days were not clouded by his sister's illness); a charming companion, full of pleasant and gentle fancies, and the finest humorist of his age. although sometimes strange in manner, he was thoroughly unaffected; in serious matters thoroughly sincere. he was, indeed (as he confesses), terribly shy; diffident, not awkward in manner; with occasionally nervous, twitching motions that betrayed this infirmity. he dreaded the criticisms of servants far more than the observations of their masters. to undergo the scrutiny of the first, as he said to me, when we were going to breakfast with mr. rogers one morning, was "terrible." his speech was brief and pithy; not too often humorous; never sententious nor didactic. although he sometimes talked whilst walking up and down the room (at which time he seldom looked at the person with whom he was talking), he very often spoke as if impelled by the necessity of speaking--suddenly, precipitately. if he could have spoken very easily, he might possibly have uttered long sentences, expositions, or orations; such as some of his friends indulged in, to the utter confusion of their hearers. but he knew the value of silence; and he knew that even truth may be damaged by too many words. when he did speak, his words had a flavor in them beyond any that i have heard elsewhere. his conversation dwelt upon persons or things within his own recollection, or it opened (with a startling doubt, or a question, or a piece of quaint humor) the great circle of thought. in temper he was quick, but easily appeased. he never affected that exemption from sensibility which has sometimes been mistaken for philosophy, and has conferred reputation upon little men. in a word, he exhibited his emotions in a fine, simple, natural manner. contrary to the usual habits of wits, no retort or reply by lamb, however smart in character, ever gave pain. it is clear that ill nature is not wit, and that there may be sparkling flowers which are not surrounded by thorns. lamb's dissent was very intelligible, but never superfluously demonstrative; often, indeed, expressed by his countenance only; sometimes merely by silence. he was more pleasant to some persons (more pleasant, i confess, to _me_) for the few faults or weaknesses that he had. he did not daunt us, nor throw us to a distance, by his formidable virtues. we sympathized with him; and this sympathy, which is a union between two similitudes, does not exist between perfect and imperfect natures. like all of us, he had a few prejudices: he did not like frenchmen; he shrunk from scotchmen (excepting, however, burns); he disliked bankrupts; he hated close bargainers. for the jewish nation he entertained a mysterious awe: the jewesses he admired, with trembling: "jael had those full, dark, inscrutable eyes," he says. of braham's triumphant singing he repeatedly spoke; there had been nothing like it in his recollection: he considered him equal to mrs. siddons. in his letters he characterizes him as "a mixture of the jew, the gentleman, and the angel." he liked chimney- sweepers--the young ones--the "innocent blacknesses;" and with beggars he had a strong sympathy. he always spoke tenderly of them, and has written upon them an essay full of beauty. do not be frightened (he says) at the hard words, imposture, &c. "cast thy bread upon the waters: some have unawares entertained angels." much injustice has been done to lamb by accusing him of excess in drinking. the truth is, that a small quantity of any strong liquid (wine, &c.) disturbed his speech, which at best was but an eloquent stammer. the distresses of his early life made him ready to resort to any remedy which brought forgetfulness; and he himself, frail in body and excitable, was very speedily affected. during all my intimacy with him, i never knew him drink immoderately; except once, when, having been prevailed upon to abstain altogether from wine and spirits, he resented the vow thus forced upon him by imbibing an extraordinary quantity of the "spurious" liquid. when he says, "the waters have gone over me," he speaks in metaphor, not historically. he was never vanquished by water, and seldom by wine. his energy, or mental power, was indeed subject to fluctuation; no excessive merriment, perhaps, but much depression. "my waking life," he writes, "has much of the confusion, the trouble, and obscure perplexity of an ill dream. in the daytime i stumble upon dark mountains." lamb's mode of life was temperate, his dinner consisting of meat, with vegetables and bread only. "we have a sure hot joint on sundays," he writes, "and when had we better?" he appears to have had a relish for game, roast pig, and brawn, &c., roast pig especially, when given to him; but his poverty first, and afterwards his economical habits, prevented his indulging in such costly luxuries. he was himself a small and delicate eater at all times; and he entertained something like aversion towards great feeders. during a long portion of his life, his means were much straitened. the reader may note his want of money in several of his letters. speaking of a play, he says, "i am quite aground for a plan; and _i must do something for money_." he was restless and fond of walking. i do not think that he could ride on horseback; but he could walk during all the day. he had, in that manner, traversed the whole of london and its suburbs (especially the northern and north-eastern parts) frequently. "i cannot sit and think," he said. tired with exercise, he went to bed early, except when friends supped with him; and he always rose early, from necessity, being obliged to attend at his office, in leadenhall street, every day, from ten until four o'clock-- sometimes later. it was there that his familiar letters were written. on his return, after a humble meal, he strolled (if it was summer) into the suburbs, or traversed the streets where the old bookshops were to be found. he seldom or never gave dinners. you were admitted at all times to his plain supper, which was sufficiently good when any visitor came; at other times, it was spare. "we have _tried_ to eat suppers," miss lamb writes to mrs. hazlitt, "but we left our appetites behind us; and the dry loaf, which offended you, now comes in at night unaccompanied." you were sure of a welcome at his house; sure of easy, unfettered talk. after supper you might smoke a pipe with your host, or gossip (upon any subject) with him or his sensible sister. perhaps the pipe was the only thing in which lamb really exceeded. he was fond of it from the very early years when he was accustomed to smoke "orinooko" at the "salutation and cat," with coleridge, in . he attempted on several occasions to give it up, but his struggles were overcome by counter influences. "tobacco," he says, "stood in its own light." at last, in , he was able to conquer and abandon it--for a time. his success, like desertion from a friend, caused some remorse and a great deal of regret. in writing to coleridge about his house, which was "smoky," he inquires, "have you cured it? it is hard to cure anything of smoking." apart from the mere pleasure of smoking, the narcotic soothed his nerves and controlled those perpetual apprehensions which his sister's frequent illnesses excited. of mary lamb, hazlitt has said (somewhere) that she was the most rational and wisest woman whom he had ever known. lamb and his sister had an open party once a week, every wednesday evening, when his friends generally went to visit him, without any special invitation. he invited you suddenly, not pressingly; but with such heartiness that you at once agreed to come. there was usually a game at whist on these evenings, in which the stakes were very moderate, indeed almost nominal. when my thoughts turn backward, as they sometimes do, to these past days, i see my dear old friend again,--"in my mind's eye, horatio,"--with his outstretched hand, and his grave, sweet smile of welcome. it was always in a room of moderate size, comfortably but plainly furnished, that he lived. an old mahogany table was opened out in the middle of the room, round which, and near the walls, were old, high-backed chairs (such as our grandfathers used), and a long, plain bookcase completely filled with old books. these were his "ragged veterans." in one of his letters he says, "my rooms are luxurious, one for prints, and one for books; a summer and winter parlor." they, however, were not otherwise decorated. i do not remember ever to have seen a flower or an image in them. he had not been educated into expensive tastes. his extravagances were confined to books. these were all chosen by himself, all old, and all in "admired disorder;" yet he could lay his hand on any volume in a moment, "you never saw," he writes, "a bookcase in more true harmony with the contents than what i have nailed up in my room. though new, it has more aptitude 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." here charles lamb sate, when at home, always near the table. at the opposite side was his sister, engaged in some domestic work, knitting or sewing, or poring over a modern novel. "bridget in some things is behind her years." in fact, although she was ten years older than her brother, she had more sympathy with modern books and with youthful fancies than he had. she wore a neat cap, of the fashion of her youth; an old-fashioned dress. her face was pale and somewhat square, but very placid, with gray, intelligent eyes. she was very mild in her manner to strangers, and to her brother gentle and tender always. she had often an upward look, of peculiar meaning, when directed towards him, as though to give him assurance that all was then well with her. his affection for her was somewhat less on the surface, but always present. there was great gratitude intermingled with it. "in the days of weakling infancy," he writes, "i was her tender charge, as i have been her care in foolish manhood since." then he adds, pathetically, "i wish i could throw into a heap the remainder of our joint existences, that we might share them in equal division." lamb himself was always dressed in black. "i take it," he says, "to be the proper costume of an author." when this was once objected to, at a wedding, he pleaded the raven's apology in the fable, that "he had no other." his clothes were entirely black; and he wore long black gaiters, up to the knees. his head was bent a little forward, like one who had been reading; and, if not standing or walking, he generally had in his hand an old book, a pinch of snuff, or, later in the evening, a pipe. he stammered a little, pleasantly, just enough to prevent his making speeches; just enough to make you listen eagerly for his words, always full of meaning, or charged with a jest; or referring (but this was rare) to some line or passage from one of the old elizabethan writers, which was always ushered in with a smile of tender reverence. when he read aloud it was with a slight tone, which i used to think he had caught from coleridge; coleridge's recitation, however, rising to a chant. lamb's reading was not generally in books of verse, but in the old lay writers, whose tendency was towards religious thoughts. he liked, however, religious verse. "i can read," he writes to bernard barton, "the homely old version of the psalms in our prayer-books, for an hour or two, without sense of weariness." he avoided manuscripts as much as practicable: "all things read _raw_ to me in manuscript." lamb wrote much, including many letters; but his hands were wanting in pliancy ("inveterate clumsiness" are his words), and his handwriting was therefore never good. it was neither text nor running hand, and the letters did not indicate any fluency; it was not the handwriting of an old man nor of a young man; yet it had a very peculiar character--stiff, resolute, distinct; quite unlike all others that i have seen, and easily distinguishable amongst a thousand. no one has described lamb's manner or merits so well as hazlitt: "he always made the best pun and the best remark in the course of the evening. his serious conversation, like his serious writing, is his best. no one ever stammered out such fine piquant, deep, eloquent things, in half a dozen sentences, as he does. his jests scald like tears; and he probes a question with a play upon words. there was no fuss or cant about him. he has furnished many a text for coleridge to preach upon." (_i. plain speaker._) charles was frequently merry; but ever, at the back of his merriment, there reposed a grave depth, in which rich colors and tender lights were inlaid. for his jests sprang from his sensibility; which was as open to pleasure as to pain. this sensibility, if it somewhat impaired his vigor, led him into curious and delicate fancies, and taught him a liking for things of the highest relish, which a mere robust jester never tastes. large, sounding words, unless embodying great thoughts (as in the case of lear), he did not treasure up or repeat. he was an admirer of what was high and good, of what was delicate (especially); but he delighted most to saunter along the humbler regions, where kindness of heart and geniality of humor made the way pleasant. his intellect was very quick, piercing into the recondite meaning of things in a moment. his own sentences were compressed and full of meaning; his opinions independent and decisive; no qualifying or doubting. his descriptions were not highly colored; but, as it were, sharply cut, like a piece of marble, rather than like a picture. he liked and encouraged friendly discussion; but he hated contentious argument, which leads to quarrel rather than to truth. there was an utter want of parade in everything he said and did, in everything about him and his home. the only ornaments on his walls were a few engravings in black frames: one after leonardo da vinci; one after titian; and four, i think, by hogarth, about whom he has written so well. images of quaint beauty, and all gentle, simple things (things without pretension) pleased him to the fullest extent; perhaps a little beyond their strict merit. i have heard him express admiration for leonardo da vinci that he did not accord to raffaelle. raffaelle was too ostentatious of meaning; his merits were too obvious,--too much thrust upon the understanding; not retired nor involved, so as to need discovery or solution. he preferred even titian (whose meaning is generally obvious enough) to raffaelle; but leonardo was above both. without doubt, lamb's taste on several matters was peculiar; for instance, there were a few obsolete words, such as _arride, agnize, burgeon_, &c., which he fancied, and chose to rescue from oblivion. then he did not care for music. i never heard a song in his house, nor any conversation on the subject of melody or harmony, "i have no ear," he says; yet the sentiment, apart from the science of music, gave him great pleasure. he reverenced the fine organ playing of mr. novello, and admired the soaring singing of his daughter,-- "the tuneful daughter of a tuneful sire;" but he resented the misapplication of the theatres to sacred music. he thought this a profanation of the good old original secular purposes of a playhouse. as a comprehension of all delights he loved london; with its bustle and its living throngs of men and women; its shops, its turns and windings; the cries and noises of trade and life; beyond all other things. he liked also old buildings and out-of-the-way places; colleges; solemn churchyards, round which the murmuring thousands floated unheeding. in particular he was fond of visiting, in his short vacations, the universities of oxford and cambridge. although (he writes) "mine have been anything but studious hours," he professes to have received great solace from those "repositories of 'mouldering' learning." "what a place to be in is an old library!" he exclaims, "where the souls of the old writers seem reposing, as in some dormitory or middle state." the odor of the "moth- scented" coverings of the old books is "as fragrant as the blooms of the tree of knowledge which grew in the happy orchard." an ancient manor-house, that vanbrugh might have built, dwelt like a picture in his memory. "nothing fills a child's mind like an old mansion," he says. yet he could feel unaffectedly the simplicity and beauty of a country life. the heartiness of country people went to his heart direct, and remained there forever. the fields and the gladmans, with their homely dwellings and hospitality, drew him to them like magnets. there was nothing too fine nor too lofty in these friends for his tastes or his affection; they did not "affront him with their light." his fancy always stooped to moralize; he hated the stilted attitudes and pretensions of poetasters and self-glorifying artists. he never spoke disparagingly of any person, nor overpraised any one. when it was proposed to erect a statue of clarkson, during his life, he objected to it: "we should be modest," he says, "for a modest man." he was himself eminently modest; he never put himself forward: he was always sought. he had much to say on many subjects, and he was repeatedly pressed to say this, before he consented to do so. he was almost teased into writing the elia essays. these and all his other writings are brief and to the point. he did not exhale in words. it was said that coleridge's talk was worth so many guineas a sheet. charles lamb talked but sparingly. he put forth only so much as had complete flavor. i know that high pay and frequent importunity failed to induce him to squander his strength in careless essays: he waited until he could give them their full share of meaning and humor. when i speak of his extreme liking for london, it must not be supposed that he was insensible to great scenery. after his only visit to the lake country, and beholding skiddaw, he writes back to his host, "o! its fine black head, and the bleak air at the top of it, with a prospect of mountains all about making you giddy. it was a day that will stand out like a mountain in my life;" adding, however, "fleet street and the strand are better places to live in, for good and all. i could not _live_ in skiddaw. i could spend there two or three years; but i must have a prospect of seeing fleet street at the end of that time, or i should mope and pine away." he loved even its smoke, and asserted that it suited his vision. a short time previously he had, in a touching letter to wordsworth ( ), enumerated the objects that he liked so much in london. "these things," he writes, "work themselves into my mind: the rooms where i was born; a bookcase that has followed me about like a faithful dog (only exceeding him in knowledge) wherever i have moved; old chairs; old tables; squares where i have sunned myself; my old school: these are my mistresses. have i not enough, without your mountains? i do not envy you; i should pity you, did i not know that the mind will make friends with anything." besides his native london, "the centre of busy interests," he had great liking for unpretending men, who would come and gossip with him in a friendly, companionable way, or who liked to talk about old authors or old books. in his love of books he was very catholic. "shaftesbury is not too genteel, nor jonathan wild too low. but for books which are no books," such as "scientific treatises, and the histories of hume, smollett, and gibbon," &c., he confesses that he becomes splenetic when he sees them perched up on shelves, "like false saints, who have usurped the true shrines" of the legitimate occupants. he loved old books and authors, indeed, beyond most other things. he used to say (with shakespeare), "the heavens themselves are old." he would rather have acquired an ancient forgotten volume than a modern one, at an equal price; the very circumstance of its having been neglected and cast disdainfully into the refuse basket of a bookstall gave it value in his eyes. he bought it, and rejoiced in being able thus to remedy the injustice of fortune. he liked best those who had not thriven with posterity: his reverence for margaret, duchess of newcastle, can only be explained in this way. it must not be forgotten that his pity or generosity towards neglected authors extended also to all whom the goddess of good fortune had slighted. in this list were included all who had suffered in purse or in repute. he was ready to defend man or beast, whenever unjustly attacked. i remember that, at one of the monthly magazine dinners, when john wilkes was too roughly handled, lamb quoted the story (not generally known) of his replying, when the blackbirds were reported to have stolen all his cherries, "poor birds, they are welcome." he said that those impulsive words showed the inner nature of the man more truly than all his political speeches. lamb's charity extended to all things. i never heard him speak spitefully of any author. he thought that every one should have a clear stage, unobstructed. his heart, young at all times, never grew hard or callous during life. there was always in it a tender spot, which time was unable to touch. he gave away _greatly_, when the amount of his means are taken into consideration; he gave away money--even annuities, i believe--to old impoverished friends whose wants were known to him. i remember that once, when we were sauntering together on pentonville hill, and he noticed great depression in me, which he attributed to want of money, he said, suddenly, in his stammering way, "my dear boy, i--i have a quantity of useless things. i have now--in my desk, a--a hundred pounds--that i don't--don't _know_ what to do with. take it." i was much touched; but i assured him that my depression did not arise from want of money. he was very home-loving; he loved london as the best of places; he loved his home as the dearest spot in london: it was the inmost heart of the sanctuary. whilst at home he had no curiosity for what passed beyond his own territory. his eyes were never truant; no one ever saw him peering out of window, examining the crowds flowing by; no one ever surprised him gazing on vacancy. "i lose myself," he says, "in other men's minds. when i am not walking i am reading; i cannot sit and think; books think for me." if it was not the time for his pipe, it was always the time for an old play, or for a talk with friends. in the midst of this society his own mind grew green again and blossomed; or, as he would have said, "burgeoned." in the foregoing desultory account of charles lamb i have, without doubt, set forth many things that are frequently held as trivial. nothing, however, seems to me unimportant which serves in any way to illustrate a character. the floating straws, it is said, show from what quarter the wind is blowing. so the arching or knitting of the brow is sometimes sufficient to indicate wonder or pride, anger or contempt. on the stage, indeed, it is often the sole means of expressing the fluctuation of the passions. i myself have heard of a "pooh!" which interrupted a long intimacy, when the pander was administering sweet words in too liberal a measure. as with lamb so with his companions. each was notable for some individual mark or character. his own words will best describe them: "not many persons of science, and few professed _literati_, were of his councils. they were for the most part persons of an uncertain fortune. his intimados were, to confess a truth, in the world's eye, a ragged regiment; he found them floating on the surface of society, and the color or something else in the weed pleased him. the burrs stuck to him; but they were good and loving burrs, for all that." none of lamb's intimates were persons of title or fashion, or of any political importance. they were reading men, or authors, or old friends who had no name or pretensions. the only tie that held these last and lamb together was a long-standing mutual friendship--a sufficient link. none of them ever forsook him: they loved him, and in return he had a strong regard for them. his affections, indeed, were concentrated on few persons; not widened (weakened) by too general a philanthropy. when you went to lamb's rooms on the wednesday evenings (his "at home"), you generally found the card table spread out, lamb himself one of the players. on the corner of the table was a snuff-box; and the game was enlivened by sundry brief ejaculations and pungent questions, which kept alive the wits of the party present. it was not "silent whist!" i do not remember whether, in common with sarah battle, lamb had a weakness in favor of "hearts." i suppose that it was at one of these meetings that he made that shrewd remark which has since escaped into notoriety: "martin" (observed he), "if dirt were trumps, what a hand you would hold!" it is not known what influence martin's trumps had on the rubber then in progress.--when the conversation became general, lamb's part in it was very effective. his short, clear sentences always produced effect. he never joined in talk unless he understood the subject; then, if the matter in question interested him, he was not slow in showing his earnestness; but i never heard him argue or talk for argument's sake. if he was indifferent to the question, he was silent. the supper of cold meat, on these occasions, was always on the side-table; not very formal, as may be imagined; and every one might rise, when it suited him, and cut a slice or take a glass of porter, without reflecting on the abstinence of the rest of the company. lamb would, perhaps, call out and bid the hungry guest help himself without ceremony. we learn (from hazlitt) that martin burney's eulogies on books were sometimes intermingled with expressions of his satisfaction with the veal pie which employed him at the sideboard. after the game was won (and lost) the ring of the cheerful glasses announced that punch or brandy and water had become the order of the night. it was curious to observe the gradations in lamb's manner to his various guests, although it was courteous to all. with hazlitt he talked as though they met the subject in discussion on equal terms; with leigh hunt he exchanged repartees; to wordsworth he was almost respectful; with coleridge he was sometimes jocose, sometimes deferring; with martin burney fraternally familiar; with manning affectionate; with godwin merely courteous; or, if friendly, then in a minor degree. the man whom i found at lamb's house more frequently than any other person was martin burney. he is now scarcely known; yet lamb dedicated his prose works to him, in , and there described him as "no common judge of books and men;" and southey, corresponding with rickman, when his "joan of arc" was being reprinted, says, "the best omen i have heard of its welldoing is, that martin burney likes it." lamb was very much attached to martin, who was a sincere and able man, although with a very unprepossessing physiognomy. his face was warped by paralysis, which affected one eye and one side of his mouth. he was plain and unaffected in manner, very diffident and retiring, yet pronouncing his opinions, when asked to do so, without apology or hesitation. he was a barrister, and travelled the western circuit at the same time as sir thomas wild (afterwards lord truro), whose briefs he used to read before the other considered them, marking out the principal facts and points for attention. martin burney had excellent taste in books; eschewed the showy and artificial, and looked into the sterling qualities of writing. he frequently accompanied lamb in his visits to friends, and although very familiar with charles, he always spoke of him, with respect, as _mr_. lamb. "he is on the top scale of my friendship ladder," lamb says, "on which an angel or two is still climbing, and some, alas! descending." the last time i saw burney was at the corner of a street in london, when he was overflowing on the subject of raffaelle and hogarth. after a great and prolonged struggle, he said, he had arrived at the conclusion that raffaelle was the greater man of the two. notwithstanding lamb's somewhat humble description of his friends and familiars, some of them were men well known in literature. amongst others, i met there messrs. coleridge, manning, hazlitt, haydon, wordsworth, barron field, leigh hunt, clarkson, sheridan knowles, talfourd, kenney, godwin, the burneys, payne collier, and others whose names i need not chronicle. i met there, also, on one or two occasions, liston, and miss kelly, and, i believe, rickman. politics were rarely discussed amongst them. anecdotes, characteristic, showing the strong and weak points of human nature, were frequent enough. but politics (especially party politics) were seldom admitted. lamb disliked them as a theme for evening talk; he perhaps did not understand the subject scientifically. and when hazlitt's impetuosity drove him, as it sometimes did, into fierce expressions on public affairs, these were usually received in silence; and the matter thus raised up for assent or controversy was allowed to drop. lamb's old associates are now dead. "they that lived so long," as he says, "and flourished so steadily, are all crumbled away." the beauty of these evenings was, that every one was placed upon an easy level. no one out- topped the others. no one--not even coleridge--was permitted to out-talk the rest. no one was allowed to hector another, or to bring his own grievances too prominently forward, so as to disturb the harmony of the night. every one had a right to speak, and to be heard; and no one was ever trodden or clamored down (as in some large assemblies) until he had proved that he was not entitled to a hearing, or until he had abused his privilege. i never, in all my life, heard so much unpretending good sense talked, as at charles lamb's social parties. often a piece of sparkling humor was shot out that illuminated the whole evening. sometimes there was a flight of high and earnest talk, that took one half way towards the stars. it seems great matter for regret that the thoughts of men like lamb's associates should have passed away altogether; for scarcely any of them, save wordsworth and coleridge, are now distinctly remembered; and it is, perhaps, not impossible to foretell the duration of _their_ fame. all have answered their purpose, i suppose. each has had his turn, and has given place to a younger thinker, as the father is replaced by the son. thus jeremy taylor and sir thomas browne, and webster, and the old dramatists, have travelled out of sight, and their thoughts are reproduced by modern writers, the originators of those thoughts often remaining unknown. perhaps _one_, out of many thousand authors, survives into an immortality. the manner and the taste change. the armor and falchion of old give place to the new weapons of modern warfare--less weighty, but perhaps as trenchant. we praise the old authors, but we do not read them. the soul of antiquity seems to survive only in its proverbs, which contain the very essence of wisdom. chapter vi. _london magazine.--contributors.--transfer of magazine.--monthly dinners and visitors.--colebrook cottage.--lamb's walks.--essays of elia: their excellence and character.--enlarged acquaintance.--visit to paris.--miss isola.--quarrel with southey.--leaves india house.--leisure.--amicus rediviuus.--edward irving._ the "london magazine" was established in january, , the publishers being messrs. baldwin, cradock, and joy, and its editor being mr. john scott, who had formerly edited "the champion" newspaper, and whose profession was exclusively that of a man of letters. at this distance of time it is impossible to specify the authors of all the various papers which gave a tone to the magazine; but as this publication forms, in fact, the great foundation of lamb's fame, i think it well to enter somewhat minutely into its constitution and character. _mr. john scott_ was the writer of the several articles entitled "the living authors;" of a good many of the earlier criticisms; of some of the papers on politics; and of some which may be termed "controversial." the essays on sir walter scott, wordsworth, godwin, and lord byron are from his hand. he contributed also the critical papers on the writings of keats, shelley, leigh hunt, and hazlitt. _mr. hazlitt_ wrote all the articles which appear under the head "drama;" the twelve essays entitled "table talk;" and the papers on fonthill abbey, and on the angerstein pictures, and the elgin marbles. _mr. charles lamb's_ papers were the well-known elia essays, which first appeared in this magazine. mr. elia (whose name he assumed) was, at one time, a clerk in the india house. he died, however, before the essays were made public, and was ignorant of lamb's intention to do honor to his name. _mr. thomas carlyle_ was author of the "life and writings of schiller," in the eighth, ninth, and tenth volumes of the magazine. these papers, although very excellent, appear to be scarcely prophetic of the great fame which their author was afterwards destined, so justly, to achieve. _mr. de quincey's_ contributions were the "confessions of an opium eater;" also various papers specified as being "by the opium eater;" the essay on jean paul richter, and papers translated from the german, or dealing with german literature. _the reverend henry francis cary_ (the translator of dante) wrote the notices of the early french poets; the additions to orford's "royal and noble authors;" and, i believe, the continuations of johnson's "lives of the poets." of these last, however, i am not certain. _mr. allan cunningham_ (the scottish poet) was author of the "twelve tales of lyddal cross;" of the series of stories or papers styled "traditional literature;" and of various other contributions in poetry and prose. _mr. john poole_ contributed the "beauties of the living dramatists;" being burlesque imitations of modern writers for the stage; viz., morton, dibdin, reynolds, moncrieff, &c. _mr. john hamilton reynolds_ wrote, i believe, in every number of the periodical, after it came into the hands of taylor and hessey, who were his friends. all the papers with the name of henry herbert affixed were written by him; also the descriptive accounts of the coronation, greenwich hospital, the cockpit royal, the trial of thurtell, &c. _mr. thomas hood_ fleshed his maiden sword here; and his first poems of length, "lycus the centaur" and "the two peacocks of bedfont" may be found in the magazine. _mr. george darley_ (author of "thomas a becket," &c.) wrote the several papers entitled "dramaticles;" some pieces of verse; and the letters addressed to "the dramatists of the day." _mr. richard ayton_ wrote "the sea roamers," the article on "hunting," and such papers as are distinguished by the signature "r. a." _mr. keats_ (the poet) and _mr. james montgomery_ contributed verses. _sir john bowring_ (i believe) translated into english verse the spanish poetry, and wrote the several papers which appear under the head of "spanish romances." _mr. henry southern_ (editor of "the retrospective review") wrote the "conversations of lord byron," and "the fanariotes of constantinople," in the tenth volume. _mr. walter savage landor_ was author of the imaginary conversation, between southey and porson, in volume eight. _mr. julius (archdeacon) hare_ reviewed the works of landor in the tenth volume. _mr. elton_ contributed many translations from greek and latin authors; from the minor poems of homer, from catullus, nonnus, propertius, &c. messrs. hartley coleridge, john clare, cornelius webb, bernard barton, and others sent poems; generally with the indicating name. i myself was amongst the crowd of contributors; and was author of various pieces, some in verse, and others in prose, now under the protection of that great power which is called "oblivion." finally, the too celebrated _thomas griffiths wainewright_ contributed various fantasies, on art and arts; all or most of which may be recognized by his assumed name of janus weathercock. to show the difficulty of specifying the authorship of all the articles contributed,--even mr. hessey (one of the proprietors) was unable to do so; and indeed, shortly before his death, applied to me for information on the subject. by the aid of the gentlemen who contributed--each his quota--to the "london magazine," it acquired much reputation, and a very considerable sale. during its career of five years, it had, for a certain style of essay, no superior (scarcely an equal) amongst the periodicals of the day. it was perhaps not so widely popular as works directed to the multitude, instead of to the select few, might have been; for thoughts and words addressed to the cultivated intellect only must always reckon upon limited success. yet the magazine was successful to an extent that preserved its proprietors from loss; perhaps not greatly beyond that point. readers in those years were insignificant in number, compared with readers of the present time, when almost all men are able to derive benefit from letters, and letters are placed within every one's reach. on the death of mr. john scott, the magazine, in july, , passed into the hands of messrs. taylor and hessey; the former being the gentleman who discovered the identity of junius with sir philip francis; the latter being simply very courteous to all, and highly respectable and intelligent. john scott was an able literary man. i do not remember much more of him than that he was a shrewd and i believe a conscientious writer; that he had great industry; was, generally, well read, and possessed a very fair amount of critical taste; that, like other persons, he had some prejudices, and that he was sometimes, moreover, a little hasty and irritable. yet he agreed well, as far as i know, with the regiment of mercenaries who marched under his flag. when taylor and hessey assumed the management of the "london magazine" they engaged no editor. they were tolerably liberal paymasters; the remuneration for each page of prose (not very laborious) being, if the writer were a person of repute or ability, one pound; and for each page of verse, two pounds. charles lamb received (very fitly) for his brief and charming essays, two or three times the amount of the other writers. when they purchased the magazine, the proprietors opened a house in waterloo place for the better circulation of the publication. it was there that the contributors met once a month, over an excellent dinner given by the firm, and consulted and talked on literary matters together. these meetings were very social, all the guests coming with a determination to please and to be pleased. i do not know that many important matters were arranged, for the welfare of the magazine, at these dinners; but the hearts of the contributors were opened, and with the expansion of the heart the intellect widened also. if there had been any shades of jealousy amongst them, they faded away before the light of the friendly carousal; if there was any envy, it died. all the fences and restraints of authorship were cast off, and the natural human being was disclosed. amongst others, charles lamb came to most of these dinners, always dressed in black (his old snuff-colored suit having been dismissed for years); always kind and genial; conversational, not talkative, but quick in reply; eating little, and drinking moderately with the rest. allan cunningham, a stalwart man, was generally there; very scotch in aspect, but ready to do a good turn to any one. his talk was not too abundant, although he was a voluminous writer in prose. his songs, not unworthy of being compared with even those of burns, are (as everybody knows) excellent. his face shone at these festivities. reynolds came always. his good temper and vivacity were like condiments at the feast. there also came, once or twice, the rev. h. f. cary, the quiet gentleness of whose face almost interfered with its real intelligence. yet he spoke well, and with readiness, on any subject that he chose to discuss. he was very intimate with lamb, who latterly often dined with him, and was always punctual. "by cot's plessing we will not be absent at the grace" (he writes in ). lamb's taste was very homely: he liked tripe and cow- heel, and once, when he was suggesting a particular dish to his friend, he wrote," we were talking of roast shoulder of mutton and onion sauce; but i scorn to prescribe hospitalities. "charles had great regard for mr. cary; and in his last letter (written on his death-bed) he inquired for a book, which he was very uneasy about, and which he thought he had left at mrs. dyer's. "it is mr. cary's book" (he says), "and i would not lose it for the world." cary was entirely without vanity; and he, who had traversed the ghastly regions of the inferno, interchanged little courtesies on equal terms with workers who had never travelled beyond the pages of "the london magazine." no one (it is said) who has performed anything great ever looks big upon it. thomas hood was there, almost silent except when he shot out some irresistible pun, and disturbed the gravity of the company. hood's labors were poetic, but his sports were passerine. it is remarkable that he, who was capable of jesting even on his own prejudices and predilections, should not (like catullus) have brought down the "sparrow," and enclosed him in an ode. lamb admired and was very familiar with him. "what a fertile genius he is!" (charles lamb writes to bernard barton), "and quiet withal." he then expatiates particularly on hood's sketch of "very deaf indeed!" wherein a footpad has stopped an old gentleman, but cannot make him understand what he wants, although the fellow is firing a pistol into his ear trumpet. "you'd like him very much," he adds. although lamb liked him very much, he was a little annoyed once by hood writing a comical essay in imitation of (and so much like) one of his own, that people generally thought that elia had awakened in an unruly mood. hazlitt attended once or twice; but he was a rather silent guest, rising into emphatic talk only when some political discussion (very rare) stimulated him. mr. de quincey appeared at only one of these dinners. the expression of his face was intelligent, but cramped and somewhat peevish. he was self- involved, and did not add to the cheerfulness of the meeting. i have consulted this gentleman's three essays, of which charles lamb is professedly the subject; but i cannot derive from them anything illustrative of my friend lamb's character. i have been mainly struck therein by de quincey's attacks on hazlitt, to whom the essays had no relation. i am aware that the two authors (hazlitt and de quincey) had a quarrel in , hazlitt having claimed certain theories or reasonings which the other had propounded as his own. in reply to mr. de quincey's claims to have had a familiar acquaintance with charles lamb (in and ), i have to observe that during these years (when i was almost continually with him) i never saw mr. de quincey at his house, and never heard lamb speak of him or refer to his writings on any occasion. his visits to lamb were surely very rare. _john clare_, a peasant from northamptonshire, and a better poet than bloomfield, was one of the visitors. he was thoroughly rustic, dressed in conspicuously country fashion, and was as simple as a daisy. his delight at the wonders of london formed the staple of his talk. this was often stimulated into extravagance by the facetious fictions of reynolds. poor fellow, he died insane. about this time lamb determined to leave london; and in he moved into colebrook cottage, islington, a small, detached white house of six rooms. "the new river, rather elderly by this time" (he says), "runs, if a moderate walking pace can be so termed, close to the foot of the house; behind is a spacious garden, &c., and the cheerful dining-room is studded all over and rough with old books: i feel like a great lord; never having had a house before." from this place (which a friend of his christened "petty venice") he used often to walk into london, to breakfast or dine with an acquaintance. for walking was always grateful to him. when confined to his room in the india house, he counted it amongst his principal recreations, and even now, with the whole world of leisure before him, it ranked amongst his daily enjoyments. by himself or with an acquaintance, and subsequently with hood's dog dash (whose name should have been rover), he wandered over all the roads and by-paths of the adjoining country. he was a peripatetic, in every way, beyond the followers of aristotle. walking occupied his energies; and when he returned home, he (like sarah battle) "unbent his mind over a book." "i cannot sit and think" is his phrase. if he now and then stopped for a minute at a rustic public house, tired with the excursive caprices of dash--beguiled perhaps by the simple attractions of a village sign--i hold him excusable for the glass of porter which sometimes invigorated him in his fatigue. in the course of these walks he traversed all the green regions which lie on the north and north-east of the metropolis. in london he loved to frequent those streets where the old bookshops were, wardour street, princes street, seven dials (where the shop has been long closed): he loved also gray's inn, in the garden of which he met dodd, just before his death ("with his buffoon mask taken off"); and the temple, into which you pass from the noise and crowd of fleet street,--into the quiet and "ample squares and green recesses," where the old dial," the garden god of christian gardens," then told of time, and where the still living fountain sends up its song into the listening air. of the essays of "elia," [ ] written originally for the london magazine, i feel it difficult to speak. they are the best amongst the good--his best. i see that they are genial, delicate, terse, full of thought and full of humor; that they are delightfully personal; and when he speaks of himself you cannot hear too much; that they are not imitations, but adoptions. we encounter his likings and fears, his fancies (his nature) in all. the words have an import never known before: the syllables have expanded their meaning, like opened flowers; the goodness of others is heightened by his own tenderness; and what is in nature hard and bad is qualified (qualified, not concealed) by the tender light of pity, which always intermingles with his own vision. gravity and laughter, fact and fiction, are heaped together, leavened in each case by charity and toleration; and all are marked by a wise humanity. lamb's humor, i imagine, often reflected (sometimes, i hope, relieved) the load of pain that always weighed on his own heart. the first of the essays ("the south sea house") appeared in the month of august, ; the last ("captain jackson") in november, . lamb's literary prosperity during this period was at the highest; yet he was always loath to show himself too much before the world. after the first series of essays had been published (for they are divided into two parts) he feigned that he was dead, and caused the second series to be printed as by "a friend of the late elia." these were written somewhat reluctantly. his words are, "to say the truth, it is time he [elia] were gone. the humor of the thing, if ever there were much humor in it, was pretty well exhausted; and a two years-and-a-half existence has been a tolerable duration for a phantom." it is thus modestly that he speaks of essays which have delighted all cultivated readers. i want a phrase to express the combination of qualities which constitutes lamb's excellence in letters. in the absence of this, i must content myself with referring to some of the papers which live most distinctly in my recollection. i will not transcribe any part of his eulogy on hogarth; nor of his fine survey of "lear," that grandest of all tragedies. they are well known to students of books. i turn for a moment to the elia essays only. in mere variety of subject (extent in a small space) they surpass almost all other essays. they are full of a witty melancholy. many of them may be termed autobiographical, which trebles their interest with most readers. let me recollect:--how he mourns over the ruins of blakesmoor (once his home on holidays), "reduced to an antiquity"! how he stalks, ghost-like, through the desolate rooms of the south sea house, or treads the avenues of the temple, where the benchers ("supposed to have been children once") are pacing the stony terraces! then there is the inimitable sarah battle (unconquered even by chance), arming herself for the war of whist; and the young africans, "preaching from their chimney-pulpits lessons of patience to mankind." if your appetite is keen, by all means visit bobo, who invented roast pig: if gay, and disposed to saunter through the pleasant lanes of hertfordshire, go to mackery end, where the gladmans and brutons will bid you welcome: if grave, let your eyes repose on the face of dear old bridget elia, "in a season of distress the truest comforter." should you wish to enlarge your humanity, place a few coins (maravedis) in the palm of one of the beggars (the "blind tobits") of london, and try to believe his tales, histories or fables, as though they were the veritable stories (told by night) on the banks of the famous tigris. do not despise the poorest of the poor--even the writer of valentines: "all valentines are not foolish," as you may read in elia's words; and "all fools' day" may cheer you, as the fool in "lear" may make you wise and tolerant. i could go on for many pages--to the poor relations, and the old books, and the old actors; to dodd, who "dying put on the weeds of dominic;" and to mrs. jordan and dickey suet (both whom i well remember); to elliston, always on the stage; to munden, with features ever changing; and to liston, with only one face: "but what a face!" i forbear. i pass also over comberbatch (coleridge), borrower of books, and captain jackson, and barbara s. (miss kelly), and go to the rest of my little history. the "popular fallacies," which in course of time followed, and were eventually added to the second series and re-published, are in manner essays also on a small scale, brief and dealing with abstract subjects more than the "elia." it may be interesting to know that lamb's two favorites were "that home is home, though it is never so homely," and "that we should rise with the lark." in the first of these he enters into all the discomforts and terrible distractions of a poor man's home; in the second he descants on the luxuries of bed, and the nutritious value of dreams: "the busy part of mankind," he says, "are content to swallow their sleep by wholesale: we choose to linger in bed and digest our dreams." the last "fallacy" is remarkable for a sentence which seems to refer to alice w.: "we were never much in the world," he says; "disappointment early struck a dark veil between us and its dazzling illusions:" he then concludes with, "we once thought life to be something; but it has unaccountably fallen from us before its time. the sun has no purposes of ours to light us to. why should we get up?" it will be observed by the sagacious student of the entire essays, that however quaint or familiar, or (rarely, however) sprinkled with classical allusions, they are never vulgar, nor commonplace, nor pedantic. they are "natural with a self-pleasing quaintness." the phrases are not affected, but are derived from our ancestors, now gone to another country; they are brought back from the land of shadows, and made denizens of england, in modern times. lamb's studies were the lives and characters of men; his humors and tragic meditations were generally dug out of his own heart: there are in them earnestness, and pity, and generosity, and truth; and there is not a mean or base thought to be found throughout all. in reading over these old essays, some of them affect me with a grave pleasure, amounting to pain. i seem to import into them the very feeling with which he wrote them; his looks and movements are transfigured, and communicated to me by the poor art of the printer. his voice, so sincere and earnest, rings in my ear again. he was no feignwell: apart from his joke, never was a man so real, and free from pretence. no one, as i believe, will ever taste the flavor of certain writers as he has done. he was the last true lover of antiquity. although he admitted a few of the beauties of modern times, yet in his stronger love he soared backwards to old acclivities, and loved to rest there. his essays, like his sonnets, are (as i have said) reflections of his own feelings. and so, i think, should essays generally be. a history or sketch of science, or a logical effort, may help the reader some way up the ladder of learning; but they do not link themselves with his affections. i myself prefer the affections to the sciences. the story of the heart is the deepest of all histories; and shakespeare is profounder and longer lived than maclaurin, or malthus, or ricardo. lamb's career throughout his later years was marked by an enlarged intercourse with society (it had never been confined to persons of his own way of thinking), by more frequent absences in the country and elsewhere, and by the reception of a somewhat wider body of acquaintance into his own house. he visited the universities, in which he much delighted: he fraternized with many of the contributors to the "london magazine." he received the letters and calls of his admirers--strangers and others. these were now much extended in number, by the publication of the essays of elia. i was in the habit of seeing him very frequently at his home: i met him also at mr. cary's, at leigh hunt's, at novello's, at haydon's, once at hazlitt's, and elsewhere. it must have been about this time that one of his visits (which always took place when the students were absent) was made to oxford, where he met george dyer, dreaming amongst the quadrangles, as he has described in his pleasant paper called "oxford in the vacation." lamb's letters to correspondents are perhaps not quite so frequent now as formerly. he writes occasionally to his old friends; to wordsworth, and southey, and coleridge; also to manning, who is still in china, and to whom in december, , he had sent one of his best and most characteristic letters, describing the (imaginary) death and decrepitude of his correspondent's friends in england; although he takes care (the next day) to tell him that his first was a "lying letter." indeed, that letter itself, humorous as it is, is so obviously manufactured in the fabulous district of hyperbole, that it requires no disavowal. manning, however, returns to england not long afterwards; and then the correspondence, if less humorous, is also less built up of improbabilities. he corresponds also with mr. barron field, who is relegated to the judicial bench in new south wales. of him he inquires about "the land of thieves;" he wants to know if their poets be not plagiarists; and suggests that half the truth which his letters contain "will be converted into lies" before they reach his correspondent. mr. field is the gentleman to whom the pleasant paper on "distant correspondents" is addressed. in charles lamb and his sister travelled as far as paris, neither of them understanding a word of the french language. what tempted them to undertake this expedition i never knew. perhaps, as he formerly said, when journeying to the lakes, it was merely a daring ambition to see "remote regions." the french journey seems to have been almost barren of good. he brought nothing back in his memory, and there is no account whatever of his adventures there. it has been stated that mary lamb was taken ill on the road; but i do not know this with certainty. from a short letter to barron field, it appears, indeed, that he thought paris "a glorious picturesque old city," to which london looked "mean and new," although the former had "no saint paul's or westminster abbey." "i and sister," he writes, "are just returned from paris. we have eaten frogs! it has been such a treat! nicest little delicate things; like lilliputian rabbits." but this is all. his reminiscences, whatever they were, do not enrich his correspondence. in conversation he used to tell how he had once intended to ask the waiter for an egg (oeuf), but called, in his ignorance, for eau de vie, and that the mistake produced so pleasant a result, that his inquiries afterwards for eau de vie were very frequent. in his travels to cambridge, which began to be frequent about this time, his gains were greater. for there he first became acquainted with miss emma isola, for whom, as i can testify, he at all times exhibited the greatest parental regard. when he and mary lamb first knew her, she was a little orphan girl, at school. they invited her to spend her holidays with them; and she went accordingly: the liking became mutual, and gradually deepened into great affection. the visit once made and so much relished, became habitual; and miss isola's holidays were afterwards regularly spent at the lambs' house. she used to take long walks with charles, when his sister was too old and infirm to accompany him. ultimately she was looked upon in the light of a child; and charles lamb, when speaking of her (and he did this always tenderly), used invariably to call her "our emma." to show how deep his regard was, he at one time was invited to engage in some profitable engagement ( ) whilst miss isola was in bad health; but he at once replied, "whilst she is in danger, and till she is out of it, i feel that i have no spirits for an engagement of any kind." some years afterwards, when she became well, and was about to be married, lamb writes, "i am about to lose my only walk companion," whose mirthful spirits (as he prettily terms it) were "the youth of our house." "with my perfect approval, and more than concurrence," as he states, she was to be married to mr. moxon. miss emma isola, who was, in charles lamb's phrase, "a very dear friend of ours," remained his friend till death, and became eventually his principal legatee. after her marriage, charles, writing to her husband (november, ), says, "tell emma i every day love her more, and miss her less. tell her so, from her loving uncle, as she has let me call myself." it was, as i believe, a very deep paternal affection. the particulars disclosed by the letters of and are so generally unimportant, that it is unnecessary to refer to them. lamb, indeed, became acquainted with the author of "virginius" (sheridan knowles), with mr. macready, and with the writers in the "london magazine" (which then had not been long established). and he appears gradually to discover that his work at the india house is wearisome, and complains of it in bitter terms: "thirty years have i served the philistines" (he writes to wordsworth), "and my neck is not subdued to the yoke." he confesses that he had once hoped to have a pension on "this side of absolute incapacity and infirmity," and to have walked out in the "fine isaac walton mornings, careless as a beggar, and walking, walking, and dying walking;" but he says, "the hope is gone. i sit like philomel all day (but not singing), with my breast against this thorn of a desk." the character of his letters at this time is not generally lively; there is, he says, "a certain deadness to everything, which i think i may date from poor john's (his brother's) loss. deaths overset one. then there's captain burney gone. what fun has whist now?" he proceeds, "i am made up of queer points. my theory is to enjoy life; but my practice is against it." the only hope he has, he says, is, "that some pulmonary affection may relieve me." the success which attended the "elia" essays did not comfort him, nor the (pecuniary) temptations of the bookseller to renew them. "the spirit of the thing in my own mind is gone" (he writes). "some brains," as ben jonson says, "will endure but one skimming." notwithstanding his melancholy humor, however, there is hope in the distance, which he does not see, and freedom is not far off. it was during this period of lamb's life ( ) that the quarrel between him and his old friend robert southey took place. southey had long been (as was well known) one of the most constant and efficient contributors to the "quarterly review;" and lamb assigned to him the authorship of one of the review articles, in which he himself was scantily complimented, and his friends hazlitt and leigh hunt denounced. sir t. talfourd thinks that mr. southey was not the author of the offending essay. be that as it may, lamb was then of opinion that his old tory friend was the enemy. in a letter to bernard barton (july, ) he writes, "southey has attacked 'elia' on the score of infidelity. he might have spared an old friend. i hate his review, and his being a reviewer;" but he adds, "i love and respect southey, and will not retort." however, in the end, irritated by the calumny, or (which is more probable) resenting compliments bestowed on himself at the expense of his friends, he sat down and penned his famous "letter of elia to robert southey, esq.," which appeared in the "london magazine" for october, , and which was afterwards published amongst his collected letters. this letter, i remember, produced a strong sensation in literary circles; and mr. southey's acquaintances smiled, and his enemies rejoiced at it. indeed, the letter itself is a remarkable document. with much of lamb's peculiar phraseology, it is argumentative, and defends the imaginary weaknesses or faults, against which (as he guesses) the "quarterly" reproofs had been levelled. the occasion having gone by, this letter has been dismissed from most minds, except that part of it which exhibits lamb's championship on behalf of hunt and hazlitt, and which is more touching than anything to be found in controversial literature. lamb's letter was unknown to his sister until after it appeared in the magazine, it being his practice to write his letters in leadenhall street. it caused her a good deal of annoyance when she saw it in print. it is pleasant to think, however, that it was the means of restoring the old intimacy between southey and lamb, and also of strengthening the friendship between lamb and hazlitt, which some misunderstanding, at that time, had a little loosened. when i was married (october, ), lamb sent me a congratulatory letter, which, as it was not published by sir t. talfourd, and is, moreover, characteristic, i insert here, from the ms. "my dear procter: i do agnize a shame in not having been to pay my congratulations to mrs. procter and your happy self; but on sunday (my only morning) i was engaged to a country walk; and in virtue of the hypostatical union between us, when mary calls, it is understood that i call too, we being univocal. "but indeed i am ill at these ceremonious inductions. i fancy i was not born with a call on my head, though i have brought one down upon it with a vengeance. i love not to pluck that sort of frail crude, but to stay its ripening into visits. in probability mary will be at southampton row this morning, and something of that kind be matured between you; but in any case not many hours shall elapse before i shake you by the hand. "meantime give my kindest felicitations to mrs. procter, and assure her i look forward with the greatest delight to our acquaintance. by the way, the deuce a bit of cake has come to hand, which hath an inauspicious look at first; but i comfort myself that that mysterious service hath the property of sacramental bread, which mice cannot nibble, nor time moulder. "i am married myself--to a severe step-wife--who keeps me, not at bed and board, but at desk and board, and is jealous of my morning aberrations. i cannot slip out to congratulate kinder unions. it is well she leaves me alone o' nights--the d-d day-hag _business_. she is even now peeping over me to see i am writing no love letters. i come, my dear--where is the indigo sale book? "twenty adieus, my dear friends, till we meet. "yours most truly, "c. lamb. "_leadenhall, nov. th, ' _." the necessity for labor continued for some short time longer. at last (in the beginning of the year ) deliverance came. charles had previously intimated his wish to resign. the directors of the east india house call him into their private room, and after complimenting him on his long and meritorious services, they suggest that his health does not appear to be good; that a little ease is expedient at his time of life, and they then conclude their conversation by suddenly intimating their intention of granting him a pension, for his life, of two thirds of the amount of his salary; "a magnificent offer," as he terms it. he is from that moment emancipated; let loose from all ties of labor, free to fly wheresoever he will. at the commencement of the talk charles had had misgivings, for he was summoned into the "formidable back parlor," he says, and thought that the directors were about to intimate that they had no further occasion for his services. the whole scene seems like one of the summer sunsets, preceded by threatenings of tempest, when the dark piles of clouds are separated and disappear, lost and swallowed by the radiance which fills the whole length and breadth of the sky, and looks as if it would be eternal. "i don't know what i answered," lamb says, "between surprise and gratitude; but it was understood that i accepted their proposal, and i was told that i was free from that hour to leave their service. i stammered out a bow, and, at just ten minutes after eight, i went home--forever." at this time lamb's salary was six hundred pounds per annum. the amount of two thirds of this sum, therefore, would be an annuity of four hundred pounds. but an annual provision was also made for his sister, in case she should survive him; and this occasioned a small diminution. in exact figures, he was to receive three hundred and ninety-one pounds a year during the remainder of his life, and then an annuity was to become payable to mary lamb. his sensations, first of stupefaction, and afterwards of measureless delight, will be seen by reference to his exulting letters of this period. first he writes to wordsworth of "the good that has befallen me." these are his words: "i came home--forever--on tuesday last. the incomprehensibleness of my condition overwhelmed me. it was like passing from time into eternity." * * * "mary wakes every morning with an obscure feeling that some good has happened to us."--to bernard barton his words are, "i have scarce steadiness of head to compose a letter. i am free, b. b.; free as air. i will live another fifty years." * * * "would i could sell you some of my leisure! positively the best thing a man can have to do is--nothing: and next to that, perhaps, good works." --to miss hutchinson he writes, "i would not go back to my prison for seven years longer for ten thousand pounds a year. for some days i was staggered, and could not comprehend the magnitude of my deliverance--was confused, giddy. but these giddy feelings have gone away, and my weather- glass stands at a degree or two above 'content.' all being holidays, i feel as if i had none; as they do in heaven, where 'tis all red letter days." lamb's discharge or relief was timely and graciously bestowed. it opened a bright vista through which he beheld (in hope) many years of enjoyment; scenes in which his spirit, rescued from painful work, had only to disport itself in endless delights. he had well earned his discharge. he had labored without cessation for thirty-three years; had been diligent, and trusted--a laborer worthy of his hire. and the consciousness of this long and good service must have mingled with his reward and sweetened it. it is a great thing to have earned your meal--your rest,--whatever may be the payment in full for your deserts. you have not to force up gratitude from oblivious depths, day by day, for undeserved bounty. in lamb's case it happened, unfortunately, that the activity of mind which had procured his repose, tended afterwards to disqualify him from enjoying it. the leisure, that he had once reckoned on so much, exceeded, when it came, the pains of the old counting-house travail. it is only the imbecile, or those brought up in complete lazihood, who can encounter successfully the monotony of "nothing to do," and can slumber away their lives unharmed amongst the dumb weeds and flowers. in the course of a short time it appeared that he was unable to enjoy, so perfectly as he had anticipated, his golden time of "nothing to do," his liberia. he therefore took long walks into the country. he also acquired the companionship of the large dog dash, much given to wandering, to whose erratic propensities (lamb walking at the rate of fourteen miles a day) he eventually became a slave. the rambling, inconstant dog rendered the clear, serene day of leisure almost turbid; and he was ultimately (in order to preserve for charles some little remaining enjoyment) bestowed upon another master. lamb was always (as i have said) fond of walking, and he had some vague liking, i suppose, for free air and green pastures; although he had no great relish specially for the flowers and ornaments of the country. i have often walked with him in the neighborhood of our great city; and i do not think that he ever treasured up in his memory the violets (or other flowers), the songs of birds, or the pictures of sheep or kine dotting the meadows. neither his conversation nor writings afforded evidence that he had done so. it is not easy, therefore, to determine what the special attractions were that drew him out of london, which he loved, into the adjoining country, where his walks oftenest lay. at the time of lamb's deliverance from office labor, he was living in colebrook row. it was there that george dyer, whose blindness and absence of mind rendered it almost dangerous for him to wander unaccompanied about the suburbs of london, came to visit him on one occasion. by accident, instead of entering the house door, dyer's aqueous instincts led him towards the water, and in a moment he had plunged overhead in the new river. i happened to go to lamb's house, about an hour after his rescue and restoration to dry land, and met miss lamb in the passage, in a state of great alarm: she was whimpering, and could only utter, "poor mr. dyer! poor mr. dyer!" in tremulous tones. i went up stairs, aghast, and found that the involuntary diver had been placed in bed, and that miss lamb had administered brandy and water, as a well-established preventive against cold. dyer, unaccustomed to anything stronger than the "crystal spring," was sitting upright in the bed, perfectly delirious. his hair had been rubbed up, and stood out like so many needles of iron gray. he did not (like falstaff) "babble of green fields," but of the "watery neptune." "i soon found out where i was," he cried out to me, laughing; and then he went wandering on, his words taking flight into regions where no one could follow. charles lamb has commemorated this immersion of his old friend, in his (elia) essay of "amicus redivivus." in the summer of lamb published, in "blackwood's magazine," a little drama in one act, entitled "the wife's trial." it was founded on crabbe's poetical tale of "the confidant;" and contains the germ of a plot, which undoubtedly might have been worked out with more effect, if lamb had devoted sufficient labor to that object. amongst the remarkable persons whom charles became acquainted with, in these years, was edward irving. lamb used to meet him at coleridge's house at highgate, and elsewhere; and he came to the conclusion that he was (as indeed he _was_) a fine, sincere, spirited man, terribly slandered. edward irving, who issued, like a sudden light, from the obscure little town of annan, in scotland, acquired, in the year , a wide reputation in london. he was a minister of the scotch church, and before he came to england had acted as an assistant preacher to dr. chalmers. in one of charles's letters (in ) to bernard barton (who had evidently been measuring irving by a low quaker standard), he takes the opportunity of speaking of the great respect that he entertained for the scotch minister. "let me adjure you" (writes charles), "have no doubt of irving. let mr. ----[?] drop his disrespect." "irving has prefixed a dedication, of a missionary character, to coleridge--most beautiful, cordial, and sincere. he there acknowledges his obligations to s. t. c., at whose gamaliel feet he sits weekly, rather than to all men living." again he writes, "some friend said to irving, 'this will do you no good' (no good in worldly repute). '_that is a reason for doing it_,' quoth irving. i am thoroughly pleased with him. he is firm, out-speaking, intrepid, and docile as a pupil of pythagoras. "in april, , lamb writes to wordsworth to the same effect. "have you read the noble dedication of irving's missionary sermons?" he inquires; and then he repeats irving's fine answer to the suggested impolicy of publishing his book with its sincere prefix. poor edward irving! whom i always deeply respected, and knew intimately for some years, and who was one of the best and truest men whom it has been my good fortune to meet in life! he entered london amidst the shouts of his admirers, and he departed in the midst of contumely; sick, and sad, and maligned, and misunderstood; going back to his dear native scotland only to die. the time has long passed for discussing the truths or errors of edward irving's peculiar creed; but there can be no doubt that he himself was true and faithful till death, and that he preached only what he entirely believed. and what can man do more? if he was wrong, his errors arose from his extreme modesty, his extreme veneration for the subject to which he raised his thoughts. in the last year of edward irving's life ( ), he was counselled by his physician to pass the next winter in a milder climate--that "it was the only safe thing for him." prevented from ministering in his own church, where "he had become an embarrassment," he travels into the rural places, subdued and chastened by his weakness,--to the wye and the severn--to the fine mountains and pleasant places of wales. sometimes he thinks himself better. he quits london (forever) in the early part of september, and on the d of that month he writes to his wife that he is "surely better, for _his pulse has come to be under _." he passes by cader idris, and snowdon--by bedgelert to bangor, "a place of repose;" but gets wet whilst viewing the menai bridge, and had "a fevered night;" yet he is able to droop on to liverpool. thence (the love of his native land drawing him on) he goes northwards, instead of to the south. he reaches glasgow, where "he thinks of organizing a church;" although dr. darling "decidedly says that he cannot humanly live over the winter." yet he still goes on with his holy task; he writes "pastoral letters," and preaches, and prays, and offers kind advice. his friends, from kirkcaldy and elsewhere, come to see him, where, "for a few weeks still, he is visible, about glasgow. in the sunshine--in a lonely street, his gaunt, gigantic figure rises feebly against the light." at last he lies down on "the bed from which he is never to rise;" his mind wanders, and his articulation becomes indistinct; but he is occasionally understood, and is heard murmuring (in hebrew) parts of the d psalm, "the lord is my shepherd: he leadeth me beside the still waters." and thus gradually sinking, at the close of a gloomy sunday night in december, he dies. mr. thomas carlyle, his friend (the friend of his youth), has written an eloquent epitaph upon him; not partial, for they differed in opinion--but eloquent, and very touching. i read it over once or twice in every year. edward irving's last words, according to his statement, were, "in life and in death i am the lord's." carlyle then adds, "but for irving, i had never known what the communion of man with man means. he was the freest, brotherliest, bravest human soul mine ever came in contact with; the best man i have ever (after trial enough) found in this world, or now hope to find." so edward irving went to the true and brave enthusiasts who have gone before him. he died on his final sabbath ( th december, ), and left the world and all its troubles behind him. [ ] the first essays of elia were published by taylor and hessey under the title "elia," in . the second essays were, together with the "popular fallacies," collected and published under the title of "the last essays of elia," by moxon, in . chapter vii. _specimen of lamb's humor.--death of mr. norris.--garrick plays.--letters to barton.--opinions on books.--breakfast with mr. n. p. willis.--moves to enfield.--caricature of lamb.--albums and acrostics.--pains of leisure.-- the barton correspondence.--death of hazlitt.--munden's acting and quitting the stage.--lamb becomes a boarder.--moves to edmonton.-- metropolitan attachments.--death of coleridge.--lamb's fall and death.-- death of mary lamb.--postscript._ with the expiration of the "london magazine," lamb's literary career terminated. a few trifling contributions to the "new monthly," and other periodicals, are scarcely sufficient to qualify this statement. it may be convenient, in this place, to specify some of those examples of humor and of jocose speech for which charles lamb in his lifetime was well known. these (not his best thoughts) can be separated from the rest, and may attract the notice of the reader, here and there, and relieve the tameness of a not very eventful narrative. it is possible to define wit (which, as mr. coleridge says, is "impersonal"), and humor also; but it is not easy to distinguish the humor of one man from that of all other humorists, so as to bring his special quality clearly before the apprehension of the reader. perhaps the best (if not the most scientific) way might be to produce specimens of each. in charles lamb's case, instances of his humor are to be found in his essays, in his sayings (already partially reported), and throughout his letters, where they are very frequent. they are often of the composite order, in which humor, and wit, and (sometimes) pathos are intermingled. sometimes they merely exhibit the character of the man. he once said of himself that his biography "would go into an epigram." his sayings require greater space. some of those which have been circulated are apocryphal. the following are taken chiefly from his letters, and from my own recollections. in his exultation on being released from his thirty-four years of labor at the india house, he says, "had i a little son, i would christen him 'nothing to do'" (this is in the "superannuated man.") speaking of don quixote, he calls him "the errant star of knighthood, made more tender by eclipse." on being asked by a schoolmistress for some sign indicative of her calling, he recommended "the murder of the innocents." i once said something in his presence which i thought possessed smartness. he commended me with a stammer: "very well, my dear boy, very well; ben (taking a pinch of snuff), ben jonson has said worse things than that-and b-b-better." [ ] his young chimney-sweepers, "from their little pulpits (the tops of chimneys) in the nipping air of a december morning, preach a lesson of patience to mankind." his saying to martin burney has been often repeated--"o martin, if dirt were trumps, what a hand you would hold!" to coleridge: "bless you, old sophist, who next to human nature taught me all the corruption i was capable of knowing." to mr. gilman, a surgeon ("query kill-man?"), he writes, "coleridge is very bad, but he wonderfully picks up, and his face, when he repeats his verses, hath its ancient glory--an archangel a little damaged." to wordsworth (who was superfluously solemn) he writes, "some d-d people have come in, and i must finish abruptly. by d--d, i only mean deuced." the second son of george the second, it was said, had a very cold and ungenial manner. lamb stammered out in his defence that "this was very natural in the duke of cu-cum-ber-land." to bernard barton, of a person of repute: "there must be something in him. such great names imply greatness. which of us has seen michael angelo's things? yet which of us disbelieves his greatness?" to mrs. h., of a person eccentric: "why does not his guardian angel look to him? he deserves one--may be he has tired him out." "charles," said coleridge to lamb, "i think you have heard me preach?" "i n--n--never heard you do anything else," replied lamb. one evening coleridge had consumed the whole time in talking of some "regenerated" orthodoxy. leigh hunt, who was one of the listeners, on leaving the house, expressed his surprise at the prodigality and intensity of coleridge's religious expressions. lamb tranquillized him by "ne-ne- never mind what coleridge says; he's full of fun." there were, &c., &c., "and at the top of all, hunger (eldest, strongest of the passions), predominant, breaking down the stony fences of shame." the bank, the india house, and other rich traders look insultingly on the old deserted south sea house, as on "their poor neighbor out of business." to a frenchman, setting up voltaire's character in opposition to that of christ, lamb asserted that "voltaire was a very good jesus christ--_for the french._" of a scotchman: "his understanding is always at its meridian. between the affirmative and the negative there is no border land with him. you cannot hover with him on the confines of truth." on a book of coleridge's nephew he writes, "i confess he has more of the sterne about him than the sternhold. but he saddens into excellent sense before the conclusion." as to a monument being erected for clarkson, in his lifetime, he opposes it, and argues, "goodness blows no trumpet, nor desires to have it blown. we should be modest for a modest man." "m. b. is on the top scale of my friendship's ladder, which an angel or two is still climbing; and some, alas! descending." a fine sonnet of his (the gipsy's malison) being refused publication, he exclaimed, "hang the age! i will write for antiquity." once, whilst waiting in the highgate stage, a woman came to the door, and inquired in a stern voice, "are you quite full inside?" "yes, ma'am," said charles, in meek reply, "quite; that plateful of mrs. gilman's pudding has quite filled us." mrs. k., after expressing her love for her young children, added, tenderly, "and how do _you_ like babies, mr. lamb?" his answer, immediate, almost precipitate, was "boi-boi-boiled, ma'am." hood, tempting lamb to dine with him, said, "we have a hare." "and many friends?" inquired lamb. it being suggested that he would not sit down to a meal with the italian witnesses at the queen's trial, lamb rejected the imputation, asserting that he would sit with anything except a hen or a tailor. of a man too prodigal of lampoons and verbal jokes, lamb said, threateningly, "i'll lamb-pun him." on two prussians of the same name being accused of the same crime, it was remarked as curious that they were not in any way related to each other. "a mistake," said he; "they are cozens german." an old lady, fond of her dissenting minister, wearied lamb by the length of her praises. "i speak, because i _know_ him well," said she. "well, i don't;" replied lamb; "i don't; but d--n him, at a 'venture.'" the scotch, whom he did not like, ought, he said, to have double punishment; and to have fire without brimstone. southey, in , showed him a dull poem on a rose. lamb's criticism was, "your rose is insipid: it has neither thorns nor sweetness." a person sending an unnecessarily large sum with a lawyer's brief, lamb said "it was 'a fee simple.'" mr. h. c. robinson, just called to the bar, tells him, exultingly, that he is retained in a cause in the king's bench. "ah" (said lamb), "the great first cause, least understood." of a pun, lamb says it is a "noble thing _per se_. it is entire. it fills the mind; it is as perfect as a sonnet; better. it limps ashamed, in the train and retinue of humor." [ ] lamb's puns, as far as i recollect, were not frequent; and, except in the case of a pun, it is difficult to divest a good saying of the facts surrounding it without impoverishing the saying itself. lamb's humor is generally imbedded in the surrounding sense, and cannot often be disentangled without injury. i have said that the proprietorship of the "london magazine," in the year , became vested in messrs. taylor and hessey, under whom it became a social centre for the meeting of many literary men. the publication, however, seems to have interfered with the ordinary calling of the booksellers; and the sale was not therefore (i suppose) sufficiently important to remunerate them for the disturbance of their general trade. at all events, it was sold to mr. henry southern, the editor of "the retrospective review," at the expiration of , after having been in existence during five entire years. in mr. southern's hands, under a different system of management, it speedily ceased. in (january) charles lamb suffered great grief from the loss of a very old friend, mr. norris. it may be remembered that he was one of the two persons who went to comfort lamb when his mother so suddenly died. mr. norris had been one of the officers of the inner temple or christ's hospital, and had been intimate with the lambs for many years; and charles, when young, used always to spend his christmases with him. "he was my friend and my father's friend," lamb writes, "all the life i can remember. i seem to have made foolish friendships ever since. old as i am, in his eyes i was still the child he first knew me. to the last he called me 'charley.' i have none to call me charley now. he was the last link that bound me to the temple." it was after his death that lamb once more resorted to the british museum, which he had been in the habit of frequenting formerly, when his first "dramatic specimens" were published. now he went there to make other extracts from the old plays. these were entitled "the garrick plays," and were bestowed upon mr. hone, who was poor, and were by him published in his "every day book." subsequently they were collected by charles himself, and formed a supplement to the earlier "specimens." lamb's labors in this task were by no means trivial. "i am now going through a course of reading" (of old plays), he writes; "i have two thousand to go through." lamb's correspondence with his quaker friend, bernard barton ("the busy b," as hood called him), whose knowledge of the english drama was confined to shakespeare and miss baillie, went on constantly. his letters to this gentleman comprised a variety of subjects, on most of which charles offers him good advice. sometimes they are less personal, as where he tells him that "six hundred have been sold of hood's book, while sion's songs do not disperse so quickly;" and where he enters (very ably) into the defects and merits of martin's pictures, belshazzar and joshua, and ventures an opinion as to what art should and should not be. he is strenuous in advising him not to forsake the bank (where he is a clerk), and throw himself on what the chance of employ by booksellers would afford. "throw yourself, rather, from the steep tarpeian rock, headlong upon the iron spikes. keep to your bank, and your bank will keep you. trust not to the public," he says. then, referring to his own previous complaints of official toil, he adds, "i retract all my fond complaints. look on them as lovers' quarrels. i was but half in earnest. welcome, dead timber of a desk that gives me life. a little grumbling is wholesome for the spleen; but in my inner heart i do approve and embrace this our close but unharassing way of life." lamb's opinions on books, as well as on conduct, making some deduction for his preference of old writers, is almost always sound. when he is writing to mr. walter wilson, who is editing de foe, he says of the famous author of "robinson crusoe,"-- "in appearance of _truth_ his works exceed any works of fiction that i am acquainted with. it is perfect illusion. it is like reading evidence in a court of justice. there is all the minute detail of a log-book in it. facts are repeated in varying phrases till you cannot choose but believe them." his liking for books (rather than his criticism on them) is shown frequently in his letters. "o! to forget fielding, steele, &c., and to read 'em _new_," he says. of de foe, "his style is everywhere beautiful, but plain and homely." again, he speaks of "fielding, smollett, sterne,-- great nature's stereotypes." "milton," he says, "almost requires a solemn service of music to be played before you enter upon him." of shenstone he speaks as "the dear author of the schoolmistress;" and so on from time to time, as occasion prompts, of bunyan, isaac walton, and jeremy taylor, and fuller, and sir philip sidney, and others, in affectionate terms. these always relate to english authors. lamb, although a good latinist, had not much of that which ordinarily passes under the name of learning. he had little knowledge of languages, living or dead. of french, german, italian, &c., he knew nothing; and in greek his acquirements were very moderate. these children of the tongues were never adopted by him; but in his own saxon english he was a competent scholar, a lover, nice, discriminative, and critical. the most graphic account of lamb at a somewhat later period of his life appears in mr. n. p. willis's "pencillings by the way." he had been invited by a gentleman in the temple, mr. r---- (robinson?), to meet charles lamb and his sister at breakfast. the lambs lived at that time "a little way out of london, and were not quite punctual. at last they enter --"the gentleman in black small-clothes and gaiters, short and very slight in person, his head set on his shoulders with a thoughtful forward bent, his hair just sprinkled with gray, a beautiful deep-set eye, an aquiline nose, and a very indescribable mouth. whether it expressed most humor or feeling, good nature or a kind of whimsical peevishness, or twenty other things which passed over it by turns, i cannot in the least be certain." this is mr. willis's excellent picture of lamb at that period. the guest places a large arm-chair for mary lamb; charles pulls it away, saying gravely, "mary, don't take it; it looks as if you were going to have a tooth drawn." miss lamb was at that time very hard of hearing, and charles took advantage of her temporary deafness to impute various improbabilities to her, which, however, were so obvious as to render any denial or explanation unnecessary. willis told charles that he had bought a copy of the "elia" in america, in order to give to a friend. "what did you give for it?" asked lamb. "about seven and sixpence." "permit me to pay you that," said lamb, counting out the money with earnestness on the table; "i never yet wrote anything that could sell. i am the publisher's ruin. my last poem won't sell,--not a copy. have you seen it?" no; willis had not. "it's only eighteenpence, and i'll give you sixpence towards it," said lamb; and he described where willis would find it, "sticking up in a shop window in the strand." lamb ate nothing, but inquired anxiously for some potted fish, which mr. r---- used to procure for him. there was none in the house; he therefore asked to see the cover of the pot which had contained it; he thought it would do him good. it was brought, and on it was a picture of the fish. lamb kissed it, and then left the table, and began to wander about the room, with an uncertain step, &c. this visit must have taken place, i suppose, at or after the time when lamb was living at colebrook cottage; and the breakfast took place probably in mr. henry crabbe robinson's chambers in the temple, where i first met wordsworth. in the year lamb moved into a small house at enfield, a "gamboge- colored house," he calls it, where i and other friends went to dine with him; but it was too far from london, except for rare visits.--it was rather before that time that a very clever caricature of him had been designed and engraved ("scratched on copper," as the artist termed it) by mr. brook pulham. it is still extant; and although somewhat ludicrous and hyperbolical in the countenance and outline, it certainly renders a likeness of charles lamb. the nose is monstrous, and the limbs are dwarfed and attenuated. lamb himself, in a letter to bernard barton ( th august, ), adverts to it in these terms: "'tis a little sixpenny thing--too like by half--in which the draughtsman has done his best to avoid flattery." charles's hatred for annuals and albums was continually breaking out: "i die of albophobia." "i detest to appear in an annual," he writes; "i hate the paper, the type, the gloss, the dandy plates." "coleridge is too deep," again he says, "among the prophets, the gentleman annuals." "if i take the wings of the morning, and fly to the uttermost parts of the earth, there will albums be." to southey he writes about this time, "i have gone lately into the acrostic line. i find genius declines with me; but i get clever." the reader readily appreciates the distinction which the humorist thus cleverly (more than cleverly) makes. in proof of his subdued quality, however, under the acrostical tyranny, i quote two little unpublished specimens addressed to the misses locke, whom he had never seen. to m. l. [mary locke.] must i write with pen unwilling, and describe those graces killing, rightly, which i never saw? yes--it is the album's law. let me then invention strain, on your excelling grace to feign. cold is fiction. i believe it kindly as i did receive it; even as i. f.'s tongue did weave it. to s. l. [sarah locke.] shall i praise a face unseen, and extol a fancied mien, rave on visionary charm, and from shadows take alarm? hatred hates without a cause, love may love without applause, or, without a reason given, charmed be with unknown heaven. keep the secret, though unmocked, ever in your bosom locked. after the transfer to mr. southern of the "london magazine," lamb was prevailed upon to allow some short papers to be published in the "new monthly magazine." they were entitled "popular fallacies," and were subsequently published conjointly with the "elia essays." he also sent brief contributions to the "athenaeum" and the "englishman," and wrote some election squibs for serjeant wilde, during his then contest for "newark." but his animal spirits were not so elastic as formerly, when his time was divided between official work and companionable leisure; the latter acting as a wholesome relief to his mind when wearied by labor. on this subject hear him speaking to bernard barton, to whom, as to others, he had formerly complained of his harassing duties at the india house, and of his delightful prospect of leisure. now he writes, "deadly long are the days, with but half an hour's candle-light and no fire-light. the streets, the shops remain, but old friends are gone." "i assure you" (he goes on) "_no_ work is worse than overwork. the mind preys on itself-- the most unwholesome food. i have ceased to care almost for anybody." to remedy this tedium, he tries visiting; for the houses of his old friends were always open to him, and he had a welcome everywhere. but this visiting will not revive him. his spirits descended to zero--below it. he is convinced that happiness is not to be found abroad. it is better to go "to my hole at enfield, and hide like a sick cat in my corner." again he says, "home, i have none. never did the waters of heaven pour down on a forlornes head. what i can do, and overdo, is to walk. i am a sanguinary murderer of time. but the snake is vital. your forlorn--c. l." these are his meditations in , four years only after he had rushed abroad, full of exaltation and delight, from the prison of a "work-a-day" life, into the happy gardens of boundless leisure. time, which was once his friend, had become his enemy. his letters, which were always full of goodness, generally full of cheerful humor, sink into discontent. "i have killed an hour or two with this poor scrawl," he writes. it is unnecessary to inflict upon the reader all the points of the obvious moral that obtrudes itself at this period of charles lamb's history. it is clear that the otiosa eternitas was pressing upon his days, and he did not know how to find relief. although a good latin scholar,--indeed, fond of writing letters in latin,--he did not at this period resort to classical literature. i heard him indeed once (and once only) quote the well-known latin verse from the georgics, "o fortunatos," &c., but generally he showed himself careless about greeks and romans; and when (as mr. moxon states) "a traveller brought him some acorns from an ilex that grew over the tomb of virgil, he valued them so little that he threw them at the hackney coachmen as they passed by his window." i have been much impressed by lamb's letters to bernard barton, which are numerous, and which, taken altogether, are equal to any which he has written. the letters to coleridge do not exhibit so much care or thought; nor those to wordsworth or manning, nor to any others of his intellectual equals. these correspondents could think and speculate for themselves, and they were accordingly left to their own resources. "the volsces have much corn." but bernard barton was in a different condition; he was poor. his education had been inferior, his range of reading and thinking had been very confined, his knowledge of the english drama being limited to shakespeare and miss baillie. he seems, however, to have been an amiable man, desirous of cultivating the power, such as it was, which he possessed; and lamb therefore lavished upon him--the poor quaker clerk of a suffolk banker--all that his wants or ambition required; excellent worldly counsel, sound thoughts upon literature and art, critical advice on his own verses, letters which in their actual value surpass the wealth of many more celebrated collections. lamb's correspondence with barton, whom he had first known in , continued until his death. in (september th) hazlitt died. it is unnecessary to enter into any enumeration of his remarkable qualities. they were known to all his friends, and to some of his enemies. in sir edward lytton's words, "he went down to the dust without having won the crown for which he so bravely struggled. he who had done so much for the propagation of thought, left no stir upon the surface when he sank." i will not in this place attempt to weave the moral which nevertheless lies hid in his unrequited life. at that time the number of lamb's old intimates was gradually diminished. the eternally recurring madness of his sister was more frequent. the hopelessness of it--if hope indeed ever existed--was more palpable, more depressing. his own spring of mind was fast losing its power of rebound. he felt the decay of the active principle, and now confined his efforts to morsels of criticism, to verses for albums, and small contributions to periodicals, which (excepting only the "popular fallacies") it has not been thought important enough to reprint. to the editor of the "athenaeum," indeed, he laments sincerely over the death of munden. this was in february, , and was a matter that touched his affections. "he was not an actor" (he writes), "but something better." to a reader of the present day--even to a contemporary of lamb himself--there was something almost amounting to extravagance in the terms of his admiration. yet munden was, in his way, a remarkable man; and although he was an actor in farce, he often stood aloof and beyond the farce itself. the play was a thing merely on which to hang his own conceptions. these did not arise from the drama, but were elsewhere cogitated, and were interleaved, as it were, with the farce or comedy which served as an excuse for their display. the actor was to all intents and purposes _sui generis_. to speak of my own impressions, munden did not affect me much in some of his earlier performances; for then he depended on the play. afterwards, when he took the matter into his own hands, and created personages who owed little or nothing to the playwright, then he became an inventor. he rose with the occasion. _sic ivit ad astra_. in the drama of "modern antiques," especially, space was allowed him for his movements. the words were nothing. the prosperity of the piece depended exclusively on the genius of the actor. munden enacted the part of an old man credulous beyond ordinary credulity; and when he came upon the stage there was in him an almost sublime look of wonder, passing over the scene and people around him, and settling apparently somewhere beyond the moon. what he believed in, improbable as it was to mere terrestrial visions, you at once conceived to be quite possible,--to be true. the sceptical idiots of the play pretend to give him a phial nearly full of water. he is assured that this contains cleopatra's tear. well; who can disprove it? munden evidently recognized it. "what a large tear!" he exclaimed, then they place in his hands a druidical harp, which to vulgar eyes might resemble a modern gridiron. he touches the chords gently; "pipes to the spirit ditties of no tone;" and you imagine aeolian strains. at last william tell's cap is produced. the people who affect to cheat him, apparently cut the rim from a modern hat, and place the skull-cap in his hands; and then begins the almost finest piece of acting that i ever witnessed. munden accepts the accredited cap of tell with confusion and reverence. he places it slowly and solemnly on his head, growing taller in the act of crowning himself. soon he swells into the heroic size,--a great archer,--and enters upon his dreadful task. he weighs the arrow carefully; he tries the tension of the bow, the elasticity of the string; and finally, after a most deliberate aim, he permits the arrow to fly, and looks forward at the same time with intense anxiety. you hear the twang, you see the hero's knitted forehead, his eagerness; you tremble: at last you mark his calmer brow, his relaxing smile, and are satisfied that the son is saved! it is difficult to paint in words this extraordinary performance, which i have several times seen; but you feel that it is transcendent. you think of sagittarius, in the broad circle of the zodiac; you recollect that archery is as old as genesis; you are reminded that ishmael, the son of hagar, wandered about the judaean deserts, and became an archer. the old actor is now dead; but on his last performance, when he was to act sir robert bramble, on the night of his taking final leave of the stage, lamb greatly desired to be present. he had always loved the actors, especially the old actors, from his youth; and this was the last of the romans. accordingly lamb and his sister went to the drury lane; but there being no room in the ordinary parts of the house (boxes or pit), munden obtained places for his two visitors in the orchestra, close to the stage. he saw them carefully ushered in, and well posted; then acted with his usual vigor, and no doubt enjoyed the plaudits wrung from a thousand hands. afterwards, in the interval between the comedy and the farce, he was seen to appear cautiously, diffidently, at the low door of the orchestra (where the musicians enter), and beckon to his friends, who then perceived that he was armed with a mighty pot of porter, for their refreshment. lamb, grateful for the generous liquid, drank heartily, but not ostentatiously, and returned the pot of beer to munden, who had waited to remove it from fastidious eyes. he then retreated into the farce; and then he retired--forever. after munden's retirement lamb almost entirely forsook the theatre; and his habits became more solitary. he had not relinquished society, nor professedly narrowed the circle of his friends. but insensibly his visitors became fewer in number, and came less frequently. some had died; some had grown old; some had increased occupation to care for. his old wednesday evenings had ceased, and he had placed several miles of road between london (the residence of their families) and his own home. the weight of years, indeed, had its effect in pressing down his strength and buoyancy; his spirit no longer possessed its old power of rebound. even the care of housekeeping (not very onerous, one would suppose) troubled charles and his sister so much, that they determined to abandon it. this occurred in . then they became boarders and lodgers, with an old person (t. w.), who was their next-door neighbor at enfield; and of him lamb has given an elaborate description. t. w., his new landlord or housekeeper, he says, is seventy years old; "he has something, under a competence;" he has one joke, and forty pounds a year, upon which he retires in a green old age: he laughs when he hears a joke, and when (which is much oftener) he hears it not. having served the greater parish offices, lamb and his sister become greater, being _his_ lodgers, than they were when substantial householders. the children of the village venerate him for his gentility, but wonder also at him for a gentle indorsation of the person, not amounting to a hump, or, if one, then like that of the buffalo, and coronative of as mild qualities. writing to wordsworth (and speaking as a great landed proprietor), he says, "we have ridded ourselves of the dirty acres; settled down into poor boarders and lodgers; confiding ravens." the distasteful country, however, still remains, and the clouds still hang over it. "let not the lying poets be believed, who entice men from the cheerful streets," he writes. the country, he thinks, does well enough when he is amongst his books, by the fire and with candle-light; but day and the green fields return and restore his natural antipathies; then he says, "in a calenture i plunge into st. giles's." so lamb and his sister leave their comfortable little house, and subside into the rooms of the humpback. their chairs, and tables, and beds also retreat; all except the ancient bookcase, full of his "ragged veterans." this i saw, years after charles lamb's death, in the possession of his sister, mary. "all our furniture has faded," he writes, "under the auctioneer's hammer; going for nothing, like the tarnished frippery of the prodigal." four years afterwards (in ) lamb moves to his last home, in church street, edmonton, where he is somewhat nearer to his london friends. very curious was the antipathy of charles to objects that are generally so pleasant to other men. it was not a passing humor, but a life-long dislike. he admired the trees, and the meadows, and murmuring streams in poetry. i have heard him repeat some of keats's beautiful lines in the ode to the nightingale, about the "pastoral eglantine," with great delight. but that was another thing: that was an object in its proper place: that was a piece of art. long ago he had admitted that the mountains of cumberland were grand objects "to look at;" but (as he said) "the houses in streets were the places to live in." i imagine that he would no more have received the former as an equivalent for his own modest home, than he would have accepted a portrait as a substitute for a friend. he was, beyond all other men whom i have met, essentially metropolitan. he loved "the sweet security of streets," as he says: "i would set up my tabernacle there." in the spring of , coleridge's health began to decline. charles had written to him (in reply) on the th april, at which time his friend had been evidently unwell; for lamb says that he is glad to see that he could write so long a letter. he was indeed very ill; and no further personal intercourse (i believe) took place between charles and his old schoolfellow. coleridge lay ill for months; but his faculties seem to have survived his bodily decay. he died on the th july, ; yet on the th of that month he was able to discourse with his nephew on dryden and barrow, on lord brook, and fielding, and richardson, without any apparent diminution of judgment. even on the th (a fortnight only before his death) there was no symptom of speedy dissolution: he then said, "the scenes of my early life have stolen into my mind like breezes blown from the spice islands." charles's sorrow was unceasing. "he was my fifty years' old friend" (he says) "without a dissension. i cannot think without an ineffectual reference to him." lamb's frequent exclamations, "coleridge is dead! coleridge is dead!" have been already noticed. and now the figures of other old friends of charles lamb, gradually (one by one), slip out of sight. still, in his later letters are to be found glimpses of wordsworth and southey, of rogers and hood, of cary (with whom his intimacy increases); especially may be noted miss isola, whom he tenderly regarded, and after whose marriage (then left more alone) he retreats to his last retreat, in church street, edmonton. from details let us escape into a more general narrative. the latest facts need not be painfully enumerated. there is little left, indeed, to particularize. mary's health fluctuates, perhaps, more frequently than heretofore. at one time she is well and happy; at another her mind becomes turbid, and she is then sheltered, as usual, under her brother's care. the last essays of elia are published;--friends visit him;--and he occasionally visits them in london. he dines with talfourd and cary. the sparks which are brought out are as bright as ever, although the splendor is not so frequent. apparently the bodily strength, never great, but sufficient to move him pleasantly throughout life, seemed to flag a little. yet he walks as usual. he and his sister "scramble through the inferno:" (as he says to gary), "mary's chief pride in it was, that she should some day brag of it to you." then he and mary became very poorly. he writes, "we have had a sick child, sleeping, or not sleeping, next to me, with a pasteboard partition between, who killed my sleep. my bedfellows are cough and cramp: we sleep three in a bed. don't come yet to this house of pest and age." this is in . at the end of that year (in december) he writes (once more humorously) to rogers, expressing, amongst other things, his love for that fine artist, stothard: "i met the dear old man, and it was sublime to see him sit, deaf, and enjoy all that was going on mirthful with the company. he reposed upon the many graceful and many fantastic images he had created." his last letter, written to mrs. dyer on the day after his fall, was an effort to recover a book of mr. cary, which had been mislaid or lost, so anxious was he always that every man should have his own. in december, , the history of charles lamb comes suddenly to a close. he had all along had a troubled day: now came the night. his spirits had previously been tolerably cheerful; reading and conversing, as heretofore, with his friends, on subjects that were familiar to him. there was little manifest alteration or falling off in his condition of mind or body. he took his morning walks as usual. one day he stumbled against a stone, and fell. his face was slightly wounded; but no fatal (or even alarming) consequence was foreboded. erysipelas, however, followed the wound, and his strength (never robust) was not sufficient to enable him to combat successfully that inflammatory and exhausting disease. he suffered no pain (i believe); and when the presence of a clergyman was suggested to him, he made no remark, but understood that his life was in danger; he was quite calm and collected, quite resigned. at last his voice began to fail, his perceptions became confused, and he sank gradually, very gradually, until the th of december, ; and then--he died! it was the fading away or disappearance of life, rather than a violent transit into another world. he died at edmonton; not, as has been supposed, at enfield, to which place he never returned as to a place of residence, after he had once quitted it. it is not true that he was ever deranged, or subjected to any restraint, shortly before his death. there never was the least symptom of mental disturbance in him after the time ( - ) when he was placed for a few weeks in hoxton asylum, to allay a little nervous irritation. if it were necessary to confirm this assertion, which is known to me from personal observation and other incontrovertible evidence, i would adduce ten of his published letters (in ) and several in ; one of them bearing date only four days before his death. all these documents afford ample testimony of his clear good sense and kind heart, some of them, indeed, being tinged with his usual humor. charles lamb was fifty-nine years old at his death; of the same age as cromwell, between whom and himself there was of course no other similitude. a few years before, when he was about to be released from his wearisome toil at the india house, he said exultingly, that he was passing out of time into eternity. but now came the true eternity; the old eternity,--without change or limit; in which all men surrender their leisure, as well as their labor; when their sensations and infirmities (sometimes harassing enough) cease and are at rest. no more anxiety for the debtor; no more toil for the worker. the rich man's ambition, the poor man's pains, at last are over. _hic jacet_. that "forlorn" inscription is the universal epitaph. what a world of moral, what speculations, what pathetic wishes, and what terrible dreams, lie enshrouded in that one final issue, which we call--death. to him who never gave pain to a human being, whose genius yielded nothing but instruction and delight, was awarded a calm and easy death. no man, it is my belief, was ever loved or lamented more sincerely than charles lamb. his sister (his elder by a decade) survived him for the space of thirteen years. by strict economy, without meanness; with much unpretending hospitality; with frequent gifts and lendings, and without any borrowing,--he accumulated, during his thirty-three years of constant labor, the moderate sum of two thousand pounds. no more. that was the sum, i believe, which was eventually shared amongst his legatees. his other riches were gathered together and deposited elsewhere; in the memory of those who loved him,-- and there were many of them,--or amongst others of our anglo-saxon race, whose minds he has helped to enrich and soften. the property of charles lamb, or so much as might be wanted for the purpose, was by his will directed to be applied towards the maintenance and comfort of his sister; and, subject to this primary object, it was vested in trustees for the benefit of miss isola--mrs. moxon. mary lamb's comforts were supplied, with anxiety and tenderness, throughout the thirteen years during which she survived her brother. i went to see her, after her brother's death; but her frequent illnesses did not render visits at all times welcome or feasible. she then resided in alpha road, saint john's wood, under the care of an experienced nurse. there was a twilight of consciousness in her,--scarcely more,--at times; so that perhaps the mercy of god saved her from full knowledge of her great loss. charles, who had given up all his days for her protection and benefit,--who had fought the great battle of life so nobly,--left her "for that unknown and silent shore," where, it is hoped, the brother and sister will renew the love which once united them on earth, and made their lives holy. mary lamb died on the oth may, ; and the brother and sister now lie near each other (in the same grave) in the churchyard of edmonton, in middlesex. [ ] this, with a small variation, is given in mr. thomas moore's autobiography. i suppose i must have repeated it to him, and that he forgot the precise words. [ ] i fear that i have not, in all the foregoing instances, set forth with sufficient precision the grounds or premises upon which the jests were founded. there were, moreover, various other sayings of lamb, which do not come into the above catalogue; as where--when enjoying a pipe with dr. parr, that divine inquired how he came to acquire the love of smoking so much, he replied, "i toiled after it as some people do after virtue."-- when godwin was expatiating on the benefit of unlimited freedom of thought, especially in matters of religion, lamb, who did not like this, interrupted him by humming the little child's song of "old father longlegs won't say his prayers," adding, violently, "_throw him down stairs!_"--he consoles mr. crabbe robinson, suffering under tedious rheumatism, by writing, "your doctor seems to keep you under the long cure."--to wordsworth, in order to explain that his friend a was in good health, he writes, "a is well; he is proof against weather, ingratitude, meat underdone, and every weapon of fate." the story of lamb replying to some one, who insisted very strenuously on some uninteresting circumstances being "a matter of fact," by saying that _he_ was "a matter of lie" man, is like leigh hunt, who, in opposing the frequent confessions of "i'm in love," asserted, in a series of verses, that he was "in hate."--charles hated noise, and fuss, and fine words, but never hated any person. once, when he had said, "i hate z," some one present remonstrated with him: "why, you have never seen him." "no," replied lamb, "certainly not; i never could hate any man that i have once seen."--being asked how he felt when amongst the lakes and mountains of cumberland, he replied that he was obliged to think of the ham and beef shop near saint martin's lane; this was in order to bring down his thoughts from their almost too painful elevation to the sober regions of every-day life. in the foregoing little history, i have set forth such facts as tend, in my opinion, to illustrate my friend's character. one anecdote i have omitted, and it should not be forgotten. lamb, one day, encountered a small urchin loaded with a too heavy package of grocery. it caused him to tremble and stop. charles inquired where he was going, took (although weak) the load upon his own shoulder, and managed to carry it to islington, the place of destination. finding that the purchaser of the grocery was a female, he went with the urchin before her, and expressed a hope that she would intercede with the poor boy's master, in order to prevent his being overweighted in future. "sir," said the dame, after the manner of tisiphone, frowning upon him, "i buy my sugar, and have nothing to do with the man's manner of sending it." lamb at once perceived the character of the purchaser, and taking off his hat, said, humbly, "then i hope, ma'am, you'll give me a drink of small beer." this was of course refused. he afterwards called upon the grocer, on the boy's behalf--with what effect i do not know. postscript. i have thus told, as far as my ability permits, the story of the life of charles lamb. i have not ventured to deduce any formidable moral from it. like lamb himself, i have great dislike to ostentatious precepts and impertinent lessons. facts themselves should disclose their own virtues. a man who is able to benefit by a lesson will, no doubt, discover it, under any husk or disguise, before it is stripped and laid bare--to the kernel. besides, too much teaching may disagree with the reader. it is apt to harden the heart, wearying the attention, and mortifying the self-love. such disturbances of the system interfere with the digestion of a truth. even gulliver is sometimes too manifestly didactic. his adventures, simply told, would have emitted spontaneously a luminous atmosphere, and need not have been distilled into brilliant or pungent drops. no history is barren of good. even from the foregoing narrative some benefit may be gleaned, some sympathy may be excited, which naturally forms itself into a lesson. let us look at it cursorily. charles lamb was born almost in penury, and he was taught by charity. even when a boy he was forced to labor for his bread. in the first opening of manhood a terrible calamity fell upon him, in magnitude fit to form the mystery or centre of an antique drama. he had to dwell, all his days, with a person incurably mad. from poverty he passed at once to unpleasant toil and perpetual fear. these were the sole changes in his fortune. yet he gained friends, respect, a position, and great sympathy from all; showing what one poor man of genius, under grievous misfortune, may do, if he be courageous and faithful to the end. charles lamb never preached nor prescribed, but let his own actions tell their tale and produce their natural effects; neither did he deal out little apothegms or scraps of wisdom, derived from other minds. but he succeeded; and in every success there must be a mainstay of right or truth to support it; otherwise it will eventually fail. it is true that in his essays and numerous letters many of his sincere thoughts and opinions are written down. these, however, are written down simply, and just as they occur, without any special design. some persons exhibit only their ingenuity, or learning. it is not every one who is able, like the licentiate pedro garcias, to deposit his wealth of soul by the road-side. like all persons of great intellectual sensibility, lamb responded to all impressions. to sympathize with tragedy or comedy only, argues a limited capacity. the mind thus constructed is partially lame or torpid. one hemisphere has never been reached. it should not be forgotten that lamb possessed one great advantage. he lived and died amongst _his equals_. this was what enabled him to exercise his natural strength, as neither a parasite nor a patron can. it is marvellous how freedom of thought operates; what strength it gives to the system; with what lightness and freshness it endues the spirit. then, he was made stronger by trouble; made wiser by grief. i have not attempted to fix the precise spot in which charles lamb is to shine hereafter in the firmament of letters. i am not of sufficient magnitude to determine his astral elevation--where he is to dwell--between the sun shakespeare and the twinkling zoilus. that must be left to time. even the fixed stars at first waver and coruscate, and require long seasons for their consummation and final settlement. whenever he differs with us in opinion (as he does occasionally), let us not hastily pronounce him to be wrong. it is wise, as well as modest, not to show too much eagerness to adjust the ideas of all other thinkers to the (sometimes low) level of our own. appendix. in the following pages will be found the opinions of several distinguished authors on the subject of charles lamb's genius and character, and also a contribution (by himself) to the _athenaeum_, made in january, . all the writers were contemporary with lamb, and were personally intimate with him. the extracts may be accepted as corroborative, in some degree, of the opinions set forth in the foregoing memoir. hazlitt. [_from hazlitt's "spirit of the age." title, "elia."_] mr. lamb has the very soul of an antiquarian, as this implies a reflecting humanity. the film of the past hovers forever before him. he is shy, sensitive, the reverse of everything coarse, vulgar, obtrusive, and commonplace. his spirit clothes itself in the garb of elder time; homelier, but more durable. he is borne along with no pompous paradoxes, shines in no glittering tinsel of a fashionable phraseology, is neither fop nor sophist. he has none of the turbulence or froth of new-fangled opinions. his style runs pure and clear, though it may often take an underground course, or be conveyed through old-fashioned conduits.... there is a fine tone of chiaro-scuro, a moral perspective in his writings. he delights to dwell on that which is fresh to the eye of memory; he yearns after and covets what soothes the frailty of human nature. that touches him most nearly which is withdrawn to a certain distance, which verges on the borders of oblivion; that piques and provokes his fancy most which is hid from a superficial glance. that which, though gone by, is still remembered, is in his view more genuine, and has given more signs that it will live, than a thing of yesterday, which may be forgotten to- morrow. death has in this sense the spirit of life in it; and the shadowy has to our author something substantial. mr. lamb has a distaste to new faces, to new books, to new buildings, to new customs. he is shy of all imposing appearances, of all assumptions of self-importance, of all adventitious ornaments, of all mechanical advantages, even to a nervous excess. it is not merely that he does not rely upon, or ordinarily avail himself of them; he holds them in abhorrence: he utterly abjures and discards them. he disdains all the vulgar artifices of authorship, all the cant of criticism and helps of notoriety. his affections revert to and settle on the past; but then even this must have something personal and local in it to interest him deeply and thoroughly. he pitches his tent in the suburbs of existing manners, and brings down his account of character to the few straggling remains of the last generation. no one makes the tour of our southern metropolis, or describes the manners of the last age, so well as mr. lamb,--with so fine, and yet so formal an air. how admirably he has sketched the former inmates of the south sea house; what "fine fretwork he makes of their double and single entries!" with what a firm yet subtle pencil he has embodied mrs. battle's opinions on whist! with what well-disguised humor he introduces us to his relations, and how freely he serves up his friends! the streets of london are his fairy-land, teeming with wonder, with life and interest to his retrospective glance, as it did to the eager eye of childhood: he has contrived to weave its tritest traditions into a bright and endless romance. [_from hazlitt's "table talk,"_ vol. ii.] mr. lamb is the only imitator of old english style i can read with pleasure; and he is so thoroughly imbued with the spirit of his authors, that the idea of imitation is almost done away. there is an inward unction, a marrowy vein both in the thought and feeling, an intuition, deep and lively, of his subject, that carries off any quaintness or awkwardness arising from an antiquated style and dress. the matter is completely his own, though the manner is assumed. perhaps his ideas are altogether so marked and individual, as to require their point and pungency to be neutralized by the affectation of a singular but traditional form of conveyance. tricked out in the prevailing costume, they would probably seem more startling and out of the way. the old english authors, burton, fuller, coryate, sir thomas browne, are a kind of mediators between us and the more eccentric and whimsical modern, reconciling us to his peculiarities. i must confess that what i like best of his papers under the signature of elia (still i do not presume, amidst such excellence, to decide what is most excellent) is the account of mrs. battle's "opinions on whist," which is also the most free from obsolete allusions and turns of expression,-- "a well of native english undefiled." to those acquainted with his admired prototypes, these essays of the ingenious and highly gifted author have the same sort of charm and relish that erasmus's "colloquies," or a fine piece of modern latin, have to the classical scholar.--"_on familiar style_." [_hazlitt's "plain speaker,"_ vol. i. p. .] at lamb's we used to have lively skirmishes at their thursday evening parties. i doubt whether the small coal-man's musical parties could exceed them. o for the pen of john buncle to consecrate a _petit souvenir_ to their memory! there was lamb himself, the most delightful, the most provoking, the most witty and sensible of men. he always made the best pun and the best remark in the course of the evening. his serious conversation, like his serious writing, is his best. no one ever stammered out such fine, piquant, deep, eloquent things, in half a dozen sentences, as he does. his jests scald like tears, and he probes a question with a play upon words. what a keen, laughing, hair-brained vein of homefelt truth! what choice venom! how often did we cut into the haunch of letters! how we skimmed the cream of criticism! how we picked out the marrow of authors! need i go over the names? they were but the old, everlasting set --milton and shakespeare, pope and dryden, steele and addison, swift and gay, fielding, smollett, sterne, richardson, hogarth's prints, claude's landscapes, the cartoons at hampton court, and all those things that, having once been, must ever be. the scotch novels had not then been heard of: so we said nothing about them. in general we were hard upon the moderns. the author of the "rambler" was only tolerated in boswell's life of him; and it was as much as any one could do to edge in a word for junius. lamb could not bear _gil blas_: this was a fault. i remember the greatest triumph i ever had was in persuading him, after some years' difficulty, that fielding was better than smollett. on one occasion he was for making out a list of persons famous in history that one would wish to see again, at the head of whom were pontius pilate, sir thomas browne, and dr. faustus; but we black-balled most of his list! but with what a gusto would he describe his favorite authors, donne or sir philip sidney, and call their most crabbed passages _delicious_! he tried them on his palate, as epicures taste olives, and his observations had a smack in them, like a roughness on the tongue. with what discrimination he hinted a defect in what he admired most,--as in saying the display of the sumptuous banquet, in "paradise regained," was not in true keeping, as the simplest fare was all that was necessary to tempt the extremity of hunger; and stating that adam and eve in "paradise lost" were too much like married people. he has furnished many a text for coleridge to preach upon. there was no fuss or cant about him; nor were his sweets or sours ever diluted with one particle of affectation.--_"on the conversation of authors."_ [_from "autobiography of leigh hunt,"_ pp. - .] let me take this opportunity of recording my recollections in general of my friend lamb; of all the world's friend, particularly of his oldest friends, coleridge and southey; for i think he never modified or withheld any opinion (in private or bookwards) except in consideration of what he thought they might not like. charles lamb had a head worthy of aristotle, with as fine a heart as ever beat in human bosom, and limbs very fragile to sustain it. there was a caricature of him sold in the shops, which pretended to be a likeness. procter went into the shop in a passion, and asked the man what he meant by putting forth such a libel. the man apologized, and said that the artist meant no offence. there never was a true portrait of lamb. his features were strongly yet delicately cut; he had a fine eye as well as forehead; and no face carried in it greater marks of thought and feeling. it resembled that of bacon, with less worldly vigor and more sensibility. as his frame, so was his genius. it was as fit for thought as could be, and equally as unfit for action; and this rendered him melancholy, apprehensive, humorous, and willing to make the best of everything as it was, both from tenderness of heart and abhorrence of alteration. his understanding was too great to admit an absurdity; his frame was not strong enough to deliver it from a fear. his sensibility to strong contrasts was the foundation of his humor, which was that of a wit at once melancholy and willing to be pleased.... his puns were admirable, and often contained as deep things as the wisdom of some who have greater names; such a man, for instance, as nicole, the frenchman, who was a baby to him. lamb would have cracked a score of jokes at nicole, worth his whole book of sentences; pelted his head with pearls. nicole would not have understood him, but rochefou-cault would, and pascal too; and some of our old englishmen would have understood him still better. he would have been worthy of hearing shakespeare read one of his scenes to him, hot from the brain. commonplace found a great comforter in him, as long as it was good-natured; it was to the ill-natured or the dictatorial only that he was startling. willing to see society go on as it did, because he despaired of seeing it otherwise, but not at all agreeing in his interior with the common notions of crime and punishment, he "_dumfounded_" a long tirade against vice one evening, by taking the pipe out of his mouth, and asking the speaker, "whether he meant to say that a thief was not a good man?" to a person abusing voltaire, and indiscreetly opposing his character to that of jesus christ, he said admirably well (though he by no means overrated voltaire, nor wanted reverence in the other quarter), that "voltaire was a very good jesus christ _for the french_." he liked to see the church-goers continue to go to church, and wrote a tale in his sister's admirable little book (_mrs. leicester's school_) to encourage the rising generation to do so; but to a conscientious deist he had nothing to object; and if an atheist had found every other door shut against him, he would assuredly not have found his. i believe he would have had the world remain precisely as it was, provided it innovated no further; but this spirit in him was anything but a worldly one, or for his own interest. he hardly contemplated with patience the new buildings in the regent's park; and, privately speaking, he had a grudge against _official_ heaven-expounders, or clergymen. he would rather, however, have been with a crowd that he disliked, than felt himself alone. he said to me one day, with a face of great solemnity, "what must have been that man's feelings, who thought himself _the first deist?_" ... he knew how many false conclusions and pretensions are made by men who profess to be guided by facts only, as if facts could not be misconceived, or figments taken for them; and therefore, one day, when somebody was speaking of a person who valued himself on being a matter-of-fact man, "now," said he, "i value myself on being a matter-of-lie man." this did not hinder his being a man of the greatest veracity, in the ordinary sense of the word; but "truth," he said, "was precious, and not to be wasted on everybody." those who wish to have a genuine taste of him, and an insight into his modes of life, should read his essays on _hogarth_ and _king lear_, his _letters_, his article on the _london streets_, on _whist-playing_, which he loves, and on _saying grace before meat_, which he thinks a strange moment to select for being grateful. he said once to a brother whist-player, whose hand was more clever than clean, and who had enough in him to afford the joke, "m., if dirt were trumps, what hands you would hold!" * * * * * forster. [_from mr. john forsters contribution to the new monthly magazine,_ . _title, "charles lamb."_] charles lamb's first appearance in literature was by the side of samuel taylor coleridge. he came into his first battle, as he tells us (literature is a sort of warfare), under cover of that greater ajax. we should like to see this remarkable friendship (remarkable in all respects and in all its circumstances) between two of the most original geniuses in an age of no common genius, worthily recorded. it would outvalue, in the view of posterity, many centuries of literary quarrels. lamb never fairly recovered the death of coleridge. he thought of little else (his sister was but another portion of himself) until his own great spirit joined his friend's. he had a habit of venting his melancholy in a sort of mirth. he would, with nothing graver than a pun, "cleanse his bosom of the perilous stuff that weighed" upon it. in a jest, or a few light phrases, he would lay open the recesses of his heart. so in respect of the death of coleridge. some old friends of his saw him two or three weeks ago, and remarked the constant turning and reference of his mind. he interrupted himself and them almost every instant with some play of affected wonder or humorous melancholy on the words "_coleridge is dead_." nothing could divert him from that, for the thought of it never left him. about the same time, we had written to him to request a few lines for the literary album of a gentleman who entertained a fitting admiration of his genius. it was the last request we were to make, and the last kindness we were to receive. he wrote in mr. ----'s volume, and wrote of coleridge. this, we believe, was the last production of his pen. a strange and not unenviable chance, which saw him at the end of his literary pilgrimage, as he had been at the beginning,--in that immortal company. we are indebted, with the reader, to the kindness of our friend for permission to print the whole of what was written. it would be impertinence to offer a remark on it. once read, its noble and affectionate tenderness will be remembered forever. "when i heard of the death of coleridge, it was without grief. it seemed to me that he long had been on the confines of the next world,--that he had a hunger for eternity. i grieved then that i could not grieve. but since, i feel how great a part he was of me. his great and dear spirit haunts me. i cannot think a thought, i cannot make a criticism on men or books, without an ineffectual turning and reference to him. he was the proof and touchstone of all my cogitations. he was a grecian (or in the first form) at christ's hospital, where i was deputy grecian; and the same subordination and deference to him i have preserved through a life-long acquaintance. great in his writings, he was greatest in his conversation. in him was disproved that old maxim, that we should allow every one his share of talk. he would talk from morn to dewy eve, nor cease till far midnight; yet who ever would interrupt him,--who would obstruct that continuous flow of converse, fetched from helicon or zion? he had the tact of making the unintelligible seem plain. many who read the abstruser parts of his "friend" would complain that his works did not answer to his spoken wisdom. they were identical. but he had a tone in oral delivery, which seemed to convey sense to those who were otherwise imperfect recipients. he was my fifty years old friend without a dissension. never saw i his likeness, nor probably the world can see again. i seem to love the house he died at more passionately than when he lived. i love the faithful gilmans more than while they exercised their virtues towards him living. what was his mansion is consecrated to me a chapel. "chas. lamb. "edmonton, november , ." within five weeks of this date charles lamb died. a slight accident brought on an attack of erysipelas, which proved fatal; his system was not strong enough for resistance. it is some consolation to add, that, during his illness, which lasted four days, he suffered no pain, and that his faculties remained with him to the last. a few words spoken by him the day before he died showed with what quiet collectedness he was prepared to meet death. as an essayist, charles lamb will be remembered, in years to come, with rabelais and montaigne, with sir thomas browne, with steele, and with addison. he unites many of the finest characteristics of these several writers. he has wisdom and wit of the highest order, exquisite humor, a genuine and cordial vein of pleasantry, and the most heart-touching pathos. in the largest acceptation of the word he is a humanist. no one of the great family of authors past or present has shown in matters the most important or the most trivial so delicate and extreme a sense of all that is human. it is the prevalence of this characteristic in his writings which has subjected him to occasional charges of want of imagination. this, however, is but half-criticism; for the matter of reproach may in fact be said to be his triumph. it was with a deep relish of mr. lamb's faculty that a friend of his once said, "he makes the majesties of imagination seem familiar." it is precisely thus with his own imagination. it eludes the observation of the ordinary reader in the modesty of its truth, in its social and familiar air. his fancy as an essayist is distinguished by singular delicacy and tenderness; and even his conceits will generally be found to be, as those of his favorite fuller often are, steeped in human feeling and passion. the fondness he entertained for fuller, for the author of the "anatomy of melancholy," and for other writers of that class, was a pure matter of temperament. his thoughts were always his own. even when his words seem cast in the very mould of others, the perfect originality of his thinking is felt and acknowledged; we may add, in its superior wisdom, manliness, and unaffected sweetness. every sentence in those essays may be proved to be crammed full of thinking. the two volumes will be multiplied, we have no doubt, in the course of a few years, into as many hundreds; for they contain a stock of matter which must be ever suggestive to more active minds, and will surely revisit the world in new shapes--an everlasting succession and variety of ideas. the past to him was not mere dry antiquity; it involved a most extensive and touching association of feelings and thoughts, reminding him of what we have been and may be, and seeming to afford a surer ground for resting on than the things which are here to-day and may be gone to-morrow. we know of no inquisition more curious, no speculation more lofty, than may be found in the essays of charles lamb. we know no place where conventional absurdities receive so little quarter; where stale evasions are so plainly exposed; where the barriers between names and things are at times so completely flung down. and how, indeed, could it be otherwise? for it is truth that plays upon his writings like a genial and divine atmosphere. no need for them to prove what they would be at by any formal or logical analysis; no need for him to tell the world that this institution is wrong and that doctrine right; the world may gather from those writings their surest guide to judgment in these and all other cases--a general and honest appreciation of the humane and true. mr. lamb's personal appearance was remarkable. it quite realized the expectations of those who think that an author and a wit should have a distinct air, a separate costume, a particular cloth, something positive and singular about him. such unquestionably had mr. lamb. once he rejoiced in snuff-color, but latterly his costume was inveterately black--with gaiters which seemed longing for something more substantial to close in. his legs were remarkably slight; so indeed was his whole body, which was of short stature, but surmounted by a head of amazing fineness. his face was deeply marked and full of noble lines--traces of sensibility, imagination, suffering, and much thought. his wit was in his eye, luminous, quick, and restless. the smile that played about his mouth was ever cordial and good-humored; and the most cordial and delightful of its smiles were those with which he accompanied his affectionate talk with his sister, or his jokes against her. * * * * * talfourd. [_from talfourd's "memorials of c. lamb,"_ pp. - , - .] except to the few who were acquainted with the tragical occurrences of lamb's early 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 anything in human action and endurance more lovely than its self- devotion exhibits! it was not merely that he saw through the ensanguined cloud of misfortune which had fallen upon his family, the unstained 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 himself (as some uneasy martyrs do) by small instalments of long repining,--but that he 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 coleridge 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. nervous, tremulous, as he seemed--so light of frame that he looked only fit for the most placid fortune--when the dismal emergencies which checkered 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 enjoyment 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 seclusion, 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, after the prudent and classical taste of lord stowell, in "the elegant simplicity of the three per cents.") to secure comfort to miss lamb, when his pension should cease with him, even if the india company, his great employers, had not acted nobly by the memory of their inspired clerk--as they did--and gave her the annuity to which 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 which an improvident speculation in literature produces, and which the recklessness attendant on the empty vanity of self-exaggerated talent renders desperate and merciless--and to the importunities of such hopeless petitioners he gave too largely--though he used sometimes to express a painful sense that he was diminishing his own store without conferring any real benefit. "heaven," he used to say, "does not owe 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." * * * * * [_b. w. p. "athenaeum," january , _.] i was acquainted with mr. lamb for about seventeen or eighteen years. i saw him first (i _think_, for my recollection is here imperfect) at one of hazlitt's lectures, or at one of coleridge's dissertations on shakespeare, where the metaphysician sucked oranges and said a hundred wonderful things. they were all three extraordinary men. hazlitt had more of the speculative and philosophical faculty, and more observation (_circum_spection) than lamb; whilst coleridge was more subtle and ingenious than either. lamb's qualities were a sincere, generous, and tender nature, wit (at command), humor, fancy, and--if the creation of character be a test of imagination, as i apprehend it is--imagination also. some of his phantasms--the people of the south sea house, mrs. battle, the benchers of the middle temple, &c. (all of them ideal), might be grouped into comedies. his sketches are always (to quote his own eulogy on marvell) full of "a witty delicacy," and, if properly brought out and marshalled, would do honor to the stage. when i first became acquainted with mr. lamb, he lived, i think, in the temple; but i did not visit him then, and could scarcely, therefore, be said to _know_ him, until he took up his residence in russell street, covent garden. he had a first floor there, over a brazier's shop,--since converted into a bookseller's,--wherein he frequently entertained his friends. on certain evenings (thursdays) one might reckon upon encountering at his rooms from six to a dozen unaffected people, including two or three men of letters. a game at whist and a cold supper, followed by a cheerful glass (glasses!) and "good talk," were the standing dishes upon those occasions. if you came late, you encountered a perfume of the "great plant." the pipe, hid in smoke (the violet amongst its leaves),--a squadron of tumblers, fuming with various odors, and a score of quick intelligent glances, saluted you. there you might see godwin, hazlitt, leigh hunt, coleridge (though rarely), mr. robinson, serjeant talfourd, mr. ayrton, mr. alsager, mr. manning,--sometimes miss kelly, or liston,-- admiral burney, charles lloyd, mr. alsop, and various others; and if wordsworth was in town, you might stumble upon him also. our friend's brother, john lamb, was occasionally there; and his sister (his excellent sister) invariably presided. the room in which he lived was plainly and almost carelessly furnished. let us enter it for a moment. its ornaments, you see, are principally several long shelves of ancient books; (those are his "ragged veterans.") some of hogarth's prints, two after leonardo da vinci and titian, and a portrait of pope, enrich the walls. at the table sits an elderly lady (in spectacles) reading; whilst from an old-fashioned chair by the fire springs up a little spare man in black, with a countenance pregnant with expression, deep lines in his forehead, quick, luminous, restless eyes, and a smile as sweet as ever threw sunshine upon the human face. you see that you are welcome. he speaks: "well, boys, how are you? what's the news with you? what will you take?" you are comfortable in a moment. reader! it is charles lamb who is before you--the critic, the essayist, the poet, the wit, the large-minded _human_ being, whose apprehension could grasp, without effort, the loftiest subject, and descend in gentleness upon the humblest; who sympathized with all classes and conditions of men, as readily with the sufferings of the tattered beggar and the poor chimney- sweeper's boy as with the starry contemplations of hamlet "the dane," or the eagle-flighted madness of lear. the books that i have adverted to, as filling his shelves, were mainly english books--the poets, dramatists, divines, essayists, &c.,--ranging from the commencement of the elizabeth period down to the time of addison and steele. besides these, of the earliest writers, chaucer was there; and, amongst the moderns, wordsworth, coleridge, and a few others, whom he loved. he had more real knowledge of old english literature than any man whom i ever knew. he was not an antiquarian. he neither hunted after commas, nor scribbled notes which confounded his text. the _spirit_ of the author descended upon him; and he felt it! with burton and fuller, jeremy taylor and sir thomas browne, he was an intimate. the ancient poets--chiefly the dramatic poets--were his especial friends. he knew every point and turn of their wit, all the beauty of their characters; loving each for some one distinguishing particular, and despising none. for absolute contempt is a quality of youth and ignorance--a foppery which a wise man rejects, and _he_ rejected it accordingly. if he contemned anything, it was contempt itself. he saw that every one bore some sign or mark (god's gift) for which he ought to be valued by his fellows, and esteemed a man. he could pick out a merit from each author in his turn. he liked heywood for his simplicity and pathos; webster for his deep insight into the heart; ben jonson for his humor; marlow for his "mighty line;" fletcher for his wit and flowing sweetness; and shakespeare for his combination of wonders. he loved donne too, and quarles, and marvell, and sir philip sidney, and a long list besides. no one will love the old english writers again as _he_ did. others may have a leaning towards them--a respect--an admiration--a sort of _young_ man's love: but the true relishing is over; the close familiar friendship is dissolved. he who went back into dim antiquity, and sought them out, and proclaimed their worth to the world--abandoning the gaudy rhetoric of popular authors for their sake, is now translated into the shadowy regions of the friends he worshipped. he who was once separated from them by a hundred lustres, hath surmounted that great interval of time and space, and is now, in a manner, their contemporary! * * * * * the wit of mr. lamb was known to most persons conversant with existing literature. it was said that his friends bestowed more than due praise upon it. it is clear that his enemies did it injustice. such as it was, it was at all events _his own_. he did not "get up" his conversations, nor explore the hoards of other wits, nor rake up the ashes of former fires. right or wrong, he set to work unassisted; and by dint of his own strong capacity and fine apprehension, he struck out as many substantially new ideas as any man of his time. the quality of his humor was essentially different from that of other men. it was not simply a tissue of jests or conceits, broad, far-fetched, or elaborate; but it was a combination of humor with pathos--a sweet stream of thought, bubbling and sparkling with witty fancies; such as i do not remember to have elsewhere met with, except in shakespeare. there is occasionally a mingling of the serious and the comic in "don juan," and in other writers; but they differ, after all, materially from lamb in humor:--whether they are better or worse, is unimportant. his delicate and irritable genius, influenced by his early studies, and fettered by old associations, moved within a limited circle. yet this was not without its advantages; for, whilst it stopped him from many bold (and many idle) speculations and theories, it gave to his writings their peculiar charm, their individuality, their sincerity, their pure, gentle original character. wit, which is "impersonal," and, for that very reason perhaps, is nine times out of ten a mere heartless matter, in him assumed a new shape and texture. it was no longer simply malicious, but was colored by a hundred gentle feelings. it bore the rose as well as the thorn. his heart warmed the jests and conceits with which his brain was busy, and turned them into flowers. every one who knew mr. lamb, knew that his humor was not affected. it was a style--a habit; generated by reading and loving the ancient writers, but adopted in perfect sincerity, and used towards all persons and upon all occasions. he was the same in as in --when he died. a man cannot go on "affecting" for five and twenty years. he must be sometimes sincere. now, lamb was always the same. i never knew a man upon whom time wrought so little. laurel-crowned letters charles lamb it may well be that the "essays of elia" will be found to have kept their perfume, and the letters of charles lamb to retain their old sweet savor, when "sartor resartus" has about as many readers as bulwer's "artificial changeling," and nine tenths even of "don juan" lie darkening under the same deep dust that covers the rarely troubled pages of the "secchia rapita." a.c. swinburne no assemblage of letters, parallel or kindred to that in the hands of the reader, if we consider its width of range, the fruitful period over which it stretches, and its typical character, has ever been produced. w.c. hazlitt on lamb's letters. the best letters of charles lamb edited with an introduction by edward gilpin johnson a.d. . contents introduction letter i. to samuel taylor coleridge ii. to coleridge iii. to coleridge iv. to coleridge v. to coleridge vi. to coleridge vii. to coleridge viii. to coleridge ix. to coleridge x. to coleridge xi. to coleridge xii. to coleridge xiii. to coleridge xiv. to coleridge xv. to robert southey xvi. to southey xvii. to southey xviii. to southey xix. to thomas manning xx. to coleridge xxi. to manning xxii. to coleridge xxiii. to manning xxiv. to manning xxv. to coleridge xxvi. to manning xxvii. to coleridge xxviii. to coleridge xxix. to manning xxx. to manning xxxi. to manning xxxii. to manning xxxiii. to coleridge xxxiv. to wordsworth xxxv. to wordsworth xxxvi. to manning xxxvii. to manning xxxviii. to manning xxxix. to coleridge xl. to manning xli. to manning xlii. to manning xliii. to william godwin xliv. to manning xlv. to miss wordsworth xlvi. to manning xlvii. to wordsworth xlviii. to manning xlix. to wordsworth l. to manning li. to miss wordsworth lii. to wordsworth liii. to wordsworth liv. to wordsworth lv. to wordsworth lvi. to southey lvii. to miss hutchinson lviii. to manning lix. to manning lx. to wordsworth lxi. to wordsworth lxii. to h. dodwell lxiii. to mrs. wordsworth lxiv. to wordsworth lxv. to manning lxvi. to miss wordsworth lxvii. to coleridge lxviii. to wordsworth lxix. to john clarke lxx. to mr. barren field lxxi. to walter wilson lxxii. to bernard barton lxxiii. to miss wordsworth lxxiv. to mr. and mrs. bruton lxxv. to bernard barton lxxvi. to miss hutchinson lxxvii. to bernard barton lxxviii. to mrs. hazlitt lxxix. to bernard barton lxxx. to bernard barton lxxxi. to bernard barton lxxxii. to bernard barton lxxxiii. to bernard barton lxxxiv. to bernard barton lxxxv. to bernard barton lxxxvi. to wordsworth lxxxvii. to bernard barton lxxxviii. to bernard barton lxxxix. to bernard barton xc. to southey xci. to bernard barton xcii. to j.b. dibdin xciii. to henry crabb robinson xciv. to peter george patmore xcv. to bernard barton xcvi. to thomas hood xcvii. to p.g. patmore xcviii. to bernard barton xcix. to procter c. to bernard barton ci. to mr. gilman cii. to wordsworth ciii. to mrs. hazlitt civ. to george dyer cv. to dyer cvi. to mr. moxon cvii. to mr. moxon introduction. no writer, perhaps, since the days of dr. johnson has been oftener brought before us in biographies, essays, letters, etc., than charles lamb. his stammering speech, his gaiter-clad legs,--"almost immaterial legs," hood called them,--his frail wisp of a body, topped by a head "worthy of aristotle," his love of punning, of the indian weed, and, alas! of the kindly production of the juniper-berry (he was not, he owned, "constellated under aquarius"), his antiquarianism of taste, and relish of the crotchets and whimsies of authorship, are as familiar to us almost as they were to the group he gathered round him wednesdays at no. , inner temple lane, where "a clear fire, a clean hearth, and the rigor of the game" awaited them. talfourd has unctuously celebrated lamb's "wednesday nights." he has kindly left ajar a door through which posterity peeps in upon the company,--hazlitt, leigh hunt, "barry cornwall," godwin, martin burney, crabb robinson (a ubiquitous shade, dimly suggestive of that figment, "mrs. harris"), charles kemble, fanny kelly ("barbara s."), on red-letter occasions coleridge and wordsworth,--and sees them discharging the severer offices of the whist-table ("cards were cards" then), and, later, unbending their minds over poetry, criticism, and metaphysics. elia was no barmecide host, and the serjeant dwells not without regret upon the solider business of the evening,--"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 supplied," hospitably presided over by "the most quiet, sensible, and kind of women," mary lamb. the _terati_ talfourd's day were clearly hardier of digestion than their descendants are. roast lamb, boiled beef, "heaps of smoking roasted potatoes," pots of porter,--a noontide meal for a hodman,--and the hour midnight! one is reminded, _à propos_ of miss lamb's robust viands, that elia somewhere confesses to "an occasional nightmare;" "but i do not," he adds, "keep a whole stud of them." to go deeper into this matter, to speculate upon the possible germs, the first vague intimations to the mind of coleridge of the weird spectra of "the ancient mariner," the phantasmagoria of "kubla khan," would be, perhaps, over-refining. "barry cornwall," too, lamb tells us, "had his tritons and his nereids gambolling before him in nocturnal visions." no wonder! it is not intended here to re-thresh the straw left by talfourd, fitzgerald, canon ainger, and others, in the hope of discovering something new about charles lamb. in this quarter, at least, the wind shall be tempered to the reader,--shorn as he is by these pages of a charming letter or two. so far as fresh facts are concerned, the theme may fairly be considered exhausted. numberless writers, too, have rung the changes upon "poor charles lamb," "dear charles lamb," "gentle charles lamb," and the rest,--the final epithet, by the way being one that elia, living, specially resented: "for god's sake," he wrote to coleridge. "don't make me ridiculous any more by terming me gentle-hearted in print, or do it in better verses. it did well enough five years ago, when i came to see you, and was moral coxcomb enough at the time you wrote the lines to feed upon such epithets; but besides that the meaning of 'gentle' is equivocal at best, and almost always means poor-spirited, the very quality of gentleness is abhorrent to such vile trumpetings. my sentiment is long since vanished. i hope my _virtues_ have done _sucking_. i can scarce think but you meant it in joke. i hope you did, for i should be ashamed to believe that you could think to gratify me by such praise, fit only to be a cordial to some green-sick sonneteer." the indulgent pity conventionally bestowed upon charles lamb--one of the most manly, self-reliant of characters, to say nothing of his genius--is absurdly' misplaced. still farther be it from us to blunt the edge of appetite by sapiently essaying to "analyze" and account for lamb's special zest and flavor, as though his writings, or any others worth the reading, were put together upon principles of clockwork. we are perhaps over-fond of these arid pastimes nowadays. it is not the "sweet musk-roses," the "apricocks and dewberries" of literature that please us best; like bottom the weaver, we prefer the "bottle of hay." what a mockery of right enjoyment our endless prying and sifting, our hunting of riddles in metaphors, innuendoes in tropes, ciphers in shakspeare! literature exhausted, we may turn to art, and resolve, say, the sistine madonna (i deprecate the manes of the "divine painter") into some ingenious and recondite rebus. for such critical chopped-hay--sweeter to the modern taste than honey of hybla--charles lamb had little relish. "i am, sir," he once boasted to an analytical, unimaginative proser who had insisted upon _explaining_ some quaint passage in marvell or wither, "i am, sir, a matter-of-lie man." it was his best warrant to sit at the muses' banquet. charles lamb was blessed with an intellectual palate as fine as keats's, and could enjoy the savor of a book (or of that dainty, "in the whole _mundus edibilis_ the most delicate," roast pig, for that matter) without pragmatically asking, as the king did of the apple in the dumpling, "how the devil it got there." his value as a critic is grounded in this capacity of _naïve_ enjoyment (not of pig, but of literature), of discerning beauty and making _us_ discern it,--thus adding to the known treasures and pleasures of mankind. suggestions not unprofitable for these later days lurk in these traits of elia the student and critic. how worthy the imitation, for instance, of those disciples who band together to treat a fine poem (of browning, say, or shelley) as they might a chapter in the revelation,--speculating sagely upon the import of the seven seals and the horns of the great beast, instead of enjoying the obvious beauties of their author. to the schoolmaster--whose motto would seem too often to be the counsel of the irate old lady in dickens, "give him a meal of chaff!"--charles lamb's critical methods are rich in suggestion. how many ingenuous boys, lads in the very flush and hey-day of appreciativeness of the epic virtues, have been parsed, declined, and conjugated into an utter detestation of the melodious names of homer and virgil! better far for such victims had they, instead of aspiring to the vanities of a "classical education," sat, like keats, unlearnedly at the feet of quaint chapman, or dryden, or even of mr. pope. perhaps, by way of preparative to the reading of charles lamb's letters, it will be well to run over once more the leading facts of his life. first let us glance at his outward appearance. fortunately there are a number of capital pieces of verbal portraiture of elia. referring to the year , "barry cornwall" wrote: "persons who had been in the habit of traversing covent garden at that time of night, by extending their walk a few yards into russell street have noticed a small, spare man clothed in black, who went out every morning, and returned every afternoon as the hands of the clock moved toward certain hours. you could not mistake him. he was somewhat stiff in his manner, and almost clerical in dress, which indicated much wear. he had a long, melancholy face, with keen, penetrating eyes; and he walked with a short, resolute step citywards. he looked no one in the face for more than a moment, yet contrived to see everything as he went on. no one who ever studied the human features could pass him by without recollecting his countenance; it was full of sensibility, and it came upon you like new thought, which you could not help dwelling upon afterwards: it gave rise to meditation, and did you good. this small, half-clerical man was--charles lamb." his countenance is thus described by thomas hood: "his was no common face, none of those willow-pattern ones which nature turns out by thousands at her potteries, but more like a chance specimen of the chinese ware,--one to the set; unique, antique, quaint, you might have sworn to it piecemeal,--a separate affidavit to each feature." mrs. charles mathews, wife of the comedian, who met lamb at a dinner, gives an amusing account of him:-- "mr. lamb's first appearance was not prepossessing. his figure was small and mean, and no man was certainly ever less beholden to his tailor. his 'bran' new suit of black cloth (in which he affected several times during the day to take great pride, and to cherish as a novelty that he had looked for and wanted) was drolly contrasted with his very rusty silk stockings, shown from his knees, and his much too large, thick shoes, without polish. his shirt rejoiced in a wide, ill-plaited frill, and his very small, tight, white neckcloth was hemmed to a fine point at the ends that formed part of a little bow. his hair was black and sleek, but not formal, and his face the gravest i ever saw, but indicating great intellect, and resembling very much the portraits of charles i." from this sprightly and not too flattering sketch we may turn to serjeant talfourd's tender and charming portrait,--slightly idealized, no doubt; for the man of the coif held a brief for his friend, and was a poet besides:-- "methinks i see him before me now as he appeared then, and as he continued without any perceptible alteration to me, during the twenty years of intimacy which followed, and were closed by his death. a light frame, so fragile that it seemed as if a breath would overthrow it, clad in clerk-like black, was surmounted by a head of form and expression the most noble and sweet. his black hair curled crisply about an expanded forehead; his eyes, softly brown, twinkled with varying expression, though the prevalent expression was sad; and the nose, slightly curved, and delicately carved at the nostril, with the lower outline of the face delicately oval, completed a head which was finely placed upon the shoulders, and gave importance and even dignity to a diminutive and shadowy stem. who shall describe his countenance, catch its quivering sweetness, and fix it forever in words? there are none, alas! to answer the vain desire of friendship. deep thought, striving with humor; the lines of suffering wreathed into cordial mirth, and a smile of painful sweetness, present an image to the mind it can as little describe as lose. his personal appearance and manner are not unjustly characterized by what he himself says in one of his letters to manning, [ ] 'a compound of the jew, the gentleman, and the angel.'" the writings of charles lamb abound in passages of autobiography. "i was born," he tells us in that delightful sketch, "the old benchers of the inner temple," "and passed the first seven years of my life in the temple. its church, its halls, its gardens, its fountain, its river, i had almost said,--for in those young years what was this king of rivers to me but a stream that watered our pleasant places?--these are of my oldest recollections." his father, john lamb, the "lovel" of the essay cited, had come up a little boy from lincolnshire to enter the service of samuel salt,--one of those "old benchers" upon whom the pen of elia has shed immortality, a stanch friend and patron to the lambs, the kind proprietor of that "spacious closet of good old english reading" upon whose "fair and wholesome pasturage" charles and his sister, as children, "browsed at will." john lamb had married elizabeth field, whose mother was for fifty years housekeeper at the country-seat of the plumers, blakesware, in hertfordshire, the "blakesmoor" of the essays, frequent scene of lamb's childish holiday sports,--a spacious mansion, with its park and terraces and "firry wilderness, the haunt of the squirrel and day-long murmuring wood-pigeon;" an eden it must have seemed to the london-bred child, in whose fancy the dusty trees and sparrows and smoke-grimed fountain of temple court had been a pastoral. within the cincture of its excluding garden-walls, wrote elia in later years, "i could have exclaimed with that garden-loving poet, [ ]-- "'bind me, ye woodbines, in your twines; curl me about, ye gadding vines; and oh, so close your circles lace that i may never leave this place: but lest your fetters prove too weak, ere i your silken bondage break, do you, o brambles, chain me too, and, courteous briers, nail me through.'" at blakesware, too, was the room whence the spirit of sarah battle--that "gentlewoman born"--winged its flight to a region where revokes and "luke-warm gamesters" are unknown. to john and elizabeth lamb were born seven children, only three of whom, john, mary, and charles, survived their infancy. of the survivors, charles was the youngest, john being twelve and mary ten years his senior,--a fact to be weighed in estimating the heroism of lamb's later life. at the age of seven, charles lamb, "son of john lamb, scrivener, and elizabeth, his wife," was entered at the school of christ's hospital,--"the antique foundation of that godly and royal child king edward vi." of his life at this institution he has left us abundant and charming memorials in the essays, "recollections of christ's hospital," and "christ's hospital five-and-thirty years ago,"--the latter sketch corrective of the rather optimistic impressions of the former. with his schoolfellows charles seems to have been, despite his timid and retiring disposition (he said of himself, "while the others were all fire and play, he stole along with all the self-concentration of a young monk"), a decided favorite. "lamb," wrote c. v. le grice, a schoolmate often mentioned in essay and letter, "was an amiable, gentle boy, very sensible and keenly observing, indulged by his schoolfellows and by his master on account of his infirmity of speech.... i never heard his name mentioned without the addition of charles, although, as there was no other boy of the name of lamb, the addition was unnecessary; but there was an implied kindness in it, and it was a proof that his gentle manners excited that kindness." for us the most important fact of the christ's hospital school-days is the commencement of lamb's life-long friendship with samuel taylor coleridge, two years his senior, and the object of his fervent hero-worship. most of us, perhaps, can find the true source of whatever of notable good or evil we have effected in life in the moulding influence of one of these early friendships or admirations. it is the boy's hero, the one he loves and reverences among his schoolfellows,-- not his taskmaster,--that is his true teacher, the setter of the broader standards by which he is to abide through life. happy the man the feet of whose early idols have not been of clay. it was under the quickening influence of the eloquent, precocious genius of the "inspired charity boy" that charles lamb's ideals and ambitions shaped themselves out of the haze of a child's conceptions. coleridge at sixteen was already a poet, his ear attuned to the subtlest melody of verse, and his hand rivalling, in preluding fragments, the efforts of his maturer years; he was already a philosopher, rapt in utopian, schemes and mantling hopes as enchanting--and as chimerical--as the pleasure-domes and caves of ice decreed by kubla khan; and the younger lad became his ardent disciple. lamb quitted christ's hospital, prematurely, in november, , and the companionship of the two friends was for a time interrupted. to part with coleridge, to exchange the ease and congenial scholastic atmosphere of the hospital for the _res angusta domi_, for the intellectual starvation of a life of counting-house drudgery, must have been a bitter trial for him. but the shadow of poverty was upon the little household in the temple; on the horizon of the future the blackening clouds of anxieties still graver were gathering; and the youngest child was called home to share the common burden. charles lamb was first employed in the south sea house, where his brother john [ ]--a cheerful optimist, a _dilettante_ in art, genial, prosperous, thoroughly selfish, in so far as the family fortunes were concerned an outsider--already held a lucrative post. it was not long before charles obtained promotion in the form of a clerkship with the east india company,--one of the last kind services of samuel salt, who died in the same year, ,--and with the east india company he remained for the rest of his working life. upon the death of their generous patron the lambs removed from the temple and took lodgings in little queen street, holborn; and for charles the battle of life may be said to have fairly begun. his work as a junior clerk absorbed, of course, the greater part of his day and of his year. yet there were breathing-spaces: there were the long evenings with the poets; with marlowe, drayton, drummond of hawthornden, and cowley,--"the sweetest names, which carry a perfume in the mention;" there were the visits to the play, the yearly vacation jaunts to sunny hertfordshire. the intercourse with coleridge, too, was now occasionally renewed. the latter had gone up to cambridge early in , there to remain--except the period of his six months' dragooning--for the nest four years. during his visits to london it was the habit of the two schoolfellows to meet at a tavern near smithfield, the "salutation and cat" to discuss the topics dear to both: and it was about this time that lamb's sonnet to mrs siddons, his first appearance in print, was published in the "morning chronicle." the year was a terribly eventful one for the lambs. there was a taint of insanity in the family on the father's side, and on may , , we find charles writing to coleridge these sad words,--doubly sad for the ring of mockery in them:-- "my life has been somewhat diversified of late. the six weeks that finished last year and began this, your very humble servant spent very agreeably in a madhouse at hoxton. i am got somewhat rational now and don't bite any one. but mad i was!" [ ] charles, thanks to the resolution with which he combated the tendency, and to the steadying influence of his work at the desk,--despite his occasional murmurs, his best friend and sheet-anchor in life,--never again succumbed to the family malady; but from that moment, over his small household, madness--like death in milton's vision--continually "shook its dart," and at best only "delayed to strike." [ ] it was in the september of that the calamity befell which has tinged the story of charles and mary lamb with the sombrest hues of the greek tragedy. the family were still in the holborn lodgings,--the mother an invalid, the father sinking into a second childhood. mary, in addition to the burden of ministering to her parents, was working for their support with her needle. at this point it will be well to insert a prefatory word or two as to the character of mary lamb; and here the witnesses are in accord. there is no jarring of opinion, as in her brother's case; for charles lamb has been sorely misjudged,--often, it must be admitted, with ground of reason; sometimes by persons who might and should have looked deeper. in a notable instance, the heroism of his life has been meanly overlooked by one who preached to mankind with the eloquence of the prophets the prime need and virtue of recognizing the hero. if self-abnegation lies at the root of true heroism, charles lamb--that "sorry phenomenon" with an "insuperable proclivity to gin" [ ]--was a greater hero than was covered by the shield of achilles. the character of mary lamb is quickly summed up. she was one of the most womanly of women. "in all its essential sweetness," says talfourd, "her character was like her brother's; while, by a temper more placid, a spirit of enjoyment more serene, she was enabled to guide, to counsel, to cheer him, and to protect him on the verge of the mysterious calamity, from the depths of which she rose so often unruffled to his side. to a friend in any difficulty she was the most comfortable of advisers, the wisest of consolers." hazlitt said that "he never met with a woman who could reason, and had met with only one thoroughly reasonable,--mary lamb." the writings of elia are strewn, as we know, with the tenderest tributes to her worth. "i wish," he says, "that i could throw into a heap the remainder of our joint existences, that we might share them in equal division." the psychology of madness is a most subtle inquiry. how slight the mysterious touch that throws the smooth-running human mechanism into a chaos of jarring elements, that transforms, in the turn of an eyelash, the mild humanity of the gentlest of beings into the unreasoning ferocity of the tiger. the london "times" of september , , contained the following paragraph:-- "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 preceding 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 menacing manner pursued a little girl, her apprentice, round the room. on the calls of her infirm mother to forbear, she renounced her first object, and with loud shrieks approached her parent. the child, by her cries, quickly brought up the landlord of the house, but too late. [ ] the dreadful scene presented 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 increased on the wednesday evening that her brother, early the next morning, went to dr. pitcairn; but that gentleman was not at home. "the jury of course brought in their verdict,--_lunacy_." i need not supply the omitted names of the actors in this harrowing scene. mary lamb was at once placed in the asylum at hoxton, and the victim of her frenzy was laid to rest in the churchyard of st. andrew's, holborn. it became necessary for charles and his father to make an immediate change of residence, and they took lodgings at pentonville. there is a pregnant sentence in one of lamb's letters that flashes with the vividness of lightning into the darkest recesses of those early troubles and embarrassments. "we are," he wrote to coleridge, "_in a manner marked_." charles lamb after some weeks obtained the release of his sister from the hoxton asylum by formally undertaking her future guardianship,--a charge which was borne, until death released the compact, with a steadfastness, a cheerful renunciation of what men regard as the crowning blessings of manhood, [ ] that has shed a halo more radiant even than that of his genius about the figure--it was "small and mean," said sprightly mrs. mathews--of the india house clerk. as already stated, the mania that had once attacked charles never returned; but from the side of mary lamb this grimmest of spectres never departed. "mary a is again _from home_;" "mary is _fallen ill_ again:" how often do such tear-fraught phrases--tenderly veiled, lest! some chance might bring them to the eye of the blameless sufferer--recur in the letters! brother and sister were ever on the watch for the symptoms premonitory of the return of this "their sorrow's crown of sorrows." upon their little holiday excursions, says talfourd, a strait-waistcoat, carefully packed by miss lamb herself, was their constant companion. charles lloyd relates that he once met them slowly pacing together a little footpath in hoxton fields, both weeping bitterly, and found on joining them that they were taking their solemn way to the old asylum. thus, upon this guiltless pair were visited the sins of their fathers. with the tragical events just narrated, the storm of calamity seemed to have spent its force, and there were thenceforth plenty of days of calm and of sunshine for charles lamb. the stress of poverty was lightened and finally removed by successive increases of salary at the india house; the introductions of coleridge and his own growing repute in the world of letters gathered about him a circle of friends--southey, wordsworth, hazlitt, manning, barton, and the rest--more congenial, and certainly more profitable, than the vagrant _intimados_, "to the world's eye a ragged regiment," who had wasted his substance and his leisure in the early temple days. lamb's earliest avowed appearance as an author was in coleridge's first volume of poems, published by cottle, of bristol, in . "the effusions signed c.l.," says coleridge in the preface, "were written by mr. charles lamb, of the india house. independently of the signature, their superior merit would have sufficiently distinguished them." the "effusions" were four sonnets, two of them--the most noteworthy-- touching upon the one love-romance of lamb's life, [ ]--his early attachment to the "fair-haired" hertfordshire girl, the "anna" of the sonnets, the "alice w---n" of the essays. we remember that ella in describing the gallery of old family portraits, in the essay, "blakesmoor in h---shire," dwells upon "that beauty with the cool, blue, pastoral drapery, and a lamb, that hung next the great bay window, with the bright yellow hertfordshire hair, _so like my alice_." in cottle issued a second edition of coleridge's poems, this time with eleven additional pieces by lamb,--making fifteen of his in all,--and containing verses by their friend charles lloyd. "it is unlikely," observes canon ainger, "that this little venture brought any profit to its authors, or that a subsequent volume of blank verse by lamb and lloyd in the following year proved more remunerative." in lamb, anxious for his sister's sake to add to his slender income, composed his "miniature romance," as talfourd calls it, "rosamund gray;" and this little volume, which has not yet lost its charm, proved a moderate success. shelley, writing from italy to leigh hunt in , said of it: "what a lovely thing is his 'rosamund gray'! how much knowledge of the sweetest and deepest part of our nature in it! when i think of such a mind as lamb's, when i see how unnoticed remain things of such exquisite and complete perfection, what should i hope for myself if i had not higher objects in view than fame?" it is rather unpleasant, in view of this generous--if overstrained-- tribute, to find the object of it referring later to the works of his encomiast as "thin sown with profit or delight." [ ] in lamb published in a small duodecimo his blank-verse tragedy, "john woodvil,"--it had previously been declined by john kemble as unsuited to the stage,--and in was produced at the drury lane theatre his farce "mr. h.," the summary failure of which is chronicled with much humor in the letters. [ ] the "tales from shakspeare," by charles and mary lamb, were published by godwin in , and a second edition was called for in the following year. lamb was now getting on surer--and more remunerative--ground; and in he prepared for the firm of longmans his masterly "specimens of the english dramatic poets contemporary with shakspeare." concerning this work he wrote to manning:-- "specimens are becoming fashionable. we have specimens of ancient english poets, specimens of modern english poets, specimens of ancient english prose writers, without end. they used to be called 'beauties.' you have seen beauties of shakspeare? so have many people that never saw any beauties _in_ shakspeare," from charles lamb's "specimens" dates, as we know, the revival of the study of the old english dramatists other than shakespeare. he was the first to call attention to the neglected beauties of those great elizabethans, webster, marlowe, ford, dekker, massinger,--no longer accounted mere "mushrooms that sprang up in a ring under the great oak of arden." [ ] the opportunity that was to call forth lamb's special faculty in authorship came late in life. in january, , baldwin, cradock, and joy, the publishers, brought out the first number of a new monthly journal under the name of an earlier and extinct periodical, the "london magazine," and in the august number appeared an article, "recollections of the south sea house." over the signature _elia_. [ ] with this delightful sketch the essayist elia may be said to have been born. in none of lamb's previous writings had there been, more than a hint of that unique vein,--wise, playful, tender, fantastic, "everything by starts, and nothing long," exhibited with a felicity of phrase certainly unexcelled in english prose literature,--that we associate with his name. the careful reader of the letters cannot fail to note that it is _there_ that lamb's peculiar quality in authorship is first manifest. there is a letter to southey, written as early as , that has the true elia ring. [ ] with the "london magazine," which was discontinued in . elia was born, and with it he may be said to have died,--although some of his later contributions to the "new monthly" [ ] and to the "englishman's magazine" were included in the "last essays of elia," collected and published in . the first series of lamb's essays under the title of elia had been published in a single volume by taylor and hessey, of the "london magazine," in . the story of lamb's working life--latterly an uneventful one, broken chiefly by changes of abode and by the yearly holiday jaunts, "migrations from the blue bed to the brown"--from , when the correspondence with coleridge begins, is told in the letters. for thirty-three years he served the east india company, and he served it faithfully and steadily. there is, indeed, a tradition that having been reproved on one occasion for coming to the office late in the morning, he pleaded that he always left it "so very early in the evening." poets, we know, often "heard the chimes at midnight" in elia's day, and the plea has certainly a most lamb-like ring. that the company's directors, however, were more than content with the service of their literate clerk, the sequel shows. it is manifest in certain letters, written toward the close of and in the beginning of , that lamb's confinement was at last telling upon him, and that he was thinking of a release from his bondage to the "desk's dead wood." in february, , he wrote to barton,-- "your gentleman brother sets my mouth watering after liberty. oh that i were kicked out of leadenhall with every mark of indignity, and a competence in my fob! the birds of the air would not be so free as i should. how i would prance and curvet it, and pick up cowslips, and ramble about purposeless as an idiot!" later in march we learn that he had signified to the directors his willingness to resign, "i am sick of hope deferred. the grand wheel is in agitation that is to turn up my fortune; but round it rolls, and will turn up nothing, i have a glimpse of freedom, of becoming a gentleman at large, but i am put off from day to day. i have offered my resignation, and it is neither accepted nor rejected. eight weeks am i kept in this fearful suspense. guess what an absorbing state i feel it. i am not conscious of the existence of friends, present or absent. the east india directors alone can be that thing to me. i have just learned that nothing will be decided this week. why the next? why any week?" but the "grand wheel" was really turning, to some purpose, and a few days later, april , , he joyfully wrote to barton,-- "my spirits are so tumultuary with the novelty of my recent emancipation that i have scarce steadiness of hand, much more mind, to compose a letter, i am free, b.b.,--free as air! "'the little bird that wings the sky knows no such liberty,' i was set free on tuesday in last week at four o'clock. i came home forever!" the quality of the generosity of the east india directors was not strained in lamb's case. it should be recorded as an agreeable commercial phenomenon that these officials, men of business acting in "a business matter,"--words too often held to exclude all such quixotic matters as sentiment, gratitude, and christian equity between man and man,--were not only just, but munificent. [ ] from the path of charles and mary lamb--already beset with anxieties grave enoughthey removed forever the shadow of want. lamb's salary at the time of his retirement was nearly seven hundred pounds a year, and the offer made to him was a pension of four hundred and fifty, with a deduction of nine pounds a year for his sister, should she survive him. lamb lived to enjoy his freedom and the company's bounty nearly nine years. soon after his retirement he settled with his sister at enfield, within easy reach of his loved london, removing thence to the neighboring parish of edmonton,--his last change of residence. coleridge's death, in july, , was a heavy blow to him. "when i heard of the death of coleridge," he wrote, "it was without grief. it seemed to me that he had long been on the confines of the next world, that he had a hunger for eternity. i grieved then that i could not grieve; but since, i feel how great a part he was of me. his great and dear spirit haunts me. i cannot think a thought, i cannot make a criticism on men or books, without an ineffectual turning and reference to him. he was the proof and touchstone of all my cogitations." lamb did not long outlive his old schoolfellow. walking in the middle of december along the london road, he stumbled and fell, inflicting a slight wound upon his face. the injury at first seemed trivial; but soon after, erysipelas appearing, it became evident that his general health was too feeble to resist. on the th of december, , he passed quietly away, whispering in his last moments the names of his dearest friends. mary lamb survived her brother nearly thirteen years, dying, at the advanced age of eighty-two, on may , . with increasing years her attacks had become more frequent and of longer duration, till her mind became permanently weakened. after leaving edmonton, she lived chiefly in a pleasant house in st. john's wood, surrounded by old books and prints, under the care of a nurse. her pension, together with the income from her brother's savings, was amply sufficient for her support. talfourd, who was present at the burial of mary lamb, has eloquently described the earthly reunion of the brother and sister:-- "a few survivors of the old circle, then sadly thinned, attended her remains to the spot in edmnonton churchyard where they were laid above those of her brother. 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 brickwork 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 persons who 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 believe, after a moment's strange shuddering, that the reunion was well accomplished; 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 comforted." there are certain handy phrases, the legal-tender of conversation, that people generally use without troubling themselves to look into their title to currency. it is often said, for instance, with an air of deploring a phase of general mental degeneracy, that "letter-writing is a lost art." and so it is,---not because men nowadays, if they were put to it, could not, on the average, write as good letters as ever (the average although we certainly have no lambs, and perhaps no walpoles or southeys to raise it, would probably be higher), but because the conditions that call for and develop the epistolary art have largely passed away. with our modern facility of communication, the letter has lost the pristine dignity of its function. the earth has dwindled strangely since the advent of steam and electricity, and in a generation used to mr. edison's devices, puck's girdle presents no difficulties to the imagination. in charles lamb's time the expression "from land's end to john o'groat's" meant something; to-day it means a few comfortable hours by rail, a few minutes by telegraph. wordsworth in the north of england was to lamb, so far as the chance of personal contact was concerned, nearly as remote as manning in china. under such conditions a letter was of course a weighty matter; it was a thoughtful summary of opinion, a rarely recurring budget of general intelligence, expensive to send, and paid for by the recipient; and men put their minds and energies into composing it. "one wrote at that time," says w.c. hazlitt, "a letter to an acquaintance in one of the home counties which one would only write nowadays to a settler in the colonies or a relative in india." but to whatever conditions or circumstances we may owe the existence of charles lamb's letters, their quality is of course the fruit of the genius and temperament of the writer. unpremeditated as the strain of the skylark, they have almost to excess (were that possible) the prime epistolary merit of spontaneity. from the brain of the writer to the sheet before him flows an unbroken pactolian stream. lamb, at his best, ranges with shakspearian facility the gamut of human emotion, exclaiming, as it were at one moment, with jaques, "motley's the only wear!"--in the next probing the source of tears. he is as ejaculatory with his pen as other men are with their tongues. puns, quotations, conceits, critical estimates of the rarest insight and suggestiveness, chase each other over his pages like clouds over a summer sky; and the whole is leavened with the sterling ethical and aesthetic good sense that renders charles lamb one of the wholesomest of writers. as to the plan on which the selections for this volume have been made, it needs only to be said that, in general, the editor has aimed to include those letters which exhibit most fully the writer's distinctive charm and quality. this plan leaves, of course, a residue of considerable biographical and critical value; but it is believed that to all who really love and appreciate him, charles lamb's "best letters" are those which are most uniquely and unmistakably charles lamb's. e. g. j. _september_, . [ ] letter l. [ ] cowley. [ ] the james elia of the essay "my relations." [ ] letter i. [ ] talfourd's memoir. [ ] carlyle. [ ] it would seem from lamb's letter to coleridge (letter iv.) that it was _he_, not the landlord, who appeared thus too late, and who snatched the knife from the unconscious hand. [ ] the reader is referred to lamb's beautiful essay, "dream children." [ ] if we except his passing tenderness for the young quakeress, hester savory, lamb admitted that he had never spoken to the lady in his life. [ ] letter lxxxiii. [ ] letters lxv il., lxviii., lxix. [ ] w. s. landor. [ ] in assuming this pseudonym lamb borrowed the name of a fellow-clerk who had served with him thirty years before in the south sea house,--an italian named elia. the name has probably never been pronounced as lamb intended. "_call him ellia_," he said in a letter to j. taylor, concerning this old acquaintance. [ ] letter xvii. [ ] the rather unimportant series, "popular fallacies," appeared in the "new monthly." [ ] in the essay "the superannuated man" lamb describes, with certain changes and modifications, his retirement from the india house. i. to samuel taylor coleridge. _may_ , . dear coleridge,--make yourself perfectly easy about may. i paid his bill when i sent your clothes. i was flush of money, and am so still to all the purposes of a single life; so give yourself no further concern about it. the money would be superfluous to me if i had it. when southey becomes as modest as his predecessor, milton, and publishes his epics in duodecimo, i will read 'em; a guinea a book is somewhat exorbitant, nor have i the opportunity of borrowing the work. the extracts from it in the "monthly review," and the short passages in your "watchman," seem to me much superior to anything in his partnership account with lovell. [ ] your poems i shall procure forthwith. there were noble lines in what you inserted 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, unprofitable, and of dissonant mood to your disposition. i wish you success in all your undertakings, and am glad to hear you are employed about the "evidences of religion." there is need of multiplying such books a hundred-fold in this philosophical age, to _prevent_ converts to atheism, for they seem too tough disputants to meddle with afterwards.... coleridge, i know not what suffering scenes you have gone through at bristol. my life has been somewhat diversified of late. the six weeks that finished last year and began this, your very humble servant spent very agreeably in a madhouse at hoxton. i am got somewhat rational now, and don't bite any one. but mad i was and many a vagary my imagination played with me,--enough to make a volume, if all were told. my sonnets i have extended 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," etc.; a copy you shall have when it comes out. they are without exception 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 written 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, 't was 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 e'er inclined too highly, and with partial eye 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 my friend. with these lines, and with that sister's kindest remembrances to cottle, i conclude. yours sincerely, lamb. [ ] southey had just published his "joan of arc," in quarto. he and lovell had published jointly, two years before, "poems by bion and moschus." [ ] a christ's hospital schoolfellow, the "jem" white of the elia essay, "the praise of chimney-sweepers." ii. to coleridge. (_no month_) . _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 interspersed. 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 hyperbole 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 disinherited of earth," and "the strange beatitude" which the good man shall recognize in heaven, as well as the particularizing of the 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-chattering month." they are exactly such epithets as burns would have stumbled 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 cowper is recovered from his lunacy, and is employed on his translation of the italian, etc., poems of milton for an edition where fuseli presides as designer. coleridge, to an idler like myself, to write and receive letters are both very pleasant; but i wish not to break in upon your valuable time by expecting to hear very frequently from you. reserve 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, have given way to the duties of providing for a family. the mail is come in, but no parcel; yet this is tuesday. farewell, then, till to-morrow; for a niche and a nook i must leave for criticisms. by the way, i hope you do not send your own 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 without delight. poor lovell! my heart almost accuses me for the light manner i lately spoke of him, not dreaming of his death. my heart bleeds for your accumulated troubles; god send you through 'em with patience. i conjure you dream not that i will ever think of being repaid; the very 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 remaining things are what 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 who have seen 'em. your impassioned manner of recitation i can recall at any time to mine own heart and to the ears of the bystanders. 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 musicgs," 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 very last words, "i exercise my young novitiate thought in ministeries of heart-stirring song," though not now new to me, cannot be enough admired. to speak politely, they are a well-turned compliment to poetry. i hasten to read "joan of arc," etc. i have read your lines at the beginning of second book; [ ] they are worthy of milton, but in my mind yield to your "religious musings." i shall read the whole carefully, and in some future letter take the liberty to particularize my opinions of it. of what is new to me among your poems next to the "musings," that beginning "my pensive 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. checking 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. 't is a charming poem throughout (you have well remarked that charming, admirable, 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 generalizing). i want room to tell you how we are charmed with your verses in the manner of spenser, etc. i am glad you resume the "watchman." change the name; leave out all articles of news, and whatever things are peculiar 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 the work prospers. if i am vain enough to think i can be a contributor, rely on my inclinations. coleridge, in reading your "religious musings," i felt a transient superiority over you. i _have_ seen priestley. i love to see his name repeated in your writings. i love and honor him almost profanely. you would be charmed with his _sermons_, if you never read 'em. you have doubtless read his books illustrative of the doctrine of necessity. prefixed to a late work of his in answer to paine, there is a preface giving an account of the man and his services to men, written by lindsey, his dearest friend, well worth your reading. _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. [ ] coleridge contributed some four hundred lines to the second book of southey's epic. iii. to coleridge. _june_ , . 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 redeem the character of the age we live in from the imputation 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 subject is well chosen; it opens well. to become more particular, i will notice in their order a few passages that chiefly struck me on perusal. page : "fierce and terrible benevolence!" is a phrase full of grandeur and originality, the whole context made me feel _possessed_, even like joan herself. page : "it is most horrible with the keen sword to gore the finely fibred human frame," and what follows, pleased me mightily. in the second 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 the laplander, "by niemi's lake, or balda zhiok, or the mossy stone of solfar-kapper," [ ] will bear comparison with any in milton for fulness of circumstance and lofty-pacedness of versification. southey's similes, though many of 'em are capital, are all inferior. in one of his books, the simile of the oak in the storm occurs, i think, four times. to return: the light in which you view the heathen deities is accurate and beautiful. southey's personifications in this book are so many fine and faultless pictures. i was much pleased with your manner of accounting for the reason why monarchs take delight in war. at the th line you have placed prophets and enthusiasts cheek by jowl, on too intimate a footing for the dignity of the former. necessarian-like-speaking, it is correct. page : "dead is the douglas! cold thy warrior frame, illustrious buchan," etc., are of kindred excellence with gray's "cold is cadwallo's tongue," etc. how famously the maid baffles the doctors, seraphic and irrefragable, "with all their trumpery!" page : the procession, 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 to , in the heat of the battle, had better been omitted; they are not very striking, and only encumber. the converse which joan and conrade hold on the banks of the loire is altogether beautiful. page : 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. page : i need only _mention_ those lines ending with "she saw a serpent gnawing at her heart!" they are good imitative lines: "he toiled and toiled, of toil to reap no end, but endless toil and never-ending woe." page : cruelty is such as hogarth might have painted her. page : all the passage about love (where he seems to confound conjugal love with creating and preserving love) is very confused, and sickens me with a load of useless personifications; 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, considering the celerity wherewith the poem was finished, i was astonished at the unfrequency of weak lines, i had expected 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 delighted 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 southey spoke very slightingly 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 _immensely 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 task on me; and pleasant, let me add, because it will confer a whimsical importance on me to sit in judgment upon your rhymes. first, though, let me thank you again and again, in my own and my sister's name, for your invitations. nothing could give us more pleasure than to come; but (were there no other reasons) while my brother's leg is so bad, it is out of the question. poor fellow! he is very feverish and light-headed; but cruikshanks has pronounced the symptoms favourable, and gives us every hope that there will be no need of amputation. god send not! we are necessarily confined with him all the afternoon and evening till very late, so that i am stealing a few minutes 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. austin calls only occasionally, as though it were a duty rather, and seldom stays ten minutes. then judge how thankful i am for your letters! do not, however, burden yourself with the correspondence. i trouble you again so soon only in obedience 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. thirteenth page: "the thrilling tones that concentrate the soul" is a nervous line, and the six first lines of page are very pretty, the twenty-first effusion a perfect thing. that in the manner of spenser is very sweet, particularly at the close; the thirty-fifth effusion is most exquisite,--that line in particular, "and, tranquil, muse upon tranquillity." it is the very reflex pleasure that distinguishes the tranquillity of a thinking being from that of a shepherd,--a modern one i would be understood to mean,--a damoetas; one that keeps other people's sheep. certainly, coleridge, your letter from shurton bars has less merit than most things in your volume; personally it may chime in best with your own feelings, and therefore you love it best. it has, however, great merit. in your fourth epistle that is an exquisite paragraph, and fancy-full, of "a stream there is which rolls in lazy flow," etc. "murmurs sweet undersong 'mid jasmin bowers" is a sweet line, and so are the three next. the concluding simile is far-fetched; "tempest-honored" is a quaintish phrase. yours is a poetical family. i was much surprised and pleased to see the signature of sara to that elegant composition, the fifth epistle. i dare not _criticise_ the "religious musings;" i like not to _select_ any part, where all is excellent. i can only admire, and thank you for it in the name of a christian, as well as a lover of good poetry; only let me ask, is not that thought and those words in young, "stands in the sun,"--or is it only such as young, in one of his _better moments,_ might have writ? "believe thou, o 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 for what follows in next paragraph, in the name of a child of fancy. after all, you cannot nor ever will write anything with which i shall be so delighted as what i have heard yourself repeat. you came to town, and i saw you at a time when your heart was yet bleeding with recent 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 they 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 _you_ again. i image to myself the little smoky room at the "salutation and cat," where we have sat 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 of quiet life!" in your conversation you had blended so many pleasant fancies that they cheated me of my grief; but in your absence the tide of melancholy 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 fervours 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 fancy till you have gone mad! all now seems to me vapid,--comparatively so. excuse this selfish digression. your "monody" [ ] is so superlatively excellent that i can only wish 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 it begin, "is this the land of song-ennobled line?" and proceed to "otway's famished form;" then, "thee, chatterton," 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 his poor unsheltered head did penury her sickly mildew shed; ah! where are fled the charms of vernal grace, and joy's wild gleams that lightened o'er his face." then "youth of tumultuous soul" to "sigh," as before. the rest may all stand down to "gaze upon the waves below." what follows now may come next as detached verses, suggested by the "monody," rather than a part of it. they are, 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 understand me by counting lines. i have proposed omitting twenty-four lines; i feel that thus compressed it would gain energy, but think it most likely you will not agree with me; for who shall go about to bring opinions to the bed of procrustes, and introduce among the sons of men a monotony of identical feelings? i only propose with diffidence. 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 . the "epitaph on an infant," like a jack-o'-lantern, has danced about (or like dr. forster'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, overlooked its chief merit, that of filling up a whole page, i had once deemed sonnets of unrivalled use that way, but your epitaphs, 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," recall (none more forcibly) to my mind the tones in which you recited it, i will not notice, in this tedious (to you) manner, verses which have been so long delighful to me, and which you already know my opinion of. of this kind are bowles, priestley, and that most exquisite and most bowles-like of all, the nineteenth effusion. it would have better ended with "agony of care;" the last two 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; 't is 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 infant" 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 child" 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 'neath this roof thy wine-cheered moments pass," than as it stands now. time nor nothing can reconcile me to the concluding five lines of "kosciusko;" call it anything 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 beds amid your faery bowers," etc. i love my sonnets because they are the reflected images of my own feelings at different times. to instance, in the thirteenth,-- "how reason reeled," etc., are good lines, but must spoil the whole with me, who know it is only a fiction of yours, and that the "rude dashings" did in fact not "rock me 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 fordone," 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 improvements (did i think myself capable of suggesting 'era) in such personal poems as "thou bleedest, my poor heart,"--'od so,--i am caught,--i have already done it; 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 alterandum, cut-up-andum, abridgeandum," just what you will 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 the mine, i should omit, _in editione secunda_, 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 unreluctantly 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 remainder 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 exquisite 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 this time, made your eyes and head ache with my long letter; but i cannot forego hastily the pleasure and pride of thus conversing with you. you did not tell me whether i was to include the "conciones ad populum" in my remarks on your poems. they are not unfrequently sublime, and i think you could not do better than to turn 'em into verse,--if you have nothing else to do. austin, i am sorry to say, is a _confirmed_ atheist. stoddart, a cold-hearted, well-bred, conceited disciple of godwin, does him no good. his wife has several daughters (one of 'em as old as himself). surely there is something unnatural in such a marriage. how i sympathize with you on the dull duty of a reviewer, and heartily damn with you ned evans and the prosodist! i shall, however, wait impatiently for the articles 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 lias 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 wide plain, friendless," are you acquainted with bowles? i see by his last elegy (written at bath) you are near neighbors,--_thursday_. "and i can think i can see the groves again;" "was it the voice of thee;" "turns not the voice of thee, my buried friend;" "who dries with her dark locks the tender tear,"--are touches as true to nature as any in his other elegy, written at the hot wells, about poor kassell, etc. you are doubtless acquainted with it, 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, with praises somewhat extravagant) i perfectly coincide with: yet i choose to retain the word "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, who was hanged and burned for coining. one of the strokes of pathos (which are very many, all somewhat obscure) is, "she lifted up her guilty forger to heaven." a note explains, by "forger," her right hand, with 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 pastoral 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 in less than a month. i shall be richly content with a letter from you some day early in july; though, if you get anyhow _settled_ before then, pray let me know it immediately; 't would give me much satisfaction. concerning the unitarian chapel, the salary is the only scruple that the most rigid moralist would admit as valid. concerning the tutorage, is not the salary low, and absence from your family unavoidable? london is the only fostering soil for genius. nothing more occurs just now; so i will leave you, in mercy, one small white spot empty below, to repose your eyes upon, fatigued as they must be with the wilderness of words they have by this time painfully 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 anywhere but london. our loves to mrs. c--. c. l. [ ] lapland mountains. from coleridge's "destiny of nations." [ ] the "monody" referred to was by cottle, and appeared in a volume of poems published by him at bristol in . coleridge had forwarded the book to lamb for his opinion. [ ] the monody on chatterton. [ ] dr. faustus's. iv. to coleridge, _june_ , , i am not quite satisfied now with the chatterton, [ ] and with your leave will try my hand at it again. a master-joiner, you know, may leave a cabinet to be finished, when his own hands are full. to your list of illustrative personifications, into which a fine imagination enters, i will take leave to add the following from beaumont and fletcher's "wife for a month;" 'tis the conclusion of a description of a sea-fight: "the game of _death_ was never played so nobly; the meagre thief grew wanton in his mischiefs, and his shrunk, hollow eyes smiled on his ruins." there is fancy in these of a lower order from "bonduca": "then did i see these valiant men of britain, like boding owls creep into tods of ivy, and hoot their fears to one another nightly." not that it is a personification, only it just caught my eye in a little extract-book i keep, which is full of quotations from b. and f. in particular, in which authors i can't help thinking there is a greater richness of poetical fancy than in any one, shakspeare excepted. are you acquainted with massinger? at a hazard i will trouble you with a passage from a play of his called "a very woman." the lines are spoken by a lover (disguised) to his faithless mistress. you will remark the fine effect of the double endings. you will by your ear distinguish the lines, for i write 'em as prose. "not far from where my father lives, _a lady_, a neighbor by, blest with as great a _beauty_ as nature durst bestow without _undoing_, dwelt, and most happily, as i thought then, and blest the house a thousand times she _dwelt_ in. this beauty, in the blossom of my youth, when my first fire knew no adulterate _incense_, nor i no way to flatter but my _fondness_; in all the bravery my friends could _show me_, in all the faith my innocence could _give me_, in the best language my true tongue could _tell me_, and all the broken sighs my sick heart _lend me_, i sued and served; long did i serve this _lady_, long was my travail, long my trade to _win her_; with all the duty of my soul i served her." "then she must love." "she did, but never me: she could not _love me_; she would not love, she hated,--more, she _scorned me_; and in so a poor and base a way _abused me_ for all my services, for all my _bounties_, so bold neglects flung on me." "what out of love, and worthy love, i _gave her_ (shame to her most unworthy mind!), to fools, to girls, to fiddlers and her boys she flung, all in disdain of me." one more passage strikes my eye from b. and f.'s "palamon and arcite." one of 'em complains in prison: "this is all our world; we shall know nothing here but one another, hear nothing but the clock that tells us our woes; the vine shall grow, but we shall never see it," etc. is not the last circumstance exquisite? i mean not to lay myself open by saying they exceed milton, and perhaps collins in sublimity. but don't you conceive all poets after shakspeare yield to 'em in variety of genius? massinger treads close on their heels; but you are most probably as well acquainted with his writings as your humble servant. my quotations, in that case, will only serve to expose my barrenness of matter. southey in simplicity and tenderness is excelled decidedly only, i think, by beaumont and f. in his "maid's tragedy," and some parts of "philaster" in particular, and elsewhere occasionally; and perhaps by cowper in his "crazy kate," and in parts of his translation, such as the speeches of hecuba and andromache. i long to know your opinion of that translation. the odyssey especially is surely very homeric. what nobler than the appearance of phoebus at the beginning of the iliad,--the lines ending with "dread sounding, bounding on the silver bow!" i beg you will give me your opinion of the translation; it afforded me high pleasure. as curious a specimen of translation as ever fell into my hands, is a young man's in our office, of a french novel. what in the original was literally "amiable delusions of the fancy," he proposed, to render "the fair frauds of the imagination." i had much trouble in licking the book into any meaning at all. yet did the knave clear fifty or sixty pounds by subscription and selling the copyright. the book itself not a week's work! to-day's portion of my journalizing epistle has been very dull and poverty-stricken. i will here end. _tuesday night_, i have been drinking egg-hot and smoking oronooko (associated circumstances, which ever forcibly recall to my mind our evenings and nights at the "salutation"). my eyes and brain are heavy and asleep, but my heart is awake; and if words came as ready as ideas, and ideas as feelings, i could say ten hundred kind things. coleridge, you know not my supreme happiness at having one on earth (though counties separate us) whom i can call a friend. remember you those tender lines of logan?-- "our broken friendships we deplore, and loves of youth that are no more; no after friendships e'er can raise th' endearments of our early days, and ne'er the heart such fondness prove, as when we first began to love." i am writing at random, and half-tipsy, what you may not _equally_ understand, as you will be sober when you read it; but _my_ sober and _my_ half-tipsy hours you are alike a sharer in. good night. "then up rose our bard, like a prophet in drink, craigdoroch, thou'lt soar when creation shall sink." burns. [ ] coleridge's "monody" on chatterton. v. to coleridge. _september_ , . my dearest friend,--white, or some of my friends, or the public papers, by this time may have informed you of the terrible calamities that have fallen on our family. i will only give you the outlines: my poor dear, dearest sister, in a fit of insanity, has been the death of her own mother. i was at hand only time enough to snatch the knife out of her grasp. she is at present in a madhouse, from 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 composed, and able to do the best that remains to do. write as religious a letter as possible, but no mention of what is gone and done with. with me "the former things are passed away," and i have something more to do than to feel. god almighty have us all in his keeping! c. lamb. mention 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. vi. to coleridge. _october_ , . 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 instrument 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 committed 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 indecent, 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 religious principle to look forward to a time when _even she_ might recover tranquillity. god be praised, coleridge, wonderful 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 tranquillity 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 like one dying; my father with his poor forehead plastered over, from a wound he had received from a daughter 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 dosed 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 _this_ 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 any time to take care of old age and infirmities, had now, 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 we 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 _with them_ (for to eat i never refused). they were all making merry in the room! 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 welfare. indignation, the rage of grief, something like remorse, 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 playing 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 he 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 god-mother, from whom we never had right or reason to 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 generously given up the interest of her little money (which was formerly paid my father for her board) wholely and solely to my sister's use. reckoning this, we have, daddy and i, for oar two selves and an old maid-servant to look after him when i am out, which will be necessary, £ , or £ rather, a year, out of which we can spare £ or £ at least for mary while she stays at islington, where she roust 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 £ which my father will have at christmas, and this £ i mentioned 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 £ or £ 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 himself into their way; and i know his language is already, "charles, you must take care of yourself, you must not abridge yourself of a single pleasure you have been used to," etc., and in that style of talking. but you, a necessarian, 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 unconnect 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 assures 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 establishment in her house, where she will only not have a room and nurse to herself, for £ or guineas a year,--the outside would be £ . 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 extraordinary 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 humanly 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 dispensations to mankind! c. lamb. these mentioned good fortunes and change of prospects 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 _i_ shall through life never have less recollection, nor a fainter impression, of what has happened than i have now. 't is not a light thing, nor meant by the almighty to be received lightly. i must be serious, circumspect, and deeply religious through life; and by such means may _both_ 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 forever offend 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. [ ] john lamb, the "james elia" of the essay "my relations." [ ] a christ's hospital schoolfellow. vii. to coleridge, _october_ , . my dearest friend,--i grieve from my very soul to observe you in your plans of life veering about from this hope to the other, and settling nowhere. is it an untoward 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 _ignis 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 were likely to be; and would to god the dancing demon _may_ conduct you at last in peace and comfort to the "life and labours of a cottager"! you see from the above awkward 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 in regret or querulousness. mary continues serene and cheerful. i have not by me a little letter 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 awake, 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 understand 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 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 coldness and repulse. still, she was a good mother. god forbid i should think of her but _most_ respectfully, _most_ affectionately. yet she would always love my brother above mary, who was not worthy of one tenth of that affection which mary had a right to claim. but it is my sister's gratifying 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 a long 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; 't will 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 comforts with you. god love you; god love us all! c. lamb. viii. to coleridge. _november_ , . coleridge, i love you for dedicating your poetry to bowles. [ ] genius of the sacred fountain of tears, it was he who led you gently by the hand through all this valley of weeping, showed you the dark green yew-trees and the willow shades where, by the fall of waters, you might indulge in uncomplaining melancholy, a delicious regret for the past, or weave fine visions of that awful future,-- "when all the vanities of life's brief day oblivion's hurrying hand hath swept away, and all its sorrows, at the awful blast of the archangel's trump, are but as shadows past." i have another sort of dedication in my head for my few things, which i want to know if you approve of and can insert. [ ] i mean to inscribe them to my sister. it will be unexpected, and it will gire her pleasure; or do you think it will look whimsical at all? as i have not spoke to her about it, i can easily reject the idea. but there is a monotony in the affections which people living together, or as we do now, very frequently seeing each other, are apt to give in to,--a sort of indifference in the expression of kindness for each other, which demands that we should sometimes call to our aid the trickery of surprise. do you publish with lloyd, or without him? in either case my little portion may come last, and after the fashion of orders to a country correspondent, i will give directions how i should like to have 'em done. the title-page to stand thus:-- poems by charles lamb, of the india house. under this title the following motto, which, for want of room, i put over-leaf, and desire you to insert whether you like it or no. may not a gentleman choose what arms, mottoes, or armorial bearings the herald will give him leave, without consulting his republican friend, who might advise none? may not a publican put up the sign of the saracen's head, even though his undiscerning neighbor should prefer, as more genteel, the cat and gridiron? [motto.] "this beauty, in the blossom of my youth, when my first fire knew no adulterate incense, nor i no way to flatter but my fondness, in the best language my true tongue could tell me, and all the broken sighs my sick heart lend me, i sued and served. long did i love this lady." [ ] massinger. the dedication. the few following poems, creatures of the fancy and the feeling in life's more vacant hours, produced, for the most part, by love in idleness, are, with all a brother's fondness, inscribed to mary ann lamb, the author's best friend anb sister. this is the pomp and paraphernalia of parting, with which i take my leave of a passion which has reigned so royally (so long) within me; thus, with its trappings of laureateship, i fling it off, pleased and satisfied with myself that the weakness troubles me no longer. i am wedded. coleridge, to the fortunes of my sister and my poor old father. oh, my friend, i think sometimes, could i recall the days that are past, which among them should i choose? not, those "merrier days," not the "pleasant days of hope," not "those wanderings with a fair-hair'd maid," [ ] which i have so often, and so feelingly regretted, but the days, coleridge, of a _mother's_ fondness for her _schoolboy_. what would i give to call her back to earth for _one_ day, on my knees to ask her pardon for all those little asperities of temper which from time to time have given her gentle spirit pain. and the day, my friend, i trust will come; there will be "time enough" for kind offices of love, if "heaven's eternal year" be ours. hereafter, her meek spirit shall not reproach me. oh, my friend, cultivate the filial feelings, and let no man think himself released from the kind "charities" of relationship. these shall give him peace at the last; these are the best foundation for every species of benevolence. i rejoice to hear, by certain channels, that you, my friend, are reconciled with all your relations. 't is the most kindly and natural species of love, and we have all the associated train of early feelings to secure its strength and perpetuity. send me an account of your health; _indeed_ i am solicitous about you. god love you and yours! c. lamb. [ ] from "a very woman." [ ] an allusion to lamb's first love,--the "anna" of his sonnets, and the original, probably, of "rosamund gray" and of "alice w---n" in the beautiful essay "dream children." [ ] the earliest sonnets of william lisle bowles were published in , the year of lamb's removal from christ's hospital. [ ] alluding to the prospective joint volume of poems (by coleridge, lamb, and charles lloyd) to be published by cottle in . this was lamb's second serious literary venture, he and coleridge having issued a joint volume in . ix. to coleridge. [fragment.] _dec_. , . at length i have done with verse-making,--not that i relish other people's poetry less: theirs comes from 'em without effort; mine is the difficult operation of a brain scanty of ideas, made more difficult by disuse. i have 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 offended with the "divine chit-chat of cowper." write to me. god love you and yours! c. l. x. to coleridge, _dec_. , . i had put my letter into the post rather hastily, not expecting to have to acknowledge another from you so soon. this morning's present has made me alive again. my last night's epistle was childishly querulous: but you have put a little life into me, and i will thank you for your remembrance of me, while my sense of it is yet warm; for if i linger a day or two, i may use the same phrase of acknowledgment, or similar, but the feeling that dictates it now will be gone; i shall send you a _caput mortuum_; not a _cor vivens_. thy "watchman's," thy bellman's verses, i do retort upon thee, thou libellous varlet,--why, you cried the hours yourself, and who made you so proud? but i submit, to show my humility, most implicitly to your dogmas, i reject entirely the copy of verses you reject. with regard to my leaving off versifying [ ] you have said so many pretty things, so many fine compliments, ingeniously decked out in the garb of sincerity, and undoubtedly springing from a present feeling somewhat like sincerity, that you might melt the most un-muse-ical soul, did you not (now for a rowland compliment for your profusion of olivers),--did you not in your very epistle, by the many pretty fancies and profusion of heart displayed in it, dissuade and discourage me from attempting anything after you. at present i have not leisure to make verses, nor anything approaching to a fondness for the exercise. in the ignorant present time, who can answer for the future man? "at lovers' perjuries jove laughs,"--and poets have sometimes a disingenuous way of forswearing their occupation. this, though, is not my case. the tender cast of soul, sombred with melancholy and subsiding recollections, is favorable to the sonnet or the elegy; but from-- "the sainted growing woof the teasing troubles keep aloof." the music of poesy may charm for a while the importunate, teasing cares of life; but the teased and troubled man is not in a disposition to make that music. you sent me some very sweet lines relative to burns; but it was at a time when, in my highly agitated and perhaps 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,-- "noting, ere they past away, the little lines of yesterday." 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 down,--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 the sober citizen, when his son went astray upon the mountains of parnassus, is said to have cursed wit, and poetry, and pope. [ ] i quote wrong, 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 accumulating,--they are sacred things with me. publish your _burns_ [ ] when and how you like; it will "be new to me,"--my memory of it is very confused, and tainted with unpleasant associations. burns was the god of my idolatry, as bowles of yours. i am jealous of your fraternizing with bowles, when i think you relish him more than burns or my old favorite, cowper, but you conciliate matters when you talk of the "divine chit-chat" of the latter; by the expression i see you thoroughly relish him. i love mrs. coleridge for her excuses an hundred-fold more dearly than if she heaped "line upon line," out-hannah-ing hannah more, and had rather hear you sing "did a very little baby" by your family fireside, than listen to you when you were repeating one of bowles's sweetest sonnets in your sweet manner, while we two were indulging sympathy, a solitary luxury, by the fireside at the "salutation." yet have i no higher ideas of heaven. your company was one "cordial in this melancholy vale,"--the remembrance of it is a blessing partly, and partly a curse. when i can abstract myself from things present, i can enjoy it with a freshness of relish; but it more constantly operates to an unfavorable comparison with the uninteresting converse i always and _only_ can partake in. not a soul loves bowles here; scarce one has heard of burns; few but laugh at me for reading my testament,--they talk a language i understand not; i conceal sentiments that would be a puzzle to them. i can only converse with you by letter, and with the dead in their books. my sister, indeed, is all i can wish in a companion; but our spirits are alike poorly, our reading and knowledge from the selfsame sources, our communication with the scenes of the world alike narrow. never having kept separate company, or any "company _together_;" never having read separate books, and few books _together_,--what knowledge have we to convey to each other? in our little range of duties and connections, how few sentiments can take place without friends, with few books, with a taste for religion rather than a strong religious habit! we need some support, some leading-strings to cheer and direct us. you talk very wisely; and be not sparing of _your advice_. continue to remember us, and to show us you do remember us; we will take as lively an interest in what concerns you and yours. all i can add to your happiness will be sympathy. you can add to mine _more_; you can teach me wisdom. i am indeed an unreasonable correspondent: but i was unwilling to let my last night's letter go off without this qualifier: you will perceive by this my mind is easier, and you will rejoice. i do not expect or wish you to write till you are moved; and of course shall not, till you announce to me that event, think of writing myself. love to mrs. coleridge and david hartley, and my kind remembrance to lloyd, if he is with you. c. lamb. [ ] see preceding letter. [ ] epistle to arbuthnot:-- "poor cornus sees his frantic wife elope, and curses wit, and poetry, and pope." [ ] the lines on him which coleridge had sent to lamb, and which the latter had burned. xi. to coleridge. _january_ , . _sunday morning_.--you cannot surely mean to degrade 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 neufchâtel, with the lamentable episode of a wagoner, 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. [ ] coleridge, in later years, indorsed lamb's opinion of this portion of his contribution to "joan of arc." "i was really astonished," he said, "( ) at the schoolboy, wretched, allegoric machinery; ( ) at the transmogrification of the fanatic virago into a modern novel-pawing proselyte of the "age of reason,"--a tom paine in petticoats; ( ) at the utter want of all rhythm in the verse, the monotony and dead plumb-down of the pauses, and the absence of all bone, muscle, and sinew in the single lines." "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." "they 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." 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 acquaintance." southey certainly has no pretensions to vie with you in the sublime of poetry; but he tells a plain tale 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 "canvas-coverture 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!); "unprovendered;" "such his tale;" "ah, suffering to the height of what was sufffered" (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 montauban dancing with roubigné's tenants [ ], "_much of his native loftiness remained in the execution_." 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," etc., 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 written 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-vinegared." your "dream," down to that exquisite line,-- "i can't tell half his adventures," is a most happy resemblance of chaucer. the remainder is so-so. the best line, i think, is, "he belong'd, i believe, to the witch melancholy." by the way, when will our volume come out? don't delay it till you have written 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 thelwall particularly. i cannot say i know coulson,--at least intimately; i once supped with him and austin; 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 restraint on me. i cannot think what subject would suit your epic genius,--some philosophical subject, i conjecture, in which shall be blended the sublime of poetry and of science. your proposed "hymns" will be a fit preparatory study wherewith "to discipline your young novitiate 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 complain. my poor old aunt, whom you have seen, the kindest, goodest creature to me when i was at school; who used to toddle there to bring me good things, when i, schoolboy-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 basin, with some nice thing 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 favourite; "no after friendship e'er can raise the endearments of our early days; nor e'er the heart such fondness prove, as when it first began to love." [ ] in mackenzie's tale, "julia de roubigné." [ ] see the essay, "christ's hospital five-and-thirty years ago." xii. to coleridge. _january_ , . i need not repeat my wishes to have my little sonnets printed _verbatim_ my last way. in particular, i fear lest you should prefer printing my first sonnet, as you have done more than once, "did the wand of merlin wave," it looks so like mr. merlin, [ ] the ingenious successor of the immortal merlin, now living in good health and spirits, and flourishing in magical reputation, in oxford street; and, on my life, one half who read it would understand it so. do put 'em forth finally, as i have, in various letters, settled it; for first a man's self is to be pleased, and then his friends,--and of course the greater number of his friends, if they differ _inter se_. thus taste may safely be put to the vote. i do long to see our names together,--not for vanity's sake, and naughty pride of heart altogether; for not a living soul i know, or am intimate with, will scarce read the book,--so i shall gain nothing, _quoad famam_; and yet there is a little vanity mixes in it, i cannot help denying.--i am aware of the unpoetical cast of the last six lines of my last sonnet, and think myself unwarranted in smuggling so tame a thing into the book; only the sentiments of those six lines are thoroughly congenial to me in my state of mind, and i wish to accumulate perpetuating tokens of my affection to poor mary. that it has no originality in its cast, nor anything in the feelings but what is common and natural to thousands, nor ought properly to be called poetry, i see; still, it will tend to keep present to my mind a view of things which i ought to indulge. these six lines, too, have not, to a reader, a connectedness with the foregoing. omit it if you like,--what a treasure it is to my poor, indolent, and unemployed mind thus to lay hold on a subject to talk about, though 'tis but a sonnet, and that of the lowest order! how mournfully inactive i am!--'tis night; good night. my sister, i thank god, is nigh recovered; she was seriously ill. do, in your next letter, and that right soon, give me some satisfaction respecting your present situation at stowey. is it a farm that you have got? and what does your worship know about farming? coleridge, i want you to write an epic poem. nothing short of it can satisfy the vast capacity of true poetic genius. having one great end to direct all your poetical faculties to, and on which to lay out your hopes, your ambition will show you to what you are equal. by the sacred energies of milton! by the dainty, sweet, and soothing phantasies of honey-tongued spenser! i adjure you to attempt the epic, or do something more ample than the writing an occasional brief ode or sonnet; something "to make yourself forever known,--to make the age to come your own." but i prate; doubtless you meditate something. when you are exalted among the lords of epic fame, i shall recall with pleasure and exultingly the days of your humility, when you disdained not to put forth, in the same volume with mine, your "religious musings" and that other poem from the "joan of arc," those promising first-fruits of high renown to come. you have learning, you have fancy, you have enthusiasm, you have strength and amplitude of wing enow for flights like those i recommend. in the vast and unexplored regions of fairy-land there is ground enough unfound and uncultivated: search there, and realize your favorite susquehanna scheme. in all our comparisons of taste, i do not know whether i have ever heard your opinion of a poet very dear to me,--the now-out-of-fashion cowley. favor me with your judgment of him, and tell me if his prose essays, in particular, as well as no inconsiderable part of his verse, be not delicious. i prefer the graceful rambling of his essays even to the courtly elegance and ease of addison, abstracting from this the latter's exquisite humor. when the little volume is printed, send me three or four, at all events not more than six, copies, and tell me if i put you to any additional expense by printing with you, i have no thought of the kind, and in that case must reimburse you. priestley, whom i sin in almost adoring, speaks of "such a choice of company as tends to keep up that, right bent and firmness of mind which a necessary intercourse with the world would otherwise warp and relax.... such fellowship is the true balsam of life; its cement is infinitely more durable than that of the friendships of the world, and it looks for its proper fruit and complete gratification to the life beyond the grave." is there a possible chance for such an one as i to realize in this world such friendships? where am i to look for 'em? what testimonials shall i bring of my being worthy of such friendship? alas! the great and good go together in separate herds, and leave such as i to lag far, far behind in all intellectual and, far more grievous to say, in all moral accomplishments. coleridge, i have not one truly elevated character among my acquaintance,--not one christian; not one but undervalues christianity. singly what am i to do? wesley (have you read his life?), was _he_ not an elevated character? wesley has said, "religion is not a solitary thing." alas! it necessarily is so with me, or next to solitary. 't is true you write to me. but correspondence by letter and personal intimacy are very widely different. do, do write to me, and do some good to my mind, already how much "warped and relaxed" by the world! 't is the conclusion of another evening. good night; god have us all in his keeping! if you are sufficiently at leisure, oblige me with an account of your plan of life at stowey; your literary occupations and prospects,--in short, make me acquainted with every circumstance which, as relating to you, can be interesting to me. are you yet a berkleyan? make me one. i rejoice in being, speculatively, a necessarian. would to god i were habitually a practical one! confirm me in the faith of that great and glorious doctrine, and keep me steady in the contemplation of it. you some time since expressed an intention you had of finishing some extensive work on the evidences of natural and revealed religion. have you let that intention go? or are you doing anything towards it? make to yourself other ten talents. my letter is full of nothingness. i talk of nothing. but i must talk. i love to write to you. i take a pride in it. it makes me think less meanly of myself. it makes me think myself not totally disconnected from the better part of mankind. i know i am too dissatisfied with the beings around me; but i cannot help occasionally exclaiming, "woe is me, that i am constrained to dwell with meshech, and to have my habitation among the tents of kedar." i know i am noways better in practice than my neighors, but i have a taste for religion, an occasional earnest aspiration after perfection, which they have not. i gain, nothing by being with such as myself,--we encourage one another in mediocrity, i am always longing to be with men more excellent than myself. all this must sound odd to you; but these are my predominant feelings when i sit down to write to you, and i should put force upon my mind, were i to reject them, yet i rejoice, and feel my privilege with gratitude, when i have been reading some wise book, such as i have just been reading,--priestley on philosophical necessity,--in the thought that i enjoy a kind of communion, a kind of friendship even, with the great and good. books are to me instead of friends, i wish they did not resemble the latter in their scarceness. and how does little david hartley? "ecquid in antiquam virtutem?" does his mighty name work wonders yet upon his little frame and opening mind? i did not distinctly understand you,--you don't mean to make an actual ploughman of him? is lloyd with you yet? are you intimate with southey? what poems is he about to publish? he hath a most prolific brain, and is indeed a most sweet poet. but how can you answer all the various mass of interrogation i have put to you in the course of the sheet? write back just what you like, only write something, however brief. i have now nigh finished my page, and got to the end of another evening (monday evening), and my eyes are heavy and sleepy, and my brain unsuggestive. i have just heart enough awake to say good night once more, and god love you, my dear friend; god love us all! mary bears an affectionate remembrance of you. charles lamb. [ ] a well-known conjuror of the time. xiii. to coleridge. _february_ , . your poem is altogether admirable--parts of it are even exquisite; in particular your personal account of the maid far surpasses anything of the sort in southey. [ ] i perceived all its excellences, on a first reading, as readily as now you have been removing a supposed film from my eyes. i was only struck with a certain faulty disproportion in the matter and the _style_, which i still think i perceive, between these lines and the former ones. i had an end in view,--i wished to make you reject the poem, only as being discordant with the other; and, in subservience to that end, it was politically done in me to over-pass, and make no mention of, merit which, could you think me capable of _overlooking_, might reasonably damn forever in your judgment all pretensions in me to be critical. there, i will be judged by lloyd whether i have not made a very handsome recantation. i was in the case of a man whose friend has asked him his opinion of a certain young lady; the deluded wight gives judgment against her _in toto_,--don't like her face, her walk, her manners; finds fault with her eyebrows; can see no wit in her. his friend looks blank; he begins to smell a rat; wind veers about; he acknowledges her good sense, her judgment in dress, a certain simplicity of manners and honesty of heart, something too in her manners which gains upon you after a short acquaintance;--and then her accurate pronunciation of the french language, and a pretty, uncultivated taste in drawing. the reconciled gentleman smiles applause, squeezes him by the hand, and hopes he will do him the honor of taking a bit of dinner with mrs. ---- and him--a plain family dinner--some day next week; "for, i suppose, you never heard we were married. i'm glad to see you like my wife, however; you 'll come and see her, ha?" now am i too proud to retract entirely? yet i do perceive i am in some sort straitened; you are manifestly wedded, to this poem, and what fancy has joined, let no man separate, i turn me to the "joan of arc," second book. the solemn openings of it are with sounds which, lloyd would say, "are silence to the mind." the deep preluding strains are fitted to initiate the mind, with a pleasing awe, into the sublimest mysteries of theory concerning man's nature and his noblest destination,--the philosophy of a first cause; of subordinate agents in creation superior to man; the subserviency of pagan worship and pagan faith to the introduction of a purer and more perfect religion, which you so elegantly describe as winning, with gradual steps, her difficult way northward from bethabara. after all this cometh joan, a _publican's_ daughter, sitting on an ale-house _bench_, and marking the _swingings_ of the _signboard_, finding a poor man, his wife and six children, starved to death with cold, and thence roused into a state of mind proper to receive visions emblematical of equality,--which, what the devil joan had to do with, i don't know, or indeed with the french and american revolutions; though that needs no pardon, it is executed so nobly. after all, if you perceive no disproportion, all argument is vain; i do not so much object to parts. again, when you talk of building your fame on these lines in preference to the "religious musings," i cannot help conceiving of you and of the author of that as two different persons, and i think you a very vain man. i have been re-reading your letter. much of it i _could_ dispute; but with the latter part of it, in which you compare the two joans with respect to their predispositions for fanaticism, i _toto corde_ coincide; only i think that southey's strength rather lies in the description of the emotions of the maid under the weight of inspiration. these (i see no mighty difference between _her_ describing them or _you_ describing them),--these if you only equal, the previous admirers of his poem, as is natural, will prefer his; if you surpass, prejudice will scarcely allow it, and i scarce think you will surpass, though your specimen at the conclusion (i am in earnest) i think very nigh equals them. and in an account of a fanatic or of a prophet the description of her _emotions_ is expected to be most highly finished. by the way, i spoke far too disparagingly of your lines, and, i am ashamed to say. purposely, i should like you to specify or particularize; the story of the "tottering eld," of "his eventful years all come and gone," is too general; why not make him a soldier, or some character, however, in which he has been witness to frequency of "cruel wrong and strange distress"? i think i should, when i laughed at the "miserable man crawling from beneath the coverture," i wonder i did not perceive it was a laugh of horror,--such as i have laughed at dante's picture of the famished ugolino. without falsehood, i perceive an hundred, beauties in your narrative. yet i wonder you do not perceive something out-of-the-way, something unsimple and artificial, in the expression, "voiced a sad tale." i hate made-dishes at the muses' banquet, i believe i was wrong in most of my other objections. but surely "hailed him immortal" adds nothing to the terror of the man's death, which it was your business to heighten, not diminish by a phrase which takes away all terror from it, i like that line, "they closed their eyes in sleep, nor knew 'twas death," indeed, there is scarce a line i do not like, "_turbid_ ecstasy" is surely not so good as what you had written,--"troublous." "turbid" rather suits the muddy kind of inspiration which london porter confers. the versification is throughout, to my ears, unexceptionable, with no disparagement to the measure of the "religious musings," which is exactly fitted to the thoughts. you were building your house on a rock when you rested your fame on that poem. i can scarce bring myself to believe that i am admitted to a familiar correspondence, and all the license of friendship, with a man who writes blank verse like milton. now, this is delicate flattery, _indirect_ flattery. go on with your "maid of orleans," and be content to be second to yourself. i shall become a convert to it, when 'tis finished. this afternoon i attend the funeral of my poor old aunt, who died on thursday. i own i am thankful that the good creature has ended all her days of suffering and infirmity. she was to me the "cherisher of infancy;" and one must fall on these occasions into reflections, which it would be commonplace to enumerate, concerning death, "of chance and change, and fate in human life." good god, who could have foreseen all this but four months back! i had reckoned, in particular, on my aunt's living many years; she was a very hearty old woman. but she was a mere skeleton before she died; looked more like a corpse that had lain weeks in the grave, than one fresh dead. "truly the light is sweet, and a pleasant thing it is for the eyes to behold the sun: but let a man live many days, and rejoice in them all; yet let him remember the days of darkness, for they shall be many." coleridge, why are we to live on after all the strength and beauty of existence are gone, when all the life of life is fled, as poor burns expresses it? tell lloyd i have had thoughts of turning quaker, and have been reading, or am rather just beginning to read, a most capital book, good thoughts in good language, william penn's "no cross, no crown;" i like it immensely. unluckily i went to one of his meetings, tell hire, in st. john street, yesterday, and saw a man under all the agitations and workings of a fanatic, who believed himself under the influence of some "inevitable presence." this cured me of quakerism: i love it in the books of penn and woolman, but i detest the vanity of a man thinking he speaks by the spirit, when what he says an ordinary man might say without all that quaking and trembling. in the midst of his inspiration,--and the effects of it were most noisy,--was handed into the midst of the meeting a most terrible blackguard wapping sailor; the poor man, i believe, had rather have been in the hottest part of an engagement, for the congregation of broad-brims, together with the ravings of the prophet, were too much for his gravity, though i saw even he had delicacy enough not to laugh out. and the inspired gentleman, though his manner was so supernatural, yet neither talked, nor professed to talk anything more than good sober sense, common morality, with, now and then a declaration of not speaking from himself. among other things, looking back to this childhood and early youth, he told the meeting what a graceless young dog he had been, that in his youth he had a good share of wit. reader, if thou hadst seen the gentleman, thou wouldst have sworn that it must indeed have been many years ago, for his rueful physiognomy would have scared away the playful goddess from the meeting, where he presided, forever, a wit! a wit! what could he mean? lloyd, it minded me of falkland in the "rivals," "am i full of wit and humor? no, indeed, you are not. am i the life and soul of every company i come into? no, it cannot be said you are." that hard-faced gentleman a wit! why, nature wrote on his fanatic forehead fifty years ago, "wit never comes, that comes to all." i should be as scandalized at a _bon-mot_ issuing from his oracle-looking mouth as to see cato go down a country-dance. god love you all! you are very good to submit to be pleased with reading my nothings. 't is the privilege of friendship to talk nonsense and to have her nonsense respected. yours ever, c. lamb. [ ] see letter viii. xiv. to coleridge. _january_ , . you have writ me many kind letters, and i have answered 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 opening of a correspondence with _you_. to you i owe much under god. in my brief acquaintance with you in london, 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, though when i view myself 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 disciplined me; but the event ought to humble me. if god's judgments now fail to take away from the the heart of stone, what more grievous trials ought i not to expect? i have been very querulous, impatient under the rod, full of little jealousies and heartburnings. i had wellnigh 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 me _from_ the consideration of my poor dear mary's situation, rather than assisting me to 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 accustomed to impart my _dearest feelings_; though 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 properly and calmly, when alone. all these things the good creature 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 through the whole of our lives.... a careless and a dissolute spirit has advanced upon _me_ with large strides. 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 madness. i think you would almost make her dance within an inch of the precipice; she must be with duller fancies and cooler intellects. i know a young man of this description 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 composition in which any methodizing is required. but i thank you sincerely for the hint, and shall receive it as far as i am able,--that is, endeavor 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. [ ] mary lamb had fallen ill again. xv. to robert southey (no month, .) dear southey,--i thank you heartily for the eclogue [ ]; it pleases me mightily, being so full of picture-work and circumstances. i find no fault in it, unless perhaps that joanna's ruin is a catastrophe too trite; and this is not the first or second time you have clothed your indignation, in verse, in a tale of ruined innocence. the old lady, spinning in the sun, i hope would not disdain to claim some kindred with old margaret. i could almost wish you to vary some circumstances in the conclusion. a gentleman seducer has so often been described in prose and verse: what if you had accomplished joanna's ruin by the clumsy arts and rustic gifts of some country fellow? i am thinking, i believe, of the song,-- "an old woman clothed in gray, whose daughter was charming and young, and she was deluded away by roger's false, flattering tongue." a roger-lothario would be a novel character; i think you might paint him very well. you may think this a very silly suggestion, and so indeed it is; but, in good truth, nothing else but the first words of that foolish ballad put me upon scribbling my "rosamund." [ ] but i thank you heartily for the poem. not having anything of my own to send you in return,--though, to tell truth, i am at work upon something which, if i were to cut away and garble, perhaps i might send you an extract or two that might not displease you; but i will not do that; and whether it will come to anything, i know not, for i am as slow as a fleming painter when i compose anything. i will crave leave to put down a few lines of old christopher marlowe's; i take them from his tragedy, "the jew of malta." the jew is a famous character, quite out of nature; but when we consider the terrible idea our simple ancestors had of a jew, not more to be discommended for a certain discoloring (i think addison calls it) than the witches and fairies of marlowe's mighty successor. the scene is betwixt barabas, the jew, and ithamore, a turkish captive exposed to sale for a slave. barabas. (_a precious rascal_.) "as for myself, i walk abroad o' nights, and kill sick people groaning under walls; sometimes i go about and poison wells; and now and then, to cherish christian thieves, i am content to lose some of my crowns, that i may, walking in my gallery, see 'm go pinioned along by my door. being young, i studied physic, and began to practise first upon the italian; there i enriched the priests with burials, and always kept the sexton's arms in ure [ ] with digging graves and ringing dead men's knells. and after that, was i an engineer, and in the wars 'twixt france and germany, under pretence of serving charles the fifth, slew friend and enemy with my stratagems. then after that was i an usurer, and with extorting, cozening, forfeiting, and tricks belonging unto brokery, i fill'd the jails with bankrupts in a year, and with young orphans planted hospitals, and every moon made some or other mad; and now and then one hang'd himself for grief, pinning upon his breast a long great scroll, how i with interest tormented him." now hear ithamore, the other gentle nature, explain how he has spent his time:-- ithamore (_a comical dog_.) "faith, master, in setting christian villages on fire, chaining of eunuchs, binding galley-slaves. one time i was an hostler in an inn, and in the night-time secret would i steal to travellers' chambers, and there cut their throats. once at jerusalem, where the pilgrims kneel'd, i strewèd powder on the marble stones, and therewithal their knees would rankle so, that i have laugh'd a-good to see the cripples go limping home to christendom on stilts." barabas. "why, this is something." there is a mixture of the ludicrous and the terrible in these lines, brimful of genius and antique invention, that at first reminded me of your old description of cruelty in hell, which was in the true hogarthian style. i need not tell _you_ that marlowe was author of that pretty madrigal, "come live with me, and be my love," and of the tragedy of "edward ii.," in which are certain _lines_ unequalled in our english tongue. honest walton mentions the said madrigal under the denomination of "certain smooth verses made long since by kit marlowe." i am glad you have put me on the scent after old quarles. if i do not put up those eclogues, and that shortly, say i am no true-nosed hound. i have had a letter from lloyd; the young metaphysician of caius is well, and is busy recanting the new heresy, metaphysics, for the old dogma greek. my sister, i thank you, is quite well. she had a slight attack the other day, which frightened me a good deal; but it went off unaccountably. love and respects to edith. yours sincerely, c. lamb. [ ] the eclogue was entitled "the ruined cottage." [ ] his romance. "rosamund gray." [ ] use. xvi. to southey. _november_ , . i perfectly accord with your opinion of old wither. quarles is a wittier writer, but wither lays more hold of the heart. quarles thinks of his audience when he lectures; wither soliloquizes in company with a full heart. what wretched stuff are the "divine fancies" of quarles! religion appears to him no longer valuable than it furnishes matter for quibbles and riddles; he turns god's grace into wantonness. wither is like an old friend, whose warm-heartedness and estimable qualities make us wish he possessed more genius, but at the same time make us willing to dispense with that want. i always love w., and sometimes admire q. still, that portrait is a fine one; and the extract from "the shepherds' hunting" places him in a starry height far above quarles, if you wrote that review in "crit. rev.," i am sorry you are so sparing of praise to the "ancient marinere;" [ ] so far from calling it, as you do, with some wit but more severity, "a dutch attempt," etc., i call it a right english attempt, and a successful one, to dethrone german sublimity. you have selected a passage fertile in unmeaning miracles, but have passed by fifty passages as miraculous as the miracles they celebrate. i never so deeply felt the pathetic as in that part,-- "a spring of love gush'd from my heart, and i bless'd them unaware." it stung me into high pleasure through sufferings. lloyd does not like it; his head is too metaphysical, and your taste too correct,--at least i must allege something against you both, to excuse my own dotage,-- but you allow some elaborate beauties; you should have extracted 'em. "the ancient marinere" plays more tricks with the mind than that last poem, which is yet one of the finest written. but i am getting too dogmatical; and before i degenerate into abuse, i will conclude with assuring you that i am, sincerely yours, c. lamb. [ ] the "lyrical ballads" of wordsworth and coleridge had just appeared. the volume contained four pieces, including the "ancient mariner," by coleridge. xvii. to southey. _november_ , . * * * * * 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, exclaimeth, "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 found there was an antithesis between the darkness of his eyes and the splendor of his genius, and i acquiesced. your recipe for a turk's poison is invaluable and truly marlowish.... lloyd objects to "shutting up the womb of his purse" in my curse (which for a christian witch in a christian country is not too mild, i hope): do you object? i think there is a strangeness in the idea, as well as "shaking the poor like snakes from his door," which suits the speaker. witches illustrate, as fine ladies do, from their own familiar objects, and snakes and shutting up of wombs are in their way. i don't know that this last charge has been before brought against 'em, nor either the sour milk or the mandrake babe; but i affirm these be things a witch would do if she could. my tragedy [ ] will be a medley (as i intend it to be a medley) of laughter and tears, prose and verse, and in some places rhyme, songs, wit, pathos, humor, and if possible, sublimity,--at least, it is not a fault in my intention if it does not comprehend most of these discordant colors. heaven send they dance not the "dance of death!" i hear that the two noble englishmen [ ] have parted no sooner than they set foot on german earth; but i have not heard the reason,--possibly to give novelists a handle to exclaim, "ah me, what things are perfect!" i think i shall adopt your emendation in the "dying lover," though i do not myself feel the objection against "silent prayer." my tailor has brought me home a new coat lapelled, with a velvet collar. he assures me everybody wears velvet collars now. some are born fashionable, some achieve fashion, and others, like your humble servant, have fashion thrust upon them. the rogue has been making inroads hitherto by modest degrees, foisting upon me an additional button, recommending gaiters; but to come upon me thus in a full tide of luxury, neither becomes him as a tailor or the ninth of a man. my meek gentleman was robbed the other day, coming with his wife and family in a one-horse shay from hampstead; the villains rifled him of four guineas, some shillings and halfpence, and a bundle of customers' measures, which they swore were bank-notes. they did not shoot him, and when they rode off he addressed them with profound gratitude, making a congee: "gentlemen, i wish you good-night; and we are very much obliged to you that you have not used us ill!" and this is the cuckoo that has the audacity to foist upon me ten buttons on a side and a black velvet collar,--a cursed ninth of a scoundrel! when you write to lloyd, he wishes his jacobin correspondents to address him as _mr._ c. l. love and respects to edith. i hope she is well. yours sincerely, c. lamb. [ ] this quaint scholar, a marvel of simplicity and universal optimism, is a constantly recurring and delightfully humorous character in the letters. lamb and dyer had been schoolfellows at christ's hospital. [ ] john woodvil. [ ] coleridge and wordsworth, who started for germany together. xviii. to southey. _march_ , , i am hugely pleased with your "spider," "your old freemason," as you call him. the three first stanzas are delicious; they seem to me a compound of burns and. old quarles, those kind of home-strokes, where more is felt than strikes the ear,--a terseness, a jocular pathos which makes one feel in laughter. the measure, too, is novel and pleasing. i could almost wonder rob burns in his lifetime never stumbled upon it. the fourth stanza is less striking, as being less original. the fifth falls off. it has no felicity of phrase, no old-fashioned phrase or feeling. "young hopes, and love's delightful dreams," savor neither of burns nor quarles; they seem more like shreds of many a modern sentimental sonnet. the last stanza hath nothing striking in it, if i except the two concluding lines, which are burns all over. i wish, if you concur with me, these things could be looked to. i am sure this is a kind of writing which comes tenfold better recommended to the heart, comes there more like a neighbor or familiar, than thousands of hamnels and zillahs and madelons. i beg you will send me the "holly-tree," if it at all resemble this, for it must please me. i have never seen it. i love this sort of poems, that open a new intercourse with the most despised of the animal and insect race. i think this vein may be further opened; peter pindar hath very prettily apostrophized a fly; burns hath his mouse and his louse; coleridge, less successfully, hath made overtures of intimacy to a jackass,--therein only following at unresembling distance sterne and greater cervantes. besides these, i know of no other examples of breaking down the partition between us and our "poor earth-born companions." it is sometimes revolting to be put in a track of feeling by other people, not one's own immediate thoughts, else i would persuade you, if i could (i am in earnest), to commence a series of these animal poems, which might have a tendency to rescue some poor creatures from the antipathy of mankind. some thoughts come across me: for instance, to a rat, to a toad, to a cockchafer, to a mole,--people bake moles alive by a slow oven-fire to cure consumption. rats are, indeed, the most despised and contemptible parts of god's earth, i killed a rat the other day by punching him to pieces, and feel a weight of blood upon me to this hour. toads, you know, are made to fly, and tumble down and crush all to pieces. cockchafers are old sport; then again to a worm, with an apostrophe to anglers,--those patient tyrants, meek inflictors of pangs intolerable, cool devils; [ ] to an owl; to all snakes, with an apology for their poison; to a cat in boots or bladders. your own fancy, if it takes a fancy to these hints, will suggest many more. a series of such poems, suppose them accompanied with plates descriptive of animal torments,--cooks roasting lobsters, fishmongers crimping skates, etc.,--would take excessively, i will willingly enter into a partnership in the plan with you; i think my heart and soul would go with it too,--at least, give it a thought. my plan is but this minute come into my head; but it strikes me instantaneously as something new, good, and useful, full of pleasure and full of moral. if old quarles and wither could live again, we would invite them into our firm. burns hath done his part. poor sam le grice! i am afraid the world and the camp and the university have spoiled him among them. 'tis certain he had at one time a strong capacity of turning out something better. i knew him, and that not long since, when he had a most warm heart. i am ashamed of the indifference i have sometimes felt towards him. i think the devil is in one's heart. i am under obligations to that man for the warmest friendship and heartiest sympathy, [ ] even for an agony of sympathy expressed both by word and deed, and tears for me when i was in my greatest distress. but i have forgot that,--as, i fear, he has nigh forgot the awful scenes which were before his eyes when he served the office of a comforter to me. no service was too mean or troublesome for him to perform. i can't think what but the devil, "that old spider," could have suck'd my heart so dry of its sense of all gratitude. if he does come in your way, southey, fail not to tell him that i retain a most affectionate remembrance of his old friendliness, and an earnest wish to resume our intercourse. in this i am serious. i cannot recommend him to your society, because i am afraid whether he be quite worthy of it. but i have no right to dismiss him from _my_ regard. he was at one time, and in the worst of times, my own familiar friend, and great comfort to me then. i have known him to play at cards with my father, meal-times excepted, literally all day long, in long days too, to save me from being teased by the old man when i was not able to bear it. god bless him for it, and god bless you, southey! c. l. [ ] leigh hunt says: "walton says that an angler does no hurt but to fish; and this he counts as nothing.... now, fancy a genius fishing for us. fancy him baiting a great hook with pickled salmon, and, twitching up old izaac walton from the banks of the river lee, with the hook through his ear. how he would go up, roaring and screaming, and thinking the devil had got him! "'other joys are but toys.' walton." [ ] see letter vi. xix. to thomas manning [ ]. _march_ , . i hope by this time you are prepared to say the "falstaff's letters" are a bundle of the sharpest, queerest, profoundest humors of any these juice-drained latter times have spawned. i should have advertised you that the meaning is frequently hard to be got at,--and so are the future guineas that now lie ripening and aurifying in the womb of some undiscovered potosi; but dig, dig, dig, dig, manning! i set to with an unconquerable propulsion to write, with a lamentable want of what to write. my private goings on are orderly as the movements of the spheres, and stale as their music to angels' ears. public affairs, except as they touch upon me, and so turn into private, i cannot whip up my mind to feel any interest in, i grieve, indeed, that war and nature and mr. pitt, that hangs up in lloyd's best parlour, should have conspired to call up three necessaries, simple commoners as our fathers knew them, into the upper house of luxuries,--bread and beer and coals, manning. but as to france and frenchmen, and the abbé siéyès and his constitutions, i cannot make these present times present to me. i read histories of the past, and i live in them; although, to abstract senses, they are far less momentous than the noises which keep europe awake. i am reading burnet's "own times." did you ever read that garrulous, pleasant history? he tells his story like an old man, past political service, bragging to his sons on winter evenings of the part he took in public transactions when "his old cap was new." full of scandal, which all true history is. no palliatives; but all the stark wickedness that actually gives the _momentum_ to national actors. quite the prattle of age and outlived importance. truth and sincerity staring out upon you perpetually in _alto relievo_. himself a party man, he makes you a party man. none of the cursed philosophical humeian indifference, so cold and unnatural and inhuman! none of the cursed gibbonian fine writing, so fine and composite. none of dr. robertson's periods with three members. none of mr. roscoe's sage remarks, all so apposite, and coming in so clever, lest the reader should have had the trouble of drawing an inference. burnet's good old prattle i can bring present to my mind; i can make the revolution present to me: the french revolution, by a converse perversity in my nature, i fling as far _from_ me. to quit this tiresome subject, and to relieve you from two or three dismal yawns, which i hear in spirit, i here conclude my more than commonly obtuse letter,--dull up to the dulness of a dutch commentator on shakspeare. my love to lloyd and sophia. c. l. [ ] to this remarkable person we are largely indebted for some of the best of lamb's letters. he was mathematical tutor at caius college, cambridge, and in later years became somewhat famous as an explorer of the remoter parts of china and thibet. lamb had been introduced to him, during a cambridge visit, by charles lloyd, and afterwards told crabb robinson that he was the most "wonderful man" he ever met. an account of manning will be found in the memoir prefixed to his "journey to lhasa," in - . (george bogle and thomas manning's journey to thibet and lhasa, by c.r. markham, .) xx. to coleridge, _may_ , , my dear coleridge,--i don't know why i write, except 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 nothing 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 dreadful; nor is it the least of our evils that her case and all our story is so well 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. c. lamb. [ ] the lambs' old servant. xxi. to manning. before _june_, . dear manning,--i feel myself unable to thank you sufficiently 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 me to live in town, where we shall be much more _private_, and to quit a house and neighborhood where poor mary's disorder, so frequently recurring, has made us a sort of marked people. we can be nowhere private except in the midst of london. we shall 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 prospect, 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 pleasure. farewell. c. lamb. xxii. to coleridge, _august_, , . dear coleridge,--i have taken to-day and delivered to longman and co., _imprimis_: your books, viz., three ponderous german dictionaries, one volume (i can find no more) of german and french ditto, sundry other german books unbound, as you left them, percy's ancient poetry, and one volume of anderson's poets. i specify them, that you may not lose any. _secundo_: a dressing-gown (value, fivepence), in which you used to sit and look like a conjuror when you were translating "wallenstein." a case of two razors and a shaving-box and strap. this it has cost me a severe struggle to part with. they are in a brown-paper parcel, which also contains sundry papers and poems, sermons, _some few epic_ poems,--one about cain and abel, which came from poole, etc., and also your tragedy; with one or two small german books, and that drama in which got-fader performs. _tertio_: a small oblong box containing _all your letters_, collected from all your waste papers, and which fill the said little box. all other waste papers, which i judged worth sending, are in the paper parcel aforesaid. but you will find _all_ your letters in the box by themselves. thus have i discharged my conscience and my lumber-room of all your property, save and except a folio entitled tyrrell's "bibliotheca politica," which you used to learn your politics out of when you wrote for the post,--_mutatis mutandis, i. e._, applying past inferences to modern _data_. i retain that, because i am sensible i am very deficient in the politics myself; and i have torn up--don't be angry; waste paper has risen forty per cent, and i can't afford to buy it--all bonaparte's letters, arthur young's treatise on corn, and one or two more light-armed infantry, which i thought better suited the flippancy of london discussion than the dignity of keswick thinking. mary says you will be in a passion about them when you come to miss them; but you must study philosophy. read albertus magnus de chartis amissis five times over after phlebotomizing,--'t is burton's recipe,--and then be angry with an absent friend if you can. sara is obscure. am i to understand by her letter that she sends a _kiss_ to eliza buckingham? pray tell your wife that a note of interrogation on the superscription of a letter is highly ungrammatical! she proposes writing my name _lambe? lamb_ is quite enough. i have had the anthology, and like only one thing in it,--_lewti_; but of that the last stanza is detestable, the rest most exquisite! the epithet _enviable_ would dash the finest poem. for god's sake (i never was more serious), don't make me ridiculous any more by terming me gentle-hearted in print, or do it in better verses. [ ] it did well enough five years ago, when i came to see you, and was moral coxcomb enough at the time you wrote the lines, to feed upon such epithets: but, besides that, the meaning of "gentle" is equivocal at best, and almost always means "poor-spirited;" the very quality of gentleness is abhorrent to such vile trumpetings. my _sentiment_ is long since vanished. i hope my _virtues_ have done _sucking_. i can scarce think but you meant it in joke. i hope you did, for i should be ashamed to think you could think to gratify me by such praise, fit only to be a cordial to some green-sick sonneteer. [ ] an allusion to coleridge's lines, "this lime-tree bower my prison," wherein he styles lamb "my gentle-hearted charles." xxiii. to manning. _august_, . dear manning,--i am going to ask a favor of you, and am at a loss how to do it in the most delicate mariner. for this purpose i have been looking into pliny's letters, who is noted to have had the best grace in begging of all the 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 excellent poet, george dyer, made me a visit yesternight on purpose 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 assistance. you must know he is just now diverted from the pursuit of bell letters by a paradox, which he has heard his friend frend [ ] (that learned mathematician) maintain, that the negative quantities of mathematicians were _merae nugae_,--things scarcely _in rerum naturâ_, and smacking too much of mystery for gentlemen of mr. frend's clear unitarian capacity. however, the dispute, once set a-going, has seized violently on george's pericranick; 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 has 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 find on saturday morning, lying for him at the porter's lodge, clifford's inn.--his safest address,--manning's algebra, with a neat manuscriptum in the blank leaf, running thus, "from the 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 infinite regret of the whole literary world. n.b.--dirty books, smeared leaves, and dogs' ears will be rather a recommendation than otherwise. n.b.--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 laws of verse; to prove that theocritus first introduced the pastoral, 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 imposed 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 _studies_ (not to mention his _turn_, which i take to be chiefly towards the lyrical poetry) hardly qualified him for these disquisitions, i modestly inquired what plays he had read. i found by george's reply that he _had_ read shakspeare, but that was a good while since: he calls him a great but irregular genius, which i think to be an original and just remark. (beaumont and fletcher, massinger, ben jonson, 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 shakspeare, 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 accompany your _present_ with a dissertation on negative quantities. c. l. [ ] manning, while at cambridge, published a work on algebra. [ ] the rev. william frend, who was expelled from cambridge for unitarianism. xxiv. to manning. . george dyer is an archimedes and an archimagus and a tycho brahé 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 carcase on the monday, and after dining with us on tripe, calves' kidneys, or whatever else the cornucopia of st. clare may be willing to pour out on the occasion, might we not adjourn together to the 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 _his_,--oh, the long time!) with tears of joy. thou shouldst settle his scruples, and unravel his cobwebs, and sponge off the sad stuff that weighs upon his dear wounded pia mater; thou shouldst restore light to his eyes, and him to his friends and the public; parnassus 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. anderson, 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, jumping up, he begged to know where he could meet with wilkie's work. "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 eight thousand lines!" i was pleased with this transient return of his reason and recurrence to his old ways of thinking; it gave me great hopes of a recovery, which nothing but your book can completely insure. pray come on monday if you _can_, 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 _not_ 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. johnson's malevolent strictures on the higher species of the ode. c. lamb. xxv. to coleridge. _august_ , . my head is playing all the tunes in the world, ringing such peals! it has just finished the "merry christ church bells," and absolutely is beginning "turn again, whittington." buz, buz, buz; bum, bum, bum; wheeze, wheeze, wheeze; fen, fen, fen; tinky, tinky, tinky; _cr'annch_. i shall certainly come to be condemned at last. i have been drinking too much for two days running. i find my moral sense in the last stage of a consumption, and my religion getting faint. this is disheartening, but i trust the devil will not overpower me. in the midst of this infernal torture conscience is barking and yelping as loud as any of them. i have sat down to read over again, and i think i do begin to spy out something with beauty and design in it. i perfectly accede to all your alterations, and only desire that you had cut deeper, when your hand was in. * * * * * 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. the first volume contains every sort of poetry except personal satire, which george, in his truly original prospectus, renounceth forever, whimsically 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, thomsonian, masonic, and akensidish more especially. the second volume is all criticism; wherein he demonstrates to the entire satisfaction of the literary world, in a way that must silence all reply forever, 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 warning to all moderns); that charles lloyd, charles lamb, and william wordsworth, in later days, have struck the true chords of poesy. oh, george, george, with a head uniformly wrong and a heart uniformly right, that i had power and might equal to my wishes; then would i call 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 subscribers! i can only put twelve shillings 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." c. l. xxvi. to manning. _august_ , . dear manning,--you need not imagine any apology necessary. your fine hare and fine birds (which just now 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 consistence of bread and cream (yclept bread-sauce), each to each giving double grace, do mutually illustrate and set off (as skilful gold-foils to rare jewels) 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), yearneth sometimes to have thee here to pick a wing or so. i question if your norfolk sauces match our london culinarie. george dyer has introduced me to the table of an agreeable old gentleman, dr. anderson, 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 preposterously before his small dwelling, which, with the circumstance 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 better 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 Æneid, blind harry, etc. we returned home in a return postchaise (having dined with the doctor); and george kept wondering 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 begged 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 genius!" this fine genius, without anything to show for it or any title beyond george's courtesy, without even a name, and barbour and douglas and blind harry now are the predominant sounds in george's pia mater, and their buzzings exclude politics, criticism, and algebra,--the late 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, reiterated as often as possible, there could be nothing painful, nothing distracting. god bless me, here are the birds, smoking hot! all that is gross and unspiritual in me rises at the sight! avaunt friendship and all memory of absent friends! c. lamb. xxvii. to coleridge. _august_ , . george dyer is the only literary character i am happily 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 brought a dr. anderson [ ] to see me. the doctor is a very pleasant old man, a great genius 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, etc., verbally copied from _homer_. george, who had been sitting quite inattentive to the doctor's criticism, no sooner heard the sound of _homer_ strike his pericraniks, than up he gets, and declares he must see that poem immediately: where was it to be had? an epic poem of eight thousand 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 had 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, knowing that his peculiar _turn_ lies in the lyric species of composition, 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 was 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 aristotle and some others have imposed upon it,--which is very good-natured of him, and very necessary just now! now i am _touching_ so _deeply_ upon poetry, can i forget that i have just received from cottle a magnificent copy of his guinea epic. [ ] four-and-twenty books to read in the dog days! i got as far as the mad monk the first day, and fainted. mr, cottle's genius strongly points him to the _pastoral_, but his inclinations divert him perpetually from his calling. he imitates southey, as rowe did shakspeare, with his "good morrow to ye, good master lieutenant," instead of _a_ man, _a_ woman, _a_ daughter, he constantly writes "one a man," "one a woman," "one his daughter." instead of _the_ king, _the_ hero, he constantly writes, "he the king," "he the hero,"--two flowers of rhetoric palpably from the "joan." but mr, cottle 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 nothing, with adders' tongues for bannisters,--good heaven, 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 together! c. l. [ ] see preceding letter. [ ] alfred. xxviii. to coleridge. _october_ , . i suppose you have heard of the death of amos cottle. i paid a solemn visit of condolence to his brother, accompanied by george dyer, of burlesque memory. i went, trembling, to see poor cottle so immediately upon the event. he was in black, and his younger brother was also in black. everything wore an aspect suitable to the respect due to the freshly dead. for some time after our entrance, nobody spake, till george modestly put in a question, whether "alfred" was likely to sell. this was lethe to cottle, and his poor face wet with tears, and his kind eye brightened up in a moment. now i felt it was my cue to speak. i had to thank him for a present of a magnificent copy, and had promised to send him my remarks,--the least thing i could do; so i ventured to suggest that i perceived a considerable improvement he had made in his first book since the state in which he first read it to me. joseph, who till now had sat with his knees cowering in by the fireplace, wheeled about, and with great difficulty of body shifted the same round to the corner of a table where i was sitting, and first stationing one thigh over the other, which is his sedentary mood, and placidly fixing his benevolent face right against mine, waited my observations. at that moment it came strongly into my mind that i had got uncle toby before me, he looked so kind and so good. i could not say an unkind thing of "alfred." so i set my memory to work to recollect what was the name of alfred's queen, and with some adroitness recalled the well-known sound to cottle's ears of alswitha. at that moment i could perceive that cottle had forgot his brother was so lately become a blessed spirit. in the language of mathematicians, the author was as , the brother as . i felt my cue, and strong pity working at the root, i went to work and beslabber'd "alfred" with most unqualified praise, or only qualifying my praise by the occasional polite interposition of an exception taken against trivial faults, slips, and human imperfections, which, by removing the appearance of insincerity, did but in truth heighten the relish. perhaps i might have spared that refinement, for joseph was in a humor to hope and believe _all things_. what i said was beautifully supported, corroborated, and confirmed by the stupidity of his brother on my left hand, and by george on my right, who has an utter incapacity of comprehending that there can be anything bad in poetry. all poems are _good_ poems to george; all men are _fine geniuses_. so what with my actual memory, of which i made the most, and cottle's own helping me out, for i _really_ had forgotten a good deal of "alfred," i made shift to discuss the most essential parts entirely to the satisfaction of its author, who repeatedly declared that he loved nothing better than _candid_ criticism. was i a candid greyhound now for all this? or did i do right? i believe i did. the effect was luscious to my conscience. for all the rest of the evening amos was no more heard of, till george revived the subject by inquiring whether some account should not be drawn up by the friends of the deceased to be inserted in "phillips's monthly obituary;" adding, that amos was estimable both for his head and heart, and would have made a fine poet if he had lived. to the expediency of this measure cottle fully assented, but could not help adding that he always thought that the qualities of his brother's heart exceeded those of his head. i believe his brother, when living, had formed precisely the same idea of him; and i apprehend the world will assent to both judgments. i rather guess that the brothers were poetical rivals. i judged so when i saw them together. poor cottle, i must leave him, after his short dream, to muse again upon his poor brother, for whom i am sure in secret he will yet shed many a tear. now send me in return some greta news. c. l. xxix. to manning. _october_ , . dear manning,--had you written one week before you did, i certainly should have obeyed your injunction; you should have seen me before my letter. i will explain to you my situation. there are six of us in one department. two of us (within these four days) are confined with severe fevers: and two more, who belong to the tower militia, expect to have marching orders on friday. now, six are absolutely necessary. i have already asked and obtained two young hands to supply the loss of the _feverites;_ and with the other prospect before me, you may believe i cannot decently ask leave of absence for myself. all i can promise (and i do promise with the sincerity of saint peter, and the contrition of sinner peter if i fail) [is] that i will come _the very first spare week_, and go nowhere till i have been at cambridge. no matter if you are in a state of pupilage when i come; for i can employ myself in cambridge very pleasantly in the mornings. are there not libraries, halls, colleges, books, pictures, statues? i wish you had made london in your way. there is an exhibition quite uncommon in europe, which could not have escaped _your genius_,--a live rattlesnake, ten feet in length, and the thickness of a big leg. i went to see it last night by candlelight. we were ushered into a room very little bigger than ours at pentonville. a man and woman and four boys live in this room, joint tenants with nine snakes, most of them such as no remedy has been discovered for their bite. we walked into the middle, which is formed by a half-moon of wired boxes, all mansions of snakes,--whip-snakes, thunder-snakes, pig-nose-snakes, american vipers, and _this monster_. he lies curled up in folds; and immediately a stranger enters (for he is used to the family, and sees them play at cards) he set up a rattle like a watchman's in london, or near as loud, and reared up a head, from the midst of these folds, like a toad, and shook his head, and showed every sign a snake can show of irritation. i had the foolish curiosity to strike the wires with my finger, and the devil flew at me with his toad-mouth wide open: the inside of his mouth is quite white. i had got my finger away, nor could he well have bit me with his big mouth, which would have been certain death in five minutes. but it frightened me so much that i did not recover my voice for a minute's space. i forgot, in my fear, that he was secured. you would have forgot too, for 't is incredible how such a monster can be confined in small gauzy-looking wires. i dreamed of snakes in the night. i wish to heaven you could see it. he absolutely swelled with passion to the bigness of a large thigh. i could not retreat without infringing on another box, and just behind, a little devil, not an inch from my back, had got his nose out, with some difficulty and pain, quite through the bars! he was soon taught better manners. all the snakes were curious, and objects of terror; but this monster, like aaron's serpent, swallowed up the impression of the rest. he opened his cursed mouth, when he made at me, as wide as his head was broad. i hallooed out quite loud, and felt pains all over my body with the fright. i have had the felicity of hearing george dyer read out one book of "the farmer's boy." i thought it rather childish. no doubt, there is originality in it (which, in your self-taught geniuses, is a most rare quality, they generally getting hold of some bad models in a scarcity of books, and forming their taste on them), but no _selection. all_ is, described. mind, i have only heard read one book. yours sincerely, philo-snake, c. l. xxx. to manning. _november_ , , _ecquid meditatur archimedes?_ what is euclid doing? what has happened to learned trismegist? doth he take it in ill part that his humble friend did not comply with his courteous invitation? let it suffice, i could not come. are impossibilities nothing?--be they abstractions of the intellects, or not (rather) most sharp and mortifying realities? nuts in the will's mouth too hard for her to crack? brick and stone walls in her way, which she can by no means eat through? sore lets, _impedimenta viarum_, no thoroughfares? _racemi nimium alte pendentes?_? is the phrase classic? i allude to the grapes in aesop, which cost the fox a strain, and gained the world an aphorism. observe the superscription of this letter. in adapting the size of the letters which constitute _your_ name and mr. _crisp's_ name respectively, i had an eye to your different stations in life. 'tis really curious, and must be soothing to an _aristocrat_ i wonder it has never been hit on before my time. i have made an acquisition latterly of a _pleasant hand_, one rickman, [ ] to whom i was introduced by george dyer,--not the most flattering auspices under which one man can be introduced to another. george brings all sorts of people together, setting up a sort of agrarian law, or common property, in matter of society; but for once he has done me a great pleasure, while he was only pursuing a principle, as _ignes fatui may_ light you home. this rickman lives in our buildings, immediately opposite our house; the finest fellow to drop in a' nights, about nine or ten o'clock,--cold bread-and-cheese time,--just in the _wishing_ time of the night, when you _wish_ for somebody to come in, without a distinct idea of a probable anybody. just in the nick, neither too early to be tedious, nor too late to sit a reasonable time. he is a most pleasant hand,--a fine, rattling fellow, has gone through life laughing at solemn apes; himself hugely literate, oppressively full of information in all stuff of conversation, from matter of fact to xenophon and plato; can talk greek with porson, politics with thelwall, conjecture with george dyer, nonsense with me, and anything with anybody; a great farmer, somewhat concerned in an agricultural magazine; reads no poetry but shakspeare, very intimate with southey, but never reads his poetry; relishes george dyer, thoroughly penetrates into the ridiculous wherever found, understands the _first time_ (a great desideratum in common minds),--you need never twice speak to him; does not want explanations, translations, limitations, as professor godwin does when you make an assertion; _up_ to anything, _down_ to everything, --whatever _sapit hominem_. a perfect _man_. all this farrago, which must perplex you to read, and has put me to a little trouble to _select_, only proves how impossible it is to describe a _pleasant hand_. you must see rickman to know him, for he is a species in one,--a new class; an exotic, any slip of which i am proud to put in my garden-pot. the clearest-headed fellow; fullest of matter, with least verbosity. if there be any alloy in my fortune to have met with such a man, it is that he commonly divides his time between town and country, having some foolish family ties at christchurch, by which means he can only gladden our london hemisphere with returns of light. he is now going for six weeks. [ ] john rickman, clerk-assistant at the table of the house of commons, an eminent statistician, and the intimate friend of lamb, southey, and others of their set. xxxi. to manning. _november_ , dear manning,--i have received a very kind invitation from lloyd and sophia to go and spend a month with them at the lakes. now, it fortunately happens (which is so seldom the case) that i have spare cash by me enough to answer the expenses of so long a journey; and i am determined to get away from the office by some means. the purpose of this letter is to request of you (my dear friend) that you will not take it unkind if i decline my proposed visit to cambridge _for the present_. perhaps i shall be able to take cambridge _in my way_, going or coming. i need not describe to you the expectations which such an one as myself, pent up all my life in a dirty city, have formed of a tour to the lakes. consider grasmere! ambleside! wordsworth! coleridge! hills, woods, lakes, and mountains, to the devil! i will eat snipes with thee, thomas manning. only confess, confess, a _bite_. p.s.--i think you named the th; but was it not modest of lloyd to send such an invitation! it shows his knowledge of _money_ and _time_. i would be loth to think he meant "ironic satire sidelong sklented on my poor pursie." [ ] for my part, with reference to my friends northward, i must confess that i am not romance-bit about _nature_. the earth and sea and sky (when all is said) is but as a house to dwell in. if the inmates be courteous, and good liquors flow like the conduits at an old coronation, if they can talk sensibly and feel properly, i have no need to stand staring upon the gilded looking-glass (that strained my friend's purse-strings in the purchase), nor his five-shilling print over the mantelpiece of old nabbs the carrier (which only betrays his false taste). just as important to me (in a sense) is all the furniture of my world,--eye-pampering, but satisfies no heart. streets, streets, streets, markets, theatres, churches, covent gardens, shops sparkling with pretty faces of industrious milliners, neat sempstresses, ladles cheapening, gentlemen behind counters lying, authors in the street with spectacles, george dyers (you may know them by their gait), lamps lit at night, pastry-cooks' and silversmiths' shops, beautiful quakers of pentonville, noise of coaches, drowsy cry of mechanic watchman at night, with bucks reeling home drunk; if you happen to wake at midnight, cries of "fire!" and "stop, thief!" inns of court, with their learned air, and halls, and butteries, just like cambridge colleges; old book-stalls, jeremy taylors, burtons on melancholy, and religio medicis on every stall. these are thy pleasures, o london with-the-many-sins! o city abounding in--, for these may keswick and her giant brood go hang! c. l. [ ] burns. xxxii. to manning. _december_ , . at length george dyer's phrenitis 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 pertinaciously 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 that's the reason he wore nankeen that 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, expressly formed for the exclusion of such impertinents. then he caught at a proof-sheet, and catched up a laundress'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 impressions of his poems, which were ready for delivery to subscribers, and the preface must all be expunged. there were eighty pages of preface, and not till that morning had he discovered that in the very first page of said preface he had set out with a principle of criticism fundamentally wrong, which vitiated all his following reasoning. the preface must be expunged, although it cost him £ ,--the lowest calculation, taking in paper and printing! in vain have his real friends remonstrated against this midsummer 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!_" * * * * * man of many snipes, i will sup with thee, _deo volente ei diabolo nolente_, on monday night the th of january, in the new year, and crush a cup to the infant century. a word or two of my progress. embark at six o'clock in the morning, with a fresh gale, on a cambridge one-decker; very cold till eight at night; land at st. mary's lighthouse, muffins and coffee upon table (or any other curious production of turkey or both indies), snipes exactly at nine, punch to commence at ten, with _argument_; difference of opinion is expected to take place about eleven; perfect unanimity, with some haziness and dimness, before twelve. n. b.--my single affection is not so singly wedded to snipes; but the curious and epicurean eye would also take a pleasure in beholding a delicate and well-chosen assortment of teals, ortolans, the unctuous and palate-soothing flesh, of geese wild and tame, nightingales' brains, the sensorium of a young sucking-pig, or any other christmas dish, which i leave to the judgment of you and the cook of gonville. c. lamb. xxxiii. to coleridge. (end of ) i send you, in this parcel, my play, which i beg you to present in my name, with my respect and love, to wordsworth and his sister. you blame us for giving your direction to miss wesley; the woman has been ten times after us about it, and we gave it her at last, under the idea that no further harm would ensue, but she would _once_ write to you, and you would bite your lips and forget to answer it, and so it would end. you read us a dismal homily upon "realities." we know quite as well as you do what are shadows and what are realities. you, for instance, when you are over your fourth or fifth jorum, chirping about old school occurrences, are the best of realities. shadows are cold, thin things, that have no warmth or grasp in them. miss wesley and her friend, and a tribe of authoresses, that come after you here daily, and, in defect of you, hive and cluster upon us, are the shadows. you encouraged that mopsey, miss wesley, to dance after you, in the hope of having her nonsense put into a nonsensical anthology. we have pretty well shaken her off, by that simple expedient of referring her to you; but there are more burrs in the wind. i came home t'other day from business, hungry as a hunter, to dinner, with nothing, i am sure, of _the author but hunger_ about me, and whom found i closeted with mary but a friend of this miss wesley, one miss benje, or bengey, [ ]--i don't know how she spells her name, i just came is time enough, i believe, luckily, to prevent them from exchanging vows of eternal friendship. it seems she is one of your authoresses, that you first foster, and then upbraid us with. but i forgive you. "the rogue has given me potions to make me love him." well; go she would not, nor step a step over our threshold, till we had promised to come and drink tea with her next night, i had never seen her before, and could not tell who the devil it was that was so familiar. we went, however, not to be impolite. her lodgings are up two pairs of stairs in east street, tea and coffee and macaroons--a kind of cake--i much love. we sat down. presently miss benje broke the silence by declaring herself quite of a different opinion from d'lsraeli, who supposes the differences of human intellect to be the mere effect of organization. she begged to know my opinion. i attempted to carry it off with a pun upon organ; but that went off very flat. she immediately conceived a very low opinion of my metaphysics; and turning round to mary, put some question to her in french,--possibly having heard that neither mary nor i understood french. the explanation that took place occasioned some embarrassment and much wondering. she then fell into an insulting conversation about the comparative genius and merits of all modern languages, and concluded with asserting that the saxon was esteemed the purest dialect in germany. from thence she passed into the subject of poetry, where i, who had hitherto sat mute and a hearer only, humbly hoped i might now put in a word to some advantage, seeing that it was my own trade in a manner. but i was stopped by a round assertion that no good poetry had appeared since dr. johnson's time. it seems the doctor had suppressed many hopeful geniuses that way by the severity of his critical strictures in his "lives of the poets." i here ventured to question the fact, and was beginning to appeal to _names_; but i was assured "it was certainly the case." then we discussed miss more's book on education, which i had never read. it seems dr. gregory, another of miss bengey's friends, has found fault with one of miss more's metaphors. miss more has been at some pains to vindicate herself,--in the opinion of miss bengey, not without success. it seems the doctor is invariably against the use of broken or mixed metaphor, which he reprobates against the authority of shakspeare himself. we next discussed the question whether pope was a poet. i find dr. gregory is of opinion he was not, though miss seward does not at all concur with him in this. we then sat upon the comparative merits of the ten translations of "pizarro," and miss bengey, or benje, advised mary to take two of them home; she thought it might afford her some pleasure to compare them _verbatim_; which we declined. it being now nine o'clock, wine and macaroons were again served round, and we parted, with a promise to go again next week, and meet the miss porters, who, it seems, have heard much of mr. coleridge, and wish to meet _us_, because we are _his_ friends. i have been preparing for the occasion. i crowd cotton in my ears. i read all the reviews and magazines of the past month against the dreadful meeting, and i hope by these means to cut a tolerable second-rate figure. pray let us have no more complaints about shadows. we are in a fair way, _through you_, to surfeit sick upon them. our loves and respects to your host and hostess. our dearest love to coleridge. take no thought about your proof-sheets; they shall be done as if woodfall himself did them. pray send us word of mrs. coleridge and little david hartley, your little reality. farewell, dear substance. take no umbrage at anything i have written. c. lamb, _umbra_. [ ] miss elizabeth benger. see "dictionary of nationai biography," iv. . xxxiv. to wordsworth. _january_, . thanks for your letter and present. i had already borrowed your second volume. [ ] what pleases one most is "the song of lucy.". _simon's sickly daughter_, in "the sexton," made me _cry_. next to these are the description of these continuous echoes in the story of "joanna's laugh," where the mountains and all the scenery absolutely seem alive; and that fine shakspearian character of the "happy man" in the "brothers,"-- "that creeps about the fields, following his fancies by the hour, to bring tears down his cheek, 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, although he hear them not. here the mind knowingly passes a fiction upon herself, first substituting her own feeling for the beggar's, and in the same breath detecting the fallacy, will not part with the wish. 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 in 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 beautiful, bare narratives. there is implied, an unwritten compact between author and reader: "i will tell you a story, 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," etc, i will here have done with praise and blame, i have written so much only that you may not think i have passed over your book without observation.... 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 us--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 pipe's magic whistle. i totally differ from your idea that the "marinere" should have had a character and a profession. this is a beauty in "gulliver's travels," where the mind is kept in a placid state of little wonderments; but the "ancient marinere" undergoes 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 observation is, i think as well, a little unfounded: the "marinere," from being conversant in supernatural events, _has_ acquired a supernatural and strange cast of _phrase_, eye, appearance, etc., which frighten the "wedding guest." you will excuse my remarks, because i am hurt and vexed that you should think it necessary, with a prose apology, to open the eyes of dead men that cannot see. 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" and "the mad mother," and the "lines at tintern abbey" in the first. c. l. [ ] of the "lyrical ballads" then just published. for certain results of lamb's strictures in this letter, see letter xxxvii. xxxv. to wordsworth. _january_ , . i ought before this to have replied to your very kind invitation into cumberland. with you and your sister i could gang anywhere; but i am afraid whether i shall ever be able to afford so desperate a journey. separate from the pleasure of your company, i don't much care if i never see a mountain in my life. i have passed all my days in london, until i have formed as many and intense local attachments as any of you mountaineers can have done with dead nature. the lighted shops of the strand and fleet street; the innumerable trades, tradesmen, and customers; coaches, wagons, playhouses; all the bustle and wickedness round about covent garden; the very women of the town; the watchmen, drunken scenes, rattles; life awake, if you awake, at all hours of the night; the impossibility of being dull in fleet street; the crowds, the very dirt and mud, the sun shining upon houses and pavements; the print-shops, the old-book stalls, parsons cheapening books; coffee-houses, steams of soups from kitchens; the pantomimes, london itself a pantomime and a masquerade,--all these things work themselves into my mind, and feed me without a power of satiating me. the wonder of these sights impels me into night-walks about her crowded streets, and i often shed tears in the motley strand from fulness of joy at so much life. all these emotions must be strange to you; so are your rural emotions to me. but consider what must i have been doing all my life, not to have lent great portions of my heart with usury to such scenes? my attachments are all local, purely local,--i have no passion (or have had none since i was in love, and then it was the spurious engendering of poetry and books) to groves and valleys. the rooms where i was bom, the furniture which has been before my eyes all my life, a bookcase which has followed me about like a faithful dog (only exceeding him in knowledge), wherever i have moved; old chairs, old tables; streets, squares, where i have sunned myself; my old school,--these are my mistresses. have i not enough without your mountains? i do not envy you. i should pity you, did i not know that the mind will make friends with anything. your sun and moon, and skies and hills and lakes, affect me no more or scarcely come to be in more venerable characters, than as a gilded room with tapestry and tapers, where i might live with handsome visible objects. i consider the clouds above me but as a roof beautifully painted, but unable to satisfy the mind, and at last, like the pictures of the apartment of a connoisseur, unable to afford him any longer a pleasure. so fading upon me, from disuse, have been the beauties of nature, as they have been confidently called; so ever fresh and green and warm are all the inventions of men and assemblies of men in this great city. i should certainly have laughed with dear joanna. give my kindest love _and my sister's_ to d. and yourself. and a kiss from me to little barbara lewthwaite. [ ] thank you for liking my play! c.l. xxxvi. to manning. _february_, . i am going to change my lodgings, having received a hint that it would be agreeable, at our lady's next feast. i have partly fixed upon most delectable rooms, which look out (when you stand a-tiptoe) over the thames and surrey hills, at the upper end of king's bench walks, in the temple. there i shall have all the privacy of a house without the encumbrance; and shall be able to lock my friends out as often as i desire to hold free converse with my immortal mind; for my present lodgings resemble a minister's levee, i have so increased my acquaintance (as they call 'em), since i have resided in town. like the country mouse, that had tasted a little of urban manners, i long to be nibbling my own cheese by my dear self without mousetraps and time-traps. by my new plan, i shall be as airy, up four pair of stairs, as in the country; and in a garden, in the midst of enchanting, more than mahometan paradise, london, whose dirtiest drab-frequented alley, and her lowest-bowing tradesman, i would not exchange for skiddaw, helvellyn, james, walter, and the parson into the bargain. oh, her lamps of a night; her rich goldsmiths, print-shops, toy-shops, mercers, hardwaremen, pastrycooks; st. paul's churchyard; the strand; exeter 'change; charing cross, with a man _upon_ a black horse! these are thy gods, o london! ain't you mightily moped on the banks of the cam? had not you better come and set up here? you can't think what a difference. all the streets and pavements are pure gold, i warrant you,--at least, i know an alchemy that turns her mud into that metal: a mind that loves to be at home in crowds. 'tis half-past twelve o'clock, and all sober people ought to be a-bed. between you and me, the l. ballads are but drowsy performances. c. lamb (as you may guess). [ ] the child in wordsworth's "the pet lamb." xxxvii. to manning. _february_ , . i had need be cautious henceforward what opinion i give of the "lyrical ballads." all the north of england are in a turmoil. cumberland and westmoreland have already declared a state of war. i lately received from wordsworth a copy of the second volume, accompanied by an acknowledgment of having received from me many months since a copy of a certain tragedy, with excuses for not having made any acknowledgment sooner, it being owing to an "almost insurmountable aversion from letter-writing." this letter i answered in due form and time, and enumerated several of the passages which had most affected me, adding, unfortunately, that no single piece had moved me so forcibly as the "ancient mariner," "the mad mother," or the "lines at tintern abbey." the post did not sleep a moment. i received almost instantaneously a long letter of four sweating pages from my reluctant letter-writer, the purport of which was that he was sorry his second volume had not given me more pleasure (devil a hint did i give that it had _not pleased me_), and "was compelled to wish that my range of sensibility was more extended, being obliged to believe that i should receive large influxes of happiness and happy thoughts" (i suppose from the l. b.),--with a deal of stuff about a certain union of tenderness and imagination, which, in the sense he used imagination, was not the characteristic of shakspeare, but which milton possessed in a degree far exceeding other poets; which union, as the highest species of poetry, and chiefly deserving that name, "he was most proud to aspire to;" then illustrating the said union by two quotations from his own second volume (which i had been so unfortunate as to miss.) first specimen; a father addresses his son:-- "when thou first camest into the world, as it befalls to new-born infants, thou didst sleep away two days; _and blessings from thy father's tongue then fell upon thee_." the lines were thus undermarked, and then followed, "this passage, as combining in an extraordinary degree that union of tenderness and imagination which i am speaking of, i consider as one of the best i ever wrote." second specimen: a youth, after years of absence, revisits his native place, and thinks (as most people do) that there has been strange alteration in his absence,-- "and that the rocks and everlasting hills themselves were changed." you see both these are good poetry; but after one has been reading shakspeare twenty of the best years of one's life, to have a fellow start up and prate about some unknown quality which shakspeare possessed in a degree inferior to milton and _somebody else_! this was not to be _all_ my castigation. coleridge, who had not written to me for some months before, starts up from his bed of sickness to reprove me for my tardy presumption; four long pages, equally sweaty and more tedious, came from him, assuring me that when the works of a man of true genius, such as w. undoubtedly was, do not please me at first sight, i should expect the fault to lie "in me, and not in them," etc. what am i to do with such people? i certainly shall write them a very merry letter. writing to _you_, i may say that the second volume has no such pieces as the three i enumerated. it is full of original thinking and an observing mind; but it does not often make you laugh or cry. it too artfully aims at simplicity of expression. and you sometimes doubt if simplicity be not a cover for poverty. the best piece in it i will send you, being _short_. i have grievously offended my friends in the north by declaring my undue preference; but i need not fear you. "she dwelt among the untrodden ways beside the springs of dove,-- a maid whom there were few (_sic_) to praise, and very few to love. "a violet, by a mossy stone half hidden from the eye, fair as a star when only one is shining in the sky. "she lived unknown; and few could know when lucy ceased to be; but she is in the grave, and oh, the difference to me!" this is choice and genuine, and so are many, many more. but one does riot like to have 'em rammed down one's throat. "pray take it,--it's very good; let me help you,--eat faster." xxxviii. to manning, _september_ , my dear manning,--since the date of my last tetter, i have been a traveller, a strong desire seized me of visiting remote regions. my first impulse was to go aod see paris. it was a trivial objection to my aspiring mind that i did not understand a word of the language, since i certainly intend some time in my life to see paris, and equally certainly never intend to learn the language; therefore that could be no objection. however, i am very glad i did not go, because you had left paris (i see) before i could have set out. i believe stoddart promising to go with me another year prevented that plan. my next scheme (for to my restless, ambitious mind london was become a bed of thorns) was to visit the far-famed peak in derbyshire, where the devil sits, they say, without breeches. _this_ my purer mind rejected as indelicate. and my final resolve was a tour to the lakes. i set out with mary to keswick, without giving coleridge any notice; for my time, being precious, did not admit of it. he received us with all the hospitality tality in the world, and gave up his time to show us all the wonders of the country. he dwells upon a small hill by the side of keswick, in a comfortable house, quite enveloped on all sides by a net of mountains,--great floundering bears and monsters they seemed, all couchant and asleep. we got in in the evening, travelling in a post-chaise from penrith, in the midst of a gorgeous sunshine, which transmuted all the mountains into colors, purple, etc. we thought we had got into fairy-land. but that went off (as it never came again; while we stayed, we had no more fine sunsets); and we entered coleridge's comfortable study just in the dusk, when the mountains were all dark, with clouds upon their heads. such an impression i never received from objects of sight before, nor do i suppose that i can ever again. glorious creatures, fine old fellows, skiddaw, etc. i never shall forget ye, how ye lay about that night, like an intrenchment; gone to bed, as it seemed for the night, but promising that ye were to be seen in the morning. coleridge had got a blazing fire in his study, which is a large, antique, ill-shaped room, with an old-fashioned organ, never played upon, big enough for a church, shelves of scattered folios, an Æolian harp, and an old sofa, half-bed, etc.; and all looking out upon the last fading view of skiddaw and his broad-breasted brethren. what a night! here we stayed three full weeks, in which time i visited wordsworth's cottage, where we stayed a day or two with the clarksons (good people and most hospitable, at whose house we tarried one day and night), and saw lloyd. the wordsworths were gone to calais. they have since been in london, and passed much time with us; he has now gone into yorkshire to be married. so we have seen keswick, grasmere, ambleside, ulswater (where the clarksons live), and a place at the other end of ulswater,--i forget the name, [ ]--to which we travelled on a very sultry day, over the middle of helvellyn. we have clambered up to the top of skiddaw, and i have waded up the bed of lodore. in fine, i have satisfied myself that there is such a thing as that which tourists call _romantic_, which i very much suspected before; they make such a spluttering about it, and toss their splendid epithets around them, till they give as dim a light as at four o'clock next morning the lamps do after an illumination. mary was excessively tired when she got about half way up skiddaw; but we came to a cold rill (than which nothing can be imagined more cold, running over cold stones), and with the reinforcement of a draught of cold water she surmounted it most manfully. oh, its fine black head, and the bleak air atop of it, with a prospect of mountains all about and about, making you giddy; and then scotland afar off, and the border countries so famous in song and ballad! it was a day that will stand out like a mountain, i am sure, in my life. but i am returned (i have now been come home near three weeks; i was a month out), and you cannot conceive the degradation i felt at first, from being accustomed to wander free as air among mountains, and bathe in rivers without being controlled by any one, to come home and _work_. i felt very _little_. i had been dreaming i was a very great man. but that is going off, and i find i shall conform in time to that state of life to which it has pleased god to call me. besides, after all, fleet street and the strand are better places to live in for good and all than amidst skiddaw. still, i turn back to those great places where i wandered about, participating in their greatness. after all, i could not _live_ in skiddaw. i could spend a year,--two, three years among them; but i must have a prospect of seeing fleet street at the end of that time, or i should mope and pine away, i know. still, skiddaw is a fine creature. my habits are changing, i think,--_i.e._, from drunk to sober. whether i shall be happier or not, remains to be proved. i shall certainly be more happy in a morning; but whether i shall not sacrifice the fat and the marrow and the kidneys,--_i.e._, the night,--glorious, care-drowning night, that heals all our wrongs, pours wine into our mortifications, changes the scene from indifferent and flat to bright and brilliant? o manning, if i should have formed a diabolical resolution, by the time you come to england, of not admitting any spirituous liquors into my house, will you be my guest on such shameworthy terms? is life, with such limitations, worth trying? the truth is, that my liquors bring a nest of friendly harpies about my house, who consume me. this is a pitiful tale to be read at st. gothard; but it is just now nearest my heart. [ ] patterdale. xxxix. to coleridge, _october_ , . i read daily your political essays. i was particularly pleased with "once a jacobin;" though the argument is obvious enough, the style was less swelling than your things sometimes are, and it was plausible _ad populum_. a vessel has just arrived from jamaica with the news of poor sam le grice's death. he died at jamaica of the yellow fever. his course was rapid, and he had been very foolish; but i believe there was more of kindness and warmth in him than in almost any other of our schoolfellows. the annual meeting of the blues is to-morrow, at the london tavern, where poor sammy dined with them two years ago, and attracted the notice of all by the singular foppishness of his dress. when men go off the stage so early, it scarce seems a noticeable thing in their epitaphs, whether they had been wise or silly in their lifetime. i am glad the snuff and pi-pos's books please. "goody two shoes" is almost out of print. mrs. barbauld's stuff has banished all the old classics of the nursery; and the shopman at newberry's hardly deigned to reach them off an old exploded corner of a shelf, when mary asked for them. mrs. b.'s and mrs. trimmer's nonsense lay in piles about. knowledge insignificant and vapid as mrs. b.'s books convey, it seems, must come to the child in the _shape_ of _knowledge_, and his empty noddle must be turned with conceit of his own powers when he has learned that a horse is an animal, and billy is better than a horse, and such like; instead of that beautiful interest in wild tales which made the child a man, while all the time he suspected himself to be no bigger than a child. science has succeeded to poetry no less in the little walks of children than with men. is there no possibility of averting this sore evil? think what you would have been now, if instead of being fed with tales and old wives' fables in childhood, you had been crammed with geography and natural history! hang them!--i mean the cursed barbauld crew, those blights and blasts of all that is human in man and child. as to the translations, let me do two or three hundred lines, and then do you try the nostrums upon stuart in any way you please. if they go down, i will bray more. in fact, if i got or could but get £ a year only, in addition to what i have, i should live in affluence. have you anticipated it, or could not you give a parallel of bonaparte with cromwell, particularly as to the contrast in their deeds affecting _foreign_ states? cromwell's interference for the albigenses, b[onaparte]'s against the swiss. then religion would come in; and milton and you could rant about our countrymen of that period. this is a hasty suggestion, the more hasty because i want my supper. i have just finished chapman's homer. did you ever read it? it has most the continuous power of interesting you all along, like a rapid original, of any, and in the uncommon excellence of the more finished parts goes beyond fairfax or any of 'em. the metre is fourteen syllables, and capable of all sweetness and grandeur, cowper's ponderous blank verse detains you every step with some heavy miltonism; chapman gallops off with you his own free pace. take a simile, for example. the council breaks up,-- "being abroad, the earth was overlaid with fleckers to them, that came forth; as when of frequent bees swarms rise out of a hollow rock, repairing the degrees of _their egression endlessly,--with ever rising new_ from forth their sweet nest; as their store, still as it faded, grew, "_and never would cease sending forth her dusters to the spring_. they still crowd out so: this flock here, that there, belaboring the loaded flowers. so," etc. what _endless egression of phrases_ the dog commands! take another.--agamemnon, wounded, bearing hiss wound, heroically for the sake of the army (look below) to a woman in labor:-- "he with his lance, sword, mighty stones, poured his heroic wreak on other squadrons of the foe, whiles yet warm blood did break thro' his cleft veins: but when the wound was quite exhaust and crude, the eager anguish did approve his princely fortitude. as when most sharp and bitter pangs distract a laboring dame, which the divine ilithiæ, that rule the painful frame of human childbirth, pour on her; the ilithiæ that are the daughters of saturnia; with whose extreme repair the woman in her travail strives to take the worst it gives; with thought, _it must be, 'tis love's fruit, the end for which she lives; the mean to make herself new born, what comforts_ will redound! so," etc. i will tell you more about chapman and his peculiarities in my next. i am much interested in him. yours ever affectionately, and pi-pos's, c. l. xl. to manning. _november_, . my dear manning,--i must positively write, or i shall miss you at toulouse. i sit here like a decayed minute-hand (i lie; _that_ does not _sit_), and being myself the exponent of no time, take no heed how the clocks about me are going. you possibly by this time may have explored all italy, and toppled, unawares, into etna, while you went too near those rotten-jawed, gap-toothed, old worn-out chaps of hell,--while i am meditating a quiescent letter to the honest postmaster at toulouse. but in case you should not have been _felo de se_, this is to tell you that your letter was quite to my palate; in particular your just remarks upon industry, cursed industry (though indeed you left me to explore the reason), were highly relishing. i've often wished i lived in the golden age, before doubt, and propositions, and corollaries, got into the world. _now_, as joseph cottle, a bard of nature, sings, going up malvern hills,-- "how steep, how painful the ascent! it needs the evidence of _close deduction_ to know that ever i shall gain the top." you must know that joe is lame, so that he had some reason for so singing. these two lines, i assure you, are taken _totidem literis_ 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 toe 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 way-lay him; he thereupon pathetically exclaims,-- "_twelve_, dost thou say? curse on those dozen villains!" cottle read two or three acts out to as, very 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. xli. to manning. _february_ , . my dear manning,--the general scope of your letter afforded no indications of insanity, but some particular points raised a scruple. for god's sake, don't think any more of "independent tartary." [ ] what are you to do among such ethiopians? is there no _lineal descendant_ of prester john? is the chair empty? is the sword unswayed? depend upon it, they'll never make you their king as long as any branch of that great stock is remaining. i tremble for your christianity. they will certainly circumcise you. read sir john mandeville's travels to cure you, or come over to england. there is a tartar man now exhibiting at exeter 'change. come and talk with him, and hear what he says first. indeed, he is no very favorable specimen of his countrymen! but perhaps the best thing you can do is to _try_ to get the idea out of your head. for this purpose repeat to yourself every night, after you have said your prayers, the words "independent tartary, independent tartary," two or three times, and associate with them the _idea_ of oblivion ('t is hartley's method with obstinate memories); or say "independent, independent, have i not already got an _independence_?" that was a clever way of the old puritans,--pun-divinity. my dear friend, think what a sad pity it would be to bury such _parts_ in heathen countries, among nasty, unconversable, horse-belching, tartar people! some say they are cannibals; and then conceive a tartar fellow _eating_ my friend, and adding the _cool malignity_ of mustard and vinegar! i am afraid 't is the reading of chaucer has misled you; his foolish stories about cambuscan and the ring, and the horse of brass. believe me, there are no such things,--'t is all the poet's _invention_; but if there were such darling things as old chaucer sings, i would _up_ behind you on the horse of brass, and frisk off for prester john's country. but these are all tales; a horse of brass never flew, and a king's daughter never talked with birds! the tartars really are a cold, insipid, smouchy set. you'll be sadly moped (if you are not eaten) among them. pray _try_ and cure yourself. take hellebore (the counsel is horace's; 't was none of my thought _originally_). shave yourself oftener. eat no saffron, for saffron-eaters contract a terrible tartar-like yellow. pray to avoid the fiend. eat nothing that gives the heartburn. _shave the upper lip_. go about like an european. read no book of voyages (they are nothing but lies); only now and then a romance, to keep the fancy _under_. above all, don't go to any sights of _wild beasts. that has been your ruin_. accustom yourself to write familiar letters on common subjects to your friends in england, such as are of a moderate understanding. and think about common things more. i supped last night with rickman, and met a merry _natural_ captain, who pleases himself vastly with once having made a pun at otaheite in the o. language. 'tis the same man who said shakspeare he liked, because he was so _much of the gentleman_. rickman is a man "absolute in all numbers." i think i may one day bring you acquainted, if you do not go to tartary first; for you'll never come back. have a care, my dear friend, of anthropophagi! their stomachs are always craving. 'tis terrible to be weighed out at fivepence a pound. to sit at table (the reverse of fishes in holland), not as a guest, but as a meat! god bless you! do come to england. air and exercise may do great things. talk with some minister. why not your father? god dispose all for the best! i have discharged my duty. your sincere friend, c. lamb. [ ] manning had evidently written to lamb as to his cherished project of exploring remoter china and thibet. xlii. to manning. _february_, . not a sentence, not a syllable, of trismegistus shall be lost through my neglect. i am his word-banker, his storekeeper of puns and syllogisms. you cannot conceive (and if trismegistus cannot, no man can) the strange joy which i felt at the receipt of a letter from paris. it seemed to give me a learned importance which placed me above all who had not parisian correspondents. believe that i shall carefully husband every scrap, which will save you the trouble of memory when you come back. you cannot write things so trifling, let them only be about paris, which i shall not treasure. in particular, i must have parallels of actors and actresses. i must be told if any building in paris is at all comparable to st. paul's, which, contrary to the usual mode of that part of our nature called admiration, i have looked up to with unfading wonder every morning at ten o'clock, ever since it has lain in my way to business. at noon i casually glance upon it, being hungry; and hunger has not much taste for the fine arts. is any night-walk comparable to a walk from st. paul's to charing cross, for lighting and paving, crowds going and coming without respite, the rattle of coaches, and the cheerfulness of shops? have you seen a man guillotined yet? is it as good as hanging? are the women _all_ painted, and the men _all_ monkeys? or are there not a _few_ that look like _rational_ of _both sexes_? are you and the first consul _thick_? all this expense of ink i may fairly put you to, as your letters will not be solely for my proper pleasure, but are to serve as memoranda and notices, helps for short memory, a kind of rumfordizing recollection, for yourself on your return. your letter was just what a letter should be,--crammed and very funny. every part of it pleased me, till you came to paris, and your philosophical indolence or indifference stung me. you cannot stir from your rooms till you know the language! what the devil! are men nothing but word-trumpets? are men all tongue and ear? have these creatures, that you and i profess to know _something about_, no faces, gestures, gabble; no folly, no absurdity, no induction of french education upon the abstract idea of men and women; no similitude nor dissimilitude to english? why, thou cursed smellfungus! your account of your landing and reception, and bullen (i forget how you spell it,--it was spelt my way in harry the eighth's time), was exactly in that minute style which strong impressions inspire (writing to a frenchman, i write as a frenchman would). it appears to me as if i should die with joy at the first landing in a foreign country. it is the nearest pleasure which a grown man can substitute for that unknown one, which he can never know,--the pleasure of the first entrance into life from the womb. i daresay, in a short time, my habits would come back like a "stronger man" armed, and drive out that new pleasure; and i should soon sicken for known objects. nothing has transpired here that seems to me of sufficient importance to send dry-shod over the water; but i suppose you will want to be told some news. the best and the worst to me is, that i have given up two guineas a week at the "post," and regained my health and spirits, which were upon the wane. i grew sick, and stuart unsatisfied. _ludisti satis, tempus abire est_; i must cut closer, that's all. mister fell--or as you, with your usual facetiousness and drollery, call him, mr. fell--has stopped short in the middle of his play. some _friend_ has told him that it has not the least merit in it. oh that i had the rectifying of the litany! i would put in a _libera nos (scriptores videlicet) ab amicis_! that's all the news. _a propos_ (is it pedantry, writing to a frenchman, to express myself sometimes by a french word, when an english one would not do as well? methinks my thoughts fall naturally into it)-- in all this time i have done but one thing which i reckon tolerable, and that i will transcribe, because it may give you pleasure, being a picture of _my_ humors. you will find it in my last page. it absurdly is a first number of a series, thus strangled in its birth. more news! the professor's rib [ ] has come out to be a disagreeable woman, so much so as to drive me and some more old cronies from his house. he must not wonder if people are shy of coming to see him because of the _snakes_. c. l. [ ] mrs. godwin xliii. to william godwin. _november_ , . dear godwin,--you never made a more unlucky and perverse mistake than to suppose that the reason of my not writing that cursed thing was to be found in your book. i assure you most sincerely that i have been greatly delighted with "chaucer." [ ] i may be wrong, but i think there is one considerable error runs through it, which is a conjecturing spirit, a fondness for filling out the picture by supposing what chaucer did and how he felt, where the materials are scanty. so far from meaning to withhold from you (out of mistaken tenderness) this opinion of mine, i plainly told mrs. godwin that i did find a _fault_, which i should reserve naming until i should see you and talk it over. this she may very well remember, and also that i declined naming this fault until she drew it from me by asking me if there was not too much fancy in the work. i then confessed generally what i felt, but refused to go into particulars until i had seen you. i am never very fond of saying things before third persons, because in the relation (such is human nature) something is sure to be dropped. if mrs. godwin has been the cause of your misconstruction, i am very angry, tell her; yet it is not an anger unto death. i remember also telling mrs. g. (which she may have _dropt_) that i was by turns considerably more delighted than i expected. but i wished to reserve all this until i saw you. i even had conceived an expression to meet you with, which was thanking you for some of the most exquisite pieces of criticism i had ever read in my life. in particular, i should have brought forward that on "troilus and cressida" and shakspeare, which, it is little to say, delighted me and instructed me (if not absolutely _instructed_ me, yet put into _full-grown sense_ many conceptions which had arisen in me before in my most discriminating moods). all these things i was preparing to say, and bottling them up till i came, thinking to please my friend and host the author, when lo! this deadly blight intervened. i certainly ought to make great allowances for your misunderstanding me. you, by long habits of composition and a greater command gained over your own powers, cannot conceive of the desultory and uncertain way in which i (an author by fits) sometimes cannot put the thoughts of a common letter into sane prose. any work which i take upon myself as an engagement will act upon me to torment; _e.g._, when i have undertaken, as three or four times i have, a school-boy copy of verses for merchant taylors' boys, at a guinea a copy, i have fretted over them in perfect inability to do them, and have made my sister wretched with my wretchedness for a week together. the same, till by habit i have acquired a mechanical command, i have felt in making paragraphs. as to reviewing, in particular, my head is so whimsical a head that i cannot, after reading another man's book, let it have been never so pleasing, give any account of it in any methodical way, i cannot follow his train. something like this you must have perceived of me in conversation. ten thousand times i have confessed to you, talking of my talents, my utter inability to remember in any comprehensive way what i read. i can vehemently applaud, or perversely stickle, at _parts_; but i cannot grasp at a whole. this infirmity (which is nothing to brag of) may be seen in my two little compositions, the tale and my play, in both which no reader, however partial, can find any story. i wrote such stuff about chaucer, and got into such digressions, quite irreducible into / column of a paper, that i was perfectly ashamed to show it you. however, it is become a serious matter that i should convince you i neither slunk from the task through a wilful deserting neglect, or through any (most imaginary on your part) distaste of "chaucer;" and i will try my hand again,--i hope with better luck. my health is bad, and my time taken up; but all i can spare between this and sunday shall be employed for you, since you desire it: and if i bring you a crude, wretched paper on sunday, you must burn it, and forgive me; if it proves anything better than i predict, may it be a peace-offering of sweet incense between us! c. lamb. [ ] godwin's "life of chaucer,"--a work, says canon ainger, consisting of "four fifths ingenious guessing to one fifth of material having any historic basis." xliv. to manning. _february_ , . dear manning,--i have been very unwell since i saw you. a sad depression of spirits, a most unaccountable nervousness; from which i have been partially relieved by an odd accident. you knew dick hopkins, the swearing scullion of caius? this fellow, by industry and agility, has thrust himself into the important situations (no sinecures, believe me) of cook to trinity hall and caius college; and the generous creature has contrived, with the greatest delicacy imaginable, to send me a present of cambridge brawn. what makes it the more extraordinary is, that the man never saw me in his life that i know of. i suppose he has _heard_ of me. i did not immediately recognize the donor; but one of richard's cards, which had accidentally fallen into the straw, detected him in a moment, dick, you know, was always remarkable for flourishing. his card imports that "orders [to wit, for brawn] from any part of england, scotland, or ireland, will be duly executed," etc. at first i thought of declining the present; but richard knew my blind side when he pitched upon brawn. 'tis of all my hobbies the supreme in the eating way. he might have sent sops from the pan, skimmings, crumpets, chips, hog's lard, the tender brown judiciously scalped from a fillet of veal (dexterously replaced by a salamander), the tops of asparagus, fugitive livers, runaway gizzards of fowls, the eyes of martyred pigs, tender effusions of laxative woodcocks, the red spawn of lobsters, leverets' ears, and such pretty filchings common to cooks; but these had been ordinary presents, the everyday courtesies of dishwashers to their sweethearts. brawn was a noble thought. it is not every common gullet-fancier that can properly esteem it. it is like a picture of one of the choice old italian masters. its gusto is of that hidden sort. as wordsworth sings of a modest poet, "you must love him, ere to you he will seem worthy of your love," so brawn, you must taste it, ere to you it will seem to have any taste at all. but 'tis nuts to the adept,--those that will send out their tongues and feelers to find it out. it will be wooed, and not unsought be won. now, ham-essence, lobsters, turtle, such popular minions, absolutely _court you_, lay themselves out to strike you at first smack, like one of david's pictures (they call him _darveed_), compared with the plain russet-coated wealth of a titian or a correggio, as i illustrated above. such are the obvious glaring heathen virtues of a corporation dinner, compared with the reserved collegiate worth of brawn. do me the favour to leave off the business which you may be at present upon, and go immediately to the kitchens of trinity and caius, and make my most respectful compliments to mr. richard hopkins, and assure him that his brawn is most excellent, and that i am moreover obliged to him for his innuendo about salt water and bran, which i shall not fail to improve. i leave it to you whether you shall choose to pay him the civility of asking him to dinner while you stay in cambridge, or in whatever other way you may best like to show your gratitude to _my friend_. richard hopkins, considered in many points of view, is a very extraordinary character. adieu. i hope to see you to supper in london soon, where we will taste richard's brawn, and drink his health in a cheerful but moderate cup. we have not many such men in any rank of life as mr. r. hopkins. crisp the barber, of st. mary's, was just such another. i wonder _he_ never sent me any little token,--some chestnuts, or a puff, or two pound of hair just to remember him by; gifts are like nails. _præsens ut absens_, that is, your _present_ makes amends for your absence. yours, c. lamb. xlv. to miss wordsworth. _june_ , . my dear miss wordsworth,--i have every reason to suppose that this illness, like all mary's former ones, will be but temporary. but i cannot always feel so. meantime she is dead to me, and i miss a prop. all my strength is gone, and i am like a fool, bereft of her co-operation. i dare not think, iest i should think wrong; so used am i to look up to her in the least and the biggest perplexity. to say all that i know of her, would be more than i think anybody could believe or ever 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 imperfections 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 me; and i know i have been wasting and teasing her life for five years past incessantly 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. i am stupid, and lose myself in what i write. i write rather what answers to my feelings (which are sometimes sharp enough) than express my present ones, for i am only flat and stupid. i am sure you will excuse my writing any more, i am so very poorly. i cannot resist transcribing three or four lines which poor mary made upon a picture (a holy family) which we saw at an auction only one week before she left home. they are sweet lines, and upon a sweet picture. but i send them only as the last memorial of her. virgin and child, l. da vinci. "maternal lady, with thy virgin-grace, heaven-born thy jesus seemeth, sure, and thou a virgin pure. lady most perfect, when thy angel face men look upon, they wish to be a catholic, madonna fair, to worship thee." you had her lines about the "lady blanch." you have not had some which she wrote upon a copy of a girl from titian, which i had hung up where that print of blanch and the abbess (as she beautifully interpreted two female figures from l. da vinci) had hung in our room. 'tis light and pretty. "who art thou, fair one, who usurp'st the place of blanch, the lady of the matchless grace? come, fair and pretty, tell to me who in thy lifetime thou mightst be? thou pretty art and fair, but with the lady blanch thou never must compare. no need for blanch her history to tell, whoever saw her face, they there did read it well; but when i look on thee, i only know there lived a pretty maid some hundred years ago," this is a little unfair, to tell so much about ourselves, and to advert so little to your letter, so full of comfortable tidings of you all but my own cares press pretty close upon me, and you can make allowance. that you may go on gathering strength and peace is my next wish to mary's recovery. i had almost forgot your repeated invitation. supposing that mary will be well and able, there is another _ability_ which you may guess at, which i cannot promise myself. in prudence we ought not to come. this illness will make it still more prudential to wait. it is not a balance of this way of spending our money against another way, but an absolute question of whether we shall stop now, or go on wasting away the little we have got beforehand, which my evil conduct has already encroached upon one-half. my best love, however, to you all, and to that most friendly creature. mrs. clarkson, and better health to her, when you see or write to her. charles lamb. xlvi. [ ] to manning. _may_ , . my dear manning,--i didn't know what your going was till i shook a last fist with you, and then 'twas just like having shaken hands with a wretch on the fatal scaffold, and when you are down the ladder, you can never stretch out to him again. mary says you are dead, and there's nothing to do but to leave it to time to do for us in the end what it always does for those who mourn for people in such a case. but she'll see by your letter you are not quite dead. a little kicking and agony, and then--martin burney _took me out_ a walking that evening, and we talked of manning; and then i came home and smoked for you, and at twelve o'clock came home mary and monkey louisa from the play, and there was more talk and more smoking, and they all seemed first-rate characters, because they knew a certain person. but what's the use of talking about 'em? by the time you'll have made your escape from the kalmuks, you'll have stayed so long i shall never be able to bring to your mind who mary was, who will have died about a year before, nor who the holcrofts were! me perhaps you will mistake for phillips, or confound me with mr. dawe, because you saw us together. mary (whom you seem to remember yet) is not quite easy that she had not a formal parting from you. i wish it had so happened. but you must bring her a token, a shawl or something, and remember a sprightly little mandarin for our mantelpiece, as a companion to the child i am going to purchase at the museum. she says you saw her writings about the other day, and she wishes you should know what they are. she is doing for godwin's bookseller twenty of shakspeare's plays, to be made into children's tales. six are already done by her; to wit: "the tempest," "winter's tale," "midsummer night's dream," "much ado," "two gentlemen of verona," and "cymbeline;" and "the merchant of venice" is in forwardness. i have done "othello" and "macbeth," and mean to do all the tragedies. i think it will be popular among the little people, besides money. it's to bring in sixty guineas. mary has done them capitally, i think you'd think. [ ] these are the humble amusements we propose, while you are gone to plant the cross of christ among barbarous pagan anthropophagi. _quam homo homini præstat!_ but then, perhaps, you'll get murdered, and we shall die in our beds, with a fair literary reputation. be sure, if you see any of those people whose heads do grow beneath their shoulders, that you make a draught of them. it will be very curious. oh, manning, i am serious to sinking almost, when i think that all those evenings, which you have made so pleasant, are gone perhaps forever. four years you talk of, maybe ten; and you may come back and find such alterations! some circumstances may grow up to you or to me that may be a bar to the return of any such intimacy. i daresay all this is hum, and that all will come back; but indeed we die many deaths before we die, and i am almost sick when i think that such a hold as i had of you is gone. i have friends, but some of 'em are changed. marriage, or some circumstance, rises up to make them not the same. but i felt sure of you. and that last token you gave me of expressing a wish to have my name joined with yours, you know not how it affected me,--like a legacy. god bless you in every way you can form a wish! may he give you health, and safety, and the accomplishment of all your objects, and return you again to us to gladden some fireside or other (i suppose we shall be moved from the temple). i will nurse the remembrance of your steadiness and quiet, which used to infuse something like itself into our nervous minds. mary called you our ventilator. farewell! and take her best wishes and mine. good by. c.l. [ ] addressed: "mr, manning, passenger on board the 'thames,' east indiaman, portsmouth." manning had set out for canton. [ ] miss lamb has amusingly described the progress of their labors on this volume; "you would like to see us, as we often sit writing on one table (but not on one cushion sitting), like hermia and helena, in the 'midsummer night's dream;' or rather like an old literary darby and joan, i taking snuff, and he groaning all the while, and saying he can make nothing of it, which he always says till he has finished, and then he finds out that he has made something of it." xlvii. to wordsworth. _june_, . dear wordsworth,--we are pleased, you may be sure, with the good news of mrs. wordsworth. [ ] hope all is well over by this time. "a fine boy! have you any more?--one more and a girl,--poor copies of me!" _vide_ "mr. h.," a farce which the proprietors have done me the honor--but i set down mr, wroughton's own words, n. b.--the ensuing letter was sent in answer to one which i wrote, begging to know if my piece had any chance, as i might make alterations, etc, i writing on monday, there comes this letter on the wednesday. attend. [_copy of a letter from mr. r. wroughton_.] sir,--your piece of "mr. h.," i am desired to say, is accepted at drury lane theatre by the proprietors, and if agreeable to you, will be brought forwards when the proper opportunity serves. the piece shall be sent to you for your alterations in the course of a few days, as the same is not in my hands, but with the proprietors, i am, sir, your obedient servant, richard wroughton. [dated] , gower street, wednesday, june th, . on the following sunday mr. tobin comes. the scent of a manager's letter brought him. he would have gone farther any day on such a business. i read the letter to him. he deems it authentic and peremptory. our conversation naturally fell upon pieces, different sorts of pieces,--what is the best way of offering a piece; how far the caprice of managers is an obstacle in the way of a piece; how to judge of the merits of a piece; how long a piece may remain in the hands of the managers before it is acted; and my piece, and your piece, and my poor brother's piece,--my poor brother was all his life endeavoring to get a piece accepted. i wrote that in mere wantonness of triumph. have nothing more to say about it. the managers, i thank my stars, have decided its merits forever. they are the best judges of pieces, and it would be insensible in me to affect a false modesty, after the very flattering letter which i have received. [illustration: admit to boxes. mr. h. _ninth night_ charles lamb] i think this will be as good a pattern for orders as i can think on. a little thin flowery border, round, neat, not gaudy, and the drury lane apollo, with the harp at the top. or shall i have no apollo,--simply nothing? or perhaps the comic muse? the same form, only i think without the apollo, will serve for the pit and galleries. i think it will be best to write my name at full length; but then if i give away a great many, that will be tedious. perhaps _ch. lamb_ will do. boxes, now i think on it, i'll have in capitals; the rest, in a neat italian hand. or better, perhaps, bores in old english characters, like madoc or thalaba? _a propos_ of spenser (you will find him mentioned a page or two before, near enough for an _à propos_), i was discoursing on poetry (as one's apt to deceive one's self, and when a person is willing to _talk_ of what one likes, to believe that be also likes the same, as lovers do) with a young gentleman of my office, who is deep read in anacreon moore, lord strangford, and the principal modern poets, and i happened to mention epithalamiums, and that i could show him a very fine one of spenser's. at the mention of this my gentleman, who is a very fine gentleman, pricked up his ears and expressed great pleasure, and begged that i would give him leave to copy it; he did not care how long it was (for i objected the length), he should be very happy to see _anything by him_. then pausing, and looking sad, he ejaculated, "poor spencer!" i begged to know the reason of his ejaculation, thinking that time had by this time softened down any calamities which the bard might have endured. "why, poor fellow," said he, "he has lost his wife!" "lost his wife!" said i, "who are you talking of?" "why, spencer!" said he; "i've read the monody he wrote on the occasion, and _a very pretty thing it is_." this led to an explanation (it could be delayed no longer) that the sound _spenser_, which, when poetry is talked of, generally excites an image of an old bard in a ruff, and sometimes with it dim notions of sir p. sidney and perhaps lord burleigh, had raised in my gentleman a quite contrary image of the honorable william spencer, who has translated some things from the german very prettily, which are published with lady di beauclerk's designs. nothing like defining of terms when we talk. what blunders might i have fallen into of quite inapplicable criticism, but for this timely explanation! n.b.--at the beginning of _edm._ spenser (to prevent mistakes), i have copied from my own copy, and primarily from a book of chalmers's on shakspeare, a sonnet of spenser's never printed among his poems. it is curious, as being manly, and rather miltonic, and as a sonnet of spenser's with nothing in it about love or knighthood. i have no room for remembrances, but i hope our doing your commission will prove we do not quite forget you. c. l. [ ] wordsworth's son thomas was born june , . xlviii. to manning _december_ , . manning, your letter, dated hottentots, august the what-was-it? came to hand. i can scarce hope that mine will have the same luck. china, canton,--bless us, how it strains the imagination and makes it ache! i write under another uncertainty whether it can go to-morrow by a ship which i have just learned is going off direct to your part of the world, or whether the despatches may not be sealed up and this have to wait; for if it is detained here, it will grow staler in a fortnight than in a five months' voyage coming to you. it will be a point of conscience to send you none but bran-new news (the latest edition), which will but grow the better, like oranges, for a sea-voyage. oh that you should be so many hemispheres off!--if i speak incorrectly, you can correct me. why, the simplest death or marriage that takes place here must be important to you as news in the old bastile. there's your friend tuthill has got away from france--you remember france? and tuthill?--ten to one but he writes by this post, if he don't get my note in time, apprising him of the vessel sailing. know, then, that he has found means to obtain leave from bonaparte, without making use of any _incredible romantic pretences_, as some have done, who never meant to fulfil them, to come home; and i have seen him here and at holcroft's. an't you glad about tuthill? now then be sorry for holcroft, whose new play, called "the vindictive man," was damned about a fortnight since. it died in part of its own weakness, and in part for being choked up with bad actors. the two principal parts were destined to mrs. jordan and mr. bannister; but mrs. j. has not come to terms with the managers,--they have had some squabble,--and bannister shot some of his fingers off by the going off of a gun. so miss duncan had her part, and mr. de camp took his. his part, the principal comic hope of the play, was most unluckily goldfinch, taken out of the "road to ruin,"--not only the same character, but the identical goldfinch; the same as falstaff is in two plays of shakspeare. as the devil of ill-luck would have it, half the audience did not know that h. had written it, but were displeased at his stealing from the "road to ruin;" and those who might have home a gentlemanly coxcomb with his "that's your sort," "go it,"--such as lewis is,--did not relish the intolerable vulgarity and inanity of the idea stripped of his manner. de camp was hooted, more than hissed,--hooted and bellowed off the stage before the second act was finished; so that the remainder of his part was forced to be, with some violence to the play, omitted. in addition to this, a strumpet was another principal character,--a most unfortunate choice in this moral day. the audience were as scandalized as if you were to introduce such a personage to their private tea-tables. besides, her action in the play was gross,--wheedling an old man into marriage. but the mortal blunder of the play was that which, oddly enough, h. took pride in, and exultingly told me of the night before it came out, that there were no less than eleven principal characters in it, and i believe he meant of the men only, for the play-bill expressed as much, not reckoning one woman and one--; and true it was, for mr. powell, mr. raymond, mr. bartlett, mr. h. siddons, mr. barrymore, etc., to the number of eleven, had all parts equally prominent, and there was as much of them in quantity and rank as of the hero and heroine, and most of them gentlemen who seldom appear but as the hero's friend in a farce,--for a minute or two,--and here they all had their ten-minute speeches, and one of them gave the audience a serious account how he was now a lawyer, but had been a poet; and then a long enumeration of the inconveniences of authorship, rascally booksellers, reviewers, etc.; which first set the audience a-gaping. but i have said enough; you will be so sorry that you will not think the best of me for my detail: but news is news at canton. poor h. i fear will feel the disappointment very seriously in a pecuniary light. from what i can learn, he has saved nothing. you and i were hoping one day that he had; but i fear he has nothing but his pictures and books, and a no very flourishing business, and to be obliged to part with his long-necked guido that hangs opposite as you enter, and the game-piece that hangs in the back drawing-room, and all those vandykes, etc.! god should temper the wind to the shorn connoisseur. i hope i need not say to you that i feel for the weather-beaten author and for all his household. i assure you his fate has soured a good deal the pleasure i should have otherwise taken in my own little farce being accepted, and i hope about to be acted,--it is in rehearsal actually, and i expect it to come out next week. it is kept a sort of secret, and the rehearsals have gone on privately, lest by many folks knowing it, the story should come out, which would infallibly damn it. you remember i had sent it before you went. wroughton read it, and was much pleased with it. i speedily got an answer. i took it to make alterations, and lazily kept it some months, then took courage and furbished it up in a day or two and took it. in less than a fortnight i heard the principal part was given to elliston, who liked it, and only wanted a prologue, which i have since done and sent; and i had a note the day before yesterday from the manager, wroughton (bless his fat face, he is not a bad actor in some things), to say that i should be summoned to the rehearsal after the next, which next was to be yesterday. i had no idea it was so forward. i have had no trouble, attended no reading or rehearsal, made no interest; what a contrast to the usual parade of authors! but it is peculiar to modesty to do all things without noise or pomp! i have some suspicion it will appear in public on wednesday next, for w. says in his note, it is so forward that if wanted it may come out next week, and a new melodrama is announced for every day till then; and "a new farce is in rehearsal," is put up in the bills. now, you'd like to know the subject. the title is "mr. h.," no more; how simple, how taking! a great h. sprawling over the play-bill and attracting eyes at every corner. the story is a coxcomb appearing at bath, vastly rich, all the ladies dying for him, all bursting to know who he is; but he goes by no other name than mr. h.,--a curiosity like that of the dames of strasburg about the man with the great nose. but i won't tell you any more about it. yes, i will, but i can't give you an idea how i have done it. i'll just tell you that after much vehement admiration, when his true name comes out, "hogs-flesh," all the women shun him, avoid him, and not one can be found to change their name for him,--that's the idea,--how flat it is here; [ ] but how whimsical in the farce! and only think how hard upon me it is that the ship is despatched to-morrow, and my triumph cannot be ascertained till the wednesday after; but all china will ring of it by and by. n.b. (but this is a secret,) the professor [ ] has got a tragedy coming out, with the young roscius in it, in january next, as we say,--january last it will be with you; and though it is a profound secret now, as all his affairs are, it cannot be much of one by the time you read this. however, don't let it go any farther. i understand there are dramatic exhibitions in china. one would not like to be forestalled. do you find in all this stuff i have written anything like those feelings which one should send my old adventuring friend, that is gone to wander among tartars, and may never come again? i don't, but your going away, and all about you, is a threadbare topic. i have worn it out with thinking, it has come to me when i have been dull with anything, till my sadness has seemed more to have come from it than to have introduced it. i want you, you don't know how much; but if i had you here in my european garret, we should but talk over such stuff as i have written, so--those "tales from shakspeare" are near coming out, and mary has begun a new work, mr. dawe is turned author; he has been in such a way lately,--dawe the painter, i mean,--he sits and stands about at holcroft's and says nothing, then sighs, and leans his head on his hand. i took him to be in love, but it seems he was only meditating a work,--"the life of morland:" the young man is not used to composition. rickman and captain burney are well; they assemble at my house pretty regularly of a wednesday, a new institution. like other great men, i have a public day,--cribbage and pipes, with phillips and noisy martin burney. good heaven, what a bit only i've got left! how shall i squeeze all i know into this morsel! coleridge is come home, and is going to turn lecturer on taste at the royal institution. i shall get £ from the theatre if "mr. h." has a good run, and i hope £ for the copyright. nothing if it fails; and there never was a more ticklish thing. the whole depends on the manner in which the name is brought out, which i value myself on, as a _chef d'oeuvre_. how the paper grows less and less! in less than two minutes i shall cease to talk to you, and you may rave to the great wall of china. n.b.--is there such a wall? is it as big as old london wall by bedlam? have you met with a friend of mine named ball at canton? if you are acquainted, remember me kindly to him. maybe you'll think i have not said enough of tuthill and the holcrofts. tuthill is a noble fellow, as far as i can judge. the holcrofts bear their disappointment pretty well, but indeed they are sadly mortified. mrs. h. is cast down. it was well, if it were but on this account, that tuthill is come home. n.b.--if my little thing don't succeed, i shall easily survive, having, as it were, compared to h.'s venture, but a sixteenth in the lottery. mary and i are to sit next the orchestra in the pit, next the tweedle-dees. she remembers you. you are more to us than five hundred farces, clappings, etc. come back one day. c. lamb. [ ] it was precisely this flatness, this slightness of plot and catastrophe, that doomed "mr. h." to failure. see next letter. [ ] godwin. his tragedy of "faulkner" was published in . xlix. to wordsworth. _december_, ii, . 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 substantial 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, etc.--was astonishing; but they yielded at last to a few hisses. a hundred hisses (damn the word, i write it like kisses,--how different!)--a hundred hisses outweigh a thousand claps. [ ] the former come more directly from, the heart. well, 't is withdrawn, and there is an end. better luck to us, c. lamb. [ ] lamb was himself in the audience, and is said to have taken a conspicuous share in the storm of hisses that followed the dropping of the curtain. l. to manning. _january_ , . my best room commands a court, in which there are trees and a pump, the water of which is excellent,--cold with brandy, and not very insipid without. here i hope to set up my rest, and not quit till mr. powell, the undertaker, gives me notice that i may have possession of my last lodging. he lets lodgings for single gentlemen. i sent you a parcel of books by my last, to give you some idea of the state of european literature. there comes with this two volumes, done up as letters, of minor poetry, a sequel to "mrs. leicester;" the best you may suppose mine, the next best are my coadjutor's. you may amuse yourself in guessing them out; but i must tell you mine are but one third in quantity of the whole. so much for a very delicate subject. it is hard to speak of one's self, etc. holcroft had finished his life when i wrote to you, and hazlitt has since finished his life,--i do not mean his own life, but he has finished a life of holcroft, which is going to press. tuthill is dr. tuthill. i continue mr. lamb. i have published a little book for children on titles of honor; and to give them some idea of the difference of rank and gradual rising, i have made a little scale, supposing myself to receive the following various accessions of dignity from the king, who is the fountain of honor,--as at first, , mr. c. lamb; , c. lamb, esq.; , sir c. lamb, bart.; , baron lamb, of stamford; , viscount lamb; , earl lamb; , marquis lamb; , duke lamb. it would look like quibbling to carry it on farther, and especially as it is not necessary for children to go beyond the ordinary titles of sub-regal dignity in our own country, otherwise i have sometimes in my dreams imagined myself still advancing, as th, king lamb; th, emperor lamb; th, pope innocent,--higher than which is nothing. puns i have not made many (nor punch much) since the date of my last; one i cannot help relating. a constable in salisbury cathedral was telling me that eight people dined at the top of the spire of the cathedral; upon which i remarked that they must be very sharp-set. but in general i cultivate the reasoning part of my mind more than the imaginative. i am stuffed out so with eating turkey for dinner, and another turkey for supper yesterday (turkey in europe and turkey in asia), that i can't jog on. it is new year here. that is, it was new year half a year back, when i was writing this. nothing puzzles me more than time and space, and yet nothing puzzles me less, for i never think about them. the persian ambassador is the principal thing talked of now. i sent some people to see him worship the sun on primrose hill at half-past six in the morning, th november; but he did not come,--which makes me think the old fire-worshippers are a sect almost extinct in persia. the persian ambassador's name is shaw ali mirza. the common people call him shaw nonsense. while i think of it, i have put three letters besides my own three into the india post for you, from your brother, sister, and some gentleman whose name i forget. will they, have they, did they come safe? the distance you are at, cuts up tenses by the root. i think you said you did not know kate *********. i express her by nine stars, though she is but one. you must have seen her at her father's. try and remember her. coleridge is bringing out a paper in weekly numbers, called the "friend," which i would send, if i could; but the difficulty i had in getting the packets of books out to you before deters me; and you'll want something new to read when you come home. except kate, i have had no vision of excellence this year, and she passed by like the queen on her coronation day; you don't know whether you saw her or not. kate is fifteen; i go about moping, and sing the old, pathetic ballad i used to like in my youth,-- "she's sweet fifteen, i'm _one year more._ mrs. bland sang it in boy's clothes the first time i heard it. i sometimes think the lower notes in my voice are like mrs. bland's. that glorious singer, braham, one of my lights, is fled. he was for a season. he was a rare composition of the jew, the gentleman, and the angel, yet all these elements mixed up so kindly in him that you could not tell which predominated; but he is gone, and one phillips is engaged instead. kate is vanished, but miss burrell is always to be met with! "queens drop away, while blue-legged maukin thrives, and courtly mildred dies, while country madge survives." that is not my poetry, but quarles's; but haven't you observed that the rarest things are the least obvious? don't show anybody the names in this letter. i write confidentially, and wish this letter to be considered as _private,_ hazlitt has written a _grammar_ for godwin; godwin sells it bound up with a treatise of his own on language; but the _gray mare is the better horse._ i don't allude to mrs. godwin, but to the word _grammar_, which comes near to _gray mare_, if you observe, in sound. that figure is called paranomasia in greek, i am sometimes happy in it. an old woman begged of me for charity. "ah, sir," said she, "i have seen better days!" "so have i, good woman," i replied; but i meant literally, days not so rainy and overcast as that on which begged,--she meant more prosperous days. li. to miss wordsworth. _august_, . mary has left a little space for me to fill up with nonsense, as the geographers used to cram monsters in the voids of the maps, and call it _terra incognita_. she has told you how she has taken to water like a hungry otter. i too limp after her in lame imitation, [ ] but it goes against me a little at first. i have been acquaintance with it now for full four days, and it seems a moon. i am full of cramps and rheumatisms, and cold internally, so that fire won't warm me; yet i bear all for virtue's sake. must i then leave you, gin, rum, brandy, _aqua-vitae_, pleasant, jolly fellows? damn temperance and he that first invented it!--some anti-noahite. coleridge has powdered his head, and looks like bacchus,--bacchus ever sleek and young. he is going to turn sober, but his clock has not struck yet; meantime he pours down goblet after goblet, the second to see where the first is gone, the third to see no harm happens to the second, a fourth to say there is another coming, and a fifth to say he is not sure he is the last. c. l. [ ] an experiment in total abstinence; it did not last long. lii. to wordsworth _october_ , . 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 continuation of the "essay on epitaphs," [ ] it is the only sensible 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 feeling under it. it is perfectly a test. but what is the reason we have no good epitaphs after all? a very 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 not well know which, has dignified every gravestone for the last few years with brand new verses, all different and all ingenious, with the author's name at the bottom of each. this sweet swan of thames has so artfully diversified his 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 thought should recur, it is long since i saw and read these inscriptions; but i remember the impression 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 with a tongue that dangles from a skull that never reached in thought and thorough imagination two inches, or farther 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 mumpsimus of "afflictions sore." ... to do justice, though, it must be owned that even the excellent feeling which dictated 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 islington churchyard (i think) an epitaph to an infant who died "_Ætatis_ four months," with this seasonable inscription appended, "honor thy father and thy mother, that thy days may be long in the land," etc. sincerely wishing your children long life to honor, etc., i remain, c. lamb. [ ] published in coleridge's "friend," feb. , . liii. to wordsworth. _august_ , . 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 martin burney 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 odor on my memory (a bad term for the remains of an impression so recent) is the "tales of the churchyard"--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 antipathies 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 we saw on salisbury plain five years ago, that drew phillips from the card-table, where he had sat from rise of that luminary to its unequalled setting. but neither he nor i had gifted eyes to see those symbols of common things glorified, such as the prophets saw them in that sunset,--the wheel, the potter's clay, the washpot, the wine-press, the almond-tree rod, the baskets of figs, the four-fold-visaged head, the throne, and him that sat thereon. one feeling i was particularly struck with, as what i recognized so very lately at harrow church on entering in it after a hot and secular day's pleasure,--the instantaneous coolness and calming, almost transforming, properties of a country church 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 matter 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 remark, 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 countrified in the parks is all but obliterated. the very colour of green is vanished; the whole surface of hyde park is dry, crumbling sand (_arabia arenosa_), not a vestige or hint of grass ever having grown there; booths and drinking-places go all round it, for a mile and a half, i am confident,--i might say two miles in circuit; the stench of liquors, _bad_ tobacco, dirty people and provisions, conquers the air, and we are all stifled and suffocated in hyde park [ ]. order after order has been issued by lord sidmouth in the name of the regent (acting in behalf of his royal father) for the dispersion of the varlets; but in vain. the _vis unita_ of all the publicans in london, westminster, marylebone, and miles round, is too powerful a force to put down. the regent has raised a phantom which he cannot lay. there they'll stay probably forever. the whole beauty of the place is gone,--that lake-look of the serpentine (it has got foolish ships upon it); but something whispers to have confidence in nature and its revival,-- "at the coming of the _milder_ day, these monuments shall all be overgrown." meantime i confess to have smoked one delicious pipe in one of the cleanliest and goodliest of the booths,--a tent rather,-- "oh, call it not a booth!" erected by the public spirit of watson, who keeps the "adam and eve" at pancras (the ale-houses have all emigrated, with their train of bottles, mugs, cork-screws, waiters, into hyde park,--whole ale-houses, with all their ale!) in company with some of the guards that had been in france, and a fine french girl, habited like a princess of banditti, which one of the dogs had transported from the garonne to the serpentine. the unusual scene in hyde park, by candle-light, in open air,--good tobacco, bottled stout,--made it look like an interval in a campaign, a repose after battle. i almost fancied scars smarting, and was ready to club a story with my comrades of some of my lying deeds. after all, the fireworks were splendid; the rockets in clusters, in trees, and all shapes, spreading about like young stars in the making, floundering about in space (like unbroke horses), till some of newton's calculations should fix them; but then they went out. any one who could see 'em, and the still finer showers of gloomy rain-fire that fell sulkily and angrily from 'em, and could go to bed without dreaming of the last day, must be as hardened an atheist as--. the conclusion of this epistle getting gloomy, i have chosen this part to desire _our_ kindest loves to mrs. wordsworth and to dorothea. will none of you ever be in london again? again let me thank you for your present, and assure you that fireworks and triumphs have not distracted me from receiving a calm and noble enjoyment from it (which i trust i shall often), and i sincerely congratulate you on its appearance. with kindest remembrances to you and household, we remain, yours sincerely, c. lamb and sister. [ ] the excursion. [ ] early in the london parks were thrown open to the public, with fireworks, booths, illuminations, etc., in celebration of the peace between france and england, it was two or three years before they recovered their usual verdure. liv. to wordsworth. ( ) dear wordsworth,--you have made me very proud with your successive book presents. [ ] i have been carefully through the two volumes to see that nothing was omitted which used to be there. i think i miss nothing but a character in the 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 sandpiper," which was a line quite alive. i demand these at your hand. i am glad that you have not sacrificed a verse to those scoundrels. i would not have had you offer up the poorest rag that lingered upon the stripped shoulders of little alice fell, to have atoned all their malice; i would not have given 'em a red cloak to save their souls. i am afraid lest that substitution 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 nothing could fairly be said against it. you say you made the alteration for the "friendly reader;" but the "malicious" will take it to himself. damn 'em! if you give 'em an inch, etc. the preface is noble, and such as you 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 doorkeeper 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 which 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 youthful 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. you have nothing like it, i should have 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-collector, 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 many years. its age is ascertainable from the state of the canvas, 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 way which conies not every day,--the latin poems of v. bourne, which were quite new to me. what a heart that man had, all laid out upon town scenes!--a proper counterpoise to _some people's_ rural extravaganzas. 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 a b c, which, after all, he says, he hesitates not to call newton's "principia"? i was lately fatiguing myself with going through a volume of fine words by lord thurlow,--excellent words; and if the heart could live by words 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 consequence 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 he content with the language which gay and prior wrote in? i am almost sorry that you printed extracts from those first poems, or that you did not print them at length. they do not read to me as they do altogether. 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." [ ] the one on the wind is masterly, but not new to us. being only three, perhaps you might have clapped a d. at the corner, and let it have past as a printer's mark to the uninitiated, as a delightful 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 excepted) 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 few 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 two 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 contemplations. this is sunday; and the headache i have is part late 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 had its glittering star, and every sabbath-day its golden sun!" [ ] to such straits am i driven for the life of life, time! oh 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! o 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 office. farewell, in haste, from a head that is too ill to methodize, a stomach to digest, and all out of tune. better harmonies await you! c. lamb. [ ] in wordsworth published a new edition of his poems, with the following title: "poems by william wordsworth; including lyrical ballads, and the miscellaneous pieces of the author. with additional poems, a new preface, and a supplementary essay. in two volumes." the new poems were "yarrow visited," "the force of prayer," "the farmer of tilsbury vale," "laodamia," "yew-trees," "a night piece," etc., and it was chiefly on these that lamb made his comments. [ ] john lamb afterwards gave the picture to charles, who made it a wedding present to mrs. moxon (emma isola), it is now in the national portrait gallery. [ ] dorothy wordsworth. [ ] excursion, book v. lv. to wordsworth. excuse this maddish letter; i am too tired to write _in formâ_. . dear wordsworth,--the more i read of your two last volumes, the more i feel it necessary to make my acknowledgments 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 and 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 which i had meditated (by the way, i mast 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 resolved 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 last two: this is all fine, except, perhaps, that _that_ of "studious ease and generous cares" has a little tinge of the _less romantic_ about it. "the farmer of tilsbury vale" is a charming counterpart to "poor susan," with the addition, of that delicacy towards aberrations from the strict path which is so fine in the "old thief and the boy by his side," which always brings water into my eyes. perhaps it is the worse for being a repetition; "susan" stood for the representative of poor _rus in urbe_. there was quite enough to stamp the moral of the thing never to be forgotten,--"bright volumes of vapor," etc. the last verse of susan was 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 was not what you meant to express. robin goodfellow supports himself without that _stick_ of a moral which you have thrown away; but how i can be brought in _felo de omittendo_ 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 with you." it comes naturally with a warm holiday and the freshness of the blood. it is a perfect summer amulet, that i tie round my legs to quicken their motion when i go out a-maying. (n. b.) i don't often go out a-maying; _must_ is the tense with me now. do you take the pun? _young romilly_ is divine, the reasons of his mother's grief being remediless,--i never saw parental love carried up so high, towering above the other loves,--shakspeare 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? _a propos_, 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?" [ ] 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 the love which was in her soul for her youthful romilly," 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 the great respect she felt for sir samuel romilly," would not nave explained the boundaries of prose expression and poetic feeling nearly as well. excuse my levity on such an occasion. i never felt deeply in my life if that poem did not make me, both lately, and when i read it in ms. no alderman ever longed after a haunch of buck venison more than i for a spiritual taste of that "white doe" you promise. i am sure it is superlative, or will be when _dressed_, i. e., printed. all things read raw to me in ms.; to compare _magna parvis_, i cannot endure my 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 will help me to like some things in poetry better, which is a little humiliating in me to confess. 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 reason to value himself upon one thing 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? my brother's picture of milton is very finely painted,--that is, it might have been done by a hand next to vandyke's. it is the genuine milton, and an object of quiet gaze for the half-hour at a time. yet though i am confident there is no better one of him, the face does not quite answer to milton. there is a tinge of _petit_ (or _petite_, 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 ; but i sent it and had it rectified, it gave me, in the first impetus of cutting the leaves, just such a cold squelch as going down a plausible turning and suddenly reading "no thoroughfare." robinson's is entire; i wish you would write more criticism about spencer, etc. i think i could say something about him myself; but, lord bless 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 myself 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 civilization, 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: _vale_. yours, dear w., and all yours, c. lamb. [ ] "but thou, that didst appear so fair to fond imagination, dost rival in the light of day her dilicate creation" [ ] better known as "rural architecture." [ ] the first line of the poem on bolton abbey:-- "'what is good for a bootless bene?' with these dark words begins my fate; and their meaning is, whence can comfort spring when prayer is of no avail?" lvi. to southey. _may_ , . dear southey,--i have received from longman a copy of "roderick," with the author's compliments, for which i much thank you. i don't know where i shall put all the noble presents i have lately received in that way; the "excursion," wordsworth's two last volumes, and now "roderick," have come pouring in upon me like some irruption from helicon. the story of the brave maccabee was already, you may be sure, familiar to me in all its parts. i have, since the receipt of your present, read it quite through again, and with no diminished pleasure. i don't know whether i ought to say that it has given me more pleasure than any of your long poems. "kehama" is doubtless more powerful, but i don't feel that firm footing in it that i do in "roderick;" my imagination goes sinking and floundering in the vast spaces of unopened-before systems and faiths; i am put out of the pale of my old sympathies; my moral sense is almost outraged; i can't believe, or with horror am made to believe, such desperate chances against omnipotences, such disturbances of faith to the centre. the more potent, the more painful the spell. jove and his brotherhood of gods, tottering with the giant assailings, i can bear, for the soul's hopes are not struck at in such contests; but your oriental almighties are too much types of the intangible prototype to be meddled with without shuddering. one never connects what are called the "attributes" with jupiter. i mention only what diminishes my delight at the wonder-workings of "kehama," not what impeaches its power, which i confess with trembling. but "roderick" is a comfortable poem. it reminds me of the delight i took in the first reading of the "joan of arc." it is maturer and better than _that_, though not better to me now than that was then. it suits me better than "madoc." i am at home in spain and christendom. i have a timid imagination, i am afraid; i do not willingly admit of strange beliefs or out-of-the-way creeds or places. i never read books of travel, at least not farther than paris or rome. i can just endure moors, because of their connection as foes with christians; but abyssinians, ethiops, esquimaux, dervises, and all that tribe, i hate; i believe i fear them in some manner. a mahometan turban on the stage, though enveloping some well-known face (mr. cook or mr. maddox, whom i see another day good christian and english waiters, innkeepers, etc.), does not give me pleasure unalloyed. i am a christian, englishman, londoner, _templar_, god help me when i come to put off these snug relations, and to get abroad into the world to come! i shall be like _the crow on the sand_, as wordsworth has it; but i won't think on it,--no need, i hope, yet. the parts i have been most pleased with, both on first and second readings, perhaps, are florinda's palliation of roderick's crime, confessed to him in his disguise; the retreat of pelayo's family first discovered; his being made king,--"for acclamation one form must serve, _more solemn for_ the _breach_ of _old observances_." roderick's vow is extremely fine, and his blessing on the vow of alphonso,-- "towards the troop be spread his arms, as if the expanded soul diffused itself, and carried to all spirits, _with the act_, its affluent inspiration." it struck me forcibly that the feeling of these last lines might have been suggested to you by the cartoon of paul at athens. certain it is that a better motto or guide to that famous attitude can nowhere be found. i shall adopt it as explanatory of that violent but dignified motion. i must read again landor's "julian;" i have not read it some time. i think he must have failed in roderick, for i remember nothing of him, nor of any distinct character as a character,--only fine-sounding passages. i remember thinking also he had chosen a point of time after the event, as it were, for roderick survives to no use; but my memory is weak, and i will not wrong a fine poem by trusting to it. the notes to your poem i have not read again; but it will be a take-downable book on my shelf, and they will serve sometimes at breakfast, or times too light for the text to be duly appreciated,-- though some of 'em, one of the serpent penance, is serious enough, now i think on't. of coleridge i hear nothing, nor of the morgans. i hope to have him like a reappearing star, standing up before me some time when least expected in london, as has been the case whilere. i am _doing_ nothing (as the phrase is) but reading presents, and walk away what of the day-hours i can get from hard occupation. pray accept once more my hearty thanks and expression of pleasure for your remembrance of me. my sister desires her kind respects to mrs. s. and to all at keswick. yours truly, c. lamb. lvii. to miss hutchinson. [ ] _october_ , . dear miss h.,--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 frightfully 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 conies from some cause we have no control over or conjecture of. it cuts sad great slices out of the time, the little time, we shall have to live together. i don't know but the recurrence 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 we may be making our meal together, or sitting in the 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 assailable; 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' misfortunes. but i feel all i can, all the kindness i can, towards you all. god bless you! i hear nothing from coleridge. yours truly, c. lamb. [ ] mrs. wordsworth's sister. lviii. to manning. _december_ , . dear old friend and absentee,--this is christmas day, , with us; what it may be with you i don't know,--the th of june next year, perhaps; and if it should be the consecrated season with you, i don't see how you can keep it. you have no turkeys; you would not desecrate the festival by offering up a withered chinese bantam, instead of the savoury grand norfolcian holocaust, that smokes all around my nostrils at this moment from a thousand firesides. then what puddings have you? where will you get holly to stick in your churches, or churches to stick your dried tea-leaves (that must be the substitute) in? what memorials you can have of the holy time, i see not. a chopped missionary or two may keep up the thin idea of lent and the wilderness; but what standing evidence have you of the nativity? 'tis our rosy-cheeked, homestalled divines, whose faces shine to the tune of _unto us a child was born_,--faces fragrant with the mince-pies of half a century, that alone can authenticate the cheerful mystery. i feel, i feel my bowels refreshed with the holy tide; my zeal is great against the unedified heathen. down with the pagodas; down with the idols,--ching-chong-fo and his foolish priesthood! come out of babylon, oh my friend, for her time is come, and the child that is native, and the proselyte of her gates, shall kindle and smoke together! and in sober sense what makes you so long from among us, manning? you must not expect to see the same england again which you left. empires have been overturned, crowns trodden into dust, the face of the western world quite changed; your friends have all got old, those you left blooming, myself (who am one of the few that remember you)--those golden hairs which you recollect my taking a pride in, turned to silvery and gray. mary has been dead and buried many years; she desired to be buried in the silk gown you sent her. rickman, that you remember active and strong, now walks out supported by a servant-maid and a stick. martin burney is a very old man. the other day an aged woman knocked at my door and pretended to my acquaintance. it was long before i had the most distant cognition of her; but at last together we made her out to be louisa, the daughter of mrs. topham, formerly mrs. morton, who had been mrs. reynolds, formerly mrs. kenney, whose first husband was holcroft, the dramatic writer of the last century. st. paul's church is a heap of ruins; the monument isn't half so high as you knew it, divers parts being successively taken down which the ravages of time had rendered dangerous; the horse at charing cross is gone, no one knows whither,--and all this has taken place while you have been settling whether ho-hing-tong should be spelled with a-- or a--. for aught i see, you had almost as well remain where you are, and not come, like a struldbrug, into a world where few were born when you went away. scarce here and there one will be able to make out your face; all your opinions will be out of date, your jokes obsolete, your puns rejected with fastidiousness as wit of the last age. your way of mathematics has already given way to a new method which, after all, is, i believe, the old doctrine of maclaurin new-vamped up with what he borrowed of the negative quantity of fluxions from euler. poor godwin! i was passing his tomb the other day in cripplegate churchyard. there are some verses upon it, written by miss--, which if i thought good enough i would send you. he was one of those who would have hailed your return, not with boisterous shouts and clamors, but with the complacent gratulations of a philosopher anxious to promote knowledge, as leading to happiness; but his systems and his theories are ten feet deep in cripplegate mould. coleridge is just dead, having lived just long enough to close the eyes of wordsworth, who paid the debt to nature but a week or two before. poor col., but two days before he died he wrote to a bookseller proposing an epic poem on the "wandering of cain," in twenty-four books. it is said he has left behind him more than forty thousand treatises in criticism, metaphysics, and divinity: but few of them in a state of completion. they are now destined, perhaps, to wrap up spices. you see what mutation the busy hand of time has produced, while you have consumed in foolish, voluntary exile that time which might have gladdened your friends, benefited your country--but reproaches are useless. gather up the wretched relics, my friend, as fast as you can, and come to your old home. i will rub my eyes and try to recognize you. we will shake withered hands together, and talk of old things,--of st. mary's church and the barber's opposite, where the young students in mathematics used to assemble. poor crisp, that kept it afterwards, set up a fruiterer's shop in trumpington street, and for aught i know resides there still; for i saw the name up in the last journey i took there with my sister just before she died. i suppose you heard that i had left the india house and gone into the fishmongers' almshouses over the bridge. i have a little cabin there, small and homely; but you shall be welcome to it. you like oysters, and to open them yourself; i'll get you some if you come in oyster time. marshall, godwin's old friend, is still alive, and talks of the faces you used to make. [ ] come as soon as you can. c. lamb. [ ] the reversal of this serio-humorous mingling of fiction and forecast will be found in the next letter. lix. to manning. _december_ , . dear manning,--following your brother's example, i have just ventured one letter to canton, and am now hazarding another (not exactly a duplicate) to st. helena. the first was full of unprobable romantic fictions, fitting the remoteness of the mission it goes upon; in the present i mean to confine myself nearer to truth as you come nearer home. a correspondence with the uttermost parts of the earth necessarily involves in it some heat of fancy; it sets the brain agoing; but i can think on the half-way house tranquilly. your friends, then, are not all dead or grown forgetful of you through old age,--as that lying letter asserted, anticipating rather what must happen if you keep tarrying on forever on the skirts of creation, as there seemed a danger of your doing,--but they are all tolerably well, and in full and perfect comprehension of what is meant by manning's coming home again. mrs. kenney never let her tongue run riot more than in remembrances of you. fanny expends herself in phrases that can only be justified by her romantic nature. mary reserves a portion of your silk, not to be buried in (as the false nuncio asserts), but to make up spick and span into a bran-new gown to wear when you come. i am the same as when you knew me, almost to a surfeiting identity. this very night i am going to _leave off tobacco!_ surely there must be some other world in which this unconquerable purpose shall be realized. the soul hath not her generous aspirings implanted in her in vain. one that you knew, and i think the only one of those friends we knew much of in common, has died in earnest. poor priscilla! her brother robert is also dead, and several of the grown-up brothers and sisters, in the compass of a very few years. death has not otherwise meddled much in families that i know. not but he has his horrid eye upon us, and is whetting his infernal feathered dart every instant, as you see him truly pictured in that impressive moral picture, "the good man at the hour of death." i have in trust to put in the post four letters from diss, and one from lynn, to st. helena, which i hope will accompany this safe, and one from lynn, and the one before spoken of from me, to canton. but we all hope that these letters may be waste paper. i don't know why i have foreborne writing so long; but it is such a forlorn hope to send a scrap of paper straggling over wide oceans. and yet i know when you come home, i shall have you sitting before me at our fireside just as if you had never been away. in such an instant does the return of a person dissipate all the weight of imaginary perplexity from distance of time and space! i'll promise you good oysters. cory is dead, that kept the shop opposite st. dunstan's, but the tougher materials of the shop survive the perishing frame of its keeper. oysters continue to flourish there under as good auspices. poor cory! but if you will absent yourself twenty years together, you must not expect numerically the same population to congratulate your return which wetted the sea-beach with their tears when you went away. have you recovered the breathless stone-staring astonishment into which you must have been thrown upon learning at landing that an emperor of france was living at st. helena? what an event in the solitude of the seas,--like finding a fish's bone at the top of plinlimmon; but these things are nothing in our western world. novelties cease to affect. come and try what your presence can. god bless you! your old friend, c. lamb. lx. to wordsworth _april_ , . 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 the poems yet; i wait till people have done borrowing them. i think i shall get a chain and chain them to my shelves, more _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 justice to say that there is nothing of this caprice or wantonness 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 tragedy, [ ] 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 write to-day 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 printing together at bristol, both finished as far as the composition 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 chemist's laboratory in norfolk street. she might as well have sent a _helluo librorum_ for cure to the vatican. god keep him inviolate among the traps and pitfalls! he has done pretty well as yet. [ ] tell miss hutchinson my sister is every day wishing to be quietly sitting down to answer her very kind letter; but while c. stays she can hardly find a quiet time. god bless him! tell mrs. wordsworth her postscripts are always agreeable. they are legible too. your manual-graphy is terrible,--dark as lycophron. "likelihood," for instance, is thus typified.... i should not wonder if the constant making out of such paragraphs is the cause of that weakness in mrs. w.'s eyes, as she is tenderly pleased to express it. dorothy, i hear, has mounted spectacles; so you have deoculated two of your dearest relations in life. well, god bless you, and continue to give you power to write with a finger of power upon our hearts what you fail to impress, in corresponding lucidness, upon our outward eyesight! mary's love to all; she is quite well. i am called off to do the deposits on cotton wool. 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. [ ] zapolya. [ ] lamb alludes, of course, to coleridge's opium habit. lxi. to wordsworth. _april_ , . 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 blunder i saw and shuddered at. the hallucinating rascal had printed _battered_ for _battened_, this last not conveying any distinct sense to his gaping soul. the reader (as they call 'em) had discovered it, and given it the marginal brand; but the substitutory _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 thing was wanted, called for. the parallel of cotton with burns i heartily approve, iz. walton hallows any page in which his reverend name appears. "duty archly bending 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 people will do that when they come out, you'll say.) as if i were to luxuriate to-morrow at some picture-gallery i was 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 coursing over unrestrained, riot to anticipate another day's fuller satisfaction. 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 elysian 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 daylight. i fear lest it should be discovered, by the lantern of typography and clear reducting to letters, no better than nonsense or no sense. when i was young, i used to chant with ecstasy "mild arcadians ever blooming," till somebody told me it was meant to be nonsense. even yet i have a lingering attachment to it, and i think it better than "windsor forest," "dying christian's address," etc. coleridge has sent his tragedy to d.l.t.; it cannot be acted this season, and by their manner of receiving i hope he will be able to alter it to make them accept it for next. he is at present under the medical care of a mr. gilman (killman?) at highgate, where he plays at leaving off laud---m. i think his essentials not touched; he is very bad, but then he wonderfully picks up another day, and his face, when he repeats his verses, hath its ancient glory,--an archangel a little damaged. will miss h. 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 wind of his genius for us not to possess our souls in quiet. if i lived with him or the _author of the "excursion,"_ i should, in a very little time, lose my own identity, 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 page 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. interruptions, if i try to write a letter even, i have dreadful. just now, within four lines, i was called off for ten minutes to consult dusty old books for the settlement of obsolete errors. i hold you a guinea you don't find the chasm where i left off, so excellently the wounded sense closed again and was healed. n.b.--nothing said above to the contrary, but that i 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. [ ] wordsworth's "letter to a friend of burns" (london, ). "wordsworth had been consulted by a friend of burns as to the best mode of vindicating the reputation of the poet, which, it was alleged, had been much injured by the publication of dr. carrie's 'life and correspondence of burns.'"--ainger. lxii. to h. dodwell [ ] _july_, . my dear fellow,--i have been in a lethargy this long while, and forgotten london, westminster, marybone, paddington,--they all went clean out of my head, till happening to go to a neighbor's in this good borough of calne, for want of whist-players we fell upon _commerce:_ the word awoke me to a remembrance of my professional avocations and the long-continued strife which i have been these twenty-four years endeavoring to compose between those grand irreconcilables, cash and commerce; i instantly called for an almanac, which with some difficulty was procured at a fortune-teller's in the vicinity (for happy holiday people here, having nothing to do, keep no account of time), and found that by dint of duty i must attend in leadenhall on wednesy morning next; and shall attend accordingly. does master hannah give maccaroons still, and does he fetch the cobbetts from my attic? perhaps it wouldn't be too much trouble for him to drop the enclosed up at my aforesaid chamber, and any letters, etc., with it; but the enclosed should go without delay. n.b.--he isn't to fetch monday's cobbett, but it is to wait my reading when i come back. heigh-ho! lord have mercy upon me, how many does two and two make? i am afraid i shall make a poor clerk in future, i am spoiled with rambling among haycocks and cows and pigs. bless me! i had like to have forgot (the air is so temperate and oblivious here) to say i have seen your brother, and hope he is doing well in the finest spot of the world. more of these things when i return. remember me to the gentlemen,--i forget names. shall i find all my letters at my rooms on tuesday? if you forget to send 'em never mind, for i don't much care for reading and writing now; i shall come back again by degrees, i suppose, into my former habits. how is bruce de ponthieu, and porcher and co.?--the tears come into my eyes when i think how long i have neglected--. adieu! ye fields, ye shepherds and--herdesses, and dairies and cream-pots, and fairies and dances upon the green. i come, i come. don't drag me so hard by the hair of my head, genius of british india! i know my hour is come, faustus must give up his soul, o lucifer, o mephistopheles! can you make out what all this letter is about? i am afraid to look it over. ch. lamb. [ ] a fellow-clerk in the india house. this charming letter, written evidently during a vacation trip, was first published entire in canon ainger's edition ( ) of lamb's letters. lxiii. to mrs. wordsworth. _february_ , . my dear mrs. wordsworth,--i have repeatedly taken pen in hand to answer your kind letter. my sister should more properly have done it; but she having failed, i consider myself answerable for her debts. i am now trying to do it in the midst of commercial noises, and with a quill which seems more ready to glide into arithmetical figures and names of gourds, cassia, cardamoms, aloes, ginger, or tea, than into kindly responses and friendly recollections. the reason why i cannot write letters at home is that i am never alone. plato's--(i write to w.w. now)--plato's double-animal parted never longed more to be reciprocally re-united in the system of its first creation than i sometimes do to be but for a moment single and separate. except my morning's walk to the office, which is like treading on sands of gold for that reason, i am never so. i cannot walk home from office, but some officious friend offers his unwelcome courtesies to accompany me. all the morning i am pestered. i could sit and gravely cast up sums in great books, or compare sum with sum, and write "paid" against this, and "unpaid" against t'other, and yet reserve in some corner of my mind "some darling thoughts all my own,"--faint memory of some passage in a book, or the tone of an absent friend's voice,--a snatch of miss burrell's singing, or a gleam of fanny kelly's divine plain face. the two operations might be going on at the same time without thwarting, as the sun's two motions (earth's i mean); or as i sometimes turn round till i am giddy, in my back parlor, while my sister is walking longitudinally in the front; or as the shoulder of veal twists round with the spit, while the smoke wreathes up the chimney. but there are a set of amateurs of the belies lettres,--the gay science,--who come to me as a sort of rendezvous, putting questions of criticism, of british institutions, lalla rookhs, etc.,--what coleridge said at the lecture last night,--who have the form of reading men, but, for any possible use reading can be to them but to talk of, might as well have been ante-cadmeans born, or have lain sucking out the sense of an egyptian hieroglyph as long as the pyramids will last, before they should find it. these pests worrit me at business and in all its intervals, perplexing my accounts, poisoning my little salutary warming-time at the fire, puzzling my paragraphs if i take a newspaper, cramming in between my own free thoughts and a column of figures, which had come to an amicable compromise but for them. their noise ended, one of them, as i said, accompanies me home, lest i should be solitary for a moment. he at length takes his welcome leave at the door; up i go, mutton on table, hungry as hunter, hope to forget my cares and bury them in the agreeable abstraction of mastication: knock at the door! in comes mr. hazlitt, or martin burney, or morgan demi-gorgon, [ ] or my brother, or somebody, to prevent my eating alone,--a process absolutely necessary to my poor wretched digestion. oh, the pleasure of eating alone! eating my dinner alone,--let me think of it! but in they come, and make it absolutely necessary that i should open a bottle of orange; for my meat turns into stone when any one dines with me, if i have not wine. wine can mollify stones; then that wine turns into acidity, acerbity, misanthropy, a hatred of my interrupters (god bless 'em! i love some of 'em dearly); and with the hatred, a still greater aversion to their going away. bad is the dead sea they bring upon me, choking and deadening; but worse is the deader dry sand they leave me on, if they go before bedtime. come never, i would say to these spoilers of my dinner; but if you come, never go! the fact is, this interruption does not happen very often; but every time it comes by surprise, that present bane of my life, orange wine, with all its dreary stifling consequences, follows. evening company i should always like, had i any mornings; but i am saturated with human faces (_divine_ forsooth!) and voices all the golden morning; and five evenings in a week would be as much as i should covet to be in company; but i assure you that is a wonderful week in which i can get two, or one, to myself. i am never c.l., but always c.l. & co. he who thought it not good for man to be alone, preserve me from the more prodigious monstrosity of being never by myself! i forget bed-time; but even there these sociable frogs clamber up to annoy me. once a week, generally some singular evening that, being alone, i go to bed at the hour i ought always to be a-bed, just close to my bed-room window is the club-room of a public-house, where a set of singers--i take them to be chorus-singers of the two theatres (it must be _both of them_)--begin their orgies. they are a set of fellows (as i conceive) who, being limited by their talents to the burden of the song at the playhouses, in revenge have got the common popular airs by bishop or some cheap composer, arranged for choruses, that is, to be sang all in chorus,--at least, i never can catch any of the text of the plain song, nothing but the babylonish choral howl at the tail on't, "that fury being quenched,'--the howl i mean,--a burden succeeds of shouts and clapping and knocking of the table. at length over-tasked nature drops under it, and escapes for a few hours into the society of the sweet silent creatures of dreams, which go away with mocks and mows at cockcrow. and then i think of the words christabel's father used (bless me! i have dipt in the wrong ink) to say every morning by way of variety when he awoke,-- "every knell, the baron saith, wakes us up to a world of death,"-- or something like it. all i mean by this senseless interrupted tale is, that by my central situation i am a little over-companied. not that i have any animosity against the good creatures that are so anxious to drive away the harpy solitude from me. i like 'em, and cards, and a cheerful glass; but i mean merely to give you an idea, between office confinement and after-office society, how little time i can call my own. i mean only to draw a picture, not to make an inference. i would not, that i know of, have it otherwise. i only wish sometimes i could exchange some of my faces and voices for the faces and voices which a late visitation brought most welcome, and carried away, leaving regret, but more pleasure,--even a kind of gratitude,--at being so often favored with that kind northern visitation. my london faces and noises don't hear me,--i mean no disrespect, or i should explain myself, that instead of their return times a year, and the return of w. w., etc., seven times in weeks, some more equal distribution might be found. i have scarce room to put in mary's kind love and my poor name. c. lamb. w. h[azlitt]. goes on lecturing against w.w., and making copious use of quotations from said w.w. to give a zest to said lectures. s.t.c. is lecturing with success. i have not heard either him or h.; but i dined with s.t.c. at oilman's a sunday or two since; and he was well and in good spirits. i mean to hear some of the course; but lectures are not much to my taste, whatever the lecturer may be. if _read_, they are dismal flat, and you can't think why you are brought together to hear a man read his works, which you could read so much better at leisure yourself; if delivered extempore, i am always in pain lest the gift of utterance should suddenly fail the orator in the middle, as it did me at the dinner given in honor of me at the london tavern. "gentlemen," said i, and there i stopped; the rest my feelings were under the necessity of supplying. mrs. wordsworth _will/_ go on, kindly haunting us with visions of seeing the lakes once more, which never can be realized. between us there is a great gulf, not of inexplicable moral antipathies and distances, i hope, as there seemed to be between me and that gentleman concerned in the stamp-office that i so strangely recoiled from at haydon's. i think i had an instinct that he was the head of an office, i hate all such people,--accountants' deputy accountants. the mere abstract notion of the east india company, as long as she is unseen, is pretty, rather poetical; but as she makes herself manifest by the persons of such beasts, i loathe and detest her as the scarlet what-do-you-call-her of babylon. i thought, after abridging us of all our red-letter days, they had done their worst; but i was deceived in the length to which heads of offices, those true liberty-haters, can go,--they are the tyrants, not ferdinand, nor nero. by a decree passed this week, they have abridged us of the immemorially observed custom of going at one o'clock of a saturday,--the little shadow of a holiday left us. dear w.w., be thankful for liberty. [ ] john morgan lxiv. to wordsworth. may, . dear wordsworth.--i received a copy of "peter bell" [ ] a week ago, and i hope the author will not be offended 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 mean _your_ "peter bell," but a "peter bell," which preceded 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 whipped at the cart's tail. who started the spurious "p.b." i have not heard. i should guess, one of the sneering brothers, the vile smiths; but i have heard no name mentioned. "peter bell" (not the mock one) is excellent,--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 well" 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 wagoner"? have i thanked you, though, yet for "peter bell"? i would not _not have it_ for a good deal of money. coleridge is very foolish to scribble about books. neither his tongue nor fingers are very retentive. but i shall not say anything to him about it. he would only begin a very long story with a very long face, and i see him far too seldom to tease him with affairs of business or conscience when i do see him. he never comes near our house, and when we 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 of your last edition, of course, i mean, and in the morning i awoke determined to take down the "excursion." 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 _his_ 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, damn '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. dyer, 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 presentation 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 own performances; and i confess i never had any scruple in taking _my 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. geddes, who little thought whose leavings he was taking when he made me that graceful bow. by the way, 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 whatsoever you write, and fear no inks of miserable poetasters. yours truly, charles lamb. mary's love. [ ] lamb alludes to a parody, ridiculing wordsworth, by j. hamilton reynolds, the verses were entitled "peter bell: a lyrical ballad;" and their drift and spirit may be inferred from the following lines from the preface: "it is now a period of one-and-twenty years since i first wrote some of the most perfect compositions (except certain pieces i have written in my later days) that ever dropped from poetical pen. my heart hath been right and powerful all its years. i never thought an evil or a weak thought in my life. it has been my aim and my achievement to deduce moral thunder from buttercups, daisies, celandines, and (as a poet scarcely inferior to myself hath it) 'such small deer,'" etc. [ ] the original letter is actually written in to inks,--alternate black and red. lxv. to manning, _may_ , , my dear m..--i want to know how your brother is, if you have heard lately. i want to know about you, i wish you were nearer. how are my cousins, the gladmans of wheathampstead, and farmer bruton? mrs. bruton is a glorious woman, "hail, mackery end!" [ ] this is a fragment of a blank-verse poem which. i once meditated, but got no farther. the e. i. h. has been thrown into a quandary by the strange phenomenon of poor tommy bye, whom i have known, man and madman, twenty-seven years, he being elder here than myself by nine years and more. he was always a pleasant, gossiping, half-headed, muzzy, dozing, dreaming, walk-about, inoffensive chap, a little too fond of the creature,--who isn't at times? but tommy had _not_ brains to work off an overnight's surfeit by ten o'clock next morning, and unfortunately, in he wandered the other morning drunk with last night and with a superfoetation of drink taken in since he set out from bed. he came staggering under his double burden, like trees in java, bearing at once blossom, fruit, and falling fruit, as i have heard you or some other traveller tell, with his face literally as blue as the bluest firmament. some wretched calico that he had mopped his poor oozy front with, had rendered up its native dye, and the devil a bit would he consent to wash it, but swore it was characteristic, for he was going to the sale of indigo; and set up a laugh which i did not think the lungs of mortal man were competent to. it was like a thousand people laughing, or the goblin page. he imagined afterwards that the whole office had been laughing at him, so strange did his own sounds strike upon his _non_sensorium. but tommy has laughed his last laugh, and awoke the next day to find himself reduced from an abused income of £ per annum to one sixth of the sum, after thirty-six years' tolerably good service. the quality of mercy was not strained in his behalf; the gentle dews dropped not on him from heaven. it just came across me that i was writing to canton. will you drop in to-morrow night? fanny kelly is coming, if she does not cheat us. mrs. _gold_ is well, but proves "uncoined," as the lovers about wheathampstead would say. i have not had such a quiet half hour to sit down to a quiet letter for many years. i have not been interrupted above four times. i wrote a letter the other day in alternate lines, black ink and red, and you cannot think how it chilled the flow of ideas. next monday is whit-monday. what a reflection! twelve years ago, and i should have kept that and the following holiday in the fields a-maying. all of those pretty pastoral delights are over. this dead, everlasting dead desk,--how it weighs the spirit of a gentleman down! this dead wood of the desk instead of your living trees! but then, again, i hate the joskins, _a name for hertfordshire bumpkins_. each state of life has its inconvenience; but then, again, mine has more than one. not that i repine, or grudge, or murmur at my destiny. i have meat and drink, and decent apparel,--i shall, at least, when i get a new hat, a red-haired man just interrupted me. he has broke the current of my thoughts, i haven't a word to add, i don't know why i send this letter, but i have had a hankering to hear about you some days. perhaps it will go off before your reply comes. if it don't, i assure you no letter was ever welcomer from, you, from paris or macao. c. lamb. [ ] see the elia essay, "mackery end, in h---shire." lxvi. to miss wordsworth. _november_ , . dear miss wordsworth,--you will think me negligent, but i wanted to see more of willy [ ] before i ventured to express a prediction, till yesterday i had barely seen him,--_virgilium tantum vidi_; but yesterday he gave us his small company to a bullock's heart, and i can pronounce him a lad of promise. he is no pedant nor bookworm; so far i can answer. perhaps he has hitherto paid too little attention to other men's inventions, preferring, like lord foppington, the "natural sprouts of his own." but he has observation, and seems thoroughly awake. i am ill at remembering other people's _bon mots_, but the following are a few. being taken over waterloo bridge, he remarked that if we had no mountains, we had a fine river, at least,--which was a touch of the comparative; but then he added in a strain which augured less for his future abilities as a political economist, that he supposed they must take at least a pound a week toll. like a curious naturalist, he inquired if the tide did not come up a little salty. this being satisfactorily answered, he put another question, as to the flux and reflux; which being rather cunningly evaded than artfully solved by that she-aristotle mary, who muttered something about its getting up an hour sooner and sooner every day, he sagely replied, "then it must come to the same thing at last,"--which was a speech worthy of an infant halley! the lion in the 'change by no means came up to his ideal standard,--so impossible is it for nature, in any of her works, to come up to the standard of a child's imagination! the whelps (lionets) he was sorry to find were dead; and on particular inquiry, his old friend the orang-outang had gone the way of all flesh also. the grand tiger was also sick, and expected in no short time to exchange this transitory world for another or none. but, again, there was a golden eagle (i do not mean that of charing) which did much arride and console him. william's genius, i take it, leans a little to the figurative; for being at play at tricktrack (a kind of minor billiard-table which we keep for smaller wights, and sometimes refresh our own mature fatigues with taking a hand at), not being able to hit a ball he had iterate aimed at, he cried out, "i cannot hit that beast." now, the balls are usually called men, but he felicitously hit upon a middle term,--a term of approximation and imaginative reconciliation; a something where the two ends of the brute matter (ivory) and their human and rather violent personification into men might meet, as i take it,--illustrative of that excellent remark in a certain preface about imagination, explaining "like a sea-beast that had crawled forth to sun himself!" not that i accuse william minor of hereditary plagiary, or conceive the image to have come _ex traduce_. rather he seemeth to keep aloof from any source of imitation, and purposely to remain ignorant of what mighty poets have done in this kind before him; for being asked if his father had ever been on westminster bridge, [ ] he answered that he did not know! it is hard to discern the oak in the acorn, or a temple like st. paul's in the first stone which is laid; nor can i quite prefigure what destination the genius of william minor hath to take. some few hints i have set down, to guide my future observations. he hath the power of calculation in no ordinary degree for a chit. he combineth figures, after the first boggle, rapidly; as in the tricktrack board, where the hits are figured, at first he did not perceive that and made ; but by a little use he could combine with , and again with ,--which approacheth something in kind (far let me be from flattering him by saying in degree) to that of the famous american boy. i am sometimes inclined to think i perceive the future satirist in him, for he hath a sub-sardonic smile which bursteth out upon occasion,--as when he was asked if london were as big as ambleside; and indeed no other answer was given, or proper to be given, to so ensnaring and provoking a question. in the contour of skull certainly i discern something paternal; but whether in all respects the future man shall transcend his father's fame, time, the trier of geniuses, must decide. be it pronounced peremptorily at present that willy is a well-mannered child, and though no great student, hath yet a lively eye for things that lie before him. given in haste from my desk at leadenhall. yours, and yours most sincerely, c. lamb. [ ] wordsworth's third son. he was at the charter-house school in london, and the lambs had invited him to spend a half holiday with them. [ ] "william minor" was evidently forgetful of the exquisite sonnet, "composed upon westminster bridge." lxvii. to coleridge. _march_ , . dear c.,--it gives me great satisfaction to hear that the pig turned out so well, [ ]--they are interesting creatures at a certain age; what a pity such buds should blow out into the maturity of rank bacon! you had all some of the crackling--and brain sauce; did you remember to rub it with butter, and gently dredge it a little just before the crisis? did the eyes come away kindly, with no oedipean avulsion? was the crackling the color of the ripe pomegranate? had you no cursed complement of boiled neck of mutton before it, to blunt the edge of delicate desire? did you flesh maiden teeth in it? not that i sent the pig, or can form the remotest guess what part owen could play in the business. i never knew him give anything away in my life. he would not begin with strangers. i suspect the pig, after all, was meant for me; but at the unlucky juncture of time being absent, the present somehow went round to highgate. to confess an honest truth, a pig is one of those things i could never think of sending away. teals, widgeons, snipes, barn-door fowl, ducks, geese,--your tame villatic things,--welsh mutton collars of brawn, sturgeon, fresh or pickled, your potted char, swiss cheeses, french pies, early grapes, muscadines, i impart as freely unto my friends as to myself. they are but self-extended; but pardon me if i stop somewhere. where the fine feeling of benevolence giveth a higher smack than the sensual rarity, there my friends (or any good man) may command me; but pigs are pigs, and i myself therein am nearest to myself. nay, i should think it an, affront, an undervaluing done to nature, who bestowed such a boon upon me, if in a churlish mood i parted with the precious gift. one of the bitterest pangs i ever felt of remorse was when a child. my kind old aunt [ ] had strained her pocket-strings to bestow a sixpenny whole plum cake upon me. in my way home through the borough, i met a venerable old man, not a mendicant, but thereabouts,--a look-beggar, not a verbal petitionist; and in the coxcombry of taught-charity, i gave away the cake to him. i walked on a little in all the pride of an evangelical peacock, when of a sudden my old aunt's kindness crossed me,--the sum it was to her; the pleasure she had a right to expect that i--not the old impostor--should take in eating her cake; the cursed ingratitude by which, under the color of a christian virtue, i had frustrated her cherished purpose. i sobbed, wept, and took it to heart so grievously that i think i never suffered the like; and i was right. it was a piece of unfeeling hypocrisy, and proved a lesson to me ever after. the cake has long been masticated, consigned to dunghill with the ashes of that unseasonable pauper. but when providence, who is better to us all than our aunts, gives me a pig, remembering my temptation and my fall, i shall endeavor to act towards it more in the spirit of the donor's purpose. yours (short of pig) to command in everything, c. l. [ ] some one had sent coleridge a pig, and the gift was erroneously credited to lamb. [ ] elia: "christ's hospital five-and-thirty years ago." lxviii. to wordsworth. _march_ , . my dear wordsworth,--a letter from you is very grateful; i have not seen a kendal postmark so long. we are pretty well, save colds and rheumatics, and a certain deadness to everything, which i think i may date from poor john's loss, and another accident or two at the same time, that has made me almost bury myself at dalston, where yet i see more faces than i could wish. deaths overset one and put one out long after the recent grief. two or three have died, within this last two twelvemonths, and so many parts of me have been numbed. one sees a picture, reads an anecdote, starts a casual fancy, and thinks to tell of it to this person in preference to every other; the person is gone whom it would have peculiarly suited. it won't do for another. every departure destroys a class of sympathies. there's captain burney gone! what fun has whist now? what matters it what you lead, if you can no longer fancy him looking over you? [ ] one never hears anything, but the image of the particular person occurs with whom alone almost you would care to share the intelligence,--thus one distributes oneself about; and now for so many parts of me i have lost the market. common natures do not suffice me. good people, as they are called, won't serve; i want individuals. i am made up of queer points, and i want so many answering needles. the going-away of friends does not make the remainder more precious. it takes so much from them, as there was a common link. a, b, and c make a party. a dies. b not only loses a, but all a's part in c. c loses a's part in b, and so the alphabet sickens by subtraction of interchangeables. i express myself muddily, _capite dolente_. i have a dulling cold. my theory is to enjoy life; but my practice is against it. i grow ominously tired of official confinement. thirty years have i served the philistines, and my neck is not subdued to the yoke. you don't know how wearisome it is to breathe the air of four pent walls without relief, day after day, all the golden hours of the day between ten and four, without ease or interposition. _tædet me harum quotidianarum formarum_, these pestilential clerk-faces always in one's dish. oh for a few years between the grave and the desk! they are the same, save that at the latter you are the outside machine. the foul enchanter [nick?], "letters four do form his name,"--busirane [ ] is his name in hell,--that has curtailed you of some domestic comforts, hath laid a heavier hand on me, not in present infliction, but in the taking away the hope of enfranchisement. i dare not whisper to myself a pension on this side of absolute incapacitation and infirmity, till years have sucked me dry,--_otium cum indignitate_. i had thought in a green old age (oh, green thought!) to have retired to ponder's end,--emblematic name, how beautiful!,--in the ware road, there to have made up my accounts with heaven and the company, toddling about between it and cheshunt, anon stretching, on some fine izaak walton morning, to hoddesdon or amwell, careless as a beggar; but walking, walking ever, till i fairly walked myself off my legs,--dying walking! the hope is gone. i sit like philomel all day (but not singing), with my breast against this thorn of a desk, with the only hope that some pulmonary affliction may relieve me. _vide_ lord palmerston's report of the clerks in the war-office (debates in this morning's "times"), by which it appears, in twenty years as many clerks have been coughed and catarrhed out of it into their freer graves. thank you for asking about the pictures. milton hangs over my fire-side in covent garden (when i am there); the rest have been sold for an old song, wanting the eloquent tongue that should have set them off! you have gratified me with liking my meeting with dodd. for the malvolio story,--the thing is become in verity a sad task, and i eke it out with anything. if i could slip out of it i should be happy; but our chief-reputed assistants have forsaken us. the opium-eater crossed us once with a dazzling path, and hath as suddenly left us darkling; and, in short, i shall go on from dull to worse, because i cannot resist the booksellers' importunity,--the old plea, you know, of authors; but i believe on my part sincere. hartley i do not so often see, but i never see him in unwelcome hour. i thoroughly love and honor him. i send you a frozen epistle; but it is winter and dead time of the year with me. may heaven keep something like spring and summer up with you, strengthen your eyes, and make mine a little lighter to encounter with them, as i hope they shall yet and again, before all are closed! yours, with every kind remembrance, c. l. [ ] martin burney was the grimy-fisted whist-player to whom lamb once observed, "martin, if dirt was trumps, what hands you would hold!" [ ] the enchanter in "the faerie queene." lxix. to john clare. [ ] _august_ , . dear clare,--i thank you heartily for your present. i am an inveterate old londoner, but while i am among your choice collections i seem to be native to them and free of the country. the quality of your observation has astonished me. what have most pleased me have been "recollections after a ramble," and those "grongar hill" kind of pieces in eight-syllable lines, my favourite measure, such as "cooper hill" and "solitude." in some of your story-telling ballads the provincial phrases sometimes startle me. i think you are too profuse with them. in poetry _slang_ of every kind is to be avoided. there is a rustic cockneyism, as little pleasing as ours of london. transplant arcadia to helpstone. the true rustic style i think is to be found in shenstone. would his "school-mistress," the prettiest of poems, have been better if he had used quite the goody's own language? now and then a home rusticism is fresh and startling; but when nothing is gained in expression, it is out of tenor. it may make folks smile and stare; but the ungenial coalition of barbarous with refined phrases will prevent you in the end from being so generally tasted as you desire to be. excuse my freedom, and take the same liberty with my _puns_. i send you two little volumes of my spare hours. they are of all sorts; there is a methodist hymn for sundays, and a farce for saturday night. pray give them a place on your shelf. pray accept a little volume, of which i have a duplicate, that i may return in equal number to your welcome presents. i think i am indebted to you for a sonnet in the "london" for august. since i saw you i have been in france, and have eaten frogs. the nicest little rabbity things you ever tasted. do look about for them. make mrs. clare pick off the hind-quarters, boil them plain, with parsley and butter. the fore-quarters are not so good. she may let them hop off by themselves. yours sincerely, chas. lamb. [ ] the northamptonshire peasant poet. he had sent lamb his "the village minstrel, and other poems." lxx. to mr. barron field. _september_ , . my dear f.,--i scribble hastily at office. frank wants my letter presently. i and sister are just returned from paris! [ ] we have eaten frogs. it has been such a treat! you know our monotonous general tenor. frogs are the nicest little delicate things,--rabbity flavored. imagine a lilliputian rabbit! they fricassee them; but in my mind, dressed seethed, plain, with parsley and butter, would have been the decision of apicius.... paris is a glorious, picturesque old city. london looks mean and new to it, as the town of washington would, seen after _it._ but they have no st. paul's or westminster abbey. the seine, so much despised by cockneys, is exactly the size to run through a magnificent street; palaces a mile long on one side, lofty edinburgh stone (oh, the glorious antiques!) houses on the other. the thames disunites london and southwark. i had talma to supper with me. he has picked up, as i believe, an authentic portrait of shakspeare. he paid a broker about £ english for it. it is painted on the one half of a pair of bellows,--a lovely picture, corresponding with the folio head. the bellows has old carved _wings_ round it and round the visnomy is inscribed, as near as i remember, not divided into rhyme,--i found out the rhyme,-- "whom have we here stuck on this bellows, but the prince of good fellows, willy shakspere?" at top,-- "o base and coward lack, to be here stuck!" poins. at bottom,-- "nay! rather a glorious lot is to him assign'd, who, like the almighty, rides upon the wind." pistol, this is all in old, carved wooden letters. the countenance smiling, sweet, and intellectual beyond measure, even as he was immeasurable. it may be a forgery. they laugh at me, and tell me ireland is in paris, and has been putting off a portrait of the black prince. how far old wood may be imitated i cannot say, ireland was not found out by his parchments, but by his poetry. i am confident no painter on either side the channel could have painted anything near like the face i saw. again, would such a painter and forger have taken £ for a thing, if authentic, worth £ ? talma is not in the secret, for he had not even found out the rhymes in the first inscription. he is coming over with it, and my life to southey's "thalaba," it will gain universal faith. the letter is wanted, and i am wanted. imagine the blank filled up with all kind things. our joint, hearty remembrances to both of you. yours as ever, c. lamb. [ ] the lambs had visited paris on the invitation of james kenney, the dramatist, who had married a frenchwoman, and was living at versailles. lxxi. to walter wilson. _december_ , . dear wilson,--_lightning_ i was going to call you. you must have thought me negligent in not answering your letter sooner. but i have a habit of never writing letters but at the office; 'tis so much time cribbed out of the company; and i am but just got out of the thick of a tea-sale, in which most of the entry of notes, deposits, etc., usually falls to my share. i have nothing of de foe's but two or three novels and the "plague history." [ ] i can give you no information about him. as a slight general character of what i remember of them (for i have not looked into them latterly), i would say that in the appearance of _truth,_ in all the incidents and conversations that occur in them, they exceed any works of fiction i am acquainted with. it is perfect illusion. the _author_ never appears in these self-narratives (for so they ought to be called, or rather auto-biographies), but the _narrator_ chains us down to an implicit belief in everything he says. there is all the minute detail of a log-book in it. dates are painfully pressed upon the memory. facts are repeated over and over in varying phrases, till you cannot choose but believe them. it is like reading evidence given in a court of justice. so anxious the story-teller seems that the truth should be clearly comprehended that when he has told us a matter of fact or a motive, in a line or two farther down he _repeats_ it with his favorite figure of speech, "i say" so and so, though he had made it abundantly plain before. this is in imitation of the common people's way of speaking, or rather of the way in which they are addressed by a master or mistress who wishes to impress something upon their memories, and has a wonderful effect upon matter-of-fact readers. indeed, it is to such principally that he writes. his style is everywhere beautiful, but plain and _homely._ "robinson crusoe" is delightful to all ranks and classes; but it is easy to see that it is written in phraseology peculiarly adapted to the lower conditions of readers,--hence it is an especial favorite with seafaring men, poor boys, servant-maids, etc. his novels are capital kitchen-reading, while they are worthy, from their deep interest, to find a shelf in the libraries of the wealthiest and the most learned. his passion for _matter-of-fact narrative_ sometimes betrayed him into a long relation of common incidents, which might happen to any man, and have no interest but the intense appearance of truth in them, to recommend them. the whole latter half or two-thirds of "colonel jack" is of this description. the beginning of "colonel jack" is the most affecting natural picture of a young thief that was ever drawn. his losing the stolen money in the hollow of a tree, and finding it again when he was in despair, and then being in equal distress at not knowing how to dispose of it, and several similar touches in the early history of the colonel, evince a deep knowledge of human nature, and putting out of question the superior _romantic_ interest of the latter, in my mind very much exceed "crusoe." "roxana" (first edition) is the next in interest, though he left out the best part of it in subsequent editions from a foolish hypercriticism of his friend southerne. but "moll flanders," the "account of the plague," etc., are all of one family, and have the same stamp of character. believe me, with friendly recollections--brother (as i used to call you), yours, c. lamb. [ ] wilson was preparing a life of de foe, and had written to lamb for guidance. lxxii. to bernard barton. _december_ , . dear sir,--i have been so distracted with business and one thing or other, i have not had a quiet quarter of an hour for epistolary purposes. christmas, too, is come, which always puts a rattle into my morning skull. it is a visiting, unquiet, unquakerish season. i get more and more in love with solitude, and proportionately hampered with company. i hope you have some holidays at this period. i have one day,--christmas day; alas! too few to commemorate the season. all work and no play dulls me. company is not play, but many times bard work. to play, is for a man to do what he pleases, or to do nothing,--to go about soothing his particular fancies. i have lived to a time of life to have outlived the good hours, the nine-o'clock suppers, with a bright hour or two to clear up in afterwards. now you cannot get tea before that hour, and then sit gaping, music bothered perhaps, till half-past twelve brings up the tray; and what you steal of convivial enjoyment after, is heavily paid for in the disquiet of to-morrow's head. i am pleased with your liking "john woodvil," and amused with your knowledge of our drama being confined to shakspeare and miss baillie. what a world of fine territory between land's end and johnny groat's have you missed traversing! i could almost envy you to have so much to read. i feel as if i had read all the books i want to read. oh, to forget fielding, steele, etc., and read 'em new! can you tell me a likely place where i could pick up cheap fox's journal? there are no quaker circulating libraries? elwood, too, i must have. i rather grudge that southey has taken up the history of your people; i am afraid he will put in some levity. i am afraid i am not quite exempt from that fault in certain magazine articles, where i have introduced mention of them. were they to do again, i would reform them. why should not you write a poetical account of your old worthies, deducing them from fox to woolman? but i remember you did talk of something of that kind, as a counterpart to the "ecclesiastical sketches." but would not a poem be more consecutive than a string of sonnets? you have no martyrs _quite to the fire,_ i think, among you, but plenty of heroic confessors, spirit-martyrs, lamb-lions. think of it; it would be better than a series of sonnets on "eminent bankers." i like a hit at our way of life, though it does well for me,--better than anything short of _all one's time to one's self;_ for which alone i rankle with envy at the rich. books are good, and pictures are good, and money to buy them therefore good; but to buy _time,_--in other words, life! the "compliments of the time" to you, should end my letter; to a friend, i suppose, i must say the "sincerity of the season:" i hope they both mean the same. with excuses for this hastily penned note, believe me, with great respect, c. lamb. lxxiii. to miss wordsworth. mary perfectly approves of the appropriation of the _feathers,_ and wishes them peacock's for your fair niece's sake. _christmas_, . dear miss wordsworth,--i had just written the above endearing words when monkhouse tapped me on the shoulder with an invitation to cold goose pie, which i was not bird of that sort enough to decline. mrs. monkhouse, i am most happy to say, 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 philosopher 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 _what 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 sidney, 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 pheasants 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 forme," i cannot conjure up a kind similitude for those snowy flakes. let them keep to twelfth-cakes! mrs. paris, our cambridge friend, has been in town. you do not know the watfords in trampington street. they are capital people. ask anybody you meet, who is the biggest woman in cambridge, and i 'll hold you a wager they'll say mrs. smith; she broke down two benches in trinity gardens,--one on the confines of st. john's, which 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 twenty 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 poulterers 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 better hands! will dr. w. accept of my respects at the end of a foolish letter? c. l. lxxiv. to mr. and mrs. bruton. [ ] _january_ , . the pig was above my feeble praise. it was a dear pigmy. there was some contention as to who should have the ears; but in spite of his obstinacy (deaf as these little creatures are to advice), i contrived to get at one of them. it came in boots, too, which i took as a favor. generally these petty-toes, pretty toes i are missing: but i suppose he wore them to look taller. he must have been the least of his race. his little foots would have gone into the silver slipper. i take him to have beec a chinese and a female. if evelyn could have seen him, he would never have farrowed two such prodigious volumes, seeing how much good can be contained in--how small a compass! he crackled delicately. i left a blank at the top of my letter, not being determined which to address it to j so farmer and farmer's wife will please to divide our thanks. may your granaries be full, and your rats empty, and your chickens plump, and your envious neighbors lean, and your laborers busy, and you as idle and as happy as the day is long! vive l'agriculture! how do you make your pigs so little? they are vastly engaging at the age. i was so myself. now i am a disagreeable old hog, a middle-aged gentleman-and-a-half; my faculties (thank god!) are not much impaired. i have my sight, hearing, taste, pretty perfect, and can read the lord's prayer in common type, by the help of a candle, without making many mistakes.... many happy returns, not of the pig, but of the new year, to both. mary, for her share of the pig and the memoirs, desires to send the same. yours truly, c. lamb. [ ] hertfordshire connections of the lambs. lxxv. to bernard barton. [ ] _january_ , . throw yourself on the world without any rational plan of support beyond what the chance employ of booksellers would afford you! throw yourself, rather, my dear sir, from the steep tarpeian rock slap-dash headlong upon iron spikes. if you had but five consolatory minutes between the desk and the bed, make much of them, and live a century in them, rather than turn slave to the booksellers. they are turks and tartars when they have poor authors at their beck. hitherto you have been at arm's length from them. come not within their grasp. i have known many authors want for bread, some repining, others envying the blessed security of a counting-house, all agreeing they had rather have been tailors, weavers,--what not,--rather than the things they were. i have known some starved, some to go mad, one dear friend literally dying in a workhouse. you know not what a rapacious, dishonest set these booksellers are. ask even southey, who (a single case almost) has made a fortune by book-drudgery, what he has found them. oh, you know not--may you never know!--the miseries of subsisting by authorship. 'tis a pretty appendage to a situation like yours or mine, but a slavery, worse than all slavery, to be a bookseller's dependant, to drudge your brains for pots of ale and breasts of mutton, to change your free thoughts and voluntary numbers for ungracious task-work. those fellows hate _us_. the reason i take to be that, contrary to other trades, in which the master gets all the credit (a jeweller or silversmith for instance), and the journeyman, who really does the fine work, is in the background, in _our_ work the world gives all the credit to us, whom _they_ consider as _their_ journeymen, and therefore do they hate us, and cheat us, and oppress us, and would wring the blood of as out, to put another sixpence in their mechanic pouches! i contend that a bookseller has a _relative honesty_ towards authors, not like his honesty to the rest of the world. baldwin, who first engaged me as elia, has not paid me up yet (nor any of us without repeated mortifying appeals). yet how the knave fawned when i was of service to him! yet i daresay the fellow is punctual in settling his milk-score, etc. keep to your bank, and the bank will keep you. trust not to the public; you may hang, starve, drown yourself, for anything that worthy _personage_ cares. i bless every star that providence, not seeing good to make me independent, has seen it next good to settle me upon the stable foundation of leadenhall. sit down, good b.b., in the banking-office; what! is there not from six to eleven p.m. six days in the week, and is there not all sunday? fie! what a superfluity of man's time, if you could think so,--enough for relaxation, mirth, converse, poetry, good thoughts, quiet thoughts. oh, the corroding, torturing, tormenting thoughts that disturb the brain of the unlucky wight who must draw upon it for daily sustenance! henceforth i retract all my foul complaints of mercantile employment; look upon them as lovers' quarrels. i was but half in earnest. welcome, dead timber of a desk, that makes me live! a little grumbling is a wholesome medicine for the spleen, but in my inner heart do i approve and embrace this our close, but unharassing, way of life. i am quite serious. if you can send me fox, i will not keep it _six weeks_, and will return it, with warm thanks to yourself and friend, without blot or dog's-ear. you will much oblige me by this kindness. yours truly, c. lamb. [ ] the quaker poet. mr. barton was a clerk in the bank of the messrs. alexander, of woodbridge, in suffolk. encouraged by his literary success, he thought of throwing up his clerkship and trusting to his pen for a livelihood,--a design from which he was happily diverted by his friends. lxxvi. to miss hutchinson. _april_ , . dear miss h.,--mary has such an invincible reluctance to any epistolary exertion that i am sparing her a mortification by taking the pen from her. the plain truth is, she writes such a mean, detestable hand that she is ashamed of the formation of her letters. there is an essential poverty and abjectness in the frame of them. they look like begging letters. and then she is sure to omit a most substantial word in the second draught (for she never ventures an epistle without a foul copy first), which is obliged to be interlined,--which spoils the neatest epistle, you know. her figures, , , , , etc., where she has occasion to express numerals, as in the date ( th april, ), are not figures, but figurantes; and the combined posse go staggering up and down shameless, as drunkards in the daytime. it is no better when she rules her paper. her lines "are not less erring" than her words; a sort of unnatural parallel lines, that are perpetually threatening to meet,--which, you know, is quite contrary to euclid. her very blots are not bold, like this [_here a large blot is inserted_], but poor smears, half left in and half scratched out, with another smear left in their place. i like a clear letter; a bold, free hand and a fearless flourish. then she has always to go through them (a second operation) to dot her _i_'s and cross her _t_'s. i don't think she could make a corkscrew if she tried,--which has such a fine effect at the end or middle of an epistle, and fills up. there is a corkscrew! one of the best i ever drew. [ ] by the way, what incomparable whiskey that was of monkhouse's! but if i am to write a letter, let me begin, and not stand flourishing like a fencer at a fair. _april_ , . dear miss h.,--it gives me great pleasure [the letter now begins] to hear that you got down so smoothly, and that mrs. monkhouse'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 was 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 astræa, and the cold piety of the age lacks fervor 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 primroses at dalston, and mary corrects me when i call 'em cowslips. god bless you all, and pray remember me euphoniously to mr. gruvellegan. that lee priory must be a dainty bower. is it built of flints? and does it stand at kingsgate? [ ] lamb was fond of this flourish, and it is frequently found in his letters. [ ] miss hutchinson's invalid relative. lxxvii. to bernard barton. _september_ , . dear b.b.,--what will you not say to my not writing? you cannot say i do not write now. hessey has not used your kind sonnet, nor have i seen it. pray send me a copy. neither have i heard any more of your friend's ms., which i will reclaim whenever you please. when you come londonward, you will find me no longer in covent garden: i have a cottage in colebrook row, islington,--a cottage, for it is detached; a white house, with six good rooms, the new river (rather elderly by this time) runs (if a moderate walking pace can be so termed) close to the foot of the house; and behind is a spacious garden with vines (i assure you), pears, strawberries, parsnips, leeks, carrots, cabbages, to delight the heart of old alcinous. you enter without passage into a cheerful dining-room, all studded over and rough with old books; and above is a lightsome drawing-room, three windows, full of choice prints. i feel like a great lord, never having had a house before. the "london," i fear, falls off. i linger among its creaking rafters, like the last rat; it will topple down if they don't get some buttresses. they have pulled down three,--hazlitt, procter, and their best stay, kind, light-hearted wainewright, their janus. [ ] the best is, neither of our fortunes is concerned in it. i heard of you from mr. pulham this morning, and that gave a fillip to my laziness, which has been intolerable; but i am so taken up with pruning and gardening,--quite a new sort of occupation to me. i have gathered my jargonels; but my windsor pears are backward. the former were of exquisite raciness. i do now sit under my own vine, and contemplate the growth of vegetable nature. i can now understand in what sense they speak of father adam. i recognize the paternity while i watch my tulips. i almost fell with him, for the first day i turned a drunken gardener (as he let in the serpent) into my eden; and he laid about him, lopping off some choice boughs, etc., which hung over from a neighbor's garden, and in his blind zeal laid waste a shade which had sheltered their window from the gaze of passers-by. the old gentlewoman (fury made her not handsome) could scarcely be reconciled by all my fine words. there was no buttering her parsnips. she talked of the law. what a lapse to commit on the first day of my happy "garden state"! i hope you transmitted the fox-journal to its owner, with suitable thanks. mr. cary, the dante man, dines with me to-day. he is a mode of a country parson, lean (as a curate ought to be), modest, sensible, no obtruder of church dogmas, quite a different man from southey. you would like him. pray accept this for a letter, and believe me, with sincere regards, yours, c.l. [ ] wainewright, the notorious poisoner, who, under the name of "janus weathercock," contributed various frothy papers on art and literature to the "london magazine." lxxviii. to mrs. hazlitt. _november_, . 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 noonday_), 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 window, 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, marched 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 accompanied 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 seem 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 sang, laughed, whimpered, 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 open-mouthed about having paling before the river; but i cannot see that because a ... lunatic chooses to walk into a river, with his eyes open, at mid-day, i am any the more likely to be drowned in it, coming home at midnight. [ ] see elia-essay, "amicus redivivus." [ ] in the "athenæum" for procter says: "i happened to call at lamb's house about ten minutes after this accident; i saw before me a train of water running from the door to the river. lamb had gone for a surgeon; the maid was running about distraught, with dry clothes on one arm, and the dripping habiliments of the involuntary bather in the other. miss lamb, agitated, and whimpering forth 'poor mr. dyer!' in the most forlorn voice, stood plunging her hands into the wet pockets of his trousers, to fish up the wet coin. dyer himself, an amiable little old man, who took water _in_ternally and eschewed strong liquors, lay on his host's bed, hidden by blankets; his head, on which was his short gray hair, alone peered out; and this, having been rubbed dry by a resolute hand,--by the maid's, i believe, who assisted at the rescue,--looked as if bristling with a thousand needles. lamb, moreover, in his anxiety, had administered a formidable dose of cognac and water to the sufferer, and _he_ (used only to the simple element) babbled without cessation." lxxix. to bernard barton. _january_ , . dear b.b.,--do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day-mare,--"a whoreson lethargy," falstaff calls it,--an indisposition to do anything or to be anything; a total deadness and distaste; a suspension of vitality; an indifference to locality; a numb, soporifical good-for-nothingness; an ossification all over; an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events; a mind-stupor; a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience? did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water-gruel processes? this has been for many weeks my lot and my excuse. my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three-and-twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet. i have not a thing to say; nothing is of more importance than another. i am flatter than a denial or a pancake; emptier than judge parke's wig when the head is in it; duller than a country stage when the actors are off it,--a cipher, an o! i acknowledge life at all only by an occasional convulsional cough and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest. i am weary of the world; life is weary of me, my day is gone into twilight, and i don't think it worth the expense of candles. my wick hath a thief in it, but i can't muster courage to snuff it. i inhale suffocation; i can't distinguish veal from mutton; nothing interests me. 't is twelve o'clock, and thurtell [ ] is just now coming out upon the new drop, jack ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality; yet cannot i elicit a groan or a moral reflection. if you told me the world will be at an end to-morrow, i should just say, "will it?" i have not volition enough left to dot my _i_'s, much less to comb my eyebrows; my eyes are set in my head; my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again; my skull is a grub street attic to let,--not so much as a joint-stool left in it; my hand writes, not i, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off. oh for a vigorous fit of gout, colic, toothache,--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs; pain is life,--the sharper the more evidence of life; but this apathy, this death! did you ever have an obstinate cold,--a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and everything? yet do i try all i can to cure it. i try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities; but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better. i sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; i come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment! who shall deliver me from the body of this death? it is just fifteen minutes after twelve. thurtell is by this time a good way on his journey, baiting at scorpion, perhaps. ketch is bargaining for his cast coat and waistcoat; and the jew demurs at first at three half-crowns, but on consideration that he may get somewhat by showing 'em in the town, finally closes. c. l. [ ] hanged that day for the murder of weare. lxxx. to bernard barton. _january_ , . my dear sir,--that peevish letter of mine, [ ] which was meant to convey an apology for my incapacity to write, seems to have been taken by you in too serious a light,--it was only my way of telling you i had a severe cold. the fact is, i have been insuperably dull and lethargic for many weeks, and cannot rise to the vigor of a letter, much less an essay. the "london" must do without me for a time, for i have lost all interest about it; and whether i shall recover it again i know not. i will bridle my pen another time, and not tease and puzzle you with my aridities. i shall begin to feel a little more alive with the spring. winter is to me (mild or harsh) always a great trial of the spirits. i am ashamed not to have noticed your tribute to woolman, whom we love so much; it is done in your good manner. your friend tayler called upon me some time since, and seems a very amiable man. his last story is painfully fine. his book i "like;" it is only too stuffed with scripture, too parsonish. the best thing in it is the boy's own story. when i say it is too full of scripture, i mean it is too full of direct quotations; no book can have too much of silent scripture in it. but the natural power of a story is diminished when the uppermost purpose in the writer seems to be to recommend something else,--namely, religion. you know what horace says of the _deus intersit_? i am not able to explain myself,--you must do it for me. my sister's part in the "leicester school" (about two thirds) was purely her own; as it was (to the same quantity) in the "shakspeare tales" which bear my name. i wrote only the "witch aunt," the "first going to church," and the final story about "a little indian girl" in a ship. your account of my black-balling amused me. _i think, as quakers, they did right._ there are some things hard to be understood. the more i think, the more i am vexed at having puzzled you with that letter; but i have been so out of letter-writing of late years that it is a sore effort to sit down to it; and i felt in your debt, and sat down waywardly to pay you in bad money. never mind my dulness; i am used to long intervals of it. the heavens seem brass to me; then again comes the refreshing shower,-- "i have been merry twice and once ere now." you said something about mr. mitford in a late letter, which i believe i did not advert to. i shall be happy to show him my milton (it is all the show things i have) at any time he will take the trouble of a jaunt to islington. i do also hope to see mr. tayler there some day. pray say so to both. coleridge's book is in good part printed, but sticks a little for _more copy_. it bears an unsalable title,--"extracts from bishop leighton;" but i am confident there will be plenty of good notes in it,--more of bishop coleridge than leighton in it, i hope; for what is leighton? do you trouble yourself about libel cases? the decision against hunt for the "vision of judgment" made me sick. what is to become of the good old talk about our good old king,--his personal virtues saving us from a revolution, etc.? why, none that think can utter it now. it must stink. and the "vision" is as to himward such a tolerant, good-humored thing! what a wretched thing a lord chief justice is, always was, and will be! keep your good spirits up, dear b. b., mine will return; they are at present in abeyance, but i am rather lethargic than miserable. i don't know but a good horsewhip would be more beneficial to me than physic. my head, without aching, will teach yours to ache. it is well i am getting to the conclusion. i will send a better letter when i am a better man. let me thank you for your kind concern for me (which i trust will have reason soon to be dissipated), and assure you that it gives me pleasure to hear from you. yours truly, c. l. [ ] letter lxxix. lxxxi. to bernard barton _april_, . dear b.b.,--i am sure i cannot fill a letter, though i should disfurnish my skull to fill it; but you expect something, and shall have a notelet. is sunday, not divinely speaking, but humanly and holiday-sically, a blessing? without its institution, would our rugged taskmasters have given us a leisure day so often, think you, as once in a month? or, if it had not been instituted, might they not have given us every sixth day? solve me this problem. if we are to go three times a-day to church, why has sunday slipped into the notion of a _holi_day? a holy-day, i grant it. the puritans, i have read in southey's book, knew the distinction. they made people observe sunday rigorously, would not let a nurserymaid walk out in the fields with children for recreation on that day. but _then_ they gave the people a holiday from all sorts of work every second tuesday. this was giving to the two cæsars that which was _his_ respective. wise, beautiful, thoughtful, generous legislators! would wilberforce give us our tuesdays? no; he would turn the six days into sevenths,-- "and those three smiling seasons of the year into a russian winter." old play. i am sitting opposite a person who is making strange distortions with the gout, which is not unpleasant pleasant,--to me, at least. what is the reason we do not sympathize with pain, short of some terrible surgical operation? hazlitt, who boldly says all he feels, avows that not only he does not pity sick people, but he hates them. i obscurely recognize his meaning. pain is probably too selfish a consideration, too simply a consideration of self-attention. we pity poverty, loss of friends, etc.,--more complex things, in which the sufferer's feelings are associated with others. this is a rough thought suggested by the presence of gout; i want head to extricate it and plane it. what is all this to your letter? i felt it to be a good one, but my turn, when i write at all, is perversely to travel out of the record, so that my letters are anything but answers. so you still want a motto? you must not take my ironical one, because your book, i take it, is too serious for it. bickerstaff might have used it for _his_ lucubrations. what do you think of (for a title) religio tremuli? or tremebundi? there is religio medici and laici. but perhaps the volume is not quite quakerish enough, or exclusively so, for it. your own "vigils" is perhaps the best. while i have space, let me congratulate with you the return of spring,--what a summery spring too! all those qualms about the dog and cray-fish [ ] melt before it. i am going to be happy and _vain_ again. a hasty farewell, c. lamb. [ ] lamb had confessed, in a previous letter to barton, to having once wantonly set a dog upon a cray-fish. lxxxii. to bernard barton. _may_ , . dear b. b.,--i am oppressed with business all day, and company all night. but i will snatch a quarter of an hour. your recent acquisitions of the picture and the letter are greatly to be congratulated. i too have a picture of my father and the copy of his first love-verses; but they have been mine long. blake is a real name, i assure you, and a most extraordinary man, if he is still living. he is the robert [william] blake whose wild designs accompany a splendid folio edition of the "night thoughts," which you may have seen, in one of which he pictures the parting of soul and body by a solid mass of human form floating off, god knows how, from a lumpish mass (fac-simile to itself) left behind on the dying bed. he paints in water-colors marvellous strange pictures, visions of his brain, which he asserts that he has seen; they have great merit. he has _seen_ the old welsh bards on snowdon,--he has seen the beautifullest, the strongest, and the ugliest man, left alone from the massacre of the britons by the romans, and has painted them from memory (i have seen his paintings), and asserts them to be as good as the figures of raphael and angelo, but not better, as they had precisely the same retro-visions and prophetic visions with themself [himself]. the painters in oil (which he will have it that neither of them practised) he affirms to have been the ruin of art, and affirms that all the while he was engaged in his welsh paintings, titian was disturbing him,-- titian the ill genius of oil painting. his pictures--one in particular, the canterbury pilgrims, far above stothard--have great merit, but hard, dry, yet with grace. he has written a catalogue of them, with a most spirited criticism on chaucer, but mystical and full of vision. his poems have been sold hitherto only in manuscript. i never read them; but a friend at my desire procured the "sweep song." there is one to a tiger, which i have heard recited, beginning,-- "tiger, tiger, burning bright, thro' the deserts of the night," which is glorious, but, alas! i have not the book; for the man is flown, whither i know not,--to hades or a madhouse. but i must look on him as one of the most extraordinary persons of the age. montgomery's book [ ] i have not much hope from, and the society with the affected name [ ] has been laboring at it for these twenty years, and made few converts. i think it was injudicious to mix stories, avowedly colored by fiction, with the sad, true statements from the parliamentary records, etc. but i wish the little negroes all the good that can come from it. i battered my brains (not buttered them,--but it is a bad _a_) for a few verses for them, but i could make nothing of it. you have been luckier. but blake's are the flower of the set, you will, i am sure, agree; though some of montgomery's at the end are pretty, but the dream awkwardly paraphrased from b. with the exception of an epilogue for a private theatrical, i have written nothing new for near six months. it is in vain to spur me on. i must wait. i cannot write without a genial impulse, and i have none. 't is barren all and dearth. no matter; life is something without scribbling. i have got rid of my bad spirits, and hold up pretty well this rain-damned may. so we have lost another poet. [ ] i never much relished his lordship's mind, and shall be sorry if the greeks have cause to miss him. he was to me offensive, and i never can make out his real _power_, which his admirers talk of. why, a, line of wordsworth's is a lever to lift the immortal spirit; byron can only move the spleen. he was at best a satirist. in any other way, he was mean enough. i daresay i do him injustice; but i cannot love him, nor squeeze a tear to his memory. he did not like the world, and he has left it, as alderman curtis advised the radicals, "if they don't like their country, damn 'em, let 'em leave it," they possessing no rood of ground in england, and he ten thousand acres. byron was better than many curtises. farewell, and accept this apology for a letter from one who owes you so much in that kind. yours ever truly, c. l. [ ] "the chimney-sweeper's friend, and climbing-boy's album,"--a book, by james montgomery, setting forth the wrongs of the little chimney-sweepers, for whose relief a society had been started. [ ] the society for ameliorating the condition of infant chimney-sweepers. [ ] byron had died on april . lxxxiii. to bernard barton. _august_, . i can no more understand shelley than you can; his poetry is "thin sown with profit or delight." yet i must point to your notice a sonnet conceived and expressed with a witty delicacy. it is that addressed to one who hated him, but who could not persuade him to hate _him_ again. his coyness to the other's passion--for hate demands a return as much as love, and starves without it--is most arch and pleasant. pray, like it very much. for his theories and nostrums, they are oracular enough, but i either comprehend 'em not, or there is "miching malice" and mischief in 'em, but, for the most part, ringing with their own emptiness. hazlitt said well of 'em: "many are the wiser and better for reading shakspeare, but nobody was ever wiser or better for reading shelley." i wonder you will sow your correspondence on so barren a ground as i am, that make such poor returns. but my head aches at the bare thought of letter-writing. i wish all the ink in the ocean dried up, and would listen to the quills shivering up in the candle flame, like parching martyrs. the same indisposition to write it is has stopped my "elias;" but you will see a futile effort in the next number, [ ] "wrung from me with slow pain." the fact is, my head is seldom cool enough. i am dreadfully indolent. to have to do anything--to order me a new coat, for instance, though my old buttons are shelled like beans--is an effort. my pen stammers like my tongue. what cool craniums those old inditers of folios must have had, what a mortified pulse! well, once more i throw myself on your mercy. wishing peace in thy new dwelling, c. lamb. [ ] the essay "blakesmoor in hertfordshire," in the "london magazine" for september, . lxxxiv. to bernard barton. _december_ , . taylor and hessey, finding their magazine [ ] goes off very heavily at _s_. _d_., 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 george dyer multiplying his volumes to make 'em sell better. when he finds one will not go off, he publishes two; two stick, he tries three; three hang fire, he is confident that four will have a better chance. and now, my dear sir, trifling apart, the gloomy catastrophe of yesterday morning prompts a sadder vein. the fate of the unfortunate fauntleroy [ ] makes me, whether i will or no, to cast reflecting eyes around on such of my friends as, by a parity of situation, are exposed to a similarity of temptation. my very style seems to myself to become more impressive than usual, with the change of theme. who, that standeth, knoweth but he may yet fall? your hands as yet, i am most willing to believe, have never deviated, into others' property; you think it impossible that you could ever commit so heinous an offence. but so thought fauntleroy once; so have thought many besides him, who at last have expiated as he hath done. you are as yet upright; but you are a banker,--at least, the next thing to it. i feel the delicacy of the subject; but cash must pass through your hands, sometimes to a great amount. if in an unguarded hour--but i will hope better. consider the scandal it will bring upon those of your persuasion. thousands would go to see a quaker hanged, that would be indifferent to the fate of a presbyterian or an anabaptist. think of the effect it would have on the sale of your poems alone, not to mention higher considerations! i tremble, i am sure, at myself, when i think that so many poor victims of the law, at one time of their life, made as sure of never being hanged as i, in my presumption, am too ready to do myself. what are we better than they? do we come into the world with different necks? is there any distinctive mark under our left ears? are we unstrangulable, i ask you? think of these things. i am shocked sometimes at the shape of my own fingers, not for their resemblance to the ape tribe (which is something), but for the exquisite adaptation of them to the purposes of picking fingering, etc. no one that is so framed, i maintain it, but should tremble. c. l. [ ] taylor and hessey succeeded john scott as editors of the "london magazine" (of which they were also publishers), and it was to this periodical that most of lamb's elia essays were contributed. [ ] the forger, hanged nov. , . this was the last execution for this offence. lxxxv. to bernard barton. _march_ , . dear b. b.,--i have had no impulse to write, or attend to any single object but myself for weeks past,--my single self, i by myself, i. i am sick of hope deferred. the grand wheel is in agitation that is to turn up my fortune; but round it rolls, and will turn up nothing. i have a glimpse of freedom, of becoming a gentleman at large; but i am put off from day to day. i have offered my resignation, and it is neither accepted nor rejected. eight weeks am i kept in this fearful suspense. guess what an absorbing stake i feel it. i am not conscious of the existence of friends present or absent. the east india directors alone can be that thing to me or not. i have just learned that nothing will be decided this week. why the next? why any week? it has fretted me into an itch of the fingers; i rub 'em against paper, and write to you, rather than not allay this scorbuta. while i can write, let me adjure you to have no doubts of irving. let mr. mitford drop his disrespect. irving has prefixed a dedication (of a missionary subject, first part) to coleridge, the most beautiful, cordial, and sincere. he there acknowledges his obligation to s. t. c. for his knowledge of gospel truths, the nature of a christian church, etc.,--to the talk of samuel taylor coleridge (at whose gamaliel feet he sits weekly), rather than to that of all the men living. this from him, the great dandled and petted sectarian, to a religious character so equivocal in the world's eye as that of s. t. c., so foreign to the kirk's estimate,--can this man be a quack? the language is as affecting as the spirit of the dedication. some friend told him, "this dedication will do you no good,"--_i. e._, not in the world's repute, or with your own people. "that is a reason for doing it," quoth irving. i am thoroughly pleased with him. he is firm, out-speaking, intrepid, and docile as a pupil of pythagoras. you must like him. yours, in tremors of painful hope, c. lamb. lxxxvi. to wordsworth _april_ , dear wordsworth,--i have been several times meditating a letter to you concerning the good thing which has befallen me; but the thought of poor monkhouse [ ] came across me. he was one that i had exulted in the prospect of congratulating me. he and you were to have been the first participators; for indeed it has been ten weeks since the first motion of it. here am i then, after thirty-three years' slavery, sitting in my own room at eleven o'clock this finest of all april mornings, a freed man, with £ a year for the remainder of my life, live i as long as john dennis, who outlived his annuity and starved at ninety: £ ; _i.e., £ _, with a deduction of £ for a provision secured to my sister, she being survivor, the pension guaranteed by act georgii tertii, etc. i came home forever on tuesday in last week. the incomprehensibleness of my condition overwhelmed me; it was like passing from life into eternity. every year to be as long as three, _i.e._, to have three times as much real time--time that is my own--in it! i wandered about thinking i was happy, but feeling i was not. but that tumultuousness is passing off, and i begin to understand the nature of the gift. holidays, even the annual month, were always uneasy joys,--their conscious fugitiveness; the craving after making the most of them. now, when all is holiday, there are no holidays. i can sit at home, in rain or shine, without a restless impulse for walkings. i am daily steadying, and shall soon find it as natural to me to be my own master as it has been irksome to have had a master. mary wakes every morning with an obscure feeling that some good has happened to us. leigh hunt and montgomery, after their releasements, describe the shock of their emancipation much as i feel mine. but it hurt their frames. i eat, drink, and sleep sound as ever, i lay no anxious schemes for going hither and thither, but take things as they occur. yesterday i excursioned twenty miles; to-day i write a few letters. pleasuring was for fugitive play-days: mine are fugitive only in the sense that life is fugitive. freedom and life co-existent! at the foot of such a call upon you for gratulation, i am ashamed to advert to that melancholy event. monkhouse was a character i learned to love slowly; but it grew upon me yearly, monthly, daily. what a chasm has it made in our pleasant parties! his noble, friendly face was always coming before me, till this hurrying event in my life came, and for the time has absorbed all interest; in fact, it has shaken me a little. my old desk companions, with whom i have had such merry hours, seem to reproach me for removing my lot from among them. they were pleasant creatures; but to the anxieties of business, and a weight of possible worse ever impending, i was not equal. tuthill and gilman gave me my certificates; i laughed at the friendly lie implied in them. but my sister shook her head, and said it was all true. indeed, this last winter i was jaded out; winters were always worse than other parts of the year, because the spirits are worse, and i had no daylight. in summer i had daylight evenings. the relief was hinted to me from a superior power when i, poor slave, had not a hope but that i must wait another seven years with jacob; and lo! the rachel which i coveted is brought to me. [ ] wordsworth's cousin, who was ill of consumption in devonshire. he died the following year. lxxxvii. to bernard barton. _april_ , . dear b.b.,--my spirits are so tumultuary with the novelty of my recent emancipation that i have scarce steadiness of hand, much more mind, to compose a letter. i am free, b.b.,--free as air! "the little bird that wings the sky knows no such liberty." [ ] i was set free on tuesday in last week at four o'clock. i came home forever! i have been describing my feelings as well as i can to wordsworth in a long letter, and don't care to repeat. take it, briefly, that for a few days i was painfully oppressed by so mighty a change; but it is becoming daily more natural to me. i went and sat among 'em all at my old thirty-three-years' desk yester-morning; and, deuce take me, if i had not yearnings at leaving all my old pen-and-ink fellows, merry, sociable lads,--at leaving them in the lurch, fag, fag, fag! the comparison of my own superior felicity gave me anything but pleasure. b.b., i would not serve another seven years for seven hundred thousand pounds! i have got £ net for life, sanctioned by act of parliament, with a provision for mary if she survives me. i will live another fifty years; or if i live but ten, they will be thirty, reckoning the quantity of real time in them,--_i.e._, the time that is a man's own, tell me how you like "barbara s.;" [ ] will it be received in atonement for the foolish "vision"--i mean by the lady? _a propos_, i never saw mrs. crawford in my life; nevertheless, it's all true of somebody. address me, in future, colebrooke cottage, islington, i am really nervous (but that will wear off), so take this brief announcement. yours truly, c.l. [ ] "the birds that wanton in the air know no such liberty." lovelace. [ ] the elia essay. fanny kelly was the original of "barbara s." lxxxviii. to bernard barton. _july_ , . i am hardly able to appreciate your volume now; [ ] but 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 forever 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. [ ] "barton's volume of poems." lxxxix. to bernard barton. _august_ , . we shall be soon again at colebrooke. dear b.b.,--you must excuse my not writing before, when i tell you we are on a visit at enfield, where i do not feel it natural to sit down to a letter. it is at all times an exertion. i had rather talk with you and anne knight quietly at colebrooke lodge over the matter of your last. you mistake me when you express misgivings about my relishing a series of scriptural poems. i wrote confusedly; what i meant to say was, that one or two consolatory 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 seriously, the homely old version of the 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 addresses 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. omniscience, 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 falling into future wilfulness, vice, etc. 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 flounder; and if we can pick up a little human comfort that the child taken is snatched from vice (no great compliment to it, by the by), let us take it. and as to where an untried 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 induces a cheapness. tickets for admission into paradise are sculptured out a penny a letter, twopence a syllable, etc. it is all a mystery; and the more i try to express my meaning (having none that is clear), the more i flounder. 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 dropped the "london." it was indeed a dead weight. it had 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 yourself, and strangers'-greeting to lucy,--is it lucy, or ruth?--that gathers wise sayings in a book. c. lamb. xc. to southey. _august_ , . dear southey,--you'll know whom this letter comes from by opening slap-dash upon the text, as in the good old times. i never could come into the custom of envelopes,--'tis a modern foppery; the plinian correspondence gives no hint of such. in singleness of sheet and meaning, then, i thank you for your little book. i am ashamed to add a codicil of thanks for your "book of the church." i scarce feel competent to give an opinion of the latter; i have not reading enough of that kind to venture at it. i can only say the fact, that i have read it with attention and interest. being, as you know, not quite a churchman, i felt a jealousy at the church taking to herself the whole deserts of christianity, catholic and protestant, from druid extirpation downwards. i call all good christians the church. capillarians and all. but i am in too light a humor to touch these matters. may all our churches flourish! two things staggered me in the poem (and one of them staggered both of as): i cannot away with a beautiful series of verses, as i protest they are, commencing "jenner," 'tis like a choice banquet opened with a pill or an electuary,--physic stuff. t'other is, we cannot make out how edith should be no more than ten years old. by 'r lady, we had taken her to be some sixteen or upwards. we suppose you have only chosen the round number for the metre. or poem and dedication may be both older than they pretend to,--but then some hint might have been given; for, as it stands, it may only serve some day to puzzle the parish reckoning. but without inquiring further (for 'tis ungracious to look into a lady's years), the dedication is eminently pleasing and tender, and we wish edith may southey joy of it. something, too, struck us as if we had heard of the death of john may. a john may's death was a few years since in the papers. we think the tale one of the quietest, prettiest things we have seen. you have been temperate in the use of localities, which generally spoil poems laid in exotic regions. you mostly cannot stir out (in such things) for humming-birds and fireflies. a tree is a magnolia, etc.--can i but like the truly catholic spirit? "blame as thou mayest the papist's erring creed,"--which and other passages brought me back to the old anthology days and the admonitory lesson to "dear george" on "the vesper bell," a little poem which retains its first hold upon me strangely. the compliment to the translatress is daintily conceived. nothing is choicer in that sort of writing than to bring in some remote, impossible parallel,--as between a great empress and the inobtrusive, quiet soul who digged her noiseless way so perseveringly through that rugged paraguay mine. how she dobrizhoffered it all out, it puzzles my slender latinity to conjecture. why do you seem to sanction landor's unfeeling allegorizing away of honest quixote? he may as well say strap is meant to symbolize the scottish nation before the union, and random since that act of dubious issue; or that partridge means the mystical man, and lady bellaston typifies the woman upon many waters. gebir, indeed, may mean the state of the hop markets last month, for anything i know to the contrary. that all spain overflowed with romancical books (as madge newcastle calls them) was no reason that cervantes should not smile at the matter of them; nor even a reason that, in another mood, he might not multiply them, deeply as he was tinctured with the essence of them. quixote is the father of gentle ridicule, and at the same time the very depository and treasury of chivalry and highest notions. marry, when somebody persuaded cervantes that he meant only fun, and put him upon writing that unfortunate second part, with the confederacies of that unworthy duke and most contemptible duchess, cervantes sacrificed his instinct to his understanding. we got your little book but last night, being at enfield, to which place we came about a month since, and are having quiet holidays. mary walks her twelve miles a day some days, and i my twenty on others. 't is all holiday with me now, you know; the change works admirably. for literary news, in my poor way, i have a one-act farce [ ] going to be acted at haymarket; but when? is the question, 'tis an extravaganza, and like enough to follow "mr. h." "the london magazine" has shifted its publishers once more, and i shall shift myself out of it. it is fallen. my ambition is not at present higher than to write nonsense for the playhouses, to eke out a something contracted income. _tempus erat_. there was a time, my dear cornwallis, when the muse, etc. but i am now in mac flecknoe's predicament,-- "promised a play, and dwindled to a farce." coleridge is better (was, at least, a few weeks since) than he has been for years. his accomplishing his book at last has been a source of vigor to him. we are on a half visit to his friend allsop, at a mrs. leishman's, enfield, but expect to be at colebrooke cottage in a week or so, where, or anywhere, i shall be always most happy to receive tidings from you. g. dyer is in the height of an uxorious paradise. his honeymoon will not wane till he wax cold. never was a more happy pair, since acme and septimius, and longer. farewell, with many thanks, dear s. our loves to all round your wrekin. your old friend, c. lamb. [ ] probably "the pawnbroker's daughter," which happily was not destined to be performed.--ainger. xci. to bernard barton. _march_ , . dear b. b.,--you may know my letters by the paper and the folding. for the former, i live on scraps obtained in charity from an old friend, whose stationery is a permanent perquisite; for folding, i shall do it neatly when i learn to tie my neckcloths. i surprise most of my friends by writing to them on ruled paper, as if i had not got past pothooks and hangers. sealing-wax i have none on my establishment; wafers of the coarsest bran supply its place. when my epistles come to be weighed with pliny's, however superior to the roman in delicate irony, judicious reflections, etc., his gilt post will bribe over the judges to him. all the time i was at the e. i. h. i never mended a pen; i now cut 'em to the stumps, marring rather than mending the primitive goose-quill. i cannot bear to pay for articles i used to get for nothing. when adam laid out his first penny upon nonpareils at some stall in mesopotamos, i think it went hard with him, reflecting upon his old goodly orchard, where he had so many for nothing. when i write to a great man at the court end, he opens with surprise upon a naked note, such as whitechapel people interchange, with no sweet degrees of envelope. i never enclosed one bit of paper in another, nor understood the rationale of it. once only i sealed with borrowed wax, to set walter scott a-wondering, signed with the imperial quartered arms of england, which my friend field bears in compliment to his descent, in the female line, from oliver cromwell. it must have set his antiquarian curiosity upon watering. to your questions upon the currency, i refer you to mr. robinson's last speech, where, if you can find a solution, i cannot. i think this, though,--the best ministry we ever stumbled upon,--gin reduced four shillings in the gallon, wine two shillings in the quart! this comes home to men's minds and bosoms. my tirade against visitors was not meant _particularly_ at you or anne knight. i scarce know what i meant, for i do not just now feel the grievance. i wanted to make an _article_. so in another thing i talked of somebody's _insipid wife_ without a correspondent object in my head; and a good lady, a friend's wife, whom i really _love_ (don't startle, i mean in a licit way), has looked shyly on me ever since. the blunders of personal application are ludicrous. i send out a character every now and then on purpose to exercise the ingenuity of my friends. "popular fallacies" will go on; that word "concluded" is an erratum, i suppose, for "continued." i do not know how it got stuffed in there. a little thing without name will also be printed on the religion of the actors; but it is out of your way, so i recommend you, with true author's hypocrisy, to skip it. we are about to sit down to roast beef, at which we could wish a. k., b. b., and b. b.'s pleasant daughter to be humble partakers. so much for my hint at visitors, which was scarcely calculated for droppers-in from woodbridge; the sky does not drop such larks every day. my very kindest wishes to you all three, with my sister's best love. c. lamb. xcii. to j. b. dibdin. _june_, . dear d.,--my first impulse upon seeing your letter was pleasure at seeing your old neat hand, nine parts gentlemanly, with a modest dash of the clerical; my second, a thought natural enough this hot weather: am i to answer all this? why, 't is as long as those to the ephesians and galatians put together: i have counted the words, for curiosity.... i never knew an enemy to puns who was not an ill-natured man. your fair critic in the coach reminds me of a scotchman, who assured me he did not see much in shakspeare. i replied, i daresay _not_. he felt the equivoke, looked awkward and reddish, but soon returned to the attack by saying that he thought burns was as good as shakspeare. i said that i had no doubt he was,--to a _scotchman_. we exchanged no more words that day.... let me hear that you have clambered up to lover's seat; it is as fine in that neighborhood as juan fernandez,--as lonely, too, when the fishing-boats are not out; i have sat for hours staring upon a shipless sea. the salt sea is never as grand as when it is left to itself. one cock-boat spoils it; a seamew or two improves it. and go to the little church, which is a very protestant loretto, and seems dropped by some angel for the use of a hermit who was at once parishioner and a whole parish. it is not too big. go in the night, bring it away in your portmanteau, and i will plant it in my garden. it must have been erected, in the very infancy of british christianity, for the two or three first converts, yet with all the appurtenances of a church of the first magnitude,--its pulpit, its pews, its baptismal font; a cathedral in a nutshell. the minister that divides the word there must give lumping pennyworths. it is built to the text of "two or three assembled in my name." it reminds me of the grain of mustard-seed. if the glebe land is proportionate, it may yield two potatoes. tithes out of it could be no more split than a hair. its first fruits must be its last, for 't would never produce a couple. it is truly the strait and narrow way, and few there be (of london visitants) that find it. the still small voice is surely to be found there, if anywhere. a sounding-board is merely there for ceremony. it is secure from earthquakes, not more from sanctity than size, for't would feel a mountain thrown upon it no more than a taper-worm would. _go and see, but not without your spectacles_. xciii. to henry crabb robinson. _january_ , . dear robinson,--i called upon you this morning, and found that you had gone to visit a dying friend. i had been upon a like errand. poor norris [ ] has been lying dying for now almost a week,--such is the penalty we pay for having enjoyed a strong constitution! whether he knew me or not, i know not, or whether he saw me through his poor glazed eyes; but the group i saw about him i shall not forget. upon the bed, or about it, were assembled his wife and two daughters, and poor deaf richard, his son, looking doubly stupefied. there they were, and seemed to have been sitting all the week. i could only reach out a hand to mrs. norris. speaking was impossible in that mute chamber. by this time i hope it is all over with him. in him i have a loss the world cannot make up. he was my friend and my father's friend all the life i can remember. i seem to have made foolish friendships ever since. those are friendships which outlive a second generation. old as i am waxing, in his eyes i was still the child he first knew me. to the last he called me charley. i have none to call me charley now. he was the last link that bound me to the temple. you are but of yesterday. in him seem to have died the old plainness of manners and singleness of heart. letters he knew nothing of, nor did his reading extend beyond the pages of the "gentleman's magazine." yet there was a pride of literature about him from being amongst books (he was librarian), and from some scraps of doubtful latin which he had picked up in his office of entering students, that gave him very diverting airs of pedantry. can i forget the erudite look with which, when he had been in vain trying to make out a black-letter text of chaucer in the temple library, he laid it down and told me that "in those old books charley, there is sometimes a deal of very indifferent spelling;" and seemed to console himself in the reflection! his jokes--for he had his jokes--are now ended; but they were old trusty perennials, staples that pleased after _decies repetita_, and were always as good as new. one song he had, which was reserved for the night of christmas day, which we always spent in the temple. it was an old thing, and spoke of the flat-bottoms of our foes and the possibility of their coming over in darkness, and alluded to threats of an invasion many years blown over; and when he came to the part-- "we'll still make 'em run, and we'll still make 'em sweat, in spite of the devil and 'brussels gazette,'"-- his eyes would sparkle as with the freshness of an impending event. and what is the "brussels gazette" now? i cry while i enumerate these trifles. "how shall we tell them in a stranger's ear?" his poor good girls will now have to receive their afflicted mother in an inaccessible hovel in an obscure village in herts, where they have been long struggling to make a school without effect; and poor deaf richard--and the more helpless for being so--is thrown on the wide world. my first motive in writing, and, indeed, in calling on you, was to ask if you were enough acquainted with any of the benchers to lay a plain statement before them of the circumstances of the family. i almost fear not, for you are of another hall. but if you can oblige me and my poor friend, who is now insensible to any favors, pray exert yourself. you cannot say too much good of poor norris and his poor wife. yours ever, charles lamb. [ ] randal norris, sub-treasurer of the inner temple, an early friend of the lambs. xciv. to peter george patmore. londres, _julie_ _th_, . dear p.,--i am so poorly. i have been to a funeral, where i made a pun, to the consternation of the rest of the mourners. and we had wine. i can't describe to you the howl which the widow set up at proper intervals. dash [ ] could; for it was not unlike what he makes. the letter i sent you was one directed to the care of edward white, india house, for mrs. hazlitt. _which_ mrs. h. i don't yet know; but allsop has taken it to france on speculation. really it is embarrassing. there is mrs. present h., mrs. late h., and mrs. john h.; and to which of the three mrs. wigginses it appertains, i know not. i wanted to open it, but 'tis transportation. i am sorry you are plagued about your book. i would strongly recommend you to take for one story massinger's "old law." it is exquisite. i can think of no other. dash is frightful this morning. he whines and stands up on his hind legs. he misses becky, who is gone to town. i took him to barnet the other day, and he couldn't eat his vittles after it. pray god his intellectuals be not slipping. mary is gone out for some soles. i suppose 'tis no use to ask you to come and partake of 'em; else there is a steam vessel. i am doing a tragi-comedy in two acts, and have got on tolerably; but it will be refused, or worse, i never had luck with anything my name was put to. oh, i am so poorly! i _waked_ it at my cousin's the bookbinder, who is now with god; or if he is not,'tis no fault of mine. we hope the frank wines do not disagree with mrs. patmore. by the way, i like her. did you ever taste frogs? get them if you can. they are like little lilliput rabbits, only a thought nicer. how sick i am!--not of the world, but of the widow shrub. she's sworn under £ , ; but i think she perjured herself. she howls in e _la_, and i comfort her in b flat. you understand music? if you haven't got massinger, you have nothing to do but go to the first bibliothèque you can light upon at boulogne, and ask for it (gifford's edition); and if they haven't got it, you can have "athalie," par monsieur racine, and make the best of it. but that "old law" is delicious. "no shrimps!" (that's in answer to mary's question about how the soles are to be done.) i am uncertain where this wandering letter may reach you. what you mean by poste restante, god knows. do you mean i must pay the postage? so i do,--to dover. we had a merry passage with the widow at the commons. she was howling,--part howling, and part giving directions to the proctor,--when crash! down went my sister through a crazy chair, and made the clerks grin, and i grinned, and the widow tittered, and then i knew that she was not inconsolable. mary was more frightened than hurt. she'd make a good match for anybody (by she, i mean the widow). "if he bring but a _relict_ away, he is happy, nor heard to complain." shenstone. procter has got a wen growing out at the nape of his neck, which his wife wants him to have cut off; but i think it rather an agreeable excrescence,--like his poetry, redundant. hone has hanged himself for debt. godwin was taken up for picking pockets. moxon has fallen in love with emma, our nut-brown maid. becky takes to bad courses. her father was blown up in a steam machine. the coroner found it "insanity." i should not like him to sit on my letter. do you observe my direction? is it gallic, classical? do try and get some frogs. you must ask for "grenouilles" (green eels). they don't understand "frogs," though 't is a common phrase with us. if you go through bulloign (boulogne), inquire if old godfrey is living, and how he got home from the crusades. he must be a very old man. [ ] a dog given to lamb by thomas hood. see letter to patmore dated september, . xcv. to bernard barton. _august_ , . dear b. b.,--i have not been able to answer you, for we have had and are having (i just snatch a moment) our poor quiet retreat, to which we fled from society, full of company,--some staying with us; and this moment as i write, almost, a heavy importation of two old ladies has come in. whither can i take wing from the oppression of human faces? would i were in a wilderness of apes, tossing cocoa-nuts about, grinning and grinned at! mitford was hoaxing you surely about my engraving; 't is a little sixpenny thing, [ ] too like by half, in which the draughtsman has done his best to avoid flattery. there have been two editions of it, which i think are all gone, as they have vanished from the window where they hung,--a print-shop, corner of great and little queen streets, lincoln's inn fields,--where any london friend of yours may inquire for it; for i am (though you _won't understand it_) at enfield chase. we have been here near three months, and shall stay two more, if people will let us alone; but they persecute us from village to village. so don't direct to _islington_ again till further notice. i am trying my hand at a drama, in two acts, founded on crabbe's "confidant," _mutatis mutandis_. you like the odyssey: did you ever read my "adventures of ulysses," founded on chapman's old translation of it? for children or men. chapman is divine, and my abridgment has not quite emptied him of his divinity. when you come to town i'll show it you. you have well described your old-fashioned grand paternal hall. is it not odd that every one's earliest recollections are of some such place? i had my blakesware [blakesmoor in the "london"]. nothing fills a child's mind like a large old mansion; better if un--or partially--occupied,--peopled with the spirits of deceased members of the county and justices of the quorum. would i were buried in the peopled solitudes of one, with my feelings at seven years old! those marble busts of the emperors, they seemed as if they were to stand forever, as they had stood from the living days of rome, in that old marble hall, and i too partake of their permanency. eternity was, while i thought not of time. but he thought of me, and they are toppled down, and corn covers the spot of the noble old dwelling and its princely gardens, i feel like a grasshopper that, chirping about the grounds, escaped the scythe only by my littleness. even now he is whetting one of his smallest razors to clean wipe me out, perhaps. well! [footnote :] an etching of lamb, by brooke pulham, which is said to be the most characteristic likeness of him extant. xcvi. to thomas hood, _september_ , . dear hood,--if i have anything in my head, i will send it to mr. watts. strictly speaking, he should have all my album-verses; but a very intimate friend importuned me for the trifles, and i believe i forgot mr. watts, or lost sight at the time of his similar "souvenir." jamieson conveyed the farce from me to mrs. c. kemble; he will not be in town before the th. give our kind loves to all at highgate, and tell them that we have finally torn ourselves outright away from colebrooke, where i had _no_ health, and are about to domiciliate for good at enfield, where i have experienced _good_. "lord, what good hours do we keep! how quietly we sleep!" [ ] see the rest in the "compleat angler." we have got our books into our new house. i am a dray-horse if i was not ashamed of the indigested, dirty lumber, as i toppled 'em out of the cart, and blessed becky that came with 'em for her having an unstuffed brain with such rubbish. we shall get in by michael's mass. 't was with some pain we were evulsed from colebrooke. you may find some of our flesh sticking to the doorposts. to change habitations is to die to them; and in my time i have died seven deaths. but i don't know whether every such change does not bring with it a rejuvenescence. 't is an enterprise, and shoves back the sense of death's approximating, which, though not terrible to me, is at all times particularly distasteful. my house-deaths have generally been periodical, recurring after seven years; but this last is premature by half that time. cut off in the flower of colebrooke! the middletonian stream and all its echoes mourn. even minnows dwindle. _a parvis fiunt minimi!_ i fear to invite mrs. hood to our new mansion, lest she should envy it, and hate us. but when we are fairly in, i hope she will come and try it. i heard she and you were made uncomfortable by some unworthy-to-be-cared-for attacks, and have tried to set up a feeble counteraction through the "table book" of last saturday. has it not reached you, that you are silent about it? our new domicile is no manor-house, but new, and externally not inviting, but furnished within with every convenience,-- capital new locks to every door, capital grates in every room, with nothing to pay for incoming, and the rent £ less than the islington one. it was built, a few years since, at £ , expense, they tell me, and i perfectly believe it. and i get it for £ , exclusive of moderate taxes. we think ourselves most lucky. it is not our intention to abandon regent street and west end perambulations (monastic and terrible thought!), but occasionally to breathe the fresher air of the metropolis. we shall put up a bedroom or two (all we want) for occasional ex-rustication, where we shall visit,--not be visited. plays, too, we'll see,--perhaps our own; urbani sylvani and sylvan urbanuses in turns; courtiers for a sport, then philosophers; old, homely tell-truths and learn-truths in the virtuous shades of enfield, liars again and mocking gibers in the coffee-houses and resorts of london. what can a mortal desire more for his bi-parted nature? oh, the curds-and-cream you shall eat with us here! oh, the turtle-soup and lobster-salads we shall devour with you there! oh, the old books we shall peruse here! oh, the new nonsense we shall trifle over there! oh, sir t. browne, here! oh, mr. hood and mr. jerdan, there! thine, c. (urbanus) l. (sylvanus)--(elia ambo). [ ] by charles cotton. xcvii. to p. g. patmore. _september_, . dear p.,--excuse my anxiety, but how is dash? i should have asked if mrs. patmore kept her rules and was improving; but dash came uppermost. the order of our thoughts should be the order of our writing. goes he muzzled, or _aperto ore_? are his intellects sound, or does he wander a little in _his_ conversation. you cannot be too careful to watch the first symptoms of incoherence. the first illogical snarl he makes, to st. luke's with him! all the dogs here are going mad, if you believe the overseers; but i protest they seem to me very rational and collected. but nothing is so deceitful as mad people, to those who are not used to them. try him with hot water; if he won't lick it up, it's a sign he does not like it. does his tail wag horizontally or perpendicularly? that has decided the fate of many dogs in enfield. is his general deportment cheerful? i mean when he is pleased, for otherwise there is no judging. you can't be too careful. has he bit any of the children yet? if he has, have them shot, and keep _him_ for curiosity, to see if it was the hydrophobia. they say all our army in india had it at one time; but that was in _hyder_-ally's time. do you get paunch for him? take care the sheep was sane. you might pull his teeth out (if he would let you), and then you need not mind if he were as mad as a bedlamite. it would be rather fun to see his odd ways. it might amuse mrs. p. and the children. they'd have more sense than he. he'd be like a fool kept in a family, to keep the household in good humor with their own understanding. you might teach him the mad dance, set to the mad howl. _madge owlet_ would be nothing to him. "my, how he capers!" (_in the margin is written "one of the children speaks this_.") ... what i scratch out is a german quotation, from lessing, on the bite of rabid animals; but i remember you don't read german. but mrs. p. may, so i wish i had let it stand. the meaning in english is: "avoid to approach an animal suspected of madness, as you would avoid fire or a precipice,"--which i think is a sensible observation. the germans are certainly profounder than we. if the slightest suspicion arises in your breast that all is not right with him, muzzle him and lead him in a string (common packthread will do; he don't care for twist) to mr. hood's, his quondam master, and he'll take him in at any time. you may mention your suspicion, or not, as you like, or as you think it may wound, or not, mr. h.'s feelings. hood, i know, will wink at a few follies in dash, in consideration of his former sense. besides, hood is deaf, and if you hinted anything, ten to one he would not hear you. besides, you will have discharged your conscience, and laid the child at the right door, as they say. we are dawdling our time away very idly and pleasantly at a mrs. leishman's, chase, enfield, where, if you come a-hunting, we can give you cold meat and a tankard. her husband is a tailor; but that, you know, does not make her one. i know a jailor (which rhymes), but his wife was a fine lady. let us hear from you respecting mrs. p.'s regimen. i send my love in a-- to dash. c. lamb. xcviii. to bernard barton. _october_ , . a splendid edition of bunyan's pilgrim! [ ] why, the thought is enough to turn one's moral stomach. his cockle-hat and staff transformed to a smart cocked beaver and a jemmy cane; his amice gray to the last regent street cut; and his painful palmer's pace to the modern swagger! stop thy friend's sacrilegious hand. nothing can be done for b. but to reprint the old cuts in as homely but good a style as possible,--the vanity fair and the pilgrims there; the silly-soothness in his setting-out countenance; the christian idiocy (in a good sense) of his admiration of the shepherds on the delectable mountains; the lions so truly allegorical, and remote from any similitude to pidcock's; the great head (the author's), capacious of dreams and similitudes, dreaming in the dungeon. perhaps you don't know my edition, what i had when a child. if you do, can you bear new designs from martin, enamelled into copper or silver plate by heath, accompanied with verses from mrs. hemans's pen? oh, how unlike his own! "wouldst thou divert thyself from melancholy? wouldst thou be pleasant, yet be far from folly? wouldst thou read riddles and their explanation? or else be drowned in thy contemplation? dost thou love picking meat? or wouldst thou see a man i' the clouds, and hear him speak to thee? wouldst thou be in a dream, and yet not sleep? or wouldst thou in a moment laugh and weep? or wouldst thou lose thyself, and catch no harm, and find thyself again without a charm? wouldst read _thyself_, and read thou knowest not what, and yet know whether thou art blest or not by reading the same lines? oh, then come hither, and lay my book, thy head, and heart together." show me any such poetry in any one of the fifteen forthcoming combinations of show and emptiness 'yclept "annuals." so there's verses for thy verses; and now let me tell you that the sight of your hand gladdened me. i have been daily trying to write to you, but [have been] paralyzed. you have spurred me on this tiny effort, and at intervals i hope to hear from and talk to you. but my spirits have been in an oppressed way for a long time, and they are things which must be to you of faith, for who can explain depression? yes, i am hooked into the "gem," but only for some lines written on a dead infant of the editor's [ ] which being, as it were, his property, i could not refuse their appearing; but i hate the paper, the type, the gloss, the dandy plates, the names of contributors poked up into your eyes in first page, and whisked through all the covers of magazines, the barefaced sort of emulation, the immodest candidateship. brought into so little space,--in those old "londons," a signature was lost in the wood of matter, the paper coarse (till latterly, which spoiled them),--in short, i detest to appear in an annual. what a fertile genius (and a quiet good soul withal) is hood! he has fifty things in hand,--farces to supply the adelphi for the season; a comedy for one of the great theatres, just ready; a whole entertainment by himself for mathews and yates to figure in; a meditated comic annual for next year, to be nearly done by himself. you'd like him very much. wordsworth, i see, has a good many pieces announced in one of 'em, not our "gem." w. scott has distributed himself like a bribe haunch among 'em. of all the poets, cary [ ] has had the good sense to keep quite clear of 'em, with clergy-gentlemanly right notions. don't think i set up for being proud on this point; i like a bit of flattery, tickling my vanity, as well as any one. but these pompous masquerades without masks (naked names or faces) i hate. so there's a bit of my mind. besides, they infallibly cheat you,--i mean the booksellers. if i get but a copy, i only expect it from hood's being my friend. coleridge has lately been here. he too is deep among the prophets, the year-servers,--the mob of gentleman annuals. but they'll cheat him, i know. and now, dear b. b., the sun shining out merrily, and the dirty clouds we had yesterday having washed their own faces clean with their own rain, tempts me to wander up winchmore hill, or into some of the delightful vicinages of enfield, which i hope to show you at some time when you can get a few days up to the great town. believe me, it would give both of us great pleasure to show you our pleasant farms and villages. we both join in kindest loves to you and yours. c. lamb _redivivus_. [ ] an _édition de luxe_, illustrated by john martin, and with an introduction by southey. see macaulay's review of it. [ ] hood's. [ ] the translator of dante. xcix. to procter. _january_ , . don't trouble yourself about the verses. take 'em coolly as they come. any day between this and midsummer will do. ten lines the extreme. there is no mystery in my incognita. she has often seen you, though you may not have observed a silent brown girl, who for the last twelve years has rambled about our house in her christmas holidays. she is italian by name and extraction. [ ] ten lines about the blue sky of her country will do, as it's her foible to be proud of it. item, i have made her a tolerable latinist. she is called emma isola. i shall, i think, be in town in a few weeks, when i will assuredly see you. i will put in here loves to mrs. procter and the anti-capulets [montagus], because mary tells me i omitted them in my last. i like to see my friends here. i have put my lawsuit into the hands of an enfield practitioner,--a plain man, who seems perfectly to understand it, and gives me hopes of a favorable result. rumor tells us that miss holcroft is married. who is baddams? have i seen him at montacute's? i hear he is a great chemist. i am sometimes chemical myself. a thought strikes me with horror. pray heaven he may not have done it for the sake of trying chemical experiments upon her,--young female subjects are so scarce! an't you glad about burke's case? we may set off the scotch murders against the scotch novels,--hare the great unhanged. [ ] martin burney is richly worth your knowing. he is on the top scale of my friendship ladder, on which an angel or two is still climbing, and some, alas! descending. i am out of the literary world at present. pray, is there anything new from the admired pen of the author of "the pleasures of hope"? has mrs. he-mans (double masculine) done anything pretty lately? why sleeps the lyre of hervey and of alaric watts? is the muse of l. e. l. silent? did you see a sonnet of mine in blackwood's last? [ ] curious construction! _elaborata facilitas!_ and now i 'll tell. 'twas written for "the gem;" but the--editors declined it, on the plea that it would _shock all mothers_; so they published "the widow" instead. i am born out of time, i have no conjecture about what the present world calls delicacy. i thought "rosamund gray" was a pretty modest thing. hessey assures me that the world would not bear it. i have lived to grow into an indecent character. when my sonnet was rejected, i exclaimed, "damn the age; i will write for antiquity!" _erratum_ in sonnet. last line but something, for "tender" read "tend," the scotch do not know our law terms, but i find some remains of honest, plain old writing lurking there still. they were not so mealy mouthed as to refuse my verses. maybe, 't is their oatmeal, blackwood sent me £ for the drama. somebody cheated me out of it next day; and my new pair of breeches, just sent home, cracking at first putting on, i exclaimed, in my wrath, "all tailors are cheats, and all men are tailors." then i was better. c. l. [ ] emma isola, lamb's ward, daughter of one of the esquire bedells of cambridge university, and granddaughter of an italian refugee. the lambs had met her during one of their cambridge visits, and finally adopted her. [ ] burke and hare, the edinburgh resurrection-men. [ ] the gypsy's malison. c. to bernard barton. enfield chase side, _saturday, th of july_, a.d. , a.m. there! a fuller, plumper, juicier date never dropped from idumean palm. am i in the _date_ive case now? if not, a fig for dates,--which is more than a date is worth. i never stood much affected to these limitary specialities,--least of all, since the date of my superannuation. "what have i with time to do? slaves of desks, 't was meant for you." dear b. b.,--your handwriting has conveyed much pleasure to me in respect of lucy's restoration. would i could send you as good news of _my_ poor lucy! [ ] but some wearisome weeks i must remain lonely yet. i have had the loneliest time, near ten weeks, broken by a short apparition of emma for her holidays, whose departure only deepened the returning solitude, and by ten days i have passed in town. but town, with all my native hankering after it, is not what it was. the streets, the shops, are left, but all old friends are gone. and in london i was frightfully convinced of this as i passed houses and places, empty caskets now. i have ceased to care almost about anybody. the bodies i cared for are in graves, or dispersed. my old clubs, that lived so long and flourished so steadily, are crumbled away. when i took leave of our adopted young friend at charing cross,'t was heavy unfeeling rain, and i had nowhere to go. home have i none, and not a sympathizing house to turn to in the great city. never did the waters of heaven pour down on a forlorner head. yet i tried ten days at a sort of a friend's house; but it was large and straggling,--one of the individuals of my old long knot of friends, card-players, pleasant companions, that have tumbled to pieces, into dust and other things; and i got home on thursday, convinced that i was better to get home to my hole at enfield, and hide like a sick cat in my corner. less than a month, i hope, will bring home mary. she is at fulham, looking better in her health than ever, but sadly rambling, and scarce showing any pleasure in seeing me, or curiosity when i should come again. but the old feelings will come back again, and we shall drown old sorrows over a game of piquet again. but it is a tedious cut out of a life of fifty-four, to lose twelve or thirteen weeks every year or two. and to make me more alone, our ill-tempered maid is gone, who, with all her airs, was yet a home-piece of furniture, a record of better days; the young thing that has succeeded her is good and attentive, but she is nothing. and i have no one here to talk over old matters with. scolding and quarrelling have something of familiarity and a community of interest; they imply acquaintance; they are of resentment, which is of the family of dearness. * * * * * i bragged formerly that i could not have too much time; i have now a surfeit. with few years to come, the days are wearisome. but weariness is not eternal. something will shine out to take the load off that flags me, which is at present intolerable. i have killed an hour or two in this poor scrawl. i am a sanguinary murderer of time, and would kill him inch-meal just now. but the snake is vital. well, i shall write merrier anon. 't is the present copy of my countenance i send, and to complain is a little to alleviate. may you enjoy yourself as far as the wicked world will let you, and think that you are not quite alone, as i am! health to lucia and to anna, and kind remembrances. your forlorn c. l. [ ] mary lamb. ci. to mr. gillman. _november_ , . dear g.,--the excursionists reached home and the good town of enfield a little after four, without slip or dislocation. little has transpired concerning the events of the back-journey, save that on passing the house of 'squire mellish, situate a stone bow's cast from the hamlet, father westwood [ ], with a good-natured wonderment, exclaimed, "i cannot think what is gone of mr. mellish's rooks. i fancy they have taken flight somewhere; but i have missed them two or three years past." all this while, according to his fellow-traveller's report, the rookery was darkening the air above with undiminished population, and deafening all ears but his with their cawings. but nature has been gently withdrawing such phenomena from the notice of thomas westwood's senses, from the time he began to miss the rooks. t. westwood has passed a retired life in this hamlet of thirty or forty years, living upon the minimum which is consistent with gentility, yet a star among the minor gentry, receiving the bows of the tradespeople and courtesies of the alms-women daily. children venerate him not less for his external show of gentry than they wonder at him for a gentle rising endorsation of the person, not amounting to a hump, or if a hump, innocuous as the hump of the buffalo, and coronative of as mild qualities. 't is a throne on which patience seems to sit,--the proud perch of a self-respecting humility, stooping with condescension. thereupon the cares of life have sat, and rid him easily. for he has thrid the _angustiæ domus_ with dexterity. life opened upon him with comparative brilliancy. he set out as a rider or traveller for a wholesale house, in which capacity he tells of many hair-breadth escapes that befell him,--one especially, how he rode a mad horse into the town of devizes; how horse and rider arrived in a foam, to the utter consternation of the expostulating hostlers, inn-keepers, etc. it seems it was sultry weather, piping-hot; the steed tormented into frenzy with gad-flies, long past being roadworthy: but safety and the interest of the house he rode for were incompatible things; a fall in serge cloth was expected; and a mad entrance they made of it. whether the exploit was purely voluntary, or partially; or whether a certain personal defiguration in the man part of this extraordinary centaur (non-assistive to partition of natures) might not enforce the conjunction, i stand not to inquire. i look not with 'skew eyes into the deeds of heroes. the hosier that was burned with his shop in field lane, on tuesday night, shall have passed to heaven for me like a marian martyr, provided always that he consecrated the fortuitous incremation with a short ejaculation in the exit, as much as if he had taken his state degrees of martyrdom _in formâ_ in the market vicinage. there is adoptive as well as acquisitive sacrifice. be the animus what it might, the fact is indisputable, that this composition was seen flying all abroad, and mine host of daintry may yet remember its passing through his town, if his scores are not more faithful than his memory. * * * * * to come from his heroic character, all the amiable qualities of domestic life concentre in this tamed bellerophon. he is excellent over a glass of grog; just as pleasant without it; laughs when he hears a joke, and when (which is much oftener) he hears it not; sings glorious old sea-songs on festival nights; and but upon a slight acquaintance of two years, coleridge, is as dear a deaf old man to us as old norris, rest his soul! was after fifty. to him and his scanty literature (what there is of it, _sound_) have we flown from the metropolis and its cursed annualists, reviewers, authors, and the whole muddy ink press of that stagnant pool. [ ] lamb's landlord. he had driven mary lamb over to see coleridge at highgate. the lambs had been compelled, by the frequent illnesses of mary lamb, to give up their housekeeping at enfield and to take lodgings with the westwoods. cii. to wordsworth. _january_ , . and is it a year since we parted from you at the steps of edmonton stage? there are not now the years that there used to be. the tale of the dwindled age of men, reported of successional mankind, is true of the same man only. we do not live a year in a year now. 't is a _punctum stans_. the seasons pass us with indifference. spring cheers not, nor winter heightens our gloom: autumn hath foregone its moralities,--they are "heypass repass," as in a show-box. yet, as far as last year, occurs back--for they scarce show a reflex now, they make no memory as heretofore--'t was sufficiently gloomy. let the sullen nothing pass. suffice it that after sad spirits, prolonged through many of its months, as it called them, we have cast our skins, have taken a farewell of the pompous, troublesome trifle called housekeeping, and are settled down into poor boarders and lodgers at next door with an old couple, the baucis and baucida of dull enfield. here we have nothing to do with our victuals but to eat them, with the garden but to see it grow, with the tax-gatherer but to hear him knock, with the maid but to hear her scolded. scot and lot, butcher, baker, are things unknown to us, save as spectators of the pageant. we are fed we know not how,--quietists, confiding ravens. we have the _otium pro dignitate_, a respectable insignificance. yet in the self condemned obliviousness, in the stagnation, some molesting yearnings of life not quite killed rise, prompting me that there was a london, and that i was of that old jerusalem. in dreams i am in fleet market; but i wake and cry to sleep again. i die hard, a stubborn eloisa in this detestable paraclete. what have i gained by health? intolerable dulness. what by early hours and moderate meals? a total blank. oh, never let the lying poets be believed who 'tice men from the cheerful haunts of streets, or think they mean it not of a country village. in the ruins of palmyra i could gird myself up to solitude, or muse to the snorings of the seven sleepers; but to have a little teasing image of a town about one, country folks that do not look like country folks, shops two yards square, half-a-dozen apples and two penn'orth of over-looked gingerbread for the lofty fruiterers of oxford street, and for the immortal book and print stalls a circulating library that stands still, where the show-picture is a last year's valentine, and whither the fame of the last ten scotch novels has not yet travelled (marry, they just begin to be conscious of the "redgauntlet"), to have a new plastered flat church, and to be wishing that it was but a cathedral! the very blackguards here are degenerate, the topping gentry stockbrokers; the passengers too many to insure your quiet, or let you go about whistling or gaping,--too few to be the fine indifferent pageants of fleet street. confining, room-keeping, thickest winter is yet more bearable here than the gaudy months. among one's books at one's fire by candle, one is soothed into an oblivion that one is not in the country; but with the light the green fields return, till i gaze, and in a calenture can plunge myself into st. giles's. oh, let no native londoner imagine that health and rest and innocent occupation, interchange of converse sweet and recreative study, can make the country anything better than altogether odious and detestable. a garden was the primitive prison, till man with promethean felicity and boldness luckily sinned himself out of it. thence followed babylon, nineveh, venice, london; haberdashers, goldsmiths, taverns, playhouses, satires, epigrams, puns,--these all came in on the town part and the thither side of innocence. man found out inventions. from my den i return you condolence for your decaying sight,--not for anything there is to see in the country, but for the miss of the pleasure of reading a london newspaper. the poets are as well to listen to; anything high may--nay, must be read out; you read it to yourself with an imaginary auditor: but the light paragraphs must be glid over by the proper eye; mouthing mumbles their gossamery substance. 'tis these trifles i should mourn in fading sight. a newspaper is the single gleam of comfort i receive here; it comes from rich cathay with tidings of mankind. yet i could not attend to it, read out by the most beloved voice. but your eyes do not get worse, i gather. oh, for the collyrium of tobias enclosed in a whiting's liver, to send you, with no apocryphal good wishes! the last long time i heard from you, you had knocked your head against something. do not do so; for your head (i do not flatter) is not a knob, or the top of a brass nail, or the end of a ninepin,--unless a vulcanian hammer could fairly batter a "recluse" out of it; then would i bid the smirched god knock, and knock lustily, the two-handed skinker! mary must squeeze out a line _propriá manu_; but indeed her fingers have been incorrigibly nervous to letter-writing for a long interval. 't will please you all to hear that, though i fret like a lion in a net, her present health and spirits are better than they have been for some time past; she is absolutely three years and a half younger, as i tell her, since we have adopted this boarding plan. our providers are an honest pair, dame westwood and her husband,--he, when the light of prosperity shined on them, a moderately thriving haberdasher within bow bells, retired since with something under a competence; writes himself parcel-gentleman; hath borne parish offices; sings fine old sea-songs at threescore and ten; sighs only now and then when he thinks that he has a son on his hands about fifteen, whom he finds a difficulty in getting out into the world, and then checks a sigh with muttering, as i once heard him prettily, not meaning to be heard, "i have married my daughter, however;" takes the weather as it comes; outsides it to town in severest season; and o' winter nights tells old stories not tending to literature (how comfortable to author-rid folks!), and has _one ancedote_, upon which and about forty pounds a year he seems to have retired in green old age. it was how he was a rider in his youth, travelling for shops, and once (not to balk his employer's bargain) on a sweltering day in august, rode foaming into dunstable [ ] upon a mad horse, to the dismay and expostulatory wonderment of inn-keepers, ostlers, etc., who declared they would not have bestrid the beast to win the derby. understand the creature galled to death and desperation by gad-flies, cormorant-winged, worse than beset inachus's daughter. this he tells, this he brindles and burnishes, on a winter's eve; 't is his star of set glory, his rejuvenescence to descant upon, far from me be it (_dá avertant!_) to look a gift-story in the mouth, or cruelly to surmise (as those who doubt the plunge of curtius) that the inseparate conjuncture of man and beast, the centaur-phenomenon that staggered all dunstable, might have been the effect of unromantic necessity; that the horse-part carried the reasoning willy-nilly; that needs must when such a devil drove; that certain spiral configurations in the frame of thomas westwood, unfriendly to alighting, made the alliance more forcible than voluntary. let him enjoy his fame for me, nor let me hint a whisper that shall dismount bellerophon. but in case he was an involuntary martyr, yet if in the fiery conflict he buckled the soul of a constant haberdasher to him, and adopted his flames, let accident and him share the glory. you would all like thomas westwood. [ ] how weak is painting to describe a man! say that he stands four feet and a nail high by his own yard-measure, which, like the sceptre of agamemnon, shall never sprout again, still, you have no adequate idea; nor when i tell you that his dear hump, which i have favored in the picture, seems to me of the buffalo,--indicative and repository of mild qualities, a budget of kindnesses,--still, you have not the man. knew you old norris of the temple, sixty years ours and our father's friend? he was not more natural to us than this old westwood, the acquaintance of scarce more weeks. under his roof now ought i to take my rest, but that back-looking ambition tells me i might yet be a londoner! well, if we ever do move, we have encumbrances the less to impede us; all our furniture has faded under the auctioneer's hammer, going for nothing, like the tarnished frippery of the prodigal, and we have only a spoon or two left to bless us. clothed we came into enfield, and naked we must go out of it. i would live in london shirtless, bookless. henry crabb is at rome; advices to that effect have reached bury. but by solemn legacy he bequeathed at parting (whether he should live or die) a turkey of suffolk to be sent every succeeding christmas to us and divers other friends. what a genuine old bachelor's action! i fear he will find the air of italy too classic. his station is in the hartz forest; his soul is be-goethed. miss kelly we never see,--talfourd not this half year; the latter flourishes, but the exact number of his children, god forgive me, i have utterly forgotten: we single people are often out in our count there. shall i say two? we see scarce anybody. can i cram loves enough to you all in this little o? excuse particularizing. c.l. [ ] see preceding letter. [ ] here was inserted a sketch answering to the description. ciii. to mrs. hazlitt. _may_ , . mary's love? yes. mary lamb quite well. dear sarah,--i found my way to northaw on thursday and a very good woman behind a counter, who says also that you are a very good lady, but that the woman who was with you was naught. 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 torment 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 conversation; and my gentleman, with a face half wise, half in scorn, troubled us with no more conversation, scientific or philosophical, for the remainder of the journey. ayrton was here yesterday, and as _learned_ to the full as my fellow-traveller. what a pity that he will spoil a wit and a devilish pleasant fellow (as he is) by wisdom! he talked on music; and by having read hawkins and burney recently i was enabled to talk of names, and show more knowledge than he had suspected i possessed; and in the end he begged me to shape my thoughts upon paper, which i did after he was gone, and sent him "free thoughts on some eminent composers." "some cry up haydn, some mozart, just as the whim bites. for my part, i do not care a farthing candle for either of them, or for handel," etc. martin burney [ ] is 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 "Æneid" 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, harassing 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 deserves one,--maybe he has tired him out. i am tired with this long scrawl; 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. [ ] martin burney, originally a solicitor, had lately been called to the bar. civ. to george dyer. _december_ , . dear dyer,--i would have written before to thank you for your kind letter, written with your own hand. it glads us to see your writing. it will give you pleasure to hear that, after so much illness, we are in tolerable health and spirits once more. miss isola intended to call upon you after her night's lodging at miss buffam's, but found she was too late for the stage. if she comes to town before she goes home, she will not miss paying her respects to mrs. dyer and you, to whom she desires best love. poor enfield, that has been so peaceable hitherto, that has caught an inflammatory fever, the tokens are upon her; and a great fire was blazing last night in the barns and haystacks of a fanner about half a mile from us. where will these things end? there is no doubt of its being the work of some ill-disposed rustic; but how is he to be discovered? they go to work in the dark with strange chemical preparations unknown to our forefathers. there is not even a dark lantern to have a chance of detecting these guy fauxes. we are past the iron age, and are got into the fiery age, undream'd of by ovid. you are lucky in clifford's inn, where, i think, you have few ricks or stacks worth the burning. pray keep as little corn by you as you can, for fear of the worst. it was never good times in england since the poor began to speculate upon their condition. formerly they jogged on with as little reflection as horses; the whistling ploughman went cheek by jowl with his brother that neighed. now the biped carries a box of phosphorus in his leather breeches; and in the dead of night the half-illuminated beast steals his magic potion into a cleft in a barn, and half the country is grinning with new fires. farmer graystock said something to the touchy rustic that he did not relish, and he writes his distaste in flames. what a power to intoxicate his crude brains, just muddlingly awake, to perceive that something is wrong in the social system; what a hellish faculty above gunpowder! now the rich and poor are fairly pitted, we shall see who can hang or burn fastest. it is not always revenge that stimulates these kindlings. there is a love of exerting mischief. think of a disrespected clod that was trod into earth, that was nothing, on a sudden by damned arts refined into an exterminating angel, devouring the fruits of the earth and their growers in a mass of fire! what a new existence; what a temptation above lucifer's! would clod be anything but a clod if he could resist it? why, here was a spectacle last night for a whole country,--a bonfire visible to london, alarming her guilty towers, and shaking the monument with an ague fit: all done by a little vial of phosphor in a clown's fob! how he must grin, and shake his empty noddle in clouds, the vulcanian epicure! can we ring the bells backward? can we unlearn the arts that pretend to civilize, and then burn the world? there is a march of science; but who shall beat the drums for its retreat? who shall persuade the boor that phosphor will not ignite? seven goodly stacks of hay, with corn-barns proportionable, lie smoking ashes and chaff, which man and beast would sputter out and reject like those apples of asphaltes and bitumen. the food for the inhabitants of earth will quickly disappear. hot rolls may say, "fuimus panes, fuit quartem-loaf, et ingens gloria apple-pasty-orum." that the good old munching system may last thy time and mine, good un-incendiary george, is the devout prayer of thine, to the last crust, ch. lamb. cv. to dyer. _february_ , . dear dyer,--mr. rogers and mr. rogers's friends are perfectly assured that you never intended any harm by an innocent couplet, and that in the revivification of it by blundering barker you had no hand whatever. to imagine that, at this time of day, rogers broods over a fantastic expression of more than thirty years' standing, would be to suppose him indulging his "pleasures of memory" with a vengeance. you never penned a line which for its own sake you need, dying, wish to blot. you mistake your heart if you think you _can_ write a lampoon. your whips are rods of roses. [ ] your spleen has ever had for its objects vices, not the vicious,--abstract offences, not the concrete sinner. but you are sensitive, and wince as much at the consciousness of having committed a compliment as another man would at the perpetration of an affront. but do not lug me into the same soreness of conscience with yourself. i maintain, and will to the last hour, that i never writ of you but _con amore_; that if any allusion was made to your near-sightedness, it was not for the purpose of mocking an infirmity, but of connecting it with scholar-like habits,--for is it not erudite and scholarly to be somewhat near of sight before age naturally brings on the malady? you could not then plead the _obrepens senectus_. did i not, moreover, make it an apology for a certain _absence_, which some of your friends may have experienced, when you have not on a sudden made recognition of them in a casual street-meeting; and did i not strengthen your excuse for this slowness of recognition by further accounting morally for the present engagement of your mind in worthy objects? did i not, in your person, make the handsomest apology for absent-of-mind people that was ever made? if these things be not so, i never knew what i wrote or meant by my writing, and have been penning libels all my life without being aware of it. does it follow that i should have expressed myself exactly in the same way of those dear old eyes of yours _now_,--now that father time has conspired with a hard taskmaster to put a last extinguisher upon them? i should as soon have insulted the answerer of salmasius when he awoke up from his ended task, and saw no more with mortal vision. but you are many films removed yet from milton's calamity. you write perfectly intelligibly. marry, the letters are not all of the same size or tallness; but that only shows your proficiency in the _hands_--text, german-hand, court-hand, sometimes law-hand, and affords variety. you pen better than you did a twelvemonth ago; and if you continue to improve, you bid fair to win the golden pen which is the prize at your young gentlemen's academy. * * * * * but don't go and lay this to your eyes. you always wrote hieroglyphically, yet not to come up to the mystical notations and conjuring characters of dr. parr. you never wrote what i call a schoolmaster's hand, like mrs. clarke; nor a woman's hand, like southey; nor a missal hand, like porson; nor an all-on-the-wrong-side sloping hand, like miss hayes; nor a dogmatic, mede-and-persian, peremptory tory hand, like rickman: but you wrote what i call a grecian's hand,--what the grecians write (or wrote) at christ's hospital; such as whalley would have admired, and boyer [ ] have applauded, but smith or atwood [writing-masters] would have horsed you for. your boy-of-genius hand and your mercantile hand are various. by your flourishes, i should think you never learned to make eagles or cork-screws, or flourish the governor's names in the writing-school; and by the tenor and cut of your letters, i suspect you were never in it at all. by the length of this scrawl you will think i have a design upon your optics; but i have writ as large as i could, out of respect to them,--too large, indeed, for beauty. mine is a sort of deputy-grecian's hand,--a little better, and more of a worldly hand, than a grecian's, but still remote from the mercantile. i don't know how it is, but i keep my rank in fancy still since school-days; i can never forget i was a deputy-grecian. and writing to you, or to coleridge, besides affection, i feel a reverential deference as to grecians still [ ]. i keep my soaring way above the great erasmians, yet far beneath the other. alas! what am i now? what is a leadenhall clerk or india pensioner to a deputy-grecian? how art thou fallen, o lucifer! just room for our loves to mrs. d., etc. c. lamb. [ ] talfourd relates an amusing instance of the universal charity of the kindly dyer. lamb once suddenly asked him what he thought of the murderer williams,--a wretch who had destroyed two families in ratcliff highway, and then cheated the gallows by committing suicide. "the desperate attempt," says talfourd, "to compel the gentle optimist to speak ill of a mortal creature produced no happier success than the answer, 'why, i should think, mr. lamb, he must have been rather an eccentric character.'" [ ] whalley and boyer were masters at christ's hospital. [ ] "deputy-grecian," "grecian," etc., were of course forms, or grades, at christ's hospital. cvi. to mr. moxon [ ]. _february_, . dear moxon,--the snows are ankle-deep, slush, and mire, that 't is 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 offer of the "life," which we shall very much like to have, and will return duly. i do not know when i shall be in town, but in a week or two at farthest, when i will come as far as you, if i can. we are moped to death with confinement within doors, i send you a curiosity of g. dyer's tender conscience. between thirty and forty years since, george published the "poet's fate," in which were two very harmless lines about mr. rogers; but mr. r. not quite approving of them, they were left out in a subsequent edition, . but george has been worrying about them ever since; if i have heard him once, i have heard him a hundred times express a remorse proportioned to a consciousness of having been guilty of an atrocious libel. as the devil would have it, a fool they call barker, in his "parriana" has quoted the identical two lines as they stood in some obscure edition anterior to , and the withers of poor george 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 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. rogers some day. if he has bowels, they must melt at the contrition so queerly charactered of a contrite sinner. g. was born, i verily think, without original sin, but chooses to have a conscience, as every christian gentleman should have; his dear old face is insusceptible of the twist they call a sneer, yet he is apprehensive of being suspected of that ugly appearance. when he makes a compliment, he thinks he has given an affront,--a name is personality. but show (no hurry) this unique recantation to mr. rogers: 't is like a dirty pocket-handerchief mucked with 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. [ ] lamb's future publisher. he afterwards became the husband of lamb's _protégée_, emma isola. cvii. to mr. moxon. _july_ , . 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 passage, 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 what'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, etc., to tuesday; i think st. george's goes too slow." this little present of time,--why, 't is eternity to her! what can make her so fond of a gingerbread 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. dearest m.,--never mind opposite nonsense. she does not love you for the watch, but the watch for you. i will be at the wedding, and keep the th july, as long as my poor months last me, as a festival gloriously. yours ever, elia. the end. the letters of charles and mary lamb - edited by e. v. lucas with a frontispiece preface this edition of the correspondence of charles and mary lamb contains letters, of which are by mary lamb alone. it is the only edition to contain all mary lamb's letters and also a reference to, or abstract of, every letter of charles lamb's that cannot, for reasons of copyright, be included. canon ainger's last edition contains letters and the _every-man's library edition_ contains . in the boston bibliophile society, a wealthy association of american collectors, issued privately--since privately one can do anything--an edition in six volumes (limited to sets) of the correspondence of charles and mary lamb, containing everything that was available, which means practically everything that was known: the number reaching a total of letters; but it will be many years before such a collection can be issued in england, since each of the editions here has copyright matter peculiar to itself. my attempt to induce the american owner of the largest number of new letters to allow me to copy them from the boston bibliophile edition has proved fruitless. and here a word as to copyright in such documents in england, the law as most recently laid down being established upon a set of sixteen of lamb's letters which unhappily are not (except in very brief abstract) in the present edition. these letters, chiefly to robert lloyd, were first published in _charles lamb and the lloyds_, under my editorship, in , the right to make copies and publish them having been acquired by messrs. smith, elder & co. from mrs. steeds, a descendant of charles lloyd. the originals were then purchased by mr. j. m. dent, who included copies in his edition of lamb's letters, under mr. macdonald's editorship, in . meanwhile messrs. smith, elder & co. had sold their rights in the letters to messrs. macmillan for canon ainger's edition, and when mr. dent's edition was issued messrs. macmillan with messrs. smith, elder & co. brought an action. mr. dent thereupon acquired from mr. a. h. moxon, the son of emma isola, lamb's residuary legatee, all his rights as representing the original author. the case was heard before mr. justice kekewich early in . the judge held that "the proprietor of the author's manuscript in the case of letters, as in the case of any other manuscript, meant the owner of the actual paper on which the matter was written, and that in the case of letters the recipient was the owner. no doubt the writer could restrain the recipient from publishing, and so could the writer's representatives after death; but although they had the right to restrain others from publishing, it did not follow that they had the right to publish and acquire copyright. this right was given to the proprietor of the manuscript, who, although he could be restrained from publishing by the writer's personal representatives, yet, if not so restrained, could publish and acquire copyright." mr. dent appealed against this verdict and his appeal was heard on october and november , , when the decision of mr. justice kekewich was upheld with a clearer definition of the right of restraint. the court, in deciding (i quote again from mr. macgillivray's summary) that "the proprietors of manuscript letters were, after the writer's death, entitled to the copyright in them when published, were careful to make it clear that they did not intend to overrule the authority of those cases where a deceased man's representatives have been held entitled to restrain the publication of his private letters by the recipients or persons claiming through them. the court expressly affirmed the common law right of the writer and his representatives in unpublished letters. it did not follow that because the copyright, if there was publication, would be in the person who, being proprietor of the author's manuscript, first published, that that person would be entitled to publish. the common law right would be available to enable the legal personal representatives, under proper circumstances, to restrain publication." that is how the copyright law as regards letters stands to-day ( ). the present edition has been revised throughout and in it will be found much new material. i have retained from the large edition only such notes as bear upon the lambs and the place of the letters in their life, together with such explanatory references as seemed indispensable. for the sources of quotations and so forth the reader must consult the old edition. for permission to include certain new letters i have to thank the master of magdalene, mr. ernest betham, major butterworth, mr. bertram dobell, mr. g. dunlop, and mr. e. d. north of new york. as an example of other difficulties of editing, at any given time, the correspondence of charles and mary lamb, i may say that while these volumes were going through the press, messrs. sotheby offered for sale new letters by both hands, the existence of which was unknown equally to english editors and to boston bibliophiles. the most remarkable of them is a joint letter from sister and brother to louisa martin, their child-friend (to whom lamb wrote the verses "the ape"), dated march , . mary begins, and charles then takes the pen and becomes mischievous. thus, "hazlitt's child died of swallowing a bag of white paint, which the poor little innocent thing mistook for sugar candy. it told its mother just before it died, that it did not like soft sugar candy, and so it came out, which was not before suspected. when it was opened several other things were found in it, particularly a small hearth brush, two golden pippins, and a letter which i had written to hazlitt from bath. the letter had nothing remarkable in it." ... the others are from brother and sister to miss kelly, the actress, whom lamb, in , wished to marry. the first, march , , is from mary lamb saying that she has taken to french as a recreation and has been reading racine. the second is from lamb, dated july , , thanking miss kelly for tickets at arnold's theatre, the lyceum, and predicting the success of his farce "the pawnbroker's daughter." how many more new letters are still to come to light, who shall say? in mr. bedford's design for the cover of this edition certain elian symbolism will be found. the upper coat of arms is that of christ's hospital, where lamb was at school; the lower is that of the inner temple, where he was born and spent many years. the figures at the bells are those which once stood out from the façade of st. dunstan's church in fleet street, and are now in lord londesborough's garden in regent's park. lamb shed tears when they were removed. the tricksy sprite and the candles (brought by betty) need no explanatory words of mine. e. v. l. contents of volume v letters by number . charles lamb to s. t. coleridge may from the original in the possession of mrs. alfred morrison. charles lamb to s. t. coleridge end of may? from the original (morrison collection). charles lamb to s. t. coleridge june from the original (morrison collection). charles lamb to s. t. coleridge june mr. hazlitt's text (bohn's edition). charles lamb to s. t. coleridge july from the original (morrison collection). charles lamb to s. t. coleridge july from the facsimile of the original (mr. e. h. coleridge). charles lamb to s. t. coleridge july from the original (morrison collection). charles lamb to s. t. coleridge sept. from the original (morrison collection). charles lamb to s. t. coleridge oct. from the original (morrison collection). charles lamb to s. t. coleridge oct. from the original (morrison collection). charles lamb to s. t. coleridge oct. mr. hazlitt's text (bohn). charles lamb to s. t. coleridge oct. mr. hazlitt's text (bohn). charles lamb to s. t. coleridge nov. mr. hazlitt's text (bohn). charles lamb to s. t. coleridge nov. mr. hazlitt's text (bohn) with alterations. charles lamb to s. t. coleridge dec. from the original (morrison collection). charles lamb to s. t. coleridge dec. from the original (morrison collection). charles lamb to s. t, coleridge dec. mr. hazlitt's text (the lambs). charles lamb to s. t. coleridge dec. mr. hazlitt's text (bohn). . charles lamb to s. t. coleridge jan. from the original (morrison collection). charles lamb to s. t. coleridge jan. from the original (morrison collection). charles lamb to s. t. coleridge jan. from the original (morrison collection). charles lamb to s. t. coleridge feb. from the original (morrison collection). charles lamb to s. t. coleridge feb. mr. hazlitt's text (bohn). charles lamb to s. t. coleridge april mr. hazlitt's text (bohn). charles lamb to s. t. coleridge april mr. hazlitt's text (bohn). charles lamb to s. t. coleridge june mr. hazlitt's text (bohn). charles lamb to s. t. coleridge june mr. hazlitt's text (bohn). charles lamb to s. t. coleridge (?)june mr. hazlitt's text (bohn). charles lamb to s. t. coleridge late july mr. hazlitt's text (bohn). charles lamb to s. t. coleridge aug. from the original (morrison collection). charles lamb to s. t. coleridge about sept. mr. hazlitt's text (bohn). . charles lamb to s. t. coleridge jan. mr. hazlitt's text (bohn). charles lamb to s. t. coleridge early summer from the original in the gluck collection at buffalo, u.s.a. charles lamb to robert southey july mr. hazlitt's text (bohn) with alterations. charles lamb to robert southey oct. mr. hazlitt's text (bohn). charles lamb to robert southey oct. mr. hazlitt's text (bohn). charles lamb to robert southey nov. mr. hazlitt's text (bohn). charles lamb to robert southey nov. mr. hazlitt's text (bohn) with alterations. charles lamb to robert southey ?nov. mr. hazlitt's text (_the lambs_). charles lamb to robert southey nov. mr. hazlitt's text (bohn) with alterations. charles lamb to robert southey dec. mr. hazlitt's text (bohn). . charles lamb to robert southey jan. mr. hazlitt's text (bohn). charles lamb to robert southey jan. or feb. from the original. charles lamb to robert southey march mr. hazlitt's text (bohn). charles lamb to robert southey march mr. hazlitt's text (bohn). charles lamb to robert southey oct. mr. hazlitt's text (bohn) with alterations. charles lamb to thomas manning dec. mr. hazlitt's text (bohn). charles lamb to thomas manning dec. mr. hazlitt's text (bohn) with alterations. . charles lamb to s. t. coleridge ?jan. mr. hazlitt's text (bohn). charles lamb to thomas manning feb. mr. hazlitt's text (bohn). charles lamb to thomas manning march mr. hazlitt's text (bohn) with alterations. charles lamb to thomas manning march mr. hazlitt's text (bohn) with alterations. charles lamb to thomas manning april mr. hazlitt's text (bohn) with alterations. charles lamb to s. t. coleridge ?april or mr. hazlitt's text (bohn). charles lamb to s. t. coleridge ?spring mr. hazlitt's text (bohn) with alterations. charles lamb to s. t. coleridge may mr. hazlitt's text (bohn). charles lamb to thomas manning may mr. hazlitt's text (bohn). charles lamb to thomas manning ?may charles lamb to j. m. gutch no date from mr. g. a. gutch's original. charles lamb to s. t. coleridge ?late july mr. hazlitt's text (bohn). charles lamb to s. t. coleridge aug. mr. hazlitt's text (bohn) with alterations. charles lamb to thomas manning aug. mr. hazlitt's text (bohn) with alterations. charles lamb to thomas manning aug. mr. hazlitt's text (bohn) with alterations. charles lamb to s. t. coleridge aug. mr. hazlitt's text (bohn) with alterations. charles lamb to thomas manning aug. mr. hazlitt's text (bohn) with alterations. charles lamb to s. t. coleridge aug. mr. hazlitt's text (bohn) with alterations. charles lamb to thomas manning aug. mr. hazlitt's text (bohn) with alterations. charles lamb to thomas manning sept. mr. hazlitt's text (bohn) with alterations. charles lamb to thomas manning oct. mr. hazlitt's text (bohn) with alterations. charles lamb to thomas manning nov. mr. hazlitt's text (bohn) with alterations. charles lamb to thomas manning nov. mr. hazlitt's text (bohn) with alterations. charles lamb to william godwin dec. mr. kegan paul's text (_william godwin: his friends_, etc.). charles lamb to william godwin no date mr. kegan paul's text (_william godwin: his friends_, etc.). charles lamb to william godwin dec. mr. kegan paul's text (_william godwin: his friends_, etc.). charles lamb to thomas manning dec. mr. hazlitt's text (bohn) with alterations. charles lamb to william godwin dec. mr. kegan paul's text (_william godwin: his friends_, etc.). charles lamb to thomas manning dec. mr. hazlitt's text (bohn) with alterations. , charles lamb to thomas manning end of year from _the athenaeum_. charles lamb to thomas manning dec. mr. hazlitt's text (bohn). . charles lamb to william wordsworth. jan. from mr. gordon wordsworth's original. charles lamb to thomas manning feb. canon ainger's text. charles lamb to thomas manning late feb. mr. hazlitt's text (bohn). charles lamb to thomas manning april mr. hazlitt's text (bohn). charles lamb to thomas manning ?april mr. hazlitt's text (bohn). charles lamb to william godwin june mr. kegan paul's text (_william godwin: his friends_, etc.). charles lamb to walter wilson aug. mr. hazlitt's text (bohn). charles lamb to thomas manning ?aug. mr. hazlitt's text (bohn). charles lamb to thomas manning aug. mr. hazlitt's text (bohn) with alterations. charles lamb to william godwin sept. mr. kegan paul's text (_william godwin: his friends_, etc.). charles lamb to william godwin (_fragment_) sept. mr. kegan paul's text (_william godwin: his friends_, etc.). charles lamb to mrs. godwin no date mr. kegan paul's text (_william godwin: his friends_, etc.). charles lamb to john rickman ?nov. from mr. gordon wordsworth's original. . charles lamb to thomas manning ?feb. mr. hazlitt's text (bohn) with alterations. charles lamb to john rickman april mr. hazlitt's text (bohn). charles lamb to thomas manning ?end of april mr. hazlitt's text (bohn) with alterations. charles lamb to s. t. coleridge (_fragment_) sept. mr. hazlitt's text (bohn). charles lamb to thomas manning sept. mr. hazlitt's text (bohn) with alterations. charles lamb to s. t. coleridge oct. mr. hazlitt's text (bohn). charles lamb to s. t. coleridge oct. mr. hazlitt's text (bohn). charles lamb to s. t. coleridge (_fragment_) oct. mr. hazlitt's text (bohn) with alterations. charles lamb to s. t. coleridge nov. mr. hazlitt's text (bohn). charles lamb to thomas manning nov. mr. hazlitt's text (bohn) and talfourd, with alterations. . charles lamb to thomas manning feb. mr. hazlitt's text (_the lambs_) with alterations. charles lamb to thomas manning march mr. hazlitt's text (bohn). charles lamb to william wordsworth march from mr. gordon wordsworth's original. charles lamb to s. t. coleridge april mr. hazlitt's text (bohn) with alterations. charles lamb to s. t. coleridge may mr. hazlitt's text (bohn) with alterations. charles lamb to s. t. coleridge may mr. hazlitt's text (bohn). mary lamb to dorothy wordsworth. july from mr. gordon wordsworth's original. charles lamb to john rickman july mr. hazlitt's text (bohn). mary lamb to sarah stoddart sept. mr. hazlitt's text (_mary and charles lamb_). charles lamb to william godwin nov. mr. kegan paul's text (_william godwin: his friends_, etc.). charles lamb to william godwin nov. mr. kegan paul's text (_william godwin: his friends_, etc.). . charles lamb to thomas poole. feb. from original in british museum. charles lamb to s. t. coleridge march from mr. gordon wordsworth's original. mary lamb to sarah stoddart ?march mr. hazlitt's text (_mary and charles lamb_). charles lamb to s. t. coleridge april from the original (morrison collection). charles lamb to thomas poole may from original in british museum. charles lamb to thomas poole may from original in british museum. charles lamb to dorothy wordsworth june from mr. gordon wordsworth's original. mary lamb to sarah stoddart } charles lamb to sarah stoddart } late july mr. hazlitt's text (_mary and charles lamb_). part i., charles lamb to william } wordsworth } part ii., mary lamb to dorothy } wordsworth } oct. part iii., mary lamb to mrs. s.t. } coleridge } from mr. gordon wordsworth's original. charles lamb to robert southey nov. . charles lamb to william wordsworth feb. from mr. gordon wordsworth's original. charles lamb to william wordsworth feb. from mr. gordon wordsworth's original. charles lamb to thomas manning feb. mr. hazlitt's text (bohn) with alterations. charles lamb to william wordsworth march from mr. gordon wordsworth's original. charles lamb to william wordsworth march from mr. gordon wordsworth's original. charles lamb to william wordsworth april from mr. gordon wordsworth's original. mary lamb to dorothy wordsworth may from mr. gordon wordsworth's original. charles lamb to dorothy wordsworth june from mr. gordon wordsworth's original. charles lamb to thomas manning july mr. hazlitt's text (bohn). mary lamb to sarah stoddart ?sept. from the original. charles lamb to william and dorothy wordsworth sept. from mr. gordon wordsworth's original. mary lamb to sarah stoddart early nov. mr. hazlitt's text (_mary and charles lamb_). charles lamb to william hazlitt nov. from the original. mary lamb to sarah stoddart nov. and from the original. charles lamb to thomas manning nov. mr. hazlitt's text (bohn) with alterations. . charles lamb to william hazlitt jan. from the original. charles lamb to john rickman. jan. mr. hazlitt's text (bohn). charles lamb to william wordsworth feb. from the original, recently in the possession of mr. gordon wordsworth. charles lamb to william hazlitt feb. from the original. mary lamb to sarah stoddart feb. , and mr. hazlitt's text (_mary and charles lamb_). mary lamb to sarah stoddart march mr. hazlitt's text (_mary and charles lamb_). charles lamb to john rickman march mr. hazlitt's text (bohn). charles lamb to william hazlitt march mr. hazlitt's text (bohn). charles lamb to thomas manning may mr. hazlitt's text (_the lambs_). mary lamb to sarah stoddart june mr. hazlitt's text (_mary and charles lamb_). charles lamb to william wordsworth june from mr. gordon wordsworth's original. mary lamb to sarah stoddart ?july mr. hazlitt's text (_mary and charles lamb_). mary lamb to dorothy wordsworth aug. from mr. gordon wordsworth's original. mary lamb to s. t. coleridge. no date from the original (morrison collection). mary lamb to sarah stoddart oct. from the original. charles lamb to thomas manning dec. from the original. charles lamb to william wordsworth dec. from mr. gordon wordsworth's original. charles lamb to sarah stoddart dec. mr. hazlitt's text (bohn). charles lamb to william godwin no date mr. kegan paul's text (_william godwin: his friends_, etc.). . charles lamb to william wordsworth jan. from the original in dr. williams' library. charles lamb to t. and c. clarkson june from the original in the possession of mr. a.m.s. emthuen. mary lamb to sarah stoddart oct. mr. hazlitt's text (_mary and charles lamb_). mary lamb to sarah stoddart dec. mr. hazlitt's text (_mary and charles lamb_). . mary lamb to sarah stoddard feb. from the original. charles lamb to the rev. w. hazlitt feb. mr. hazlitt's text (bohn). charles lamb to thomas manning feb. from the original. charles lamb to matilda betham no date from _a house of letters_. charles lamb to matilda betham no date from _a house of letters_. charles lamb to william godwin march mr. kegan paul's text (_william godwin his friends_, etc.). charles lamb to henry crabb robinson march from the original in dr. williams' library mary lamb to sarah stoddart march from the original. charles lamb to george dyer dec. from _the mirror_. mary lamb to sarah hazlitt } charles lamb to sarah hazlitt } dec. mr. hazlitt's text (_mary and charles lamb_). mary lamb to mrs. clarkson } dec. charles lamb to mrs. clarkson } from the original in the possession of mr. a.m.s. methuen. . charles lamb to thomas manning march mr. hazlitt's text (bohn) with alterations charles lamb to henry crabb robinson may from the original in dr. williams' library mary lamb to sarah hazlitt june mr. hazlitt's text (_mary and charles lamb_). charles lamb to s.t. coleridge june mr. hazlitt's text (bohn). charles lamb to s.t. coleridge oct. mr. hazlitt's text (bohn). mary lamb to sarah hazlitt nov. mr. hazlitt's text (_mary and charles lamb_). . charles lamb to thomas manning jan. mr. hazlitt's text (bohn) with alterations. charles lamb to henry crabb robinson feb. from the original in dr. williams' library. charles lamb to the j.m. gutch april mr. hazlitt's text (bohn). charles lamb to basil montagu july mr. hazlitt's text (bohn). charles lamb to william hazlitt aug. mr. hazlitt's text (bohn). charles lamb to william wordsworth oct. from mr. gordon wordsworth's original. mary lamb to dorothy wordsworth } charles lamb to dorothy wordsworth } nov. from mr. gordon wordsworth's original. } mary lamb to dorothy wordsworth } charles lamb to dorothy wordsworth } nov. from mr. gordon wordsworth's original. } charles lamb to william hazlitt nov. mr. hazlitt's text (bohn). charles lamb to william godwin no date mr. kegan paul's text (_william godwin: his friends_, etc.). mary lamb to sarah hazlitt ? end of year mr. hazlitt's text (_mary and charles lamb_). . mary lamb to matilda betham no date mr. hazlitt's text (_the lambs_). charles lamb to john morgan (_fragment_) march from the original (duchess of albany) mary lamb to sarah hazlitt } charles lamb to william hazlitt } oct. mr. hazlitt's text (_mary and charles } lamb_) and bohn. . charles lamb to john dyer collier no date j. p. collier's text (_an old man's diary_). mary lamb to mrs. john dyer collier no date j. p. collier's text (_an old man's diary_). [ --_no letters_.] . charles lamb to john scott ?feb. from facsimile (birkbeck hill's _talks about autographs_). charles lamb to william wordsworth aug. from mr. gordon wordsworth's original. charles lamb to s. t. coleridge aug. mr. hazlitt's text (bohn) with alterations. charles lamb to s. t. coleridge aug. mr. hazlitt's text (bohn). charles lamb to william wordsworth sept. from mr. gordon wordsworth's original. mary lamb to barbara betham nov. mr. hazlitt's text (_the lambs_). charles lamb to john scott dec. from mr. r. b. adam's original. charles lamb to william wordsworth dec. from mr. gordon wordsworth's original. . charles lamb to william wordsworth ?early jan. from mr. gordon wordsworth's original. charles lamb to mr. sargus feb. from the original in the possession of mr. thomas greg. charles lamb to joseph hume no date mr. kegan paul's text (_william godwin: his friends_, etc.). charles lamb to [mrs. hume?] no date from the american owner. charles lamb to william wordsworth april from mr. gordon wordsworth's original. charles lamb to william wordsworth april from mr. gordon wordsworth's original. charles lamb to robert southey may mr. hazlitt's text (bohn). charles lamb to robert southey aug. mr. hazlitt's text (bohn). charles lamb to william wordsworth aug. from mr. gordon wordsworth's original. mary lamb to sarah hutchinson aug. charles lamb to sarah hutchinson aug. from mr. gordon wordsworth's original. mary lamb to matilda betham ?late summer from _fraser's magazine_. charles lamb to matilda betham no date from _a house of letters_. charles lamb to matilda betham no date mr. hazlitt's text (_the lambs_). charles lamb to sarah hutchinson oct. from mr. gordon wordsworth's original. charles lamb to thomas manning dec. mr. hazlitt's text (bohn) with alterations. charles lamb to thomas manning dec. mr. hazlitt's text (bohn) with alterations. . charles lamb to william wordsworth april from mr. gordon wordsworth's original. charles lamb to william wordsworth april from mr. gordon wordsworth's original. charles lamb to matilda betham june from _fraser's magazine_. charles lamb to william wordsworth sept. from mr. gordon wordsworth's original. mary lamb to sarah hutchinson middle of nov. from mr. gordon wordsworth's original. mary lamb to sarah hutchinson late in year from mr. gordon wordsworth's original. . charles lamb to william ayrton may from ayrton's transcript in lamb's _works_, vol. iii. charles lamb to barren field aug. mr. hazlitt's text (bohn). charles lamb to james and louisa kenney oct. text from mr. samuel davey. mary lamb to dorothy wordsworth nov. charles lamb to dorothy wordsworth nov. from mr. gordon wordsworth's original. charles lamb to john payne collier. dec. mr. hazlitt's text (bohn). charles lamb to benjamin robert haydon dec. from tom taylor's _life of haydon_. . charles lamb to mrs. william wordsworth feb. from mr. gordon wordsworth's original. charles lamb to charles and james ollier june from the original (morrison collection). charles lamb to robert southey oct. mr. hazlitt's text (bohn). charles lamb to s. t. coleridge dec. mr. hazlitt's text (bohn). . charles lamb to william wordsworth april from mr. gordon wordsworth's original. charles lamb to thomas manning may mr. hazlitt's text (bohn) with alterations. charles lamb to william wordsworth june from mr. gordon wordsworth's original. charles lamb to fanny kelly july mr. john hollingshead's text (_harper's magazine_). charles lamb to fanny kelly july john hollingshead's text (_harper's magazine_). charles lamb to thomas noon talfourd(?) august (original in the possession of the master of magdelene.) charles lamb to s. t. coleridge ?summer from the original (morrison collection). charles lamb to thomas holcroft, jr. autumn from the original (morrison collection). charles lamb to joseph cottle nov. mr. hazlitt's text. charles lamb to joseph cottle (_incomplete_) late in year mr. hazlitt's text. charles lamb to dorothy wordsworth nov. from mr. gordon wordsworth's original. . charles lamb to s. t. coleridge jan. mr. hazlitt's text (bohn) with alterations. mary lamb to mrs. vincent novello spring from the cowden clarkes' _recollections of writers_. charles lamb to joseph cottle may mr. hazlitt's text. charles lamb to dorothy wordsworth may from professor knight's _life of wordsworth_. charles lamb to thomas allsop july charles and mary lamb to samuel james arnold no date charles lamb to barron field aug. mr. hazlitt's text (_the lambs_). a charles lamb to s. t. coleridge ?autumn mr. hazlitt's text (bohn). appendix coleridge's "ode on the departing year" wither's "supersedeas" dyer's "poetic sympathies" (_fragment_) haydon's party (from taylor's _life of haydon_) frontispiece charles lamb (aged ) from a water-colour drawing by j. g. f. joseph. the letters of charles and mary lamb - letter charles lamb to s. t. coleridge [postmark may , .] dear c---- make yourself perfectly easy about may. i paid his bill, when i sent your clothes. i was flush of money, and am so still to all the purposes of a single life, so give yourself no further concern about it. the money would be superfluous to me, if i had it. with regard to allen,--the woman he has married has some money, i have heard about £ a year, enough for the maintenance of herself & children, one of whom is a girl nine years old! so allen has dipt betimes into the cares of a family. i very seldom see him, & do not know whether he has given up the westminster hospital. when southey becomes as modest as his predecessor milton, and publishes his epics in duodecimo, i will read 'em,--a guinea a book is somewhat exorbitant, nor have i the opportunity of borrowing the work. the extracts from it in the monthly review and the short passages in your watchman seem to me much superior to any thing in his partnership account with lovell. your poems i shall procure forthwith. there were noble lines in what you inserted 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, unprofitable, and of "dissonant mood" to your disposition. i wish you success in all your undertakings, and am glad to hear you are employed about the evidences of religion. there is need of multiplying such books an hundred fold in this philosophical age to _prevent_ converts to atheism, for they seem too tough disputants to meddle with afterwards. i am sincerely sorry for allen, as a family man particularly. le grice is gone to make puns in cornwall. he has got a tutorship to a young boy, living with his mother, a widow lady. he will of course initiate him quickly in "whatsoever things are lovely, honorable, and of good report." he has cut miss hunt compleatly,--the poor girl is very ill on the occasion, but he laughs at it, and justifies himself by saying, "she does not see him laugh." coleridge, i know not what suffering scenes you have gone through at bristol--my life has been somewhat diversified of late. the weeks that finished last year and began this your very humble servant spent very agreeably in a mad house at hoxton--i am got somewhat rational now, and don't bite any one. but mad i was--and many a vagary my imagination played with me, enough to make a volume if all told. my sonnets i have extended 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 exception 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 written 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 wast ever inclined too highly, and with a partial eye to see no blemish: thou to me didst ever shew fondest affection, and woud'st oftimes 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 my friend. with these lines, and with that sister's kindest remembrances to c----, i conclude-- yours sincerely lamb. your conciones ad populum are the most eloquent politics that ever came in my way. write, when convenient--not as a task, for there is nothing in this letter to answer. you may inclose under cover to me at the india house what letters you please, for they come post free. we cannot send our remembrances to mrs. c---- not having seen her, but believe me our best good wishes attend you both. my civic and poetic compts to southey if at bristol.--why, he is a very leviathan of bards--the small minnow i-- [this is the earliest letter of lamb's that has come down to us. on february , , he was just twenty-one years old, and was now living at little queen street (since demolished) with his father, mother, aunt sarah lamb (known as aunt hetty), mary lamb and, possibly, john lamb. john lamb, senior, was doing nothing and had, i think, already begun to break up: his old master, samuel salt, had died in february, . john lamb, the son (born june , ), had a clerkship at the south-sea house; charles lamb had begun his long period of service in the india house; and mary lamb (born december , ) was occupied as a mantua-maker. at this time coleridge was twenty-three; he would be twenty-four on october . his military experiences over, he had married sara fricker on october , (a month before southey married her sister edith), and was living at bristol, on redcliffe hill. the first number of _the watchman_ was dated on march , ; on may , , it came to an end. on april , , cottle had issued coleridge's _poems on various subjects_, containing also four "effusions" by charles lamb (nos. vii., xi., xii. and xiii.), and the "religious musings." southey, on bad terms with coleridge, partly on account of southey's abandonment of pantisocracy, was in lisbon. his _joan of arc_ had just been published by cottle in quarto at a guinea. previously he had collaborated in _the fall of robespierre_, , with coleridge and robert lovell. each, one evening, had set forth to write an act by the next. southey and lovell did so, but coleridge brought only a part of his. lovell's being useless, southey rewrote his act, coleridge finished his at leisure, and the result was published. robert lovell ( ?- ) had also been associated with coleridge and southey in pantisocracy and was their brother-in-law, having married mary fricker, another of the sisters. when, in , southey and lovell had published a joint volume of _poems_, southey took the pseudonym of bion and lovell of moschus. may was probably the landlord of the salutation and cat. the london directory for has "william may, salutation coffee house, newgate street." we must suppose that when coleridge quitted the salutation and cat in january, , he was unable to pay his bill, and therefore had to leave his luggage behind. cottle's story of coleridge being offered free lodging by a london inn-keeper, if he would only talk and talk, must then either be a pretty invention or apply to another landlord, possibly the host of the angel in butcher hall street. allen was robert allen, a schoolfellow of lamb and coleridge, and coleridge's first friend. he was born on october , . both lamb and leigh hunt tell good stories of him at christ's hospital, lamb in _elia_ and hunt in his _autobiography_. from christ's hospital he went to university college, oxford, and it was he who introduced coleridge and hucks to southey in . probably, says mr. e. h. coleridge, it was he who brought coleridge and john stoddart (afterwards sir john, and hazlitt's brother-in-law) together. on leaving oxford he seems to have gone to westminster to learn surgery, and in he was appointed deputy-surgeon to the nd royals, then in portugal. he married a widow with children; at some time later took to journalism, as lamb's reference in the _elia_ essay on "newspapers" tells us; and he died of apoplexy in . coleridge's employment on the _evidences of religion_, whatever it may have been, did not reach print. le grice was charles valentine le grice ( - ), an old christ's hospitaller and grecian (see lamb's _elia_ essays on "christ's hospital" and "grace before meat"). le grice passed to trinity college, cambridge. he left in and became tutor to william john godolphin nicholls of trereife, near penzance, the only son of a widowed mother. le grice was ordained in and married mrs. nicholls in . young nicholls died in and mrs. le grice in , when le grice became sole owner of the trereife property. he was incumbent of st. mary's, penzance, for some years. le grice was a witty, rebellious character, but he never fulfilled the promise of his early days. it has been conjectured that his skill in punning awakened lamb's ambition in that direction. le grice saw lamb next in , at the bell at edmonton. his recollections of lamb were included by talfourd in the _memorials_, and his recollections of coleridge were printed in the _gentleman's magazine_, december, . i know nothing of miss hunt. of lamb's confinement in a madhouse we know no more than is here told. it is conjectured that the "other person" to whom lamb refers a few lines later was ann simmons, a girl at widford for whom he had an attachment that had been discouraged, if not forbidden, by her friends. this is the only attack of the kind that lamb is known to have suffered. he once told coleridge that during his illness he had sometimes believed himself to be young norval in home's "douglas." the poem in blank verse was, we learn in a subsequent letter, "the grandame," or possibly an autobiographical work of which "the grandame" is the only portion that survived. white was james white ( - ), an old christ's hospitaller and a friend and almost exact contemporary of lamb. lamb, who first kindled his enthusiasm for shakespeare, was, i think, to some extent involved in the _original letters, &c., of sir john falstaff and his friends_, which appeared in . the dedication--to master samuel irelaunde, meaning william henry ireland (who sometimes took his father's name samuel), the forger of the pretended shakespearian play "vortigern," produced at drury lane earlier in the year--is quite in lamb's manner. white's immortality, however, rests not upon this book, but upon his portrait in the _elia_ essay on "chimney-sweepers." the sonnet "to my sister" was printed, with slight alterations, by lamb in coleridge's _poems_, second edition, , and again in lamb's _works_, . coleridge's _condones ad populum; or, addresses to the people_, had been published at bristol in november, .] letter charles lamb to s. t. coleridge [probably begun either on tuesday, may , or tuesday, may , . postmark? june .] i am in such violent pain with the head ach that i am fit for nothing but transcribing, scarce for that. when i get your poems, and the joan of arc, i will exercise my presumption in giving you my opinion of 'em. the mail does not come in before tomorrow (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 himself his mighty race to run. meantime, by truant love of rambling led, i turn my back on thy detested walls, proud city, and thy sons i leave behind, a selfish, sordid, money-getting kind, who shut their ears when holy freedom calls. i pass not thee so lightly, humble spire, that mindest me 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. [footnote: drowsyhed i have met with i think in spencer. tis an old thing, but it rhymes with led & rhyming covers a multitude of licences.] the last line is a copy of bowles's, "to the green hamlet in the peaceful plain." your ears are not so very fastidious--many people would not like words so prosaic and familiar in a sonnet as islington and hertfordshire. the next was written within a day or two of the last, on revisiting a spot where the scene was laid of my st sonnet that "mock'd my step with many a lonely glade." when last i roved these winding wood-walks green, green winding walks, and pathways shady-sweet, oftimes would anna seek the silent scene, shrouding her beauties in the lone retreat. no more i hear her footsteps in the shade; her image only in these pleasant ways meets me self-wandring where in better days i held free converse with my fair-hair'd maid. i pass'd 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 befall thee, gentle maid," said i, and from the cottage turn'd 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 flatter myself you will like it. a timid grace sits trembling in her eye, as both to meet the rudeness of men's sight, yet shedding a delicious lunar light, that steeps in kind oblivious extacy the care-craz'd mind, like some still melody; speaking most plain the thoughts which do possess her gentle sprite, peace and meek quietness, and innocent loves,[*] and maiden purity. a look whereof 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 joys, vain loves, and buried hopes regret. [footnote: cowley uses this phrase with a somewhat different meaning: i meant loves of relatives friends &c.] the next and last i value most of all. 'twas composed close upon the heels of the last in that very wood i had in mind when i wrote "methinks how dainty sweet." we were two pretty babes, the youngest 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 was, we two had wept to have been apart. but when, with shew of seeming good beguil'd, i left the garb and manners of a child, and my first love for man's society, defiling with the world my virgin heart, my loved companion dropt a tear, and fled, 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 bangour, these 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 remember having re'd 'em previously, for the credit of my th and th lines. parnell has lines (which probably suggested the _above_) to contentment whither ah! whither art thou fled, to hide thy meek contented head.[*] [footnote: an odd epithet for contentment in a poet so poetical as parnell.] cowley's exquisite elegy on the death of his friend harvey 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 of which i know not whether it has more of vanity or modesty in it. as to my blank verse i am so dismally slow and sterile of ideas (i speak from my heart) that i much question if it will ever come to any issue. i have hitherto only hammered out a few indepen[den]t unconnected 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 favour to beg 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 learnd, that my poor brother has had a sad accident: a large stone blown down by yesterday's high wind has bruised his leg in a most shocking manner--he is under the care of cruikshanks. coleridge, there are , objections against my paying you a visit at bristol--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 humour with present insipids. should any thing bring you to london, you will recollect no. , little queen st. holborn. i shall be too ill to call on wordsworth myself but will take care to transmit him his poem, when i have read it. i saw le grice the day before his departure, and mentioned incidentally his "teaching the young idea how to shoot"--knowing him and the probability there is of people having a propensity to pun in his company you will 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 pamphlet 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. "between 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 afflicted headachey sorethroatey, humble servant c. lamb------tuesday night---------. of your watchmen, the review of burke was the best prose. i augurd great things from the st number. there is some exquisite poetry interspersed. 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 favourable moment and hesitate not to pronounce it sublime. if there be any thing in it approachs to tumidity (which i meant not to infer in elaborate: i meant simply labored) it is the gigantic hyperbole 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 the foul spirits disherited of earth and the strange beatitude which the good man shall recognise in heaven--as well as the particularizing of the 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 th no.: "this dark freeze-coated, hoarse, teeth-chattering month"--they are exactly such epithets as burns would have stumbled on, whose poem on the ploughd 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 nos., 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 st sclavonian song. the expression in the d "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 cowper is recovered from his lunacy, and is employ'd on his translation of the italian &c. poems of milton, for an edition where fuseli presides as designer. coleridge, to an idler like myself to write and receive letters are both very pleasant, but i wish not to break in upon your valuable time by expecting to hear very frequently from you. reserve 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 have given way to the duties of providing for a family. the mail is come in but no parcel, yet this is tuesday. farewell then till to morrow, for a nich and a nook i must leave for criticisms. by the way i hope you do not send your own 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 thro not without delight. poor lovell! my heart almost accuses me for the light manner i spoke of him above, not dreaming of his death. my heart bleeds for your accumulated troubles, god send you thro' 'em with patience. i conjure you dream not that i will ever think of being repaid! the very word is galling to the ears. i have read all your rel. musings with uninterrupted feelings of profound admiration. you may safely rest your fame on it. the best remain'g things are what 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 who have seen 'em. your impassioned manner of recitation i can recall at any time to mine own heart, and to the ears of the bystanders. i rather wish you had left the monody on c. concluding as it did abruptly. it had more of unity.--the conclusion of your r 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 very last words "i exercise my young noviciate tho't in ministeries of heart-stirring song," tho' not now new to me, cannot be enough admired. to speak politely, they are a well turnd compliment to poetry. i hasten to read joan of arc, &c. i have read your lines at the begin'g of d book, they are worthy of milton, but in my mind yield to your rel mus'gs. i shall read the whole carefully and in some future letter take the liberty to particularize my opinions of it. of what is new to me among your poems next to the musings, that beginning "my pensive 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. chequing your wild wandrings, which we were so fond of hearing you indulge when among us. it has endeared us more than any thing to your good lady; and your own self-reproof that follows delighted us. 'tis a charming poem throughout. (you have well remarked that "charming, admirable, exquisite" are words expressive of feelings, more than conveying of ideas, else i might plead very well want of room in my paper as excuse for generalizing.) i want room to tell you how we are charmed with your verses in the manner of spencer, &c. &c. &c. &c. &c. i am glad you resume the watchman--change the name, leave out all articles of news, and whatever things are peculiar to news papers, 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 the work prospers. if i am vain enough to think i can be a contributor, rely on my inclinations. coleridge, in reading your r. musings i felt a transient superiority over you: i _have_ seen priestly. i love to see his name repeated in your writings. i love and honor him almost profanely. you would be charmed with his _sermons_, if you never read 'em.--you have doubtless read his books, illustrative of the doctrine of necessity. prefixed to a late work of his, in answer to paine, there is a preface, given [?giving] an account of the man and his services to men, written by lindsey, his dearest friend,--well worth your reading. 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 postmark of this letter looks like june , but it might be june , it was odd to date it "tuesday night" half way through, and "tuesday eve" at the end. possibly lamb began it on tuesday, may , and finished it on tuesday, may ; possibly he began it on tuesday, may , and finished it and posted it on tuesday, june . the hertfordshire sonnet was printed in the _monthly magazine_ for december, , and not reprinted by lamb. the sonnet that "mock'd my step with many a lonely glade" is that beginning-- was it some sweet device of faëry, which had been printed in coleridge's _poems_, . the second, third and fourth of the sonnets that are copied in this letter were printed in the second edition of coleridge's _poems_, . anna is generally supposed to be ann simmons, referred to in the previous note. concerning "flocci-nauci-what-d'ye-call-'em-ists," canon ainger has the following interesting note: "'flocci, nauci' is the beginning of a rule in the old latin grammars, containing a list of words signifying 'of no account,' _floccus_ being a lock of wool, and _naucus_ a trifle. lamb was recalling a sentence in one of shenstone's letters:--'i loved him for nothing so much as his flocci-nauci-nihili-pili-fication of money.'" but "pantisocratists" was, of course, the word that lamb was shadowing. pantisocracy, however--the new order of common living and high thinking, to be established on the banks of the susquehanna by coleridge, southey, favell, burnett and others--was already dead. william cumberland cruikshank, the anatomist, who attended lamb's brother, had attended dr. johnson in his last illness. le grice's pamphlet was _a general theorem for a******* coll. declamation_, by gronovius, . southey and coleridge had been on somewhat strained terms for some time; possibly, as i have said in the previous note, owing to southey's abandonment of pantisocratic fervour, which anticipated coleridge's by some months. also, to marry sisters does not always lead to serenity. the spiriting away of coleridge had been effected by southey in january, , when he found coleridge at the angel in butcher hall street (_vice_ the salutation in newgate street) and bore him back to bristol and the forlorn sara fricker, and away from lamb, journalism and egg-hot. moschus was, as we have seen, robert lovell. no. v. of _the watchman_ contained sonnets by him. the review of burke's _letter to a noble lord_ was in no. i. of _the watchman._--the passage from "religious musings," under the title "the present state of society," was in no. ii.--extending from line to . [these lines were - st ed.; - nd ed.] the capital line in no. vi. is in the poem, "lines on observing a blossom on the first of february, ."--poor dead parsons would be william parsons ( - ), the original sir fretful plagiary in sheridan's "critic." lamb praises him in his essay on the artificial comedy.--in no. ix. of _the watchman_ were prose paraphrases of three sclavonian songs, the first being "song of a female orphan," and the second, "song of the haymakers."--john logan's "braes of yarrow" had been quoted in no. iii. as "the most exquisite performance in our language."--the invective against "the barterers" refers to the denunciation of the slave trade in no. iv. of _the watchman_. cowper's recovery was only partial; and he was never rightly himself after . the edition of milton had been begun about . it was never finished as originally intended; but fuseli completed forty pictures, which were exhibited in . an edition of cowper's translations, with designs by flaxman, was published in , and of cowper's complete milton in . wordsworth's poem would be "guilt and sorrow," of which a portion was printed in _lyrical ballads,_ , and the whole published in . coleridge's "monody on chatterton," the first poem in his _poems on various subjects_, , had been written originally at christ's hospital, : it continued to be much altered before the final version. the two lines from "religious musings" are not the last, but the beginning of the last passage. coleridge contributed between three and four hundred lines to book ii. of southey's _joan of arc_, as we shall see later. the poem beginning "my pensive sara" was effusion , afterwards called "the Æolian harp," and the lines to which lamb refers are these, following upon coleridge's description of how flitting phantasies traverse his indolent and passive brain:-- but thy more serious eye a mild reproof darts, o beloved woman! nor such thoughts dim and unhallow'd dost thou not reject, and biddest me walk humbly with my god. the plan to resume _the watchman_ did not come to anything. joseph priestley ( - ), the theologian, at this time the object of lamb's adoration, was one of the fathers of unitarianism, a creed in which lamb had been brought up under the influence of his aunt hetty. coleridge, as a supporter of one of priestley's allies, william frend of cambridge, and as a convinced unitarian, was also an admirer of priestley, concerning whom and the birmingham riots of is a fine passage in "religious musings," while one of the sonnets of the volume was addressed to him: circumstances which lamb had in mind when mentioning him in this letter. lamb had probably seen priestley at the gravel pit chapel, hackney, where he became morning preacher in december, , remaining there until march, . thenceforward he lived in america. his _institutes of natural and revealed religion_ appeared between and . the other work referred to is _letters to the philosophers and politicians of france_, newly edited by theophilus lindsey, the unitarian, as _an answer to mr. paine's "age of reason_," .] letter charles lamb to s.t. coleridge [begun wednesday, june . dated on address: "friday th june," .] with joan of arc i have been delighted, amazed. i had not presumed to expect any thing of such excellence from southey. why the poem is alone sufficient to redeem the character of the age we live in from the imputation 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 subject is well chosen. it opens well. to become more particular, i will notice in their order a few passages that chiefly struck me on perusal. page "fierce and terrible benevolence!" is a phrase full of grandeur and originality. the whole context made me feel _possess'd_, even like joan herself. page , "it is most horrible with the keen sword to gore the finely fibred human frame" and what follows pleased me mightily. in the d 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 the laplander "by niemi's lake or balda zhiok, or the mossy stone of solfar kapper"--will bear comparison with any in milton for fullness of circumstance and lofty-pacedness of versification. southey's similes, tho' many of 'em are capital, are all inferior. in one of his books the simile of the oak in the storm occurs i think four times! to return, the light in which you view the heathen deities is accurate and beautiful. southey's personifications in this book are so many fine and faultless pictures. i was much pleased with your manner of accounting for the reason why monarchs take delight in war. at the th line you have placed prophets and enthusiasts cheek by jowl, on too intimate a footing for the dignity of the former. necessarian-like-speaking it is correct. page "dead is the douglas, cold thy warrior frame, illustrious buchan" &c are of kindred excellence with gray's "cold is cadwallo's tongue" &c. how famously the maid baffles the doctors, seraphic and irrefragable, "with all their trumpery!" page, the procession, 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 to in the heat of the battle had better been omitted, they are not very striking and only encumber. the converse which joan and conrade hold on the banks of the loire is altogether beautiful. page , 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 dream'd of. page , i need only _mention_ those lines ending with "she saw a serpent gnawing at her heart"!!! they are good imitative lines "he toild and toild, of toil to reap no end, but endless toil and never ending woe." page, cruelty is such as hogarth might have painted her. page , all the passage about love (where he seems to confound conjugal love with creating and preserving love) is very confused and sickens me with a load of useless personifications. else that th 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 as i conceive to be the manner of dante and ariosto. the th book is the most languid. on the whole, considering the celerity wherewith the poem was finish'd, i was astonish'd at the infrequency of weak lines. i had expected 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 delighted 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 southey spoke very slightingly 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 _immensely 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 task on me, and pleasant, let me add, because it will confer a whimsical importance on me to sit in judgment upon your rhimes. first tho', let me thank you again and again in my own and my sister's name for your invitations. nothing could give us more pleasure than to come, but (were there no other reasons) while my brother's leg is so bad it is out of the question. poor fellow, he is very 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. we are necessarily confined with him the afternoon and evening till very late, so that i am stealing a few minutes 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 no where 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 occasionally, as tho' 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 obedience 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. th page. "the thrilling tones that concentrate the soul" is a nervous line, and the first lines of page are very pretty. the st effusion a perfect thing. that in the manner of spencer is very sweet, particularly at the close. the th effusion is most exquisite--that line in particular, "and tranquil muse upon tranquillity." it is the very reflex pleasure that distinguishes the tranquillity of a thinking being from that of a shepherd--a modern one i would be understood to mean--a dametas; one that keeps other people's sheep. certainly, coleridge, your letter from shurton bars has less merit than most things in your volume; personally, it may chime in best with your own feelings, and therefore you love it best. it has however great merit. in your th epistle that is an exquisite paragraph and fancy-full of "a stream there is which rolls in lazy flow" &c. &c. "murmurs sweet undersong 'mid jasmine bowers" is a sweet line and so are the next. the concluding simile is far-fetch'd. "tempest-honord" is a quaint-ish phrase. of the monody on h., i will here only notice these lines, as superlatively excellent. that energetic one, "shall i not praise thee, scholar, christian, friend," like to that beautiful climax of shakspeare "king, hamlet, royal dane, father." "yet memory turns from little men to thee!" "and sported careless round their fellow child." the whole, i repeat it, is immensely good. yours is a poetical family. i was much surpriz'd and pleased to see the signature of sara to that elegant composition, the th epistle. i dare not _criticise_ the relig musings, i like not to _select_ any part where all is excellent. i can only admire; and thank you for it in the name of a christian as well as a lover of good poetry. only let me ask, is not that thought and those words in young, "stands in the sun"? or is it only such as young in one of his _better moments_ might have writ? "believe, thou, o 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 for what follows in next paragraph in the name of a child of fancy. after all you can[not] nor ever will write any thing, with which i shall be so delighted as what i have heard yourself repeat. you came to town, and i saw you at a time when your heart was yet bleeding with recent 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 they yet vibrate pleasant on the sense. when i read in your little volume, your th effusion, or the th or th, or what you call the "sigh," i think i hear _you_ again. i image to myself the little smoky room at the salutation and cat, where we have sat together thro' 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 of quiet life." in your conversation you had blended so many pleasant fancies, that they cheated me of my grief. but in your absence, the tide of melancholy rushd in again, and did its worst mischief by overwhelming my reason. i have recoverd. 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 phrensy 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 fancy, till you have gone mad. all now seems to me vapid; comparatively so. excuse this selfish digression. your monody is so superlatively excellent, that i can only wish 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 compress'd and i think more energic, tho' i am sensible at the expence of many beautiful lines. let it begin "is this the land of song-ennobled line," and proceed to "otway's famish'd form." then "thee chatterton," 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 _his_ poor unsheltered head did penury her sickly mildew shed, and soon are fled the charms of vernal grace, and joy's wild gleams that lightend o'er his face!" then "youth of tumultuous soul" to "sigh" as before. the rest may all stand down to "gaze upon the waves below." what follows now may come next, as detached verses, suggested by the monody, rather than a part of it. they are 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 understand me by counting lines. i have proposed omitting lines. i feel that thus comprest it would gain energy, but think it most likely you will not agree with me, for who shall go about to bring opinions to the bed of procrustes and introduce among the sons of men a monotony of identical feelings. i only propose with diffidence. 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 differ'd. the lines "friend to the friendless" &c. which you may think "rudely disbranched" from the chatterton will patch in with the man of ross, where they were once quite at home, with more which i recollect "and o'er the dowried virgin's snowy cheek bad bridal love suffuse his blushes meek!" very beautiful. the pixies is a perfect thing, and so are the lines on the spring, page . the epitaph on an infant, like a jack of lanthorn, has danced about (or like dr. forster's scholars) out of the morn chron into the watchman, and thence back into your collection. it is very pretty, and you seem to think so, but, may be o'er looked its chief merit, that of filling up a whole page. i had once deemd sonnets of unrivalled use that way, but your epitaphs, 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 recall (none more forcibly) to my mind the tones in which _you recited it_. i will not notice in this tedious (to you) manner verses which 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 th effusion. it would have better ended with "agony of care." the last lines are obvious and unnecessary and you need not now make lines of it, now it is rechristend from a sonnet to an effusion. schiller might have written the 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 ( st stanza in particular) is the best, or only good imitation, of ossian i ever saw--your restless gale excepted. "to an infant" is most sweet--is not "foodful," tho', very harsh! would not "dulcet" fruit be less harsh, or some other friendly bi-syllable? in edmund, "frenzy fierce-eyed child," is not so well as frantic--tho' 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 'neath this roof thy wine-chear'd moments pass" than as it stands now. time nor nothing can reconcile me to the concluding lines of kosciusko: call it any thing you will but sublime. in my th effusion i had rather have seen what i wrote myself, tho' they bear no comparison with your exquisite lines "on rose-leaf'd beds amid your faery bowers," &c.--i love my sonnets because they are the reflected images of my own feelings at different times. to instance, in the th "how reason reel'd," &c.--are good lines but must spoil the whole with me who know it is only a fiction of yours and that the rude dashings did in fact not rock me 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, tho' they now and then wake a sigh or a tear. "thinking on divers things foredone," i charge you, col., spare my ewe lambs, and tho' a gentleman may borrow six lines in an epic poem (i should have no objection to borrow 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 improvements (did i think myself capable of suggesting 'em) in such personal poems as "thou bleedest my poor heart"--'od so, i am catchd, i have already done it--but that simile i propose abridging would not change the feeling or introduce any alien ones. do you understand me? in the th 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 poems, "_propino tibi alterandum, cut-up-andum, abridg-andum_," just what you will 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, col., spare my ewe lambs. i must confess were they mine i should omit, in editione secundâ, effusions - , because satiric, and below the dignity of the poet of religious musings, - , half of the th, that written in early youth, as far as "thousand eyes,"--tho' i part not unreluctantly with that lively line "chaste joyance dancing in her bright-blue eyes" and one or more just thereabouts. but i would substitute for it that sweet poem called "recollection" in the th no. of the watchman, better i think than the remainder of this poem, tho' not differing materially. as the poem now stands it looks altogether confused. and do not omit those lines upon the "early blossom," in your th no. of the watchman, and i would omit the th effusion--or what would do better, alter and improve the last lines. in fact, i suppose if they were mine i should _not_ omit 'em. but your verse is for the most part so exquisite, 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 this time, made your eyes and head ach with my long letter. but i cannot forego hastily the pleasure and pride of thus conversing with you. you did not tell me whether i was to include the conciones ad populum in my remarks on your poems. they are not unfrequently sublime, and i think you could not do better than to turn 'em into verse,--if you have nothing else to do. allen i am sorry to say is a _confirmed_ atheist. stodart, or stothard, a cold hearted well bred conceited disciple of godwin, does him no good. his wife has several daughters (one of 'em as old as himself). surely there is something unnatural in such a marriage. how i sympathise with you on the dull duty of a reviewer, and heartily damn with you ned evans and the prosodist. i shall however wait impatiently for the articles in the crit. rev., 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 wide plain, friend-less." are you acquainted with bowles? i see, by his last elegy (written at bath), you are near neighbours. "and i can think i can see the groves again--was it the voice of thee--twas not the voice of thee, my buried friend--who dries with her dark locks the tender tear"--are touches as true to nature as any in his other elegy, written at the hot wells, about poor russell, &c.--you are doubtless acquainted with it.--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 sweeten'd, tho', with praises somewhat extravagant) i perfectly coincide with. yet i chuse to retain the word "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, who was hanged and burn'd for coining. one of the strokes of pathos (which are very many, all somewhat obscure) is "she lifted up her guilty forger to heaven." a note explains by forger her right hand with 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 pastoral 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 in less than a month. i shall be richly content with a letter from you some day early in july--tho' if you get any how _settled_ before then pray let me know it immediately-- 'twould give me such satisfaction. concerning the unitarian chapel, the salary is the only scruple that the most rigid moralist would admit as valid. concerning the tutorage--is not the salary low, and absence from your family unavoidable? london is the only fostering soil for genius. nothing more occurs just now, so i will leave you in mercy one small white spot empty below, to repose your eyes upon, fatigued as they must be with the wilderness of words they have by this time painfully travell'd thro'. god love you, coleridge, and prosper you thro' life, tho' 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. [southey's _joan of arc_, with contributions to book ii. by coleridge, had been published in quarto by cottle. coleridge contributed to book ii. the first lines, with the exception of - , - , - and - . he subsequently took out his lines and gave them new shape as the poem "the destiny of nations," printed in _sibylline leaves_, . all subsequent editions of southey's poem appeared without coleridge's portion. the passages on page and page were southey's. those at the beginning of the second book were coleridge's. the simile of the laplander may be read in "the destiny of nations" (lines - ). these were the reasons given by coleridge for monarchs making war:-- when luxury and lust's exhausted stores no more can rouse the appetites of kings; when the low flattery of their reptile lords falls flat and heavy on the accustomed ear; when eunuchs sing, and fools buffoon'ry make. and dancers writhe their harlot limbs in vain: then war and all its dread vicissitudes pleasingly agitate their stagnant hearts.... the th line was coleridge's. this is the passage:-- whether thy law with unrefracted ray beam on the prophet's purged eye, or if diseasing realms the enthusiast, wild of thought, scatter new frenzies on the infected throng, thou, both inspiring and foredooming, both fit instruments and best of perfect end. with page we come to southey again, the remaining references being to him. the maid baffles the doctors in book iii.; page is in book iv.; the personifications are in book vi.; the converse between joan and conrade is in book iv.; page is at the beginning of book ix.; and pages , and are also in book ix. southey in the preface to _joan of arc_, speaking of homer, says: "pope has disguised him in fop-finery and cowper has stripped him naked." "crazy kate" is an episode in _the task_ ("the sofa"). the "monody on john henderson," by joseph cottle, was printed anonymously in a volume of poems in , and again in _the malvern hill_. john henderson ( - ) was an eccentric scholar of bristol. the lines praised by lamb are the th, th and th. the poem must not be confused with the monody on henderson, the actor, by g. d. harley. lamb now turns again to coleridge's _poems_. the poem on the th and th pages of this little volume was "to the rev. w. j. h." the st effusion was that entitled "composed while climbing the left ascent of brockley coomb." the th effusion is known as "the aeolian harp." the letter from shurton bars is the poem beginning-- nor travels my meand'ring eye. the th epistle is that to joseph cottle, coleridge's publisher and the author of the "monody on henderson," referred to in coleridge's verses. the lines which lamb quotes are cottle's. the poem by sara coleridge is "the silver thimble." the passage in the "religious musings," for which lamb is thankful as a "child of fancy," is the last paragraph:-- contemplant spirits! ye that hover o'er with untired gaze the immeasurable fount ebullient with creative deity! and ye of plastic power, that interfused roll through the grosser and material mass in organising surge! holies of god! (and what if monads of the infinite mind?) i haply journeying my immortal course shall sometime join your mystic choir! till then i discipline my young noviciate thought in ministeries of heart-stirring song, and aye on meditation's heaven-ward wing soaring aloft i breathe the empyreal air of love, omnific, omnipresent love, whose day-spring rises glorious in my soul as the great sun, when he his influence sheds on the frost-bound waters--the glad stream flows to the ray and warbles as it flows. "you came to town ..." soon after his engagement with sara fricker, his heart being still not wholly healed of its passion for mary evans, coleridge had gone to london from bristol, nominally to arrange for the publication of his _fall of robespierre_, and had resumed intercourse with lamb and other old christ's hospital friends. there he remained until southey forcibly took him back in january, . from what lamb says of the loss of two friends we must suppose, in default of other information, that he had to give up his anna at the same time. the loss of reason, however, to which he refers did not come until the end of the year . the th effusion, afterwards called "on a discovery made too late;" the th, "the kiss;" the th, "imitated from ossian." "your monody." this, not to be confounded with cottle's "monody on henderson," was coleridge's "monody on chatterton." lamb's emendations were not accepted. as regards "the man of ross," the couplet beginning "friend to the friendless" ultimately had a place both in that poem and in the monody, but the couplet "and o'er the dowried virgin" was never replaced in either. the lines on spring, page , are "lines to a beautiful spring." dr. forster (faustus) was the hero of the nursery rhyme, whose scholars danced out of england into france and spain and back again. the epitaph on an infant was in _the watchman_, no. ix. (see note on page ). the poem "edmund" is called "lines on a friend who died of a frenzy fever induced by calumnious reports." the lines in "absence" are those in the second stanza of the poem. they run thus:-- ah fair delights! that o'er my soul on memory's wing, like shadows fly! ah flowers! which joy from eden stole while innocence stood smiling by!-- but cease, fond heart! this bootless moan: those hours on rapid pinions flown shall yet return, by absence crowned, and scatter livelier roses round. the th effusion, beginning "thou bleedest, my poor heart," is known as "on a discovery made too late." the th effusion is the sonnet to schiller. the lines which were sent to lamb, written in december, , are called "to a friend, together with an unfinished poem" ("religious musings"). coleridge's "restless gale" is the imitation of ossian, beginning, "the stream with languid murmur creeps." "foodful" occurs thus in the lines "to an infant":-- alike the foodful fruit and scorching fire awake thy eager grasp and young desire. coleridge did not alter the phrase. lamb contributed four effusions to this volume of coleridge's: the th, to mrs. siddons (written in conjunction with coleridge), the th, th and th. all were signed c. l. coleridge had permitted himself to make various alterations. the following parallel will show the kind of treatment to which lamb objected:-- lamb's original effusion ( ) was it some sweet device of faery that mock'd my steps with many a lonely glade, and fancied wanderings with a fair-hair'd maid? have these things been? or what rare witchery, impregning with delights the charmed air, enlighted up the semblance of a smile in those fine eyes? methought they spake the while soft soothing things, which might enforce despair to drop the murdering knife, and let go by his foul resolve. and does the lonely glade still court the foot-steps of the fair-hair'd maid? still in her locks the gales of summer sigh? while i forlorn do wander reckless where, and 'mid my wanderings meet no anna there. as altered by coleridge was it some sweet device of faery land that mock'd my steps with many a lonely glade, and fancied wand'rings with a fair-hair'd maid? have these things been? or did the wizard wand of merlin wave, impregning vacant air, and kindle up the vision of a smile in those blue eyes, that seem'd to speak the while such tender things, as might enforce despair to drop the murth'ring knife, and let go by his fell resolve? ah me! the lonely glade still courts the footsteps of the fair-hair'd maid, among whose locks the west-winds love to sigh: but i forlorn do wander, reckless where, and mid my wand'rings find no anna there! in effusion lamb had written:-- or we might sit and tell some tender tale of faithful vows repaid by cruel scorn, a tale of true love, or of friend forgot; and i would teach thee, lady, how to rail in gentle sort, on those who practise not or love or pity, though of woman born. coleridge made it:-- but ah! sweet scenes of fancied bliss, adieu! on rose-leaf beds amid your faery bowers i all too long have lost the dreamy hours! beseems it now the sterner muse to woo, if haply she her golden meed impart to realize the vision of the heart. again in the th effusion, "written at midnight, by the sea-side, after a voyage," lamb had dotted out the last two lines. coleridge substituted the couplet:-- how reason reel'd! what gloomy transports rose! till the rude dashings rock'd them to repose. effusion , which lamb would omit, was the sonnet "to burke;" effusion , "to mercy" (on pitt); effusion , "to erskine;" effusion , lamb and coleridge's joint sonnet, "to mrs. siddons;" and effusion , "to koskiusko." the "lines written in early youth" were afterwards called "lines on an autumnal evening." the poem called "recollection," in _the watchman_, was reborn as "sonnet to the river otter." the lines on the early blossom were praised by lamb in a previous letter. the th effusion was the sonnet to earl stanhope. godwin was william godwin, the philosopher. we shall later see much of him. it was allen's wife, not stoddart's, who had a grown-up daughter. _ned evans_ was a novel in four volumes, published in , an imitation of _tom jones_, which presumably coleridge was reviewing for the _critical review_. young w. evans is said by mr. dykes campbell to have been the only son of the mrs. evans who befriended coleridge when he was at christ's hospital, the mother of his first love, mary evans. evans was at school with coleridge and lamb. we shall meet with him again. william lisle bowles ( - ), the sonneteer, who had exerted so powerful a poetical influence on coleridge's mind, was at this time rector of cricklade in wiltshire ( - ), but had been ill at bath. the elegy in question was "elegiac stanzas written during sickness at bath, december, ." the lines quoted by lamb are respectively in the th, th, th and th stanzas. sophia pringle. probably the subject of a catnach or other popular broadside. i have not found it. izaak walton. lamb returns to praises of _the compleat angler_ in his letter to robert lloyd referred to on page . the reference to the unitarian chapel bears probably upon an offer of a pulpit to coleridge. the tutorship was probably that offered to coleridge by mrs. evans of darley hall (no relation to mary evans) who wished him to teach her sons. neither project was carried through.] letter (_apparently a continuation of a letter the first part of which is missing_) charles lamb to s. t. coleridge [begun] monday night [june , ]. unfurnished at present with any sheet-filling subject, i shall continue my letter gradually and journal-wise. my second thoughts entirely coincide with your comments on "joan of arc," and i can only wonder at my childish judgment which overlooked the st book and could prefer the th: not that i was insensible to the soberer beauties of the former, but the latter caught me with its glare of magic,--the former, however, left a more pleasing general recollection in my mind. let me add, the st book was the favourite of my sister--and _i_ now, with joan, often "think on domremi and the fields of arc." i must not pass over without acknowledging my obligations to your full and satisfactory account of personifications. i have read it again and again, and it will be a guide to my future taste. perhaps i had estimated southey's merits too much by number, weight, and measure. i now agree completely and entirely in your opinion of the genius of southey. your own image of melancholy is illustrative of what you teach, and in itself masterly. i conjecture it is "disbranched" from one of your embryo "hymns." when they are mature of birth (were i you) i should print 'em in one separate volume, with "religious musings" and your part of the "joan of arc." birds of the same soaring wing should hold on their flight in company. once for all (and by renewing the subject you will only renew in me the condemnation of tantalus), i hope to be able to pay you a visit (if you are then at bristol) some time in the latter end of august or beginning of september for a week or fortnight; before that time, office business puts an absolute veto on my coming. "and if a sigh that speaks regret of happier times appear, a glimpse of joy that we have met shall shine and dry the tear." of the blank verses i spoke of, the following lines are the only tolerably complete ones i have writ out of not more than one hundred and fifty. that i get on so slowly you may fairly impute to want of practice in composition, when i declare to you that (the few verses which you have seen excepted) i have not writ fifty lines since i left school. it may not be amiss to remark that my grandmother (on whom the verses are written) lived housekeeper in a family the fifty or sixty last years of her life--that she was a woman of exemplary piety and goodness--and for many years before her death was terribly afflicted with a cancer in her breast which she bore with true christian patience. you may think that i have not kept enough apart the ideas of her heavenly and her earthly master but recollect i have designedly given in to her own way of feeling--and if she had a failing, 'twas that she respected her master's family too much, not reverenced her maker too little. the lines begin imperfectly, as i may probably connect 'em if i finish at all,--and if i do, biggs shall print 'em in a more economical way than you yours, for (sonnets and all) they won't make a thousand lines as i propose completing 'em, and the substance must be wire-drawn. tuesday evening, june , . i am not quite satisfied now with the chatterton, and with your leave will try my hand at it again. a master joiner, you know, may leave a cabinet to be finished, when his own hands are full. to your list of illustrative personifications, into which a fine imagination enters, i will take leave to add the following from beaumont and fletcher's "wife for a month;" 'tis the conclusion of a description of a sea-fight;--"the game of _death_ was never played so nobly; the meagre thief grew wanton in his mischiefs, and his shrunk hollow eyes smiled on his ruins." there is fancy in these of a lower order from "bonduca;"--"then did i see these valiant men of britain, like boding owls creep into tods of ivy, and hoot their fears to one another nightly." not that it is a personification; only it just caught my eye in a little extract book i keep, which is full of quotations from b. and f. in particular, in which authors i can't help thinking there is a greater richness of poetical fancy than in any one, shakspeare excepted. are you acquainted with massinger? at a hazard i will trouble you with a passage from a play of his called "a very woman." the lines are spoken by a lover (disguised) to his faithless mistress. you will remark the fine effect of the double endings. you will by your ear distinguish the lines, for i write 'em as prose. "not far from where my father lives, _a lady_, a neighbour by, blest with as great a _beauty_ as nature durst bestow without _undoing_, dwelt, and most happily, as i thought then, and blest the house a thousand times she _dwelt in_. this beauty, in the blossom of my youth, when my first fire knew no adulterate _incense_, nor i no way to flatter but my _fondness_; in all the bravery my friends could _show me_, in all the faith my innocence could _give me_, in the best language my true tongue could _tell me_, and all the broken sighs my sick heart _lend me_, i sued and served; long did i serve this _lady_, long was my travail, long my trade to _win her_; with all the duty of my soul i served her." "then she must love." "she did, but never me: she could not _love me_; she would not love, she hated,--more, she _scorn'd me_; and in so poor and base a way _abused me_ for all my services, for all my _bounties_, so bold neglects flung on me."--"what out of love, and worthy love, i _gave her_ (shame to her most unworthy mind,) to fools, to girls, to fiddlers and her boys she flung, all in disdain of me." one more passage strikes my eye from b. and f.'s "palamon and arcite." one of 'em complains in prison: "this is all our world; we shall know nothing here but one another, hear nothing but the clock that tells our woes; the vine shall grow, but we shall never see it," &c. is not the last circumstance exquisite? i mean not to lay myself open by saying they exceed milton, and perhaps collins, in sublimity. but don't you conceive all poets after shakspeare yield to 'em in variety of genius? massinger treads close on their heels; but you are most probably as well acquainted with his writings as your humble servant. my quotations, in that case, will only serve to expose my barrenness of matter. southey in simplicity and tenderness, is excelled decidedly only, i think, by beaumont and f. in his [their] "maid's tragedy" and some parts of "philaster" in particular, and elsewhere occasionally; and perhaps by cowper in his "crazy kate," and in parts of his translation, such as the speeches of hecuba and andromache. i long to know your opinion of that translation. the odyssey especially is surely very homeric. what nobler than the appearance of phoebus at the beginning of the iliad--the lines ending with "dread sounding, bounding on the silver bow!" i beg you will give me your opinion of the translation; it afforded me high pleasure. as curious a specimen of translation as ever fell into my hands, is a young man's in our office, of a french novel. what in the original was literally "amiable delusions of the fancy," he proposed to render "the fair frauds of the imagination!" i had much trouble in licking the book into any meaning at all. yet did the knave clear fifty or sixty pounds by subscription and selling the copyright. the book itself not a week's work! to-day's portion of my journalising epistle has been very dull and poverty-stricken. i will here end. tuesday night. i have been drinking egg-hot and smoking oronooko (associated circumstances, which ever forcibly recall to my mind our evenings and nights at the salutation); my eyes and brain are heavy and asleep, but my heart is awake; and if words came as ready as ideas, and ideas as feelings, i could say ten hundred kind things. coleridge, you know not my supreme happiness at having one on earth (though counties separate us) whom i can call a friend. remember you those tender lines of logan?-- "our broken friendships we deplore, and loves of youth that are no more; no after friendships e'er can raise th' endearments of our early days, and ne'er the heart such fondness prove, as when we first began to love." i am writing at random, and half-tipsy, what you may not _equally_ understand, as you will be sober when you read it; but _my_ sober and _my_ half-tipsy hours you are alike a sharer in. good night. "then up rose our bard, like a prophet in drink, craigdoroch, thou'lt soar when creation shall sink." burns. _thursday_ [june , ]. i am now in high hopes to be able to visit you, if perfectly convenient on your part, by the end of next month--perhaps the last week or fortnight in july. a change of scene and a change of faces would do me good, even if that scene were not to be bristol, and those faces coleridge's and his friends. in the words of terence, a little altered, "taedet me hujus quotidiani mundi." i am heartily sick of the every-day scenes of life. i shall half wish you unmarried (don't show this to mrs. c.) for one evening only, to have the pleasure of smoking with you, and drinking egg-hot in some little smoky room in a pot-house, for i know not yet how i shall like you in a decent room, and looking quite happy. my best love and respects to sara notwithstanding. yours sincerely, charles lamb. [coleridge's image of melancholy will be found in the lines "melancholy--a fragment." it was published in _sibylline leaves_, , and in a note coleridge said that the verses were printed in the _morning chronicle_ in . they were really printed in the _morning post_, december , . coleridge had probably sent them to lamb in ms. the "hymns" came to nothing. "the following lines." lamb's poem "the grandame" was presumably included in this letter. see vol. iv. mary field, lamb's grandmother, died july , , aged seventy-nine, and was buried in widford churchyard. she had been for many years housekeeper in the plumer family at blakesware. on william plumer's moving to gilston, a neighbouring seat, in , she had sole charge of the blakesware mansion, where her grandchildren used to visit her. compare lamb's _elia_ essays "blakesmoor in h----shire" and "dream-children," n. biggs was the printer of coleridge's _poems_, . lamb had begun his amendment of coleridge's "monody on the death of chatterton" in his letter of june . coleridge's illustrative personifications, here referred to, are in that poem. the extract book from which lamb copied his quotations from beaumont and fletcher and massinger was, he afterwards tells us, destroyed; but similar volumes, which he filled later, are preserved. many of his extracts he included in his _dramatic specimens_. writing to charles lloyd, sen., in , lamb says of cowper as a translator of homer that he "delays you ... walking over a bowling green." canon ainger possessed a copy of the book translated by lamb's fellow-clerk. it was called _sentimental tablets of the good pamphile_. "translated from the french of m. gorjy by p. s. dupuy of the east india house, ." among the subscribers' names were thomas bye ( copies), ball, evans, savory ( copies), and lamb himself.] letter charles lamb to s.t. coleridge [probably begun on wednesday, june . p.m. july , .] 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 ye out. my mother is grown so entirely 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 tho' 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 parodied. .--sórely your dáctyls do drág along lim'p-footed. .--sád is the méasure that han'gs a clod roúnd 'em so, .--méagre, and lan'guid, procláiming its wrétchedness. .--wéary, unsátisfied, nót little sic'k of 'em. .--cóld is my tíred heart, Í have no chárity. .--páinfully tráv'lling thus óver the rúgged road. .--Ó begone, méasure, half látin, half en'glish, then. .--dismal your dáctyls are, gód help ye, rhyming ones. i _possibly_ may not come 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 home. i _hope_ i can come in a day or two. but young savory of my office is suddenly taken ill in this very nick of time and i must officiate for him till he can come to work again. had the knave gone sick and died and putrefied 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 b. and fl, men with whom succeeding dramatic 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 prosaical, 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-liver'd, lilly-cheeked, bashful, palpitating, awkward hussey, that hangs like a green girl at her sister's apronstrings, 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 sollicitous about _any_ alteration. i have not yet seen, but will make it my business to see, to-day's _chronicle_, for your verses on horne took. dyer stanza'd him in one of the papers t'other day, but i think unsuccessfully. tooke's friends' meeting was i suppose a dinner of condolence. i am not sorry to find you (for all sara) immersed in clouds of smoke and metaphysic. 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 proficient 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 those 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 richardson has given me an absolute refusal of leave! the _poor man_ cannot guess at my disappointment. is it not hard, "this dread dependance 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. savory did return, but there are or more ill and absent, which was the plea for refusing me. i will never commit my peace of mind by depending on such a wretch for a favor in future, so shall never have heart to ask for holidays again. the man next him in office, cartwright, furnished him with the objections. c. lamb. [the dactyls were coleridge's only in the third stanza; the remainder were southey's. the poem is known as "the soldier's wife," printed in southey's _poems_, . later southey revised the verses. _the anti-jacobin_ had a parody of them. young savory was probably a relative of hester savory, whom we shall meet later. he entered the east india house on the same day that lamb did. we do not know what were the lines from wither which coleridge had sent to lamb; but lamb himself eventually did much to bring him and the elder bards into more general fame--in the _dramatic specimens_, , and in the essay "on the poetical works of george wither," in the _works_, . stupid knox was vicesimus knox ( - ), the editor of _elegant extracts_ in many forms. "her ... sweet little poem." sara coleridge's verses no longer exist. see lamb's next letter for his poetical reply. coleridge's poem on the prince and princess, "on a late connubial rupture in high life," was not accepted by perry, of the _morning chronicle_. it appeared in the _monthly magazine_, september, . the "verses addressed to j. horne tooke and the company who met on june , , to celebrate his poll at the westminster election" were not printed in the _morning chronicle_. tooke had opposed charles james fox, who polled , votes, and sir alan gardner, who polled , , against his own , . dyer was george dyer ( - ), an old christ's hospitaller (but before lamb and coleridge's time), of whom we shall see much--lamb's famous "g.d." william richardson was accountant-general of the east india house at that time; charles cartwright, his deputy.] letter charles lamb to s.t. coleridge the th july, . [p.m. same date.] to sara and her samuel was it so hard a thing? i did but ask a fleeting holy day. one little week, or haply two, had bounded my request. what if the jaded steer, who all day long had borne the heat and labour of the plough, when evening came and her sweet cooling hour, should seek to trespass on a neighbour 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 thence! 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 pilgrim, to the "vales where avon winds," to taste th' inspiring waves which shakespere drank, our british helicon: or, with mine eye intent on redcliffe towers, to drop a tear for that mysterious youth, cruelly slighted, who to london walls, in evil hour, shap'd his disastrous course. complaints, begone; begone, ill-omen'd thoughts-- for yet again, and lo! from avon banks another "minstrel" cometh! youth beloved, god and good angels guide thee on thy way, and gentler fortunes wait the friends i love. c.l. letter charles lamb to s.t. coleridge the th july [p.m. july , ]. substitute in room of that last confused & incorrect paragraph, following the words "disastrous course," these lines [sidenote: vide d page of this epistle.] { with better hopes, i trust, from avon's vales { this other "minstrel" cometh youth endear'd no { god & good angels guide thee on thy road, { and gentler fortunes wait the friends i love. [_lamb has crossed through the above lines_.] let us prose. what can i do till you send word what priced and placed house you should like? islington (possibly) you would 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. chuse! 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 chron: must be a very comfortable & secure living for a man. but should not you read french, or do you? & can you write with 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 luke-warmness?--white's "letters" are near publication. could you review 'em, or get 'em reviewed? are you not connected with the crit: rev:? his frontispiece is a good conceit: sir john learning to dance, to please madame page, in dress of doublet, etc., from [for] the upper half; & modern pantaloons, with shoes, etc., of the th century, from [for] the lower half--& the whole work is full of goodly quips & rare fancies, "all deftly masqued like hoar antiquity"--much superior to dr. kenrick's falstaff's wedding, which you may have seen. allen sometimes laughs at superstition, & religion, & 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 & scrupled about it, and at last (to use his own words) "tampered" with _godwin_ to know whether the thing was honest or not. _godwin_ said nay to it, & allen rejected the living! could the blindest poor papish have bowed more servilely to his priest or casuist? why 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, & 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 destin'd man, born to reanimate the lyre, whose chords have slumber'd, and have idle lain so long, to the immortal sounding of whose strings did milton frame the stately-pacèd verse; among whose wires with lighter finger playing, our elder bard, spenser, a gentle name, the lady muses' dearest darling child, elicited the deftest tunes yet heard in hall or bower, taking the delicate ear of sydney, & his peerless maiden queen. thou, then, take up the mighty epic strain, cowper, of england's bards, the wisest & the best. . i have read your climax of praises in those reviews. these mighty spouters-out of panegyric waters have, of 'em, scattered their spray even upon me! & the waters are cooling & refreshing. prosaically, the monthly reviewers have made indeed a large article of it, & done you justice. the critical have, in their wisdom, selected not the very best specimens, & notice not, except as one name on the muster-roll, the "religious musings." i suspect master dyer to have been the writer of that article, as the substance of it was the very remarks & the very language he used to me one day. i fear you will not accord entirely with my sentiments of cowper, as _exprest_ above, (perhaps scarcely just), but the poor gentleman has just recovered from his lunacies, & that begets pity, & pity love, and love admiration, & 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 (berger), in the d no., of scarce inferior merit; & (vastly below these) there are some happy specimens of english hexameters, in an imitation of ossian, in the th no. 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 "half anger, half agony" if i pronounce your darling lines not to be the best you ever wrote--you have written much. for the alterations in those lines, let 'em run thus: i may not come a pilgrim, to the banks of _avon, lucid stream_, to taste the wave (inspiring wave) was too which shakspere drank, our british helicon; common place. or with mine eye, &c., &c. _to muse, in tears_, on that mysterious youth, &c. (better than "drop a tear") then the last paragraph alter thus better refer to my own complaint begone, begone unkind reproof, "complaint" solely than take up, my song, take up a merrier strain, half to that and half to for yet again, & lo! from avon's vales, chatterton, as in your another mistrel cometh! youth _endeared_, copy, which creates a god & good angels &c., as before confusion--"ominous fears" &c. have a care, good master poet, of the statute de contumelia. what do you mean by calling madame mara harlot & 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, 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, & all that survives, of mr. chambers--& a very little supply would be of service to her, for she married very unfortunately, & has parted with her husband. pray find out this mr. pember (for that was the gentleman's friend's name), he is an attorney, & lives at bristol. find him out, & acquaint him with the circumstances of the case, & offer to be the medium of supply to mrs. reynolds, if he chuses to make her a present. she is in very distrest circumstances. mr. pember, attorney, bristol--mr. chambers lived in the temple. mrs. reynolds, his daughter, was my schoolmistress, & is in the room at this present writing. this last circumstance induced me to write so soon again--i have not further to add--our loves to sara. thursday. c. lamb. [the passage at the beginning, before "let us prose," together with the later passages in the same manner, refers to the poem in the preceding letter, which in slightly different form is printed in editions of lamb as "lines to sara and her samuel." to complete the sense of the letter one should compare the text of the poem in vol. iv. coleridge had just received a suggestion, through dr. beddoes of bristol, that he should replace grey, the late co-editor (with james perry) of the _morning chronicle_. it came to nothing; but coleridge had told lamb and had asked him to look out a house in town for him. dr. kenrick's "falstaff's wedding," , was a continuation of shakespeare's "henry iv." we do not know what were the last lines that lamb had sent to coleridge. the lines to cowper were printed in the _monthly magazine_ for december, . coleridge's _poems_ were reviewed in the monthly review, june, , with no mention of lamb. the _critical review_ for the same month said of lamb's effusions: "these are very beautiful." burger's "leonora," which was to have such an influence upon english literature (it was the foundation of much of sir walter scott's poetry), was translated from the german by william taylor of norwich in and printed in the _monthly magazine_ in march, . scott at once made a rival version. the other fine song, in the april _monthly magazine_, was "the lass of fair wone." the mention of the statute de contumeliâ seems to refer to the "lines composed in a concert-room," which were first printed in the _morning post_, september , , but must have been written earlier. madame mara ( - ) is not mentioned by name in the poem, but being one of the principal singers of the day lamb probably fastened the epithet upon her by way of pleasantry; or she may have been referred to in the version of the lines which lamb had seen. the passage about mr. chambers is not now explicable; but we know that mrs. reynolds was lamb's schoolmistress, probably when he was very small, and before he went to william bird's academy, and that in later life he allowed her a pension of £ a year until her death. between this and the next letter came, in all probability, a number of letters to coleridge which have been lost. it is incredible that lamb kept silence, at this period, for eleven weeks.] letter charles lamb to s.t. coleridge [p.m. september , .] my dearest friend--white or some of my friends or the public papers by this time may have informed you of the terrible calamities that have fallen on our family. i will only give you the outlines. my poor dear dearest sister in a fit of insanity has been the death of her own mother. i was at hand only time enough to snatch the knife out of her grasp. she is at present in a mad house, from 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 bluecoat school has been very very kind to us, and we have no other friend, but thank god i am very calm and composed, and able to do the best that remains to do. write,--as religious a letter as possible--but no mention of what is gone and done with.--with me "the former things are passed away," and i have something more to do that [than] to feel-- god almighty have us all in his keeping.-- c. lamb. mention 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. 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-- [the following is the report of the inquest upon mrs. lamb which appeared in the _morning chronicle_ for september , . the tragedy had occurred on thursday, september :-- on friday afternoon the coroner and a respectable jury sat on the body of a lady in the neighbourhood of holborn, who died in consequence of a wound from her daughter the preceding day. it appeared by the evidence adduced, that while the family were preparing for dinner, the young lady seized a case knife laying on the table, and in a menacing manner pursued a little girl, her apprentice, round the room; on the eager calls of her helpless infirm mother to forbear, she renounced her first object, and with loud shrieks approached her parent. the child by her cries quickly 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 venerable 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 increased on the wednesday evening, that her brother early the next morning went in quest of dr. pitcairn--had that gentleman been met with, the fatal catastrophe had, in all probability, been prevented. it seems the young lady had been once before, in her earlier years, deranged, from the harassing fatigues of too much business.--as her carriage towards her mother was ever affectionate in the extreme, it is believed that to the increased attentiveness, which her parents' infirmities called for by day and night, is to be attributed the present insanity of this ill-fated young woman. it has been stated in some of the morning papers, that she has an insane brother also in confinement--this is without foundation. the jury of course brought in their verdict, _lunacy_. in the _whitehall evening post_ the first part of the account is the same, but the end is as follows:-- the above unfortunate young person is a miss lamb, a mantua-maker, in little queen-street, lincoln's-inn-fields. she has been, since, removed to islington mad-house. mr. norris of the blue-coat school has been confounded with randal norris of the inner temple, another friend of the lambs, but is not, i think, the same. the reference to the poetry and coleridge's publication of it shows that lamb had already been invited to contribute to the second edition of coleridge's _poems_. the words "and never" in the original have a line through them which might mean erasure, but, i think, does not. "your own judgment..." mrs. coleridge had just become a mother: david hartley coleridge was born on september . this was coleridge's reply to lamb's letter, as given in gillman's _life of coleridge_:-- "[september , .] "your letter, my friend, struck me with a mighty horror. it rushed upon me and stupified my feelings. you bid me write you a religious letter; i am not a man who would attempt to insult the greatness of your anguish by any other consolation. heaven knows that in the easiest fortunes there is much dissatisfaction and weariness of spirit; much that calls for the exercise of patience and resignation; but in storms, like these, that shake the dwelling and make the heart tremble, there is no middle way between despair and the yielding up of the whole spirit unto the guidance of faith. and surely it is a matter of joy, that your faith in jesus has been preserved; the comforter that should relieve you is not far from you. but as you are a christian, in the name of that saviour, who was filled with bitterness and made drunken with wormwood, i conjure you to have recourse in frequent prayer to 'his god and your god,' the god of mercies, and father of all comfort. your poor father is, i hope, almost senseless of the calamity; the unconscious instrument of divine providence knows it not, and your mother is in heaven. it is sweet to be roused from a frightful dream by the song of birds, and the gladsome rays of the morning. ah, how infinitely more sweet to be awakened from the blackness and amazement of a sudden horror, by the glories of god manifest, and the hallelujahs of angels. "as to what regards yourself, i approve altogether of your abandoning what you justly call vanities. i look upon you as a man, called by sorrow and anguish and a strange desolation of hopes into quietness, and a soul set apart and made peculiar to god; we cannot arrive at any portion of heavenly bliss without in some measure imitating christ. and they arrive at the largest inheritance who imitate the most difficult parts of his character, and bowed down and crushed under foot, cry in fulness of faith, 'father, thy will be done.' "i wish above measure to have you for a little while here--no visitants shall blow on the nakedness of your feelings--you shall be quiet, and your spirit may be healed. i see no possible objection, unless your father's helplessness prevent you, and unless you are necessary to him. if this be not the case, i charge you write me that you will come. "i charge you, my dearest friend, not to dare to encourage gloom or despair--you are a temporary sharer in human miseries, that you may be an eternal partaker of the divine nature. i charge you, if by any means it be possible, come to me. "i remain, your affectionate, "s.t. coleridge."] letter charles lamb to s.t. coleridge [p.m. october , .] 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 instrument of the almighty's judgments to 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 temper'd with religious resignation, and the reasonings of a sound judgment, which in this early stage knows how to distinguish between a deed committed in a transient fit of frenzy, and the terrible guilt of a mother's murther. i have seen her. i found her this morning calm and serene, far very very far from an indecent forgetful serenity; she has a most affectionate and tender concern for what has happend. indeed from the beginning, frightful and hopeless as her disorder seemed, i had confidence enough in her strength of mind, and religious principle, to look forward to a time when _even she_ might recover tranquillity. god be praised, coleridge, wonderful 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 tranquillity 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 like one dying,--my father, with his poor forehead plastered over from a wound he had received from a daughter dearly loved by him, and who loved him no less dearly,--my mother a dead and murder'd 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 endeavord after a comprehension of mind, unsatisfied with the "ignorant present time," and this 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 any time to take care of old age and infirmities, had now, 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 after the fatal one, we drest for dinner a tongue, which we 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 occurrd 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, tho', too far. on the very d day (i date from the day of horrors) as is usual in such cases there were a matter of people i do think supping in our room. they prevailed on me to eat _with them_, (for to eat i never refused). they were all making merry! in the room,--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 thro' life wished nothing but her children's welfare-- indignation, the rage of grief, something like remorse, 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 first or 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 humouring my poor father. talk'd with him, read to him, play'd at cribbage with him (for so short is the old man's recollection, that he was playing at cards, as tho' 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 he was forced to go. mr. norris of christ hospital has been as a father to me, mrs. norris as a mother; tho' we had few claims on them. a gentleman, brother to my godmother, from whom we never had right or reason to 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 recover'd and as well as ever, and highly pleased at thoughts of going,--and has generously given up the interest of her little money (which was formerly paid my father for her board) wholely and solely to my sister's use. reckoning this we have, daddy and i, for our two selves and an old maid servant to look after him, when i am out, which will be necessary, £ or £ (rather) a year, out of which we can spare or 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 mad house, 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 bedlam 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 £ , which my father will have at xmas, and this i mentioned 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 £ or £ 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 unfavourable 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 himself into their way,--and i know his language is already, "charles, you must take care of yourself, you must not abridge yourself of a single pleasure you have been used to," &c &c and in that style of talking. but you, a necessarian, 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 unconnect myself with him, and shall manage all my father's monies 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 mad house assures me that i may dismiss immediately both doctor and apothecary, retaining occasionally an opening draught or so for a while, and there is a less expensive establishment in her house, where she will only not have a room and nurse to herself for £ or guineas a year--the outside would be --you know by oeconomy 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 extraordinary 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 throughly; 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 humanly 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 dispensations to mankind. lamb. coleridge, continue to write; but do not for ever offend 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. these mentioned good fortunes and change of prospects 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 _i_ shall thro' life never have less recollection nor a fainter impression of what has happened than i have now; 'tis not a light thing, nor meant by the almighty to be received lightly. i must be serious, circumspect, and deeply religious thro' life; by such means may _both_ 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. [a word perhaps on lamb's salary might be fitting here. for the first three years, from joining the east india house on april , , he received nothing. this probationary period over, he was given £ for the year - . this, however, was raised to £ in and there were means of adding to it a little, by extra work and by a small holiday grant. in it was £ , in £ , and from that time until it rose by £ every second year. samuel le grice was the younger brother of valentine le grice. both were at christ's hospital with lamb and coleridge and are mentioned in the _elia_ essay on the school. sam le grice afterwards had a commission in the th foot, and died in jamaica in , as we shall see.] letter charles lamb to s.t. coleridge [p.m. october , .] my dearest friend, i grieve from my very soul to observe you in your plans of life veering about from this hope to the other, and settling no where. is it an untoward 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 ignis 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 were likely to be, and would to god the dancing demon _may_ conduct you at last in peace and comfort to the "life and labors of a cottager." you see from the above awkward 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 indulged regret or querulousness,--mary continues serene and chearful,--i have not by me a little letter she wrote to me, for, tho' 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 awake, 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 understand me better, and will then say no more, as she used to do, 'polly, what are those poor crazy moyther'd brains of yours thinking of always?'"--poor mary, my mother indeed _never understood_ her right. she loved her, as she 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 coldness and repulse.--still she was a good mother, god forbid i should think of her but _most_ respectfully, _most_ affectionately. yet she would always love my brother above mary, who was not worthy of one tenth of that affection, which mary had a right to claim. but it is my sister's gratifying 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) thro' a long course of infirmities and sickness, she could shew her, she ever did. i will some day, as i promised, enlarge to you upon my sister's excellencies; '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 comforts with you. god love you; god love us all-- c. lamb. [this letter is the only one in which lamb speaks freely of his mother. he dwells on her memory in _blank verse_, , but in later years he mentioned her in his writings only twice, in the _elia_ essays "new year's eve" and "my first play," and then very indirectly: probably from the wish to spare his sister pain, although talfourd tells us that mary lamb spoke of her mother often. compare the poem on page . in a letter written by mary lamb to sarah stoddart on september , , there is further light on mrs. lamb's want of sympathetic understanding of certain characters. the references at the beginning are to coleridge's idea of joining perry on the _morning chronicle_; of teaching mrs. evans' children; of establishing a school at derby, on the suggestion of dr. crompton; and finally of moving from bristol to settle down in a cottage at nether stowey, and support himself by husbandry and literature.] letter charles lamb to s.t. coleridge oct. th, . [monday.] coleridge, i feel myself much your debtor for that spirit of confidence and friendship which dictated your last letter. may your soul find peace at last in your cottage life! i only wish you were but settled. do continue to write to me. i read your letters with my sister, and they give us both abundance of delight. especially they please us two, when you talk in a religious strain,--not but we are offended occasionally with a certain freedom of expression, a certain air of mysticism, more consonant to the conceits of pagan philosophy, than consistent with the humility of genuine piety. to instance now in your last letter--you say, "it is by the press [sic], that god hath given finite spirits both evil and good (i suppose you mean simply bad men and good men), a portion as it were of his omnipresence!" now, high as the human intellect comparatively will soar, and wide as its influence, malign or salutary, can extend, is there not, coleridge, a distance between the divine mind and it, which makes such language blasphemy? again, in your first fine consolatory epistle you say, "you are a temporary sharer in human misery, that you may be an eternal partaker of the divine nature." what more than this do those men say, who are for exalting the man christ jesus into the second person of an unknown trinity,--men, whom you or i scruple not to call idolaters? man, full of imperfections, at best, and subject to wants which momentarily remind him of dependence; man, a weak and ignorant being, "servile" from his birth "to all the skiey influences," with eyes sometimes open to discern the right path, but a head generally too dizzy to pursue it; man, in the pride of speculation, forgetting his nature, and hailing in himself the future god, must make the angels laugh. be not angry with me, coleridge; i wish not to cavil; i know i cannot _instruct_ you; i only wish to _remind_ you of that humility which best becometh the christian character. god, in the new testament (_our best guide_), is represented to us in the kind, condescending, amiable, familiar light of a _parent_: and in my poor mind 'tis best for us so to consider of him, as our heavenly father, and our _best friend_, without indulging too bold conceptions of his nature. let us learn to think humbly of ourselves, and rejoice in the appellation of "dear children," "brethren," and "co-heirs with christ of the promises," seeking to know no further. i am not insensible, indeed i am not, of the value of that first letter of yours, and i shall find reason to thank you for it again and again long after that blemish in it is forgotten. it will be a fine lesson of comfort to us, whenever we read it; and read it we often shall, mary and i. accept our loves and best kind wishes for the welfare of yourself and wife, and little one. nor let me forget to wish you joy on your birthday so lately past; i thought you had been older. my kind thanks and remembrances to lloyd. god love us all, and may he continue to be the father and the friend of the whole human race! sunday evening. c. lamb. [it is interesting to notice that with these letters lamb suddenly assumes a gravity, independence and sense of authority that hitherto his correspondence has lacked. the responsibility of the household seems to have awakened his extraordinary common sense and fine understanding sense of justice. previously he had ventured to criticise only coleridge's literary exercises; he places his finger now on conduct too. coleridge's "last letter" has not been preserved; but the "first fine consolatory epistle" is printed above. this letter contains the first mention of charles lloyd ( - ), who was afterwards to be for a while so intimately associated with lamb. charles lloyd was the son of a quaker banker of birmingham. he had published a volume of poems the year before and had met coleridge when that magnetic visionary had visited birmingham to solicit subscribers for _the watchman_ early in . the proposition that lloyd should live with coleridge and become in a way his pupil was agreed to by his parents, and in september he accompanied the philosopher to nether stowey a day or so after david hartley's birth, all eager to begin domestication and tutelage. lloyd was a sensitive, delicate youth, with an acute power of analysis and considerable grasp of metaphysical ideas. no connection ever began more amiably. he was, i might add, by only two days lamb's junior.] letter charles lamb to s. t. coleridge oct. th, . my dear friend, i am not ignorant that to be a partaker of the divine nature is a phrase to be met with in scripture: i am only apprehensive, lest we in these latter days, tinctured (some of us perhaps pretty deeply) with mystical notions and the pride of metaphysics, might be apt to affix to such phrases a meaning, which the primitive users of them, the simple fishermen of galilee for instance, never intended to convey. with that other part of your apology i am not quite so well satisfied. you seem to me to have been straining your comparing faculties to bring together things infinitely distant and unlike; the feeble narrow-sphered operations of the human intellect and the everywhere diffused mind of deity, the peerless wisdom of jehovah. even the expression appears to me inaccurate--portion of omnipresence--omnipresence is an attribute whose very essence is unlimitedness. how can omnipresence be affirmed of anything in part? but enough of this spirit of disputatiousness. let us attend to the proper business of human life, and talk a little together respecting our domestic concerns. do you continue to make me acquainted with what you were doing, and how soon you are likely to be settled once for all. i have satisfaction in being able to bid you rejoice with me in my sister's continued reason and composedness of mind. let us both be thankful for it. i continue to visit her very frequently, and the people of the house are vastly indulgent to her; she is likely to be as comfortably situated in all respects as those who pay twice or thrice the sum. they love her, and she loves 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. have you seen bowles's new poem on "hope?" what character does it bear? has he exhausted his stores of tender plaintiveness? or is he the same in this last as in all his former pieces? the duties of the day call me off from this pleasant intercourse with my friend--so for the present adieu. now for the truant borrowing of a few minutes from business. have you met with a new poem called the "pursuits of literature?" from the extracts in the "british review" i judge it to be a very humorous thing; in particular i remember what i thought a very happy character of dr. darwin's poetry. among all your quaint readings did you ever light upon walton's "complete angler"? i asked you the question once before; it breathes the very spirit of innocence, purity, and simplicity of heart; there are many choice old verses interspersed in it; it would sweeten a man's temper at any time to read it; it would christianise every discordant angry passion; pray make yourself acquainted with it. have you made it up with southey yet? surely one of you two must have been a very silly fellow, and the other not much better, to fall out like boarding-school misses; kiss, shake hands, and make it up? when will he be delivered of his new epic? _madoc_ i think, is to be the name of it; though that is a name not familiar to my ears. what progress do you make in your hymns? what review are you connected with? if with any, why do you delay to notice white's book? you are justly offended at its profaneness; but surely you have undervalued its _wit_, or you would have been more loud in its praises. do not you think that in _slender's_ death and madness there is most exquisite humour, mingled with tenderness, that is irresistible, truly shakspearian? be more full in your mention of it. poor fellow, he has (very undeservedly) lost by it; nor do i see that it is likely ever to reimburse him the charge of printing, etc. give it a lift, if you can. i suppose you know that allen's wife is dead, and he, just situated as he was, never the better, as the worldly people say, for her death, her money with her children being taken off his hands. i am just now wondering whether you will ever come to town again, coleridge; 'tis among the things i dare not hope, but can't help wishing. for myself, i can live in the midst of town luxury and superfluity, and not long for them, and i can't see why your children might not hereafter do the same. remember, you are not in arcadia when you are in the west of england, and they may catch infection from the world without visiting the metropolis. but you seem to have set your heart upon this same cottage plan; and god prosper you in the experiment! i am at a loss for more to write about; so 'tis as well that i am arrived at the bottom of my paper. god love you, coleridge!--our best loves and tenderest wishes await on you, your sara, and your little one. c. l. [bowles's poem was "hope, an allegorical sketch on slowly recovering from sickness." see note on pages and . _the pursuits of literature_, was a literary satire in the form of dialogues in verse, garnished with very outspoken notes, by thomas james mathias ( ?- ), which appeared between and . southey had returned from portugal in the summer, when the quarrel between coleridge and himself revived; but about the time of hartley's birth some kind of a reconciliation was patched up. _madoc_, as it happened, was not published until , although in its first form it was completed in . writing to charles lloyd, sen., in december, , coleridge says that he gives his evenings to his engagements with the _critical review_ and _new monthly magazine_. this is the passage in falstaff's letters describing blender's death:-- davy to shallow master abram is dead, gone, your worship--dead! master abram! oh! good your worship, a's gone.--a' never throve, since a' came from windsor-- 'twas his death. i call'd him a rebel, your worship--but a' was all subject--a' was subject to any babe, as much as a king--a' turn'd, like as it were the latter end of a lover's lute--a' was all peace and resignment--a' took delight in nothing but his book of songs and sonnets--a' would go to the stroud side under the large beech tree, and sing, till 'twas quite pity of our lives to mark him; for his chin grew as long as a muscle--oh! a' sung his soul and body quite away--a' was lank as any greyhound, and had such a scent! i hid his love-songs among your worship's law-books; for i thought if a' could not get at them, it might be to his quiet; but a' snuff'd 'em out in a moment.--good your worship, have the wise woman of brentfort secured--master abram may have been conjured--peter simple says, a' never look'd up, after a' sent to the wise woman--marry, a' was always given to look down afore his elders; a' might do it, a' was given to it--your worship knows it; but then 'twas peak and pert with him--a' was a man again, marry, in the turn of his heel.--a' died, your worship, just about one, at the crow of the cock.--i thought how it was with him; for a' talk'd as quick, aye, marry, as glib as your worship; and a' smiled, and look'd at his own nose, and call'd "sweet ann page." i ask'd him if a' would eat--so a' bad us commend him to his cousin robert (a' never call'd your worship so before) and bade us get hot meat, for a' would not say nay to ann again.[*]--but a' never liv'd to touch it--a' began all in a moment to sing "lovers all, a madrigal." 'twas the only song master abram ever learnt out of book, and clean by heart, your worship--and so a' sung, and smiled, and look'd askew at his own nose, and sung, and sung on, till his breath waxed shorter, and shorter, and shorter, and a' fell into a struggle and died. i beseech your worship to think he was well tended--i look'd to him, your worship, late and soon, and crept at his heel all day long, an it had been any fallow dog--but i thought a' could never live, for a' did so sing, and then a' never drank with it--i knew 'twas a bad sign--yea, a' sung, your worship, marry, without drinking a drop. [footnote: vide "merry wives of windsor." latter part of the st scene, st act.]] letter charles lamb to s. t. coleridge nov. th, . my brother, my friend,--i am distrest for you, believe me i am; not so much for your painful, troublesome complaint, which, i trust, is only for a time, as for those anxieties which brought it on, and perhaps even now may be nursing its malignity. tell me, dearest of my friends, is your mind at peace, or has anything, yet unknown to me, happened to give you fresh disquiet, and steal from you all the pleasant dreams of future rest? are you still (i fear you are) far from being comfortably settled? would to god it were in my power to contribute towards the bringing of you into the haven where you would be! but you are too well skilled in the philosophy of consolation to need my humble tribute of advice; in pain and in sickness, and in all manner of disappointments, i trust you have that within you which shall speak peace to your mind. make it, i entreat you, one of your puny comforts, that i feel for you, and share all your griefs with you. i feel as if i were troubling you about _little_ things; now i am going to resume the subject of our last two letters, but it may divert us both from unpleasanter feelings to make such matters, in a manner, of importance. without further apology, then, it was not that i did not relish, that i did not in my heart thank you for, those little pictures of your feelings which you lately sent me, if i neglected to mention them. you may remember you had said much the same things before to me on the same subject in a former letter, and i considered those last verses as only the identical thoughts better clothed; either way (in prose or verse) such poetry must be welcome to me. i love them as i love the confessions of rousseau, and for the same reason: the same frankness, the same openness of heart, the same disclosure of all the most hidden and delicate affections of the mind: they make me proud to be thus esteemed worthy of the place of friend-confessor, brother-confessor, to a man like coleridge. this last is, i acknowledge, language too high for friendship; but it is also, i declare, too sincere for flattery. now, to put on stilts, and talk magnificently about trifles--i condescend, then, to your counsel, coleridge, and allow my first sonnet (sick to death am i to make mention of my sonnets, and i blush to be so taken up with them, indeed i do)--i allow it to run thus, "_fairy land_" &c. &c., as i [? you] last wrote it. the fragments i now send you i want printed to get rid of 'em; for, while they stick burr-like to my memory, they tempt me to go on with the idle trade of versifying, which i long--most sincerely i speak it--i long to leave off, for it is unprofitable to my soul; i feel it is; and these questions about words, and debates about alterations, take me off, i am conscious, from the properer business of _my_ life. take my sonnets once for all, and do not propose any re-amendments, or mention them again in any shape to me, i charge you. i blush that my mind can consider them as things of any worth. and pray admit or reject these fragments, as you like or dislike them, without ceremony. call 'em sketches, fragments, or what you will, but do not entitle any of my _things_ love sonnets, as i told you to call 'em; 'twill only make me look little in my own eyes; for it is a passion of which i retain _nothing_; 'twas a weakness, concerning which i may say, in the words of petrarch (whose life is now open before me), "if it drew me out of some vices, it also prevented the growth of many virtues, filling me with the love of the creature rather than the creator, which is the death of the soul." thank god, the folly has left me for ever; not even a review of my love verses renews one wayward wish in me; and if i am at all solicitous to trim 'em out in their best apparel, it is because they are to make their appearance in good company. now to my fragments. lest you have lost my grandame, she shall be one. 'tis among the few verses i ever wrote (that to mary is another) which profit me in the recollection. god love her,--and may we two never love each other less! these, coleridge, are the few sketches i have thought worth preserving; how will they relish thus detached? will you reject all or any of them? they are thine: do whatsoever thou listest with them. my eyes ache with writing long and late, and i wax wondrous sleepy; god bless you and yours, me and mine! good night. c. lamb. i will keep my eyes open reluctantly a minute longer to tell you, that i love you for those simple, tender, heart-flowing lines with which you conclude your last, and in my eyes best, sonnet (so you call 'em), "so, for the mother's sake, the child was dear, and dearer was the mother for the child." cultivate simplicity, coleridge, or rather, i should say, banish elaborateness; for simplicity springs spontaneous from the heart, and carries into daylight its own modest buds and genuine, sweet, and clear flowers of expression. i allow no hot-beds in the gardens of parnassus. i am unwilling to go to bed, and leave my sheet unfilled (a good piece of night-work for an idle body like me), so will finish with begging you to send me the earliest account of your complaint, its progress, or (as i hope to god you will be able to send me) the tale of your recovery, or at least amendment. my tenderest remembrances to your sara.-- once more good night. [coleridge, on november , had begun to suffer from his lifelong enemy, neuralgia, the result largely of worry concerning his future, so many of his projects having broken down. he was subduing it with laudanum--the beginning of that fatal habit. we do not know what were the verses which coleridge had sent lamb, possibly the three sonnets on the birth of hartley, the third of which is referred to below. lamb's decision in september to say or hear no more of his own poetry here breaks down. the reference to the fairy land sonnet is only partially explained by the parallel version which i printed on page ; for "fairy land" was coleridge's version. either lamb had made a new version, substituting "fairy land" for "faery," or he wrote, "i allow it to run thus: fairy land, &c., &c., as _you_ last wrote it." when reprinted, however, it ran as lamb originally wished. the other fragments were those afterwards included in coleridge's _poems_, second edition, . "love sonnets." lamb changed his mind again on this subject, and yet again. coleridge's last of the three sonnets on the birth of hartley was entitled "sonnet to a friend [charles lloyd] who asked how i felt when the nurse first presented my infant to me." it closed with the lines which lamb copies.] letter charles lamb to s. t. coleridge nov. th, . coleridge, i love you for dedicating your poetry to bowles. genius of the sacred fountain of tears, it was he who led you gently by the hand through all this valley of weeping, showed you the dark green yew trees and the willow shades where, by the fall of waters, you might indulge an uncomplaining melancholy, a delicious regret for the past, or weave fine visions of that awful future, "when all the vanities of life's brief day oblivion's hurrying hand hath swept away, and all its sorrows, at the awful blast of the archangel's trump, are but as shadows past." i have another sort of dedication in my head for my few things, which i want to know if you approve of, and can insert. i mean to inscribe them to my sister. it will be unexpected, and it will give her pleasure; or do you think it will look whimsical at all? as i have not spoke to her about it, i can easily reject the idea. but there is a monotony in the affections, which people living together or, as we do now, very frequently seeing each other, are apt to give in to: a sort of indifference in the expression of kindness for each other, which demands that we should sometimes call to our aid the trickery of surprise. do you publish with lloyd or without him? in either case my little portion may come last, and after the fashion of orders to a country correspondent i will give directions how i should like to have 'em done. the title-page to stand thus:-- poems, chiefly love sonnets by charles lamb, of the india house. under this title the following motto, which, for want of room, i put over leaf, and desire you to insert, whether you like it or no. may not a gentleman choose what arms, mottoes, or armorial bearings the herald will give him leave, without consulting his republican friend, who might advise none? may not a publican put up the sign of the saracen's head, even though his undiscerning neighbour should prefer, as more genteel, the cat and gridiron? (motto.) "this beauty, in the blossom of my youth, when my first fire knew no adulterate incense, nor i no way to flatter but my fondness, in the best language my true tongue could tell me, and all the broken sighs my sick heart lend me, i sued and served. long did i love this lady." massinger. the dedication. * * * * * the few following poems, creatures of the fancy and the feeling in life's more vacant hours, produced, for the most part, by love in idleness, are, with all a brother's fondness, inscribed to mary ann lamb, the author's best friend and sister. * * * * * this is the pomp and paraphernalia of parting, with which i take my leave of a passion which has reigned so royally (so long) within me; thus, with its trappings of laureatship, i fling it off, pleased and satisfied with myself that the weakness troubles me no longer. i am wedded, coleridge, to the fortunes of my sister and my poor old father. oh! my friend, i think sometimes, could i recall the days that are past, which among them should i choose? not those "merrier days," not the "pleasant days of hope," not "those wanderings with a fair hair'd maid," which i have so often and so feelingly regretted, but the days, coleridge, of a _mother's_ fondness for her _school-boy_. what would i give to call her back to earth for _one_ day, on my knees to ask her pardon for all those little asperities of temper which, from time to time, have given her gentle spirit pain; and the day, my friend, i trust will come; there will be "time enough" for kind offices of love, if "heaven's eternal year" be ours. hereafter, her meek spirit shall not reproach me. oh, my friend, cultivate the filial feelings! and let no man think himself released from the kind "charities" of relationship: these shall give him peace at the last; these are the best foundation for every species of benevolence. i rejoice to hear, by certain channels, that you, my friend, are reconciled with all your relations. 'tis the most kindly and natural species of love, and we have all the associated train of early feelings to secure its strength and perpetuity. send me an account of your health; _indeed_ i am solicitous about you. god love you and yours. c. lamb. [it seems to have been coleridge's intention to dedicate the second edition of his _poems_ to bowles; but he changed his mind and dedicated it to his brother, the rev. george coleridge. a sonnet to bowles was included in the volume, a kind of sub-dedication of the other sonnets, but it had appeared also in the volume. lamb's instructions concerning his share in the volume were carried out, except that the sub-title was omitted. the quotations "merrier days" ("happier days") and "wanderings with a fair-hair'd maid" are from lamb's own sonnets; those in lines and from dryden's elegy on mrs. killigrew. coleridge had paid in the summer a long-deferred visit of reconciliation to his family at ottery st. mary.] letter charles lamb to s. t. coleridge [p.m. december , (friday).] i have delay'd writing thus long, not having by me my copy of your poems, which i had lent. i am not satisfied with all your intended omissions. why omit : : : above all, let me protest strongly against your rejecting the "complaint of ninathoma," . 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 epitaph 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 [to] do: sell the copywright of it at once to a country statuary; commence in this manner death's prime poet laureat; 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," etc.--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 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 wond'ring and perturb'd delight"--and a line from _that_ sonnet would not readily have occurred to a stranger. that sonnet, coleridge, brings afresh to my mind the time when you wrote those on bowles, priestly, burke--'twas christmases ago, and in that nice little smoky room at the salutation, which is even now continually presenting itself to my recollection, with all its associated train of pipes, tobacco, egghot, welch 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 absence. but these complaints ill become me: let me compare my present situation, prospects, and state of mind, with what they were but months back--_but_ months. o my friend, i am in danger of forgetting the awful lessons 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 sollicitude 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, i fear, tongues will be busy _whenever_ that event takes place. some have hinted, one man has prest it on me, that she should be in perpetual confinement--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 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 with my father, who will not let me enjoy a meal in peace--but i must conform to my situation, and i hope i am, for the most part, not unthankful. 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 argument was unanswerable, and i set to afresh. i told you, i do not approve of your omissions. neither do i quite coincide 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 coincide entirely with: i love a splendid outset, a magnificent portico; and the diapason is grand--the religious musings-- when i read them, i think how poor, how unelevated, 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. why omit ? at all events, let me plead for those former pages,-- . . . . i should like, for old acquaintance sake, to spare . would have made a figure among _shenstone_'s elegies: _you_ may admit it or reject, as you please. in the man of ross let the old line stand as it used: "wine-cheer'd moments" much better than the lame present one. , change the harsh word "foodful" into "dulcet" or, if not too harsh, "nourishing." , "moveless": is that as good as "moping"?-- , would it not read better omitting those lines last but about inspiration? 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 think 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 to be preferred to "inactive." if i am writing more than ordinarily dully, 'tis that i am stupified with a tooth-ache. , would not the concluding lines of the st paragraph be well omitted--& it go on "so to sad sympathies" &c.? in , if you retain it, "wove" the learned toil is better than "urge," which spoils the personification. hang it, do not omit . . . what you do retain tho', call sonnets for god's sake, and not effusions,--spite of your ingenious anticipation of ridicule in your preface. the last lines of are too good to be lost, the rest is not much worth. my tooth becomes importunate--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 giving a few minutes now and then to this intercourse (the only intercourse, i fear we two shall ever have), this conversation, with your friend--such i boast to be called. god love you and yours. write to me when you move, lest i direct wrong. has sara no poems to publish? those lines are probably too light for the volume where the religious musings are--but i remember some very beautiful lines addrest by somebody at bristol to somebody at london. god bless you once more. c. lamb. thursday night. [this letter refers to the preparation of coleridge's second edition of his _poems_. "why omit , , ?"--these were "absence," "to the autumnal moon" and the imitation from ossian. the "epitaph on an infant" ran thus:-- ere sin could blight, or sorrow fade, death came with friendly care; the opening bud to heaven conveyed and bade it blossom there. lamb applied the first two lines to a sucking pig in his _elia_ essay on "roast pig" many years later. the old epitaph runs:-- afflictions sore long time i bore, physicians were in vain; till heaven did please my woes to ease, and take away my pain. coleridge's very beautiful poem in the _monthly magazine_ (for october) was "reflections on entering into active life," beginning, "low was our pretty cot." lamb's lines, "laugh all that weep," i cannot find. we learn later that they were in blank verse. _falstaff's letters_ was reviewed in the _monthly review_ for november, , very favourably. the article was quite possibly by coleridge. the sonnet on mrs. siddons was written by lamb and coleridge together when coleridge was in london at the end of , and it formed one of a series of sonnets on eminent persons printed in the _morning chronicle_, of which those on bowles, priestley and burke were others. the quotation from it was in an article in the november _critical review_ on the "musae etonenses." "one man has prest it on me." there is reason to suppose that this was john lamb, the brother. as it happened coleridge did not begin his second edition with the "joan of arc" lines, but with the "ode to the new year." the "religious musings" brought coleridge's part of the volume to a close. the poem on page was "in the manner of spenser." the poems on pages , , , we know; that on page was "the complaint of ninathoma." "to genevieve" was on page . that on page was "to a friend in answer to a melancholy letter." coleridge never restored the phrase "wine-cheer'd moments" to "the man of ross." he did not change "foodful" to "dulcet" in "to an infant." he did not alter "moveless" to "moping" in "the young ass." he left the inspiration passage as it was in the "monody on chatterton." not that he disregarded all lamb's advice, as a comparison of the and editions of the _poems_ will show. the poem "dear native brook" was the sonnet "to the river otter." coleridge took lamb's counsel. the poem containing the phrase "all effortless" was that "addressed to a young man of fortune" (charles lloyd). coleridge did not include it. the poem on page was "to a young lady with a poem on the french revolution." nos. , and were the sonnets to priestley, kosciusko and fayette. the last five lines of were in the sonnet to sheridan. the lines on page were sara's verses "the silver thimble." none of these were reprinted in . the beautiful lines addressed from somebody at bristol to somebody at london were those from sara coleridge to lamb, referred to on page . coleridge persisted in the use of the word "effusion".] letter charles lamb to s. t. coleridge [dated at end: dec. , .] _to a young lady going out to india_ hard is the heart, that does not melt with ruth when care sits cloudy on the brow of youth, when bitter griefs the _female_ bosom swell and beauty meditates a fond farewell to her loved native land, and early home, in search of peace thro' "stranger climes to roam."[*] the muse, with glance prophetic, sees her stand, forsaken, silent lady, on the strand of farthest india, sickening at the war of waves slow-beating, dull upon the shore stretching, at gloomy intervals, her eye o'er the wide waters vainly to espy the long-expected bark, in which to find some tidings of a world she has left behind. in that sad hour shall start the gushing tear for scenes her childhood loved, now doubly dear, in that sad hour shall frantic memory awake pangs of remorse for slighted england's sake, and for the sake of many a tender tye of love or friendship pass'd too lightly by. unwept, unpitied, midst an alien race, and the cold looks of many a stranger face, how will her poor heart bleed, and chide the day, that from her country took her far away. [footnote: bowles. ["the african," line .]] [_lamb has struck his pen through the foregoing poem._] coleridge, the above has some few decent [lines in] it, and in the paucity of my portion of your volume may as well be inserted; i would also wish to retain the following if only to perpetuate the memory of so exquisite a pleasure as i have often received at the performance of the tragedy of douglas, when mrs. siddons has been the lady randolph. both pieces may be inserted between the sonnets and the sketches--in which latter, the last leaf but one of them, i beg you to alter the words "pain and want" to "pain and grief," this last being a more familiar and ear-satisfying combination. do it i beg of you. to understand the following, if you are not acquainted with the play, you should know that on the death of douglas his mother threw herself down a rock; and that at that time scotland was busy in repelling the danes. the tomb of douglas _see the tragedy of that name_ when her son, her douglas died, to the steep rock's fearful side fast the frantic mother hied. o'er her blooming warrior dead many a tear did scotland shed, and shrieks of long and loud lament from her grampian hills she sent. like one awakening from a trance, she met the shock of lochlin's lance. denmark on her rude invader foe return'd an hundred fold the blow. drove the taunting spoiler home: mournful thence she took her way to do observance at the tomb, where the son of douglas [lay], round about the tomb did go in solemn state and order slow, silent pace, and black attire, earl, or knight, or good esquire, who e'er by deeds of valour done in battle had high honors won; whoe'er in their pure veins could trace the blood of douglas' noble race. with them the flower of minstrels came, and to their cunning harps did frame in doleful numbers piercing rhimes, such strains as in the olden times had soothed the spirit of fingal echoing thro' his fathers' hall. "scottish maidens, drop a tear o'er the beauteous hero's bier. brave youth and comely 'bove compare; all golden shone his burnish'd hair; valor and smiling courtesy played in the sunbeams of his eye. closed are those eyes that shone so fair and stain'd with blood his yellow hair. scottish maidens drop a tear o'er the beauteous hero's bier." "not a tear, i charge you, shed for the false glenalvon dead; unpitied let glenalvon lie, foul stain to arms and chivalry." "behind his back the traitor came, and douglas died without his fame." [_lamb has struck his pen through the lines against which i have put an asterisk_.] *"scottish maidens, drop a tear, *o'er the beauteous hero's bier." *"bending warrior, o'er thy grave, young light of scotland early spent! thy country thee shall long lament, *_douglas 'beautiful and brave'!_ and oft to after times shall tell, _in hopes sweet prime my hero fell_." [_lamb has struck his pen through the remainder_.] "thane or lordling, think no scorn of the poor and lowly-born. in brake obscure or lonely dell the simple flowret prospers well; the _gentler_ virtues cottage-bred, omitted thrive best beneath the humble shed. low-born hinds, opprest, obscure, ye who patiently endure to bend the knee and bow the head, and thankful eat _another's bread_ well may ye mourn your best friend dead, till life with grief together end: he would have been the poor man's friend." "bending, warrior, o'er thy grave, young light of scotland early spent! omitted thy country thee shall long lament, douglas, '_beautiful and brave_'! and oft to after times shall tell, omitted _in life's young prime my hero fell_." [sidenote: is "_morbid_ wantonness of woe" a good and allowable phrase?] at length i have done with verse making. not that i relish other people's poetry less,--theirs comes from 'em without effort, mine is the difficult operation of a brain scanty of ideas, made more difficult by disuse. i have 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 offended with the "divine chit-chat of cowper." write to me.--god love you and yours, c. l. [the name of the young lady going out to india is not known; the verses were printed in the _monthly magazine_ for march, , but not in coleridge's _poems_, . "the tomb of douglas" was included in that volume. the poem in which the alteration "pain and want" was to be made (but was not made, or was made and cancelled later) was "fancy employed on divine subjects." the "divine chit-chat of cowper" was coleridge's own phrase. it is a pretty circumstance that lamb and cowper now share (with keats) a memorial in edmonton church.] * * * * * letter charles lamb to s. t. coleridge [little queen street, night of dec. th,] . i am sorry i cannot now relish your poetical present as thoroughly as i feel it deserves; but i do not the less thank lloyd and you for it. in truth, coleridge, i am perplexed, & at times almost 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 "indolent 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 rejoyce 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 recollections on us, while she enjoys the patronage of her roof. she says she finds it inconsistent with her own "ease and tranquility" to keep her any longer, & in fine summons me to fetch her home. now, much as i should rejoyce to transplant the poor old creature from the chilling air of such patronage, yet i know how straitend we are already, how unable already to answer any demand which sickness or any extraordinary expence may make. i know this, and all unused as i am to struggle with perplexities i am somewhat nonplusd, to say no worse. this prevents me from a thorough relish of what lloyd's kindness and yours have furnished me with. i thank you tho from my heart, and feel myself not quite alone in the earth. before i offer, what alone i have to offer, a few obvious remarks on the poems you sent me, i can[not] but notice the odd coincidence of two young men, in one age, carolling their grandmothers. love--what l[loyd] calls "the feverish and romantic tye"--hath too long domineerd over all the charities of home: the dear domestic tyes of father, brother, husband. the amiable and benevolent cowper has a beautiful passage in his "task,"--some natural and painful reflections on his deceased parents: and hayley's sweet lines to his mother are notoriously the best things he ever wrote. cowper's lines, some of them, are-- "how gladly would the man recall to life the boy's neglected sire; a mother, too. that softer name, perhaps more gladly still, might he demand them at the gates of death." i cannot but smile to see my granny so gayly deck'd forth: tho', i think, whoever altered "thy" praises to "her" praises, "thy" honoured memory to "her" honoured memory, did wrong--they best exprest my feelings. there is a pensive state of recollection, in which the mind is disposed to apostrophise the departed objects of its attachment, and, breaking loose from grammatical precision, changes from the st to the rd, and from the rd to the st person, just as the random fancy or the feeling directs. among lloyd's sonnets, th, th, th, th, and th, are eminently beautiful. i think him too lavish of his expletives; the _do's_ and _did's_, when they occur too often, bring a quaintness with them along with their simplicity, or rather air of antiquity which the patrons of them seem desirous of conveying. the lines on friday are very pleasing--"yet calls itself in pride of infancy woman or man," &c., "affection's tottering troop"--are prominent beauties. another time, when my mind were more at ease, i could be more particular in my remarks, and i would postpone them now, only i want some diversion of mind. the _melancholy man_ is a charming piece of poetry, only the "whys" (with submission) are too many. yet the questions are too good to be any of 'em omitted. for those lines of yours, page , omitted in magazine, i think the first better retain'd--the last, which are somewhat simple in the most affronting sense of the word, better omitted: to this my taste directs me--i have no claim to prescribe to you. "their slothful loves and dainty sympathies" is an exquisite line, but you knew _that_ when you wrote 'em, and i trifle in pointing such out. tis altogether the sweetest thing to me you ever wrote--tis all honey. "no wish profaned my overwhelmed heart, blest hour, it was a luxury to be"--i recognise feelings, which i may taste again, if tranquility has not taken his flight for ever, and i will not believe but i shall be happy, very happy again. the next poem to your friend is very beautiful: need i instance the pretty fancy of "the rock's collected tears"--or that original line "pour'd all its healthful greenness on the soul"?--let it be, since you asked me, "as neighbouring fountains each reflect the whole"--tho' that is somewhat harsh; indeed the ending is not so finish'd as the rest, which if you omit in your forthcoming edition, you will do the volume wrong, and the very binding will cry out. neither shall you omit the following poems. "the hour when we shall meet again," is fine fancy, tis true, but fancy catering in the service of the feeling--fetching from her stores most splendid banquets to satisfy her. do not, do not omit it. your sonnet to the _river otter_ excludes those equally beautiful lines, which deserve not to be lost, "as the tired savage," &c., and i prefer that copy in your _watchman_. i plead for its preference. another time, i may notice more particularly lloyd's, southey's, dermody's sonnets. i shrink from them now: my teazing lot makes me too confused for a clear judgment of things, too selfish for sympathy; and these ill-digested, meaningless remarks i have imposed on myself as a task, to lull reflection, as well as to show you i did not neglect reading your valuable present. return my acknowledgments to lloyd; you two appear to be about realising an elysium upon earth, and, no doubt, i shall be happier. take my best wishes. remember me most affectionately to mrs. c., and give little david hartley--god bless its little heart!--a kiss for me. bring him up to know the meaning of his christian name, and what that name (imposed upon him) will demand of him. c. lamb. god love you! i write, for one thing, to say that i shall write no more till you send me word where you are, for you are so soon to move. my sister is pretty well, thank god. we think of you very often. god bless you: continue to be my correspondent, and i will strive to fancy that this world is _not_ "all barrenness." [the poetical present, as the late mr. dykes campbell pointed out in _the atheneum_, june , , consisted of lloyd's _poems on the death of priscilla farmer_, to which lamb had contributed "the grandame," and of a little privately-printed collection of poems by coleridge and lloyd, which they had intended to publish, but did not. the pamphlet has completely vanished. in addition to these two works the poetical present also comprised another privately-printed collection, a little pamphlet of twenty-eight sonnets which coleridge had arranged for the purpose of binding up with those of bowles. it included three of bowles', four of coleridge's, four of lamb's, four of southey's, and the remainder by dermody, lloyd, charlotte smith, and others. a copy of this pamphlet is preserved in the south kensington museum. "the poems you sent me." this would be lloyd's _poems on the death of priscilla farmer_. when lamb reprinted "the grandame" in coleridge's second edition, , he put back the original text. i now take up mr. dykes campbell's comments on the letter, where it branches off from the _priscilla farmer_ volume to the vanished pamphlet of poems by coleridge and lloyd:-- beginning with lloyd's "melancholy man" (first printed in the carlisle volume of ), he [lamb] passes to coleridge's poem on leaving the honeymoon-cottage at clevedon, "altogether the sweetest thing to me," says lamb, "you ever wrote." the verses had appeared in the _monthly magazine_ two months before.... that lamb's counsel was followed to some extent may be gathered from a comparison between the text of the magazine and that of :-- "once i saw (hallowing his sabbath-day by quietness) a wealthy son of commerce saunter by, bristowa's citizen: he paus'd, and look'd, with a pleas'd sadness, and gazed all around, then ey'd our cottage, and gaz'd round again, and said, _it was a blessed little place!_ and we _were_ blessed!" _monthly magazine._ "once i saw (hallowing his sabbath-day by quietness) a wealthy son of commerce saunter by, bristowa's citizen. methought it calm'd his thirst of idle gold, and made him muse with wiser feelings: for he paus'd, and look'd with a pleas'd sadness, and gaz'd all around, then ey'd our cottage, and gaz'd round again, and sigh'd and said, _it was a blessed place._ and we _were_ blessed." _poems_, . it will be observed that coleridge in inserted some lines which were not in the magazine. they were probably restored from a ms. copy lamb had previously seen, and if coleridge did not cancel all that lamb wisely counselled, he certainly drew the sting of the "affronting simplicity" by removing the word "little." the comical ambiguity of the bristol man's exclamation as first reported could hardly have failed to drive lamb's dull care away for a moment or two. [in] "the next poem to your friend," ... [lamb is] speaking of coleridge's lines "to charles lloyd"--those beginning "a mount, not wearisome and bare and steep." in the "forthcoming edition" the poet improved a little the barely tolerated line, making it read,-- "as neighb'ring fountains image, each the whole," but did not take lamb's hint to omit the five which closed the poem. lamb, however, got his way--perhaps took it--when the verses were reprinted in , in the volume he saw through the press for coleridge. "neither shall you omit the following poems. 'the hour when we shall meet again' is [only?] a fine fancy, 'tis true, but fancy catering in the service of the feeling--fetching from her stores most splendid banquets to satisfy her. do not, do not, omit it." so wrote lamb of these somewhat slender verses, but his friend had composed them "during illness and in absence," and lamb in his own heart-sickness and loneliness detected the reality which underlay the conventionality of expression. the critic slept, and even when he was awake again in was fain to let the lines be reprinted with only the concession of their worst couplet:-- "while finely-flushing float her kisses meek, like melted rubies, o'er my pallid cheek." the second of the " following poems" was coleridge's "sonnet to the river otter." the version then before him "excludes," complains lamb, "those equally beautiful lines which deserve not to be lost, 'as the tir'd savage,' &c., and i prefer the copy in your _watchman_. i plead for its preference." this pleading ... was not responded to in the way lamb wanted, but in the appendix to the volume coleridge printed the whole of the poem on an "autumnal evening," to which the "tir'd savage" properly belonged.... "lloyd's, southey's, dermody's sonnets." lamb here refers to the third portion of the poetical present--the twenty-eight sonnets to be bound up with those of bowles. thomas dermody ( - ) was an irish poet of squalidly dissolute life. a collection of his verses appeared in .] letter charles lamb to s. t. coleridge dec. th, . i had put my letter into the post rather hastily, not expecting to have to acknowledge another from you so soon. this morning's present has made me alive again: my last night's epistle was childishly querulous; but you have put a little life into me, and i will thank you for your remembrance of me, while my sense of it is yet warm; for if i linger a day or two i may use the same phrase of acknowledgment, or similar; but the feeling that dictates it now will be gone. i shall send you a _caput mortuum_, not a _cor vivens_. thy watchman's, thy bellman's, verses, i do retort upon thee, thou libellous varlet,--why, you cried the hours yourself, and who made you so proud? but i submit, to show my humility, most implicitly to your dogmas. i reject entirely the copy of verses you reject. with regard to my leaving off versifying, you have said so many pretty things, so many fine compliments, ingeniously decked out in the garb of sincerity, and undoubtedly springing from a present feeling somewhat like sincerity, that you might melt the most un-muse-ical soul,--did you not (now for a rowland compliment for your profusion of olivers)--did you not in your very epistle, by the many pretty fancies and profusion of heart displayed in it, dissuade and discourage me from attempting anything after you. at present i have not leisure to make verses, nor anything approaching to a fondness for the exercise. in the ignorant present time, who can answer for the future man? "at lovers' perjuries jove laughs"--and poets have sometimes a disingenuous way of forswearing their occupation. this though is not my case. the tender cast of soul, sombred with melancholy and subsiding recollections, is favourable to the sonnet or the elegy; but from "the sainted growing woof, the teasing troubles keep aloof." the music of poesy may charm for a while the importunate teasing cares of life; but the teased and troubled man is not in a disposition to make that music. you sent me some very sweet lines relative to burns, but it was at a time when, in my highly agitated and perhaps 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-- "noting ere they past away the little lines of yesterday." 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 down,--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 the sober citizen, when his son went astray upon the mountains of parnassus, is said to have "cursed wit and poetry and pope." i quote wrong, 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 accumulating--they are sacred things with me. publish your _burns_ when and how you like, it will be new to me,--my memory of it is very confused, and tainted with unpleasant associations. burns was the god of my idolatry, as bowles of yours. i am jealous of your fraternising with bowles, when i think you relish him more than burns or my old favourite, cowper. but you conciliate matters when you talk of the "divine chit-chat" of the latter: by the expression i see you thoroughly relish him. i love mrs. coleridge for her excuses an hundredfold more dearly than if she heaped "line upon line," out-hannah-ing hannah more, and had rather hear you sing "did a very little baby" by your family fire-side, than listen to you when you were repeating one of bowles's sweetest sonnets in your sweet manner, while we two were indulging sympathy, a solitary luxury, by the fireside at the salutation. yet have i no higher ideas of heaven. your company was one "cordial in this melancholy vale"--the remembrance of it is a blessing partly, and partly a curse. when i can abstract myself from things present, i can enjoy it with a freshness of relish; but it more constantly operates to an unfavourable comparison with the uninteresting; converse i always and _only_ can partake in. not a soul loves bowles here; scarce one has heard of burns; few but laugh at me for reading my testament--they talk a language i understand not: i conceal sentiments that would be a puzzle to them. i can only converse with you by letter and with the dead in their books. my sister, indeed, is all i can wish in a companion; but our spirits are alike poorly, our reading and knowledge from the self-same sources, our communication with the scenes of the world alike narrow: never having kept separate company, or any "company" "_together_"--never having read separate books, and few books _together_--what knowledge have we to convey to each other? in our little range of duties and connexions, how few sentiments can take place, without friends, with few books, with a taste for religion rather than a strong religious habit! we need some support, some leading-strings to cheer and direct us. you talk very wisely, and be not sparing of _your advice_. continue to remember us, and to show us you do remember us: we will take as lively an interest in what concerns you and yours. all i can add to your happiness, will be sympathy. you can add to mine _more_; you can teach me wisdom. i am indeed an unreasonable correspondent; but i was unwilling to let my last night's letter go off without this qualifier: you will perceive by this my mind is easier, and you will rejoice. i do not expect or wish you to write, till you are moved; and of course shall not, till you announce to me that event, think of writing myself. love to mrs. coleridge and david hartley, and my kind remembrance to lloyd, if he is with you. c. lamb. i will get "nature and art,"--have not seen it yet--nor any of jeremy taylor's works. [the reference to the bellman's verses (the bellman, or watchman, used to leave verses at the houses on his beat at easter as a reminder of his deserts) is not quite clear. lamb evidently had submitted for the new volume some lines which coleridge would not pass--possibly the poem in letter no. . coleridge some time before had sent to lamb the very sweet lines relative to burns, under the title, "to a friend who had declared his intention of writing no more poetry." "did a very little baby." in the appendix to vol. i. of the edition of the _biog. lit._, sara coleridge writes, concerning children and domestic evenings, "'did a very little babby make a very great noise?' is the first line of a nursery song, in which mr. coleridge recorded some of his experience on this recondite subject." the song has disappeared. _nature and art_ was mrs. inchbald's story, published in . lamb later became an enthusiast for jeremy taylor.] letter charles lamb to s. t. coleridge [dated outside: jan. , .] your success in the higher species of the ode is such, as bespeaks you born for atchievements of loftier enterprize than to linger in the lowly train of songsters and sonneteurs. sincerely i think your ode one of the finest i have read. the opening is in the spirit of the sublimest allegory. the idea of the "skirts of the departing year, seen far onwards, waving on the wind" is one of those noble hints at which the reader's imagination is apt to kindle into grand conceptions. do the words "impetuous" and "solemnize" harmonize well in the same line? think and judge. in the d strophe, there seems to be too much play of fancy to be consistent with that continued elevation we are taught to expect from the strain of the foregoing. the parenthized line (by the way i abominate parentheses in this kind of poetry) at the beginning of th page, and indeed all that gradual description of the throes and pangs of nature in childbirth, i do not much like, and those first lines,--i mean "tomb gloom anguish and languish"--rise not above mediocrity. in the epode, your mighty genius comes again: "i marked ambition" &c. thro' the whole epod indeed you carry along our souls in a full spring tide of feeling and imaginat'n. here is the "storm of music," as cowper expresses it. would it not be more abrupt "why does the northern conqueress stay" or "where does the northern conqueress stay"?--this change of measure, rather than the feebler "ah! whither", "foul her life and dark her tomb, mighty army of the dead, dance like deathflies" &c.: here is genius, here is poetry, rapid, irresistible. the concluding line, is it not a personif: without use? "nec deus intersit"--except indeed for rhyme sake. would the laws of strophe and antistrophe, which, if they are as unchangeable, i suppose are about as wise, [as] the mede and persian laws, admit of expunging that line altogether, and changing the preceding one to "and he, poor madman, deemd it quenchd in endless night?"--_fond_ madman or _proud_ madman if you will, but poor is more contemptuous. if i offer alterations of my own to your poetry, and admit not yours in mine, it is upon the principle of a present to a rich man being graciously accepted, and the same present to a poor man being considered as in insult. to return--the antistrophe that follows is not inferior in grandeur or original: but is i think not faultless--e: g: how is memory _alone_, when all the etherial multitude are there? reflect. again "storiedst thy sad hours" is harsh, i need not tell you, but you have gained your point in expressing much meaning in few words: "purple locks and snow white glories" "mild arcadians ever blooming" "seas of milk and ships of amber" these are things the muse talks about when, to borrow h. walpole's witty phrase, she is not finely-phrenzied, only a little light-headed, that's all. "purple locks." they may manage things differently in fairy land, but your "golden tresses" are more to my fancy. the spirit of the earth is a most happy conceit, and the last line is one of the luckiest i ever heard--"_and stood up beautiful_ before the cloudy seat." i cannot enough admire it. 'tis somehow picturesque in the very sound. the d antistrophe (what is the meaning of these things?) is fine and faultless (or to vary the alliteration and not diminish the affectation) beautiful and blameless. i only except to the last line as meaningless after the preceding, and useless entirely--besides, why disjoin "nature and the world" here, when you had confounded both in their pregnancy: "the common earth and nature," recollect, a little before--and there is a dismal superfluity in the unmeaning vocable "unhurld"--the worse, as it is so evidently a rhyme-fetch.--"death like he dozes" is a prosaic conceit--indeed all the epode as far as "brother's corse" i most heartily commend to annihilation. the enthusiast of the lyre should not be so feebly, so tediously, delineative of his own feelings; 'tis not the way to become "master of our affections." the address to albion is very agreeable, and concludes even beautifully: "speaks safety to his island child"--"sworded"--epithet _i_ would change for "cruel." the immediately succeeding lines are prosaic: "mad avarice" is an unhappy combination; and "the coward distance yet with kindling pride" is not only reprehensible for the antithetical turn, but as it is a quotation: "safe distance" and "coward distance" you have more than once had recourse to before--and the lyric muse, in her enthusiasm, should talk the language of her country, something removed from common use, something "recent," unborrowed. the dreams of destruction "soothing her fierce solitude," are vastly grand and terrific: still you weaken the effect by that superfluous and easily-conceived parenthesis that finishes the page. the foregoing image, few minds _could_ have conceived, few tongues could have so cloath'd; "muttring destempered triumph" &c. is vastly fine. i hate imperfect beginnings and endings. now your concluding stanza is worthy of so fine an ode. the beginning was awakening and striking; the ending is soothing and solemn--are you serious when you ask whether you shall admit this ode? it would be strange infatuation to leave out your chatterton; mere insanity to reject this. unless you are fearful that the splendid thing may be a means of "eclipsing many a softer satellite" that twinkles thro' the volume. neither omit the annex'd little poem. for my part, detesting alliterations, i should make the st line "away, with this fantastic pride of woe." well may you relish bowles's allegory. i need only tell you, i have read, and will only add, that i dislike ambition's name _gilded_ on his helmet-cap, and that i think, among the more striking personages you notice, you omitted the _most_ striking, remorse! "he saw the trees--the sun--then hied him to his cave again"!!! the d stanza of mania is superfl: the st was never exceeded. the d is too methodic: for _her_. with all its load of beauties, i am more _affected_ with the first stanzas of the elegiac poem written during sickness. tell me your feelings. if the fraternal sentiment conveyed in the following lines will atone for the total want of anything like merit or genius in it, i desire you will print it next after my other sonnet to my sister. friend of my earliest years, & childish days, my joys, my sorrows, thou with me hast shared companion dear; & we alike have fared poor pilgrims we, thro' life's unequal ways it were unwisely done, should we refuse to cheer our path, as featly as we may, our lonely path to cheer, as travellers use with merry song, quaint tale, or roundelay. and we will sometimes talk past troubles o'er, of mercies shewn, & all our sickness heal'd, and in his judgments god remembring love; and we will learn to praise god evermore for those "glad tidings of great joy" reveal'd by that sooth messenger, sent from above. . if you think the epithet "sooth" quaint, substitute "blest messenger." i hope you are printing my sonnets, as i directed you--particularly the d. "methinks" &c. with my last added lines at ye end: and all of 'em as i last made 'em. this has been a sad long letter of business, with no room in it for what honest bunyan terms heart-work. i have just room left to congratulate you on your removal to stowey; to wish success to all your projects; to "bid fair peace" be to that house; to send my love and best wishes, breathed warmly, after your dear sara, and her little david hartley. if lloyd be with you, bid him write to me: i feel to whom i am obliged primarily for two very friendly letters i have received already from him. a dainty sweet book that "art and nature" is. i am at present re-re-reading priestley's examinat of the scotch drs: how the rogue strings 'em up! three together! you have no doubt read that clear, strong, humorous, most entertaining piece of reasoning. if not, procure it, and be exquisitely amused. i wish i could get more of priestley's works. can you recommend me to any more books, easy of access, such as circulating shops afford? god bless you and yours. poor mary is very unwell with a sore throat and a slight species of scarlet fever. god bless her too. monday morning, at office. [coleridge had just published in quarto his _ode on the departing year_. in order that lamb's letter may be intelligible it is necessary, i think, to give the text of this edition in full. it will be found in the appendix to this volume. lamb returns to his criticism in the next letter. the "annexed little poem" was that "addressed to a young man of fortune," which began, and still begins, "hence that fantastic wantonness of woe." bowies' allegory was the poem, "hope, an allegorical sketch," recently published. the poem was not included in the volume, but was printed in the _monthly magazine_, october, . coleridge had moved to his cottage at nether stowey on the last day of . priestley's book would be _an examination of dr. reid's inquiry into the human mind on the principles of common sense, dr. beattie's essay on the nature and immutability of truth, and dr. oswald's appeal to common sense in behalf of religion_, .] letter charles lamb to s. t. coleridge [p.m. jan. , .] saturday. i am completely reconciled to that second strophe, and wa[i]ve all objection. in spite of the grecian lyrists, i persist on [in] thinking your brief personification of madness useless; reverence forbids me to say, impertinent. golden locks and snow white glories are as incongruous as your former, and if the great italian painters, of whom my friend knows about as much as the man in the moon, if these great gentlemen be on your side, i see no harm in retaining the purple--the glories that i have observed to encircle the heads of saints and madonnas in those old paintings have been mostly of a dirty drab-color'd yellow--a dull gambogium. keep your old line: it will excite a confused kind of pleasurable idea in the reader's mind, not clear enough to be called a conception, nor just enough, i think, to reduce to painting. it is a rich line, you say, and riches hide a many faults. i maintain, that in the d antist: you _do_ disjoin nature and the world, and contrary to your conduct in the d strophe. "nature joins her groans"--joins with _whom_, a god's name, but the world or earth in line preceding? but this is being over curious, i acknowledge. nor _did_ i call the _last_ line useless, i only objected to "unhurld." i cannot be made to like the former part of that d epode; i cannot be made to feel it, as i do the parallel places in isaiah, jeremy and daniel. whether it is that in the present case the rhyme impairs the efficacy; or that the circumstances are feigned, and we are conscious of a made up lye in the case, and the narrative is too long winded to preserve the semblance of truth; or that lines . . . in partic: and are mean and unenthusiastic; or that lines to in their change of rhyme shew like art--i don't know, but it strikes me as something meant to affect, and failing in its purpose. remember my waywardness of feeling is single, and singly stands opposed to all your friends, and what is one among many! this i know, that your quotations from the prophets have never escaped me, and never fail'd to affect me strongly. i hate that simile. i am glad you have amended that parenthesis in the account of destruction. i like it well now. only utter [? omit] that history of child-bearing, and all will do well. let the obnoxious epode remain, to terrify such of your friends as are willing to be terrified. i think i would omit the notes, not as not good per se, but as uncongenial with the dignity of the ode. i need not repeat my wishes to have my little sonnets printed verbatim my last way. in particular, i fear lest you should prefer printing my first sonnet, as you have done more than once, "did the wand of merlin wave"? it looks so like _mr._ merlin, the ingenious successor of the immortal merlin, now living in good health and spirits, and nourishing in magical reputation in oxford street; and on my life, one half who read it would understand it so. do put 'em forth finally as i have, in various letters, settled it; for first a man's self is to be pleased, and then his friends,--and, of course the greater number of his friends, if they differ inter se. thus taste may safely be put to the vote. i do long to see our names together--not for vanity's sake, and naughty pride of heart altogether, for not a living soul, i know or am intimate with, will scarce read the book--so i shall gain nothing quoad famam,--and yet there is a little vanity mixes in it, i cannot help denying. i am aware of the unpoetical cast of the last lines of my last sonnet, and think myself unwarranted in smuggling so tame a thing into the book; only the sentiments of those lines are thoroughly congenial to me in my state of mind, and i wish to accumulate perpetuating tokens of my affection to poor mary; that it has no originality in its cast, nor anything in the feelings, but what is common and natural to thousands, nor aught properly called poetry, i see; still it will tend to keep present to my mind a view of things which i ought to indulge. these lines, too, have not, to a reader, a connectedness with the foregoing. omit it, if you like.--what a treasure it is to my poor indolent and unemployed mind, thus to lay hold on a subject to talk about, tho' 'tis but a sonnet and that of the lowest order. how mournfully inactive i am!--'tis night: good-night. my sister, i thank god, is nigh recovered. she was seriously ill. do, in your next letter, and that right soon, give me some satisfaction respecting your present situation at stowey. is it a farm you have got? and what does your worship know about farming? coleridge, i want you to write an epic poem. nothing short of it can satisfy the vast capacity of true poetic genius. having one great end to direct all your poetical faculties to, and on which to lay out your hopes, your ambition, will shew you to what you are equal. by the sacred energies of milton, by the dainty sweet and soothing phantasies of honeytongued spenser, i adjure you to attempt the epic. or do something more ample than writing an occasional brief ode or sonnet; something "to make yourself for ever known,--to make the age to come your own". but i prate; doubtless you meditate something. when you are exalted among the lords of epic fame, i shall recall with pleasure, and exultingly, the days of your humility, when you disdained not to put forth in the same volume with mine, your religious musings, and that other poem from the joan of arc, those promising first fruits of high renown to come. you have learning, you have fancy, you have enthusiasm--you have strength and amplitude of wing enow for flights like those i recommend. in the vast and unexplored regions of fairyland, there is ground enough unfound and uncultivated; search there, and realize your favourite susquehanah scheme. in all our comparisons of taste, i do not know whether i have ever heard your opinion of a poet, very dear to me, the now out of fashion cowley--favor me with your judgment of him, and tell me if his prose essays, in particular, as well as no inconsiderable part of his verse, be not delicious. i prefer the graceful rambling of his essays, even to the courtly elegance and ease of addison--abstracting from this the latter's exquisite humour. why is not your poem on burns in the monthly magazine? i was much disappointed. i have a pleasurable but confused remembrance of it. when the little volume is printed, send me or , at all events not more than copies, and tell me if i put you to any additional expence, by printing with you. i have no thought of the kind, and in that case, must reimburse you. my epistle is a model of unconnectedness, but i have no partic: subject to write on, and must proportion my scribble in some degree to the increase of postage. it is not quite fair, considering how burdensome your correspondence from different quarters must be, to add to it with so little shew of reason. i will make an end for this evening. sunday even:--farewell. priestly, whom i sin in almost adoring, speaks of "such a choice of company, as tends to keep up that right bent, and firmness of mind, which a necessary intercourse with the world would otherwise warp and relax. such fellowship is the true balsam of life, its cement is infinitely more durable than that of the friendships of the world, and it looks for its proper fruit, and complete gratification, to the life beyond the grave." is there a possible chance for such an one as me to realize in this world, such friendships? where am i to look for 'em? what testimonials shall i bring of my being worthy of such friendship? alas! the great and good go together in separate herds, and leave such as me to lag far far behind in all intellectual, and far more grievous to say, in all moral, accomplishments. coleridge, i have not one truly elevated character among my acquaintance: not one christian: not one but undervalues christianity. singly what am i to do? wesley (have you read his life? was _he_ not an elevated character?) wesley has said, "religion is not a solitary thing." alas! it necessarily is so with me, or next to solitary. 'tis true, you write to me. but correspondence by letter, and personal intimacy, are very widely different. do, do write to me, and do some good to my mind, already how much "warped and relaxed" by the world!--'tis the conclusion of another evening. good night. god have us all in his keeping. if you are sufficiently at leisure, oblige me with an account of your plan of life at stowey--your literary occupations and prospects--in short make me acquainted with every circumstance, which, as relating to you, can be interesting to me. are you yet a berkleyan? make me one. i rejoice in being, speculatively, a necessarian. would to god, i were habitually a practical one. confirm me in the faith of that great and glorious doctrine, and keep me steady in the contemplation of it. you sometime since exprest an intention you had of finishing some extensive work on the evidences of natural and revealed religion. have you let that intention go? or are you doing any thing towards it? make to yourself other ten talents. my letter is full of nothingness. i talk of nothing. but i must talk. i love to write to you. i take a pride in it. it makes me think less meanly of myself. it makes me think myself not totally disconnected from the better part of mankind. i know, i am too dissatisfied with the beings around me,--but i cannot help occasionally exclaiming "woe is me, that i am constrained to dwell with meshech, and to have my habitation among the tents of kedar"--i know i am no ways better in practice than my neighbours--but i have a taste for religion, an occasional earnest aspiration after perfection, which they have not. i gain nothing by being with such as myself--we encourage one another in mediocrity--i am always longing to be with men more excellent than myself. all this must sound odd to you; but these are my predominant feelings, when i sit down to write to you, and i should put force upon my mind, were i to reject them. yet i rejoyce, and feel my privilege with gratitude, when i have been reading some wise book, such as i have just been reading--priestley on philosophical necessity--in the thought that i enjoy a kind of communion, a kind of friendship even, with the great and good. books are to me instead of friends. i wish they did not resemble the latter in their scarceness.--and how does little david hartley? "ecquid in antiquam virtutem?"--does his mighty name work wonders yet upon his little frame, and opening mind? i did not distinctly understand you,--you don't mean to make an actual ploughman of him? mrs. c---- is no doubt well,--give my kindest respects to her. is lloyd with you yet?--are you intimate with southey? what poems is he about to publish--he hath a most prolific brain, and is indeed a most sweet poet. but how can you answer all the various mass of interrogation i have put to you in the course of this sheet. write back just what you like, only write something, however brief. i have now nigh finished my page, and got to the end of another evening (monday evening)--and my eyes are heavy and sleepy, and my brain unsuggestive. i have just heart enough awake to say good night once more, and god love you my dear friend, god love us all. mary bears an affectionate remembrance of you. charles lamb. [the criticisms contained in the first paragraph bear upon coleridge's "ode on the departing year," which had already appeared twice, in the _cambridge intelligencer_ and in a quarto issued by cottle, and was now being revised for the second edition of the _poems_. the personification of madness was contained in the line, afterwards omitted:-- for still does madness roam on guilt's black dizzy height. lamb's objection to this line, considering his home circumstances at the time, was very natural. in antistrophe i. coleridge originally said of the ethereal multitude in heaven-- whose purple locks with snow-white glories shone. in the _poems_ the line ran-- whose wreathed locks with snow-white glories shone; and in the final version-- whose locks with wreaths, whose wreaths with glories shone. coleridge must have supported his case, in the letter which lamb is answering, by a reference to the italian painters. coleridge in the edition of his poems made no alteration to meet lamb's strictures. the simile that lamb hated is, i imagine, that of the soldier on the war field. "the history of child-bearing" referred to is the passage at the end of strophe ii. to the quarto coleridge had appended various notes. in he had only three, and added an argument. the reference to merlin will be explained by a glance at the parallel sonnets above. merlin was entirely coleridge's idea. a conjuror of that name was just then among london's attractions. the "last sonnet," which was not the last in the volume, but the th, was that beginning "if from my lips" (see first letter). in connection with lamb's question on the stowey husbandry, the following quotation from a letter from coleridge to the rev. j. p. estlin, belonging to this period, is interesting;-- our house is better than we expected--there is a comfortable bedroom and sitting-room for c. lloyd, and another for us, a room for nanny, a kitchen, and out-house. before our door a clear brook runs of very soft water; and in the back yard is a nice _well_ of fine spring water. we have a very pretty garden, and large enough to find us vegetables and employment, and i am already an expert gardener, and both my hands can exhibit a callum as testimonials of their industry. we have likewise a sweet orchard. writing a little before this to charles lloyd, senior, coleridge had said: "my days i shall devote to the acquirement of practical husbandry and horticulture." the poem on burns was that "to a friend [lamb] who had declared his intention of writing no more poetry." it was printed first in a bristol paper and then in the _annual anthology_, . priestley's remark is in the dedication to john lee, esq., of lincoln's inn, of "a free discussion of the doctrines of materialism and philosophical necessity in a correspondence between dr. price and dr. priestley," etc., included in _disquisitions relating to matter and spirit_, vol. iii., . the discussion arose from the publication by priestley of _the doctrine of philosophical necessity illustrated_, which itself is an appendage to _disquisitions relating to matter and spirit_. three lives at least of john wesley were published in the two years following his death in . coleridge later studied wesley closely, for he added valuable notes to southey's life (see the edition). "a berkleyan," _i.e._, a follower of bishop berkeley ( - ), who in his _new theory of vision_ and later works maintained that "what we call matter has no actual existence, and that the impressions which we believe ourselves to receive from it are not, in fact, derived from anything external to ourselves, but are produced within us by a certain disposition of the mind, the immediate operation of god" (benham's _dictionary of religion_). coleridge when sending southey one version of his poem to charles lamb, entitled "this lime-tree bower my prison" (to which we shall come later), in july, , appended to the following passage the note, "you remember i am a _berkleian_":-- struck with joy's deepest calm, and gazing round on the wide view, may gaze till all doth seem less gross than bodily; a living thing that acts upon the mind, and with such hues as clothe the almighty spirit, when he makes spirits perceive his presence! "a necessarian." we should now say a fatalist. coleridge's work on the "evidences of natural and revealed religion," which has before been mentioned, was, if ever begun, never completed.] letter charles lamb to s. t. coleridge [dated at end: january , .] dear col,--you have learnd by this time, with surprise, no doubt, that lloyd is with me in town. the emotions i felt on his coming so unlooked for are not ill expressed in what follows, & what, if you do not object to them as too personal, & to the world obscure, or otherwise wanting in worth, i should wish to make a part of our little volume. i shall be sorry if that vol comes out, as it necessarily must do, unless you print those very schoolboyish verses i sent you on not getting leave to come down to bristol last summer. i say i shall be sorry that i have addrest you in nothing which can appear in our joint volume. so frequently, so habitually as you dwell on my thoughts, 'tis some wonder those thoughts came never yet in contact with a poetical mood--but you dwell in my heart of hearts, and i love you in all the naked honesty of prose. god bless you, and all your little domestic circle--my tenderest remembrances to your beloved sara, & 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 (forgetting to ask your leave, tho' indeed i gave them only your initials) to the month: mag: where they may possibly appear next month, and where i hope to recognise your 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 offring can the stranger bring of social scenes, home-bred delights, that him in aught compensate may for stowey's pleasant winter nights, for loves & friendships far away? in brief oblivion to forego friends, such as thine, so justly dear, and be awhile with me content to stay, a kindly loiterer, here-- for this a gleam of random joy, hath flush'd my unaccustom'd cheek, and, with an o'er-charg'd bursting heart, i feel the thanks, i cannot speak. o! sweet are all the muses' 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 cherishd be; i'll think less meanly of myself, that lloyd will sometimes think on me. . o col: would to god you were in london with us, or we two at stowey with you all. lloyd takes up his abode at the bull & mouth inn,--the cat & salutation would have had a charm more forcible for me. _o noctes caenaeque deûm!_ anglice--welch rabbits, punch, & poesy. should you be induced to publish those very schoolboyish verses, print 'em as they will occur, if at all, in the month: mag: yet i should feel ashamed that to you i wrote nothing better. but they are too personal, & almost trifling and obscure withal. some lines of mine to cowper were in last month: mag: they have not body of thought enough to plead for the retaining of 'em. my sister's kind love to you all. c. lamb. [the verses to lloyd were included in coleridge's volume; but the verses concerning the frustrated bristol holiday were omitted. concerning this visit to london charles lloyd wrote to his brother robert: "i left charles lamb very warmly interested in his favour, and have kept up a regular correspondence with him ever since; he is a most interesting young man." only two letters from lamb to charles lloyd have survived. "we two"--lamb and lloyd. not lamb and his sister.] letter charles lamb to s. t. coleridge [begun sunday, february , . dated on address by mistake: january , .] sunday morning.--you cannot surely mean to degrade 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 listen'd to the wind;" "they wonder'd at me, who had known me once a chearful careless damsel;" "the eye, that of the circling throng and of the visible world unseeing, saw the shapes of holy phantasy;" 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 touch'd not the pollutions of the dead"--but your "fierce vivacity" is a faint copy of the "fierce & terrible benevolence" of southey. added to this, that it will look like rivalship in you, & extort a comparison with s,--i think to your disadvantage. and the lines, consider'd 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, & walk'd and talk'd with him, calling him old acquaintance. southey certainly has no pretensions to vie with you in the sublime of poetry; but he tells a plain tale better than you. i will enumerate some woeful blemishes, some of 'em sad deviations from that simplicity which was your aim. "hail'd who might be near" (the canvas-coverture moving, by the by, is laughable); "a woman & six children" (by the way,--why not nine children, it would have been just half as pathetic again): "statues of sleep they seem'd." "frost-mangled wretch:" "green putridity:" "hail'd him immortal" (rather ludicrous again): "voiced a sad and simple tale" (abominable!): "unprovender'd:" "such his tale:" "ah! suffering to the height of what was suffer'd" (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 & natural feelings, in the familiar walks of poetry, you seem to resemble montauban dancing with roubigne's tenants, "much of his native loftiness remained in the execution." i was reading your religious musings the other day, & sincerely i think it the noblest poem in the language, next after the paradise lost; & 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, & with no partial gaze views all creation"--i wish i could have written those lines. i rejoyce 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 & 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 form'd 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, & 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 endeavour'd--i wish'd 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-vinegared. your dream, down to that exquisite line--"i can't tell half his adventures," is a most happy resemblance of chaucer. the remainder is so so. the best line, i think, is, "he belong'd, i believe, to the witch melancholy." by the way, when will our volume come out? don't delay it till you have written a new joan of arc. send what letters you please by me, & in any way you choose, single or double. the india co. is better adapted to answer the cost than the generality of my friend's correspondents,--such poor & honest dogs as john thelwall, particularly. i cannot say i know colson, at least intimately. i once supped with him & 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 restraint on me. i cannot think what subject would suit your epic genius; some philosophical subject, i conjecture, in which shall be blended the sublime of poetry & 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 & sara are very good to think so kindly & so favourably 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, & 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 complain. my poor old aunt, whom you have seen, the kindest, goodest creature to me when i was at school; who used to toddle there to bring me fag, when i, school-boy like, only despised her for it, & used to be ashamed to see her come & sit herself down on the old coal hole steps as you went into the old grammar school, & opend her apron & bring out her bason, with some nice thing 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 favourite: "no after friendship e'er can raise the endearments of our early days, nor e'er the heart such fondness prove, as when it first began to love." lloyd has kindly left me for a keep-sake, john woolman. you have read it, he says, & like it. will you excuse one short extract? i think it could not have escaped you:--"small treasure to a resigned mind is sufficient. how happy is it to be content with a little, to live in humility, & feel that in us which breathes out this language--abba! father!"--i 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 acceptable 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; will be enough--or indeed --but better. i have a dim recollection that, when in town, 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 imagery, hartley's motives to conduct:--sensation ( ), imagination ( ), ambition ( ), sympathy ( ), theopathy ( ). st banquets, music, etc., effeminacy,--and their insufficiency. d "beds of hyacinth & roses, where young adonis oft reposes;" "fortunate isles;" "the pagan elysium," etc., etc.; poetical pictures; antiquity as pleasing to the fancy;--their emptiness, madness, etc. d warriors, poets; some famous, yet more forgotten, their fame or oblivion now alike indifferent, pride, vanity, etc. th all manner of pitiable stories, in spenser-like verse--love--friendship, relationship, &c. th hermits--christ and his apostles--martyrs--heaven--&c., etc. an imagination like yours, from these scanty hints, may expand into a thousand great ideas--if indeed you at all comprehend my scheme, which i scarce do myself. _monday morn._--"a london letter. - / ." look you, master poet, i have remorse as well as another man, & my 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 writing till you invent some more reasonable mode of conveyance. 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 _yellow_-complexioned, _copper_-color'd, _white_-liver'd gentlemen, who never proved 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 encumber, & it will be a rich little poem. i hope you expunge great part of the old notes in the new edition. that, in particular, 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 poor author of the pleasures of memory was sorely 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 d 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 _i_ may like 'em--as your taste and mine do not always exactly _indentify_. yours, lamb. [coleridge intended to print in his new edition the lines that he had contributed to southey's _joan of arc_, , with certain additions, under the title "the progress of liberty; or, the visions of the maid of orleans." writing to cottle coleridge had said: "i much wish to send _my visions of the maid of arc_ and my corrections to wordsworth ... and to lamb, whose taste and _judgment_ i see reason to think more correct and philosophical than my own, which yet i place pretty high." lamb's criticisms are contained in this letter. coleridge abandoned his idea of including the poem in the edition, and the lines were not separately published until , in _sibylline leaves_, under the title "the destiny of nations." "montauban ... roubigné." an illustration from henry mackenzie's novel _julia de roubigné_, , from which lamb took hints, a little later, for the structure of part of his story _rosamund gray_. this is the passage in "religious musings" that lamb particularly praises:-- there is one mind, one omnipresent mind, omnific. his most holy name is love. truth of subliming import! with the which who feeds and saturates his constant soul, he from his small particular orbit flies with blest outstarting! from himself he flies, stands in the sun, and with no partial gaze views all creation; and he loves it all, and blesses it, and calls it very good! this is indeed to dwell with the most high! cherubs and rapture-trembling seraphim can press no nearer to the almighty's throne. southey's new volume, which coleridge had noticed, was his _poems_, second edition, vol. i., . the poem in question was "on my own miniature picture taken at two years of age." edward fairfax's "tasso" (_godfrey of bulloigne, or the recoverie of jerusalem_) was published in . john hoole, a later translator, became principal auditor at the india house, and resigned in . he died in . coleridge's dream was the poem called "the raven." citizen john thelwall ( - ), to whom many of coleridge's early letters are written, was a jacobin enthusiast who had gone to the tower with thomas hardy and home tooke in , but was acquitted at his trial. at this time he was writing and lecturing on political subjects. when, in , thelwall acquired _the champion_ lamb wrote squibs for it against the regent and others. colson was perhaps thomas coulson, a friend of sir humphry davy and the father of walter coulson (born? ) who was called "the walking encyclopaedia," and was afterwards a friend of hazlitt. "to discipline your young noviciate soul." a line from "religious musings," :-- i discipline my young noviciate thought. "my poor old aunt." lamb's lines on his aunt hetty repeat some of this praise; as also does the _elia_ essay on "christ's hospital." john woolman ( - ), an american quaker. his _works_ comprise _a journal of the life, gospel, labours, and christian experiences of that faithful minister of jesus christ, john woolman_, and _his last epistle and other writings_. lamb often praised the book. "a london letter, - / ." a word on the postal system of those days may not be out of place. the cost of the letter when a frank had not been procured was borne by the recipient. the rate varied with the distance. the charge from london to bridgewater in was sevenpence. later it was raised to ninepence and tenpence. no regular post was set up between bridgewater and nether stowey until , when the cost of the carriage of a letter for the intervening nine miles was twopence. "flocci." see note on page ii. "the young ass," early versions, ended thus:-- soothe to rest the tumult of some scoundrel monarch's breast. coleridge changed the last line to-- the aching of pale fashion's vacant breast. coleridge had asserted, in a note, that rogers had taken the story of florio in the _pleasures of memory_ from michael bruce's _loch leven_ (not _loch lomond_). in the edition another note made apology for the mistake. cowper's "lines on the receipt of my mother's picture out of norfolk" had been written in the spring of . it is interesting to find lamb reading them just now, for his own _blank verse_ poems, shortly to be written, have much in common with cowper's verses, not only in manner but in matter.] letter charles lamb to s. t. coleridge feb. th, . your poem is altogether admirable--parts of it are even exquisite--in particular your personal account of the maid far surpasses any thing of the sort in southey. i perceived all its excellences, on a first reading, as readily as now you have been removing a supposed film from my eyes. i was only struck with [a] certain faulty disproportion in the matter and the _style_, which i still think i perceive, between these lines and the former ones. i had an end in view; i wished to make you reject the poem, only as being discordant with the other; and, in subservience to that end, it was politically done in me to over-pass, and make no mention of merit which, could you think me capable of _overlooking_, might reasonably damn for ever in your judgment all pretensions in me to be critical. there, i will be judged by lloyd, whether i have not made a very handsome recantation. i was in the case of a man whose friend has asked him his opinion of a certain young lady; the deluded wight gives judgment against her _in toto_--don't like her face, her walk, her manners--finds fault with her eyebrows--can see no wit in her. his friend looks blank; he begins to smell a rat; wind veers about; he acknowledges her good sense, her judgment in dress, a certain simplicity of manners and honesty of heart, something too in her manners which gains upon you after a short acquaintance,--and then her accurate pronunciation of the french language and a pretty uncultivated taste in drawing. the reconciled gentleman smiles applause, squeezes him by the hand, and hopes he will do him the honour of taking a bit of dinner with mrs.--and him--a plain family dinner--some day next week. "for, i suppose, you never heard we were married! i'm glad to see you like my wife, however; you'll come and see her, ha?" now am i too proud to retract entirely. yet i do perceive i am in some sort straitened; you are manifestly wedded to this poem, and what fancy has joined let no man separate. i turn me to the joan of arc, second book. the solemn openings of it are with sounds which, lloyd would say, "are silence to the mind." the deep preluding strains are fitted to initiate the mind, with a pleasing awe, into the sublimest mysteries of theory concerning man's nature and his noblest destination--the philosophy of a first cause--of subordinate agents in creation superior to man--the subserviency of pagan worship and pagan faith to the introduction of a purer and more perfect religion, which you so elegantly describe as winning with gradual steps her difficult way northward from bethabra. after all this cometh joan, a _publican's_ daughter, sitting on an ale-house _bench_, and marking the _swingings_ of the _signboard_, finding a poor man, his wife and six children, starved to death with cold, and thence roused into a state of mind proper to receive visions emblematical of equality; which what the devil joan had to do with, i don't know, or indeed with the french and american revolutions; though that needs no pardon, it is executed so nobly. after all, if you perceive no disproportion, all argument is vain: i do not so much object to parts. again, when you talk of building your fame on these lines in preference to the "religious musings," i cannot help conceiving of you and of the author of that as two different persons, and i think you a very vain man. i have been re-reading your letter. much of it i _could_ dispute; but with the latter part of it, in which you compare the two joans with respect to their predispositions for fanaticism, i _toto corde_ coincide; only i think that southey's strength rather lies in the description of the emotions of the maid under the weight of inspiration,--these (i see no mighty difference between _her_ describing them or _you_ describing them), these if you only equal, the previous admirers of his poem, as is natural, will prefer his; if you surpass, prejudice will scarcely allow it, and i scarce think you will surpass, though your specimen at the conclusion (i am in earnest) i think very nigh equals them. and in an account of a fanatic or of a prophet the description of her _emotions_ is expected to be most highly finished. by the way, i spoke far too disparagingly of your lines, and, i am ashamed to say, purposely. i should like you to specify or particularise; the story of the "tottering eld," of "his eventful years all come and gone," is too general; why not make him a soldier, or some character, however, in which he has been witness to frequency of "cruel wrong and strange distress!" i think i should. when i laughed at the "miserable man crawling from beneath the coverture," i wonder i [? you] did not perceive it was a laugh of horror--such as i have laughed at dante's picture of the famished ugolino. without falsehood, i perceive an hundred beauties in your narrative. yet i wonder you do not perceive something out-of-the way, something unsimple and artificial, in the expression, "voiced a sad tale." i hate made-dishes at the muses' banquet. i believe i was wrong in most of my other objections. but surely "hailed him immortal," adds nothing to the terror of the man's death, which it was your business to heighten, not diminish by a phrase which takes away all terror from it. i like that line, "they closed their eyes in sleep, nor knew 'twas death." indeed, there is scarce a line i do not like. "_turbid_ ecstacy," is surely not so good as what you _had_ written, "troublous." turbid rather suits the muddy kind of inspiration which london porter confers. the versification is, throughout, to my ears unexceptionable, with no disparagement to the measure of the "religious musings," which is exactly fitted to the thoughts. you were building your house on a rock, when you rested your fame on that poem. i can scarce bring myself to believe, that i am admitted to a familiar correspondence, and all the licence of friendship, with a man who writes blank verse like milton. now, this is delicate flattery, _indirect_ flattery. go on with your "maid of orleans," and be content to be second to yourself. i shall become a convert to it, when 'tis finished. this afternoon i attend the funeral of my poor old aunt, who died on thursday. i own i am thankful that the good creature has ended all her days of suffering and infirmity. she was to me the "cherisher of infancy," and one must fall on these occasions into reflections which it would be commonplace to enumerate, concerning death, "of chance and change, and fate in human life." good god, who could have foreseen all this but four months back! i had reckoned, in particular, on my aunt's living many years; she was a very hearty old woman. but she was a mere skeleton before she died, looked more like a corpse that had lain weeks in the grave, than one fresh dead. "truly the light is sweet, and a pleasant thing it is for the eyes to behold the sun; but let a man live many days and rejoice in them all, yet let him remember the days of darkness, for they shall be many." coleridge, why are we to live on after all the strength and beauty of existence are gone, when all the life of life is fled, as poor burns expresses it? tell lloyd i have had thoughts of turning quaker, and have been reading, or am rather just beginning to read, a most capital book, good thoughts in good language, william penn's "no cross, no crown;" i like it immensely. unluckily i went to one of his meetings, tell him, in st. john street, yesterday, and saw a man under all the agitations and workings of a fanatic, who believed himself under the influence of some "inevitable presence." this cured me of quakerism; i love it in the books of penn and woolman, but i detest the vanity of a man thinking he speaks by the spirit, when what he says an ordinary man might say without all that quaking and trembling. in the midst of his inspiration--and the effects of it were most noisy--was handed into the midst of the meeting a most terrible blackguard wapping sailor; the poor man, i believe, had rather have been in the hottest part of an engagement, for the congregation of broad-brims, together with the ravings of the prophet, were too much for his gravity, though i saw even he had delicacy enough not to laugh out. and the inspired gentleman, though his manner was so supernatural, yet neither talked nor professed to talk anything more than good sober sense, common morality, with now and then a declaration of not speaking from himself. among other things, looking back to his childhood and early youth, he told the meeting what a graceless young dog he had been, that in his youth he had a good share of wit: reader, if thou hadst seen the gentleman, thou wouldst have sworn that it must indeed have been many years ago, for his rueful physiognomy would have scared away the playful goddess from the meeting, where he presided, for ever. a wit! a wit! what could he mean? lloyd, it minded me of falkland in the "rivals," "am i full of wit and humour? no, indeed you are not. am i the life and soul of every company i come into? no, it cannot be said you are." that hard-faced gentleman, a wit! why, nature wrote on his fanatic forehead fifty years ago, "wit never comes, that comes to all." i should be as scandalised at a _bon mot_ issuing from his oracle-looking mouth, as to see cato go down a country-dance. god love you all. you are very good to submit to be pleased with reading my nothings. 'tis the privilege of friendship to talk nonsense, and to have her nonsense re-spected.--yours ever, c. lamb. [lamb's aunt hetty, sarah lamb, was buried at st. james's, clerkenwell, on february , . "as poor burns expresses it." in the "lament for james, earl of glencairn," the stanza:-- in weary being now i pine, for a' the life of life is dead, and hope has left my aged ken, on forward wing for ever fled. "turning quaker." lamb refers to the peel meeting-house in john street, clerkenwell. lamb afterwards used the story of the wit in the _ella_ essay "a quaker's meeting." in his invocation to the reader he here foreshadows his elian manner. "falkland" is in sheridan's comedy "the rivals" (see act ii., scene i).] letter charles lamb to s. t. coleridge april th, . your last letter was dated the th february; in it you promised to write again the next day. at least, i did not expect so long, so unfriend-like, a silence. there was a time, col., when a remissness of this sort in a dear friend would have lain very heavy on my mind, but latterly i have been too familiar with neglect to feel much from the semblance of it. yet, to suspect one's self overlooked and in the way to oblivion, is a feeling rather humbling; perhaps, as tending to self-mortification, not unfavourable to the spiritual state. still, as you meant to confer no benefit on the soul of your friend, you do not stand quite clear from the imputation of unkindliness (a word by which i mean the diminutive of unkindness). lloyd tells me he has been very ill, and was on the point of leaving you. i addressed a letter to him at birmingham: perhaps he got it not, and is still with you, i hope his ill-health has not prevented his attending to a request i made in it, that he would write again very soon to let me know how he was. i hope to god poor lloyd is not very bad, or in a very bad way. pray satisfy me about these things. and then david hartley was unwell; and how is the small philosopher, the minute philosopher? and david's mother? coleridge, i am not trifling, nor are these matter-of-fact [?course] questions only. you are all very dear and precious to me; do what you will, col., you may hurt me and vex me by your silence, but you cannot estrange my heart from you all. i cannot scatter friendship[s] like chuck-farthings, nor let them drop from mine hand like hour-glass sand. i have two or three people in the world to whom i am more than indifferent, and i can't afford to whistle them off to the winds. by the way, lloyd 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 sundays, holidays, etc., 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. may that merciful god make tender my heart, and make me as thankful, as in my distress i was earnest, in my prayers. congratulate me on an ever-present and never-alienable friend like her. and do, do insert, if you have not _lost_, my dedication. it will have lost half its value by coming so late. if you really are going on with that volume, i shall be enabled in a day or two to send you a short poem to insert. now, do answer this. friendship, and acts of friendship, should be reciprocal, and free as the air; a friend should never be reduced to beg an alms of his fellow. yet i will beg an alms; i entreat you to write, and tell me all about poor lloyd, and all of you. god love and preserve you all. c. lamb. [lloyd's domestication with coleridge had been intermittent. it began in september, ; in november lloyd was very ill; in december coleridge told mr. lloyd that he would retain his son no longer as pupil but merely as a lodger and friend; at christmas charles lloyd was at birmingham; in january he was in london; in march he was ill again and his experiment with coleridge ended. "the minute philosopher." a joking reference to bishop berkeley's _alciphron; or, the minute philosopher_. for the dedication to which lamb refers see above.] letter charles lamb to s. t. coleridge april th, . a vision of repentance i saw a famous fountain in my dream, where shady pathways to a valley led; a weeping willow lay upon that stream, and all around the fountain brink were spread wide branching trees, with dark green leaf rich clad, forming a doubtful twilight desolate and sad. the place was such, that whoso enter'd in disrobed was of every earthly thought, and straight became as one that knew not sin, or to the world's first innocence was brought; enseem'd it now, he stood on holy ground, in sweet and tender melancholy wrapt around. a most strange calm stole o'er my soothed sprite; long time i stood, and longer had i staid, when lo! i saw, saw by the sweet moonlight, which came in silence o'er that silent shade, where near the fountain something like despair made of that weeping willow garlands for her hair. and eke with painful fingers she inwove many an uncouth stem of savage thorn-- "the willow garland, _that_ was for her love, and _these_ her bleeding temples would adorn." with sighs her heart nigh burst--salt tears fast fell, as mournfully she bended o'er that sacred well. to whom when i addrest myself to speak, she lifted up her eyes, and nothing said; the delicate red came mantling o'er her cheek, and gathering up her loose attire, she fled to the dark covert of that woody shade and in her goings seem'd a timid gentle maid. revolving in my mind what this should mean, and why that lovely lady plained so; perplex'd in thought at that mysterious scene, and doubting if 'twere best to stay or go, i cast mine eyes in wistful gaze around, when from the shades came slow a small and plaintive sound "psyche am i, who love to dwell in these brown shades, this woody dell, where never busy mortal came, till now, to pry upon my shame. "at thy feet what thou dost see the waters of repentance be, which, night and day, i must augment with tears, like a true penitent, if haply so my day of grace be not yet past; and this lone place, o'er-shadowy, dark, excludeth hence all thoughts but grief and penitence." "_why dost thou weep, thou gentle maid! and wherefore in this barren shade thy hidden thoughts with sorrow feed? can thing so fair repentance need?_" "oh! i have done a deed of shame, and tainted is my virgin fame, and stain'd the beauteous maiden white in which my bridal robes were dight." "_and who the promis'd spouse declare, and what those bridal garments were_?" "severe and saintly righteousness compos'd the clear white bridal dress; jesus, the son of heaven's high king bought with his blood the marriage ring. "a wretched sinful creature, i deem'd lightly of that sacred tye, gave to a treacherous world my heart, and play'd the foolish wanton's part. "soon to these murky shades i came to hide from the sun's light my shame-- and still i haunt this woody dell, and bathe me in that healing well, whose waters clear have influence from sin's foul stains the soul to cleanse; and night and day i them augment with tears, like a true penitent, until, due expiation made, and fit atonement fully paid, the lord and bridegroom me present where in sweet strains of high consent, god's throne before, the seraphim shall chaunt the extatic marriage hymn." "_now christ restore thee soon_"--i said, and thenceforth all my dream was fled. 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 _poetry_, 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. 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 own confession, kept a letter of mine unopened three weeks, afraid, he says, to open it, lest i should speak upbraidingly to him; and yet this very letter of mine was in answer to one, wherein he informed me that an alarming illness had alone prevented him from writing. you will pray with me, i know, for his recovery; for surely, coleridge, 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. [i have placed the poem at the head from the text of coleridge's _poems_, ; but the version of the letter very likely differed (see next letter for at least one alteration). fairfax's _godfrey of bullen_ was his translation of tasso, which is mentioned above. lloyd, who was undergoing one of those attacks of acute melancholia to which he was subject all his life, had been sent to lichfield where erasmus darwin had established a sanatorium. "the sorest malady of all." from lamb's lines to cowper.] letter charles lamb to s.t. coleridge [tuesday,] june th, . i stared with wild wonderment to see thy well-known hand again. it revived many a pleasing recollection of an epistolary intercourse, of late strangely suspended, once the pride of my life. before i even opened thy letter, i figured to myself a sort of complacency which my little hoard at home would feel at receiving the new-comer into the little drawer where i keep my treasures of this kind. you have done well in writing to me. the little room (was it not a little one?) at the salutation was already in the way of becoming a fading idea! it had begun to be classed in my memory with those "wanderings with a fair hair'd maid," in the recollection of which i feel i have no property. you press me, very kindly do you press me, to come to stowey; obstacles, strong as death, prevent me at present; maybe i shall be able to come before the year is out; believe me, i will come as soon as i can, but i dread naming a probable time. it depends on fifty things, besides the expense, which is not nothing. lloyd wants me to come and see him; but, besides that you have a prior claim on me, i should not feel myself so much at home with him, till he gets a house of his own. as to richardson, caprice may grant what caprice only refused, and it is no more hardship, rightly considered, to be dependent on him for pleasure, than to lie at the mercy of the rain and sunshine for the enjoyment of a holiday: in either case we are not to look for a suspension of the laws of nature. "grill will be grill." vide spenser. i could not but smile at the compromise you make with me for printing lloyd's poems first; but there is [are] in nature, i fear, too many tendencies to envy and jealousy not to justify you in your apology. yet, if any one is welcome to pre-eminence from me, it is lloyd, for he would be the last to desire it. so pray, let his name _uniformly_ precede mine, for it would be treating me like a child to suppose it could give me pain. yet, alas! i am not insusceptible of the bad passions. thank god, i have the ingenuousness to be ashamed of them. i am dearly fond of charles lloyd; he is all goodness, and i have too much of the world in my composition to feel myself thoroughly deserving of his friendship. lloyd tells me that sheridan put you upon writing your tragedy. i hope you are only coleridgeizing when you talk of finishing it in a few days. shakspeare was a more modest man; but you best know your own power. of my last poem you speak slightingly; surely the longer stanzas were pretty tolerable; at least there was one good line in it, "thick-shaded trees, with dark green leaf rich clad." to adopt your own expression, i call this a "rich" line, a fine full line. and some others i thought even beautiful. believe me, my little gentleman will feel some repugnance at riding behind in the basket; though, i confess, in pretty good company. your picture of idiocy, with the sugar-loaf head, is exquisite; but are you not too severe upon our more favoured brethren in fatuity? lloyd tells me how ill your wife and child have been. i rejoice that they are better. my kindest remembrances and those of my sister. i send you a trifling letter; but you have only to think that i have been skimming the superficies of my mind, and found it only froth. now, do write again; you cannot believe how i long and love always to hear about you. yours, most affectionately, charles lamb. monday night. ["little drawer where i keep ..." lamb soon lost the habit of keeping any letters, except manning's. "wanderings with a fair-hair'd maid." lamb's own line. see sonnet quoted above. lamb's visit to stowey was made in july, as we shall see. "grill will be grill." see the _faerie queene_, book ii., canto , stanzas and . "let gryll be gryll" is the right text. lloyd had joined the poetical partnership, and his poems were to precede lamb's in the volume. "lloyd's connections," coleridge had written to cottle, "will take off a great many [copies], more than a hundred." coleridge's tragedy was "osorio," of which we hear first in march, , when coleridge tells cottle that sheridan has asked him to write a play for drury lane. it was finished in october, and rejected. in , much altered, it was performed under its new title, "remorse," and published in book form. lamb wrote the prologue. the "last poem" of which lamb speaks was "the vision of repentance." the good line was altered to-- "wide branching trees, with dark green leaf rich clad," when the poem appeared in the appendix ("the basket," as lamb calls it) of the volume. "your picture of idiocy." compare s. t. coleridge to thomas poole, dated "greta hall, oct. , " (_thomas poole and his friends_): "we passed a poor ideot boy, who exactly answered my description; he "'stood in the sun, rocking his sugar-loaf head, and staring at a bough from morn to sunset, see-sawed his voice in inarticulate noises.'" see this passage, much altered, in "remorse," ii., i, - . the lines do not occur in "osorio," yet they, or something like them, must have been copied out by coleridge for lamb in june, .] letter (_possibly only a fragment_) charles lamb to s. t. coleridge [saturday,] june th, . did you seize the grand opportunity of seeing kosciusko while he was at bristol? i never saw a hero; i wonder how they look. i have been reading a most curious romance-like work, called the "life of john buncle, esq." 'tis very interesting, and an extraordinary compound of all manner of subjects, from the depth of the ludicrous to the heights of sublime religious truth. there is much abstruse science in it above my cut and an infinite fund of pleasantry. john buncle is a famous fine man, formed in nature's most eccentric hour. i am ashamed of what i write. but i have no topic to talk of. i see nobody, and sit, and read or walk, alone, and hear nothing. i am quite lost to conversation from disuse; and out of the sphere of my little family, who, i am thankful, are dearer and dearer to me every day, i see no face that brightens up at my approach. my friends are at a distance; worldly hopes are at a low ebb with me, and unworldly thoughts are not yet familiarised to me, though i occasionally indulge in them. still i feel a calm not unlike content. i fear it is sometimes more akin to physical stupidity than to a heaven-flowing serenity and peace. what right have i to obtrude all this upon you? what is such a letter to you? and if i come to stowey, what conversation can i furnish to compensate my friend for those stores of knowledge and of fancy, those delightful treasures of wisdom, which i know he will open to me? but it is better to give than to receive; and i was a very patient hearer and docile scholar in our winter evening meetings at mr. may's; was i not, col.? what i have owed to thee, my heart can ne'er forget. god love you and yours. c. l. saturday. [thaddeus kosciusko ( - ), the polish patriot, to whom coleridge had a sonnet in his _poems_, , visited england and america after being liberated from prison on the accession of paul i., and settled in france in . _the life of john buncle, esq._, a book which lamb (and also hazlitt) frequently praised, is a curious digressive novel, part religious, part roystering, and wholly eccentric and individual, by thomas amory, published, vol. i., in , and vol. ii., in . "mr. may's." see note to the first letter.] letter (_possibly only a fragment_) charles lamb to s. t. coleridge [no date. ? june , .] i discern a possibility of my paying you a visit next week. may i, can i, shall i, come so soon? have you _room_ for me, _leisure_ for me, and are you all pretty well? tell me all this honestly--immediately. and by what _day_--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 longings 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 knave richardson remaineth--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. c. lamb. thursday. ["our little book." coleridge's _poems_, second edition. "salutation scenery." see note to the first letter. "richardson." see note on page .] letter charles lamb to s. t. coleridge [no date. probably july or , .] i am scarcely yet so reconciled to the loss of you, or so subsided into my wonted uniformity of feeling, as to sit calmly down to think of you and write to you. but i reason myself into the belief that those few and pleasant holidays shall not have been spent in vain. i feel improvement in the recollection of many a casual conversation. the names of tom poole, of wordsworth and his good sister, with thine and sara's, are become "familiar in my mouth as household words." you would make me very happy, if you think w. has no objection, by transcribing for me that inscription of his. i have some scattered sentences ever floating on my memory, teasing me that i cannot remember more of it. you may believe i will make no improper use of it. believe me i can think now of many subjects on which i had planned gaining information from you; but i forgot my "treasure's worth" while i possessed it. your leg is now become to me a matter of much more importance--and many a little thing, which when i was present with you seemed scarce to _indent_ my notice, now presses painfully on my remembrance. is the patriot come yet? are wordsworth and his sister gone yet? i was looking out for john thelwall all the way from bridgewater, and had i met him, i think it would have moved almost me to tears. you will oblige me too by sending me my great-coat, which i left behind in the oblivious state the mind is thrown into at parting--is it not ridiculous that i sometimes envy that great-coat lingering so cunningly behind?--at present i have none--so send it me by a stowey waggon, if there be such a thing, directing for c. l., no. , chapel-street, pentonville, near london. but above all, _that inscription!_--it will recall to me the tones of all your voices--and with them many a remembered kindness to one who could and can repay you all only by the silence of a grateful heart. i could not talk much, while i was with you, but my silence was not sullenness, nor i hope from any bad motive; but, in truth, disuse has made me awkward at it. i know i behaved myself, particularly at tom poole's, and at cruikshank's, most like a sulky child; but company and converse are strange to me. it was kind in you all to endure me as you did. are you and your dear sara--to me also very dear, because very kind--agreed yet about the management of little hartley? and how go on the little rogue's teeth? i will see white to-morrow, and he shall send you information on that matter; but as perhaps i can do it as well after talking with him, i will keep this letter open. my love and thanks to you and all of you. c. l. wednesday evening. [lamb spent a week at nether stowey in july, . coleridge tells southey of this visit in a letter written in that month: "charles lamb has been with me for a week. he left me friday morning. the second day after wordsworth [who had just left racedown, near crewkerne, for alfoxden, near stowey] came to me, dear sara accidentally emptied a skillet of boiling milk on my foot, which confined me during the whole time of c. lamb's stay and still prevents me from all walks longer than a furlong." this is the cause of lamb's allusion to coleridge's leg, and it also produced coleridge's poem beginning "this lime-tree bower my prison," addressed to lamb, which opens as follows, the friends in the fourth line being lamb, wordsworth and dorothy wordsworth. (wordsworth was then twenty-seven. the _lyrical ballads_ were to be written in the next few months.) well, they are gone, and here must i remain, lam'd by the scathe of fire, lonely and faint, this lime-tree bower my prison! they, meantime my friends, whom i may never meet again, on springy heath, along the hill-top edge wander delighted, and look down, perchance, on that same rifted dell, where many an ash twists its wild limbs beside the ferny rock whose plumy ferns forever nod and drip, spray'd by the waterfall. but chiefly thou my gentle-hearted _charles!_ thou who had pin'd and hunger'd after nature many a year, in the great city pent, winning thy way with sad yet bowed soul, through evil and pain and strange calamity! tom poole was thomas poole ( - ), a wealthy tanner, and coleridge's friend, correspondent and patron, who lived at stowey. the patriot and john thelwall were one. see note on page . "that inscription," the "lines left upon a seat in a yew tree," written in . lamb refers to it again in . the address at pentonville is the first indication given by lamb that he has left little queen street. we last saw him there for certain in letter on december . the removal had been made probably at the end of . john cruikshank, a neighbour of coleridge, had married a miss budé on the same day that coleridge married sara flicker. of the business connected with white we know nothing.] letter charles lamb to s. t. coleridge [p.m. august , .] poor charles lloyd came to me about a fortnight ago. he took the opportunity of mr. hawkes coming to london, and i think at his request, to come with him. it seemed to me, and he acknowledged it, that he had come to gain a little time and a little peace, before he made up his mind. he was a good deal perplexed what to do--wishing earnestly that he had never entered into engagements which he felt himself unable to fulfill, but which on sophia's account he could not bring himself to relinquish. i could give him little advice or comfort, and feeling my own inability painfully, eagerly snatched at a proposal he made me to go to southey's with him for a day or two. he then meant to return with me, who could stay only one night. while there, he at one time thought of going to consult you, but changed his intention and stayed behind with southey, and wrote an explicit letter to sophia. i came away on the tuesday, and on the saturday following, _last saturday_, receiv'd a letter dated bath, in which he said he was on his way to birmingham,--that southey was accompanying him,--and that he went for the purpose of persuading sophia to a scotch marriage--i greatly feared, that she would never consent to this, from what lloyd had told me of her character. but waited most anxiously the result. since then i have not had one letter. for god's sake, if you get any intelligence of or from chas lloyd, communicate it, for i am much alarmed. c. lamb. i wrote to burnett what i write now to you,--was it from him you heard, or elsewhere?-- he said if he _had_ come to you, he could never have brought himself to leave you. in all his distress he was sweetly and exemplarily calm and master of himself,--and seemed perfectly free from his disorder.-- how do you all at? [this letter is unimportant, except in showing lamb's power of sharing his friends' troubles. charles lloyd was not married to sophia pemberton, of birmingham, until ; nothing rash being done, as lamb seems to think possible. the reference to southey, who was at this time living at burton, in hampshire, throws some light on de quincey's statement, in his "autobiography," that owing to the objection of miss pemberton's parents to the match, lloyd secured the assistance of southey to carry the lady off. burnett was george burnett ( ?- ), one of coleridge's fellow pantisocratists, whom we shall meet later. the "he" of the second postscript is not burnett, but lloyd.] letter charles lamb to s. t. coleridge [about september , .] written a twelvemonth after the events [_friday next, coleridge, is the day on which my mother died._] alas! how am i changed! where be the tears, the sobs and forced suspensions of the breath, and all the dull desertions of the heart with which i hung o'er my dear mother's corse? where 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 loved, and worthy known! thou didst not keep her soul in death. o keep not now, my lord, thy servants in far worse--in spiritual death and darkness--blacker than those feared shadows o' 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 smiles 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;" (child of the dust as i am), who so long my foolish heart steep'd in idolatry, and creature-loves. forgive it, o 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? where the joyous troops of children, and the haunts i did so love? my companions! o ye loved names of friend, or playmate dear, gone are ye now. gone divers ways; to honour and credit some: and some, i fear, to ignominy and shame! i 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; with 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, omniscient father, as thou judgest best, and in _thy_ season soften thou my heart. i pray not for myself: i pray for him whose soul is sore perplexed. shine thou on him, father of lights! and in the difficult 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 celerity t'other morning at office. i expect you to like it better than anything of mine; lloyd does, and i do myself. 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 where i left my coat. meet emblem wilt thou be, old winter, of a friend's neglect--cold, cold, cold! remembrance where remembrance is due. c. lamb. [the two poems included in this letter were printed in _blank verse_, a volume which lamb and lloyd issued in . coleridge had written to lloyd, we know, as late as july, because he sent him a version of the poem "this lime-tree bower, my prison;" but a coolness that was to ripen into positive hostility had already begun. of this we shall see more later. the passage from beaumont and fletcher is in "the maid's tragedy" (act ii., scene i), where aspatia says to amintor:-- thus i wind myself into this willow garland, and am prouder that i was once your love (though now refus'd) than to have had another true to me. the scene is in lamb's _dramatic specimens_. the reference to manchineel is explained by a passage in coleridge's dedication of his volume, then just published, to his brother, the rev. george coleridge, where, speaking of the friends he had known, he says:-- and some most false, false and fair-foliag'd as the manchineel, have tempted me to slumber in their shade --the manchineel being a poisonous west indian tree. between this and the next letter probably came correspondence that has now been lost.] letter charles lamb to s. t. coleridge january th, . you have writ me many kind letters, and i have answered 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 opening of a correspondence with _you_. to you i owe much under god. in my brief acquaintance with you in london, 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 myself 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 disciplined me; but the event ought to humble me. if god's judgments now fail to take away from me the heart of stone, what more grievous trials ought i not to expect? i have been very querulous, impatient under the rod--full of little jealousies and heartburnings.--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 me _from_ the consideration of my poor dear mary's situation, rather than assisting me to 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 accustomed 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 properly and calmly, when alone. all these things the good creature 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 humours 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 dissolute spirit has advanced upon _me_ with large strides--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 madness. i think you would almost make her dance within an inch of the precipice: she must be with duller fancies and cooler intellects. i know a young man of this description, 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 composition 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, endeavour 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. [the first letter that has been preserved since september of the previous year. in the meantime lamb had begun to work on _rosamund gray_, probably upon an impulse gained from the visit to stowey, and was also arranging to join lloyd, who was living in london with white, in the volume of poems to be called _blank verse_. southey, writing many years later to edward moxon, said of lloyd and white: "no two men could be imagined more unlike each other; lloyd had no drollery in his nature; white seemed to have nothing else. you will easily understand how lamb could sympathise with both." the new calamity to which lamb refers in this letter was probably a relapse in mary lamb's condition. when he last mentioned her she was so far better as to be able to be moved into lodgings at hackney: all that good was now undone. coleridge seems to have suggested that she should visit stowey. it was about this time that lamb wrote the poem "the old familiar faces," which i quote below in its original form, afterwards changed by the omission of the first four lines:-- the old familiar faces where are they gone, the old familiar faces? i had a mother, but she died, and left me, died prematurely in a day of horrors-- all, all are gone, the old familiar faces. i have had playmates, i have had companions, in my days of childhood, in my joyful school-days-- all, all are gone, the old familiar faces. i have been laughing, i have been carousing, drinking late, sitting late, with my bosom cronies-- all, all are gone, the old familiar faces. i loved a love once, fairest among women. closed are her doors on me, i must not see her-- all, all are gone, the old familiar faces. i have a friend, a kinder friend has no man. like an ingrate, i left my friend abruptly; left him, to muse on the old familiar faces. ghost-like, i paced round the haunts of my childhood. earth seem'd a desert i was bound to traverse, seeking to find the old familiar faces. friend of my bosom, thou more than a brother! why wert not thou born in my father's dwelling? so might we talk of the old familiar faces. for some they have died, and some they have left me, _and some are taken from me_; all are departed; all, all are gone, the old familiar faces. january, . it is conjectured by mr. j. a. rutter, and there is much reason to believe it a right theory, especially when taken into connection with the present letter, that lloyd was the friend of the fifth stanza and coleridge the friend of the seventh. the italicised half line might refer to "anna," but, since she is mentioned in the fourth stanza, it more probably, i think, refers to mary lamb, who, as we have seen, had been so ill as to necessitate removal from hackney into more special confinement again. the letter was addressed to coleridge at the reverend a. rowe's, shrewsbury. coleridge had been offered the unitarian pulpit at shrewsbury and was on the point of accepting when he received news of the annuity of £ which josiah and thomas wedgwood had settled upon him. between this letter and the next certainly came other letters to coleridge, now lost, one of which is referred to by coleridge in the letter to lamb quoted below.] letter charles lamb to s. t. coleridge [no date. early summer, .] theses quaedam theologicae . whether god loves a lying angel better than a true man? . whether the archangel uriel _could_ affirm an untruth? and if he _could_ whether he _would_? . whether honesty be an angelic virtue? or not rather to be reckoned among those qualities which the schoolmen term '_virtutes minus splendidoe et terrae et hominis participes_'? . whether the higher order of seraphim illuminati ever sneer? . whether pure intelligences can love? . whether the seraphim ardentes do not manifest their virtues by the way of vision and theory? and whether practice be not a sub-celestial and merely human virtue? . whether the vision beatific be anything more or less than a perpetual representment to each individual angel of his own present attainments and future capabilities, somehow in the manner of mortal looking-glasses, reflecting a perpetual complacency and self-satisfaction? and last. whether an immortal and amenable soul may not come to be damned at last, and the man never suspect it beforehand? _learned sir, my friend_, presuming on our long habits of friendship and emboldened further by your late liberal permission to avail myself of your correspondence, in case i want any knowledge, (which i intend to do when i have no encyclopaedia or lady's magazine at hand to refer to in any matter of science,) i now submit to your enquiries the above theological propositions, to be by you defended, or oppugned, or both, in the schools of germany, whither i am told you are departing, to the utter dissatisfaction of your native devonshire and regret of universal england; but to my own individual consolation if thro' the channel of your wished return, learned sir, my friend, may be transmitted to this our island, from those famous theological wits of leipsic and gottingen, any rays of illumination, in vain to be derived from the home growth of our english halls and colleges. finally, wishing, learned sir, that you may see schiller and swing in a wood (_vide_ poems) and sit upon a tun, and eat fat hams of westphalia, i remain, your friend and docile pupil to instruct charles lamb. . to s. t. coleridge. [lamb's last letter to coleridge for two years. see note to the next letter. lamb's reading of thomas aquinas probably was at the base of his theses. william godwin, in his "history of knowledge, learning and taste in great britain," which had run through some years of the _new annual register_, cited, in , a number of the more grotesque queries of the old schoolmen. mr. kegan paul suggested that lamb went to godwin for his examination paper; but i should think this very unlikely. some of the questions hit coleridge very hard. this letter was first printed by joseph cottle in his _early recollections_, , with the remark: "mr. coleridge gave me this letter, saying, 'these young visionaries will do each other no good.'" it marks an epoch in lamb's life, since it brought about, or, at any rate, clinched, the only quarrel that ever subsisted between coleridge and himself. the story is told in _charles lamb and the lloyds_. briefly, lloyd had left coleridge in the spring of ; a little later, in a state of much perplexity, he had carried his troubles to lamb, and to southey, between whom and coleridge no very cordial feeling had existed for some time, rather than to coleridge himself, his late mentor. that probably fanned the flame. the next move came from coleridge. he printed in the _monthly magazine_ for november, , three sonnets signed nehemiah higginbottom, burlesquing instances of "affectation of unaffectedness," and "puny pathos" in the poems of himself, of lamb, and of lloyd, the humour of which lamb probably did not much appreciate, since he believed in the feelings expressed in his verse, while lloyd was certainly unfitted to esteem it. coleridge effected even more than he had contemplated, for southey took the sonnet upon simplicity as an attack upon himself, which did not, however, prevent him, a little later, from a similar exercise in ponderous humour under the too similar name of abel shufflebottom. in march, , when a new edition of coleridge's _poems_ was in contemplation, lloyd wrote to cottle, the publisher, asking that he would persuade coleridge to omit his (lloyd's) portion, a request which coleridge probably resented, but which gave him the opportunity of replying that no persuasion was needed for the omission of verses published at the earnest request of the author. meanwhile a worse offence than all against coleridge was perpetrated by lloyd. in the spring of was published at bristol his novel, edmund oliver, dedicated to lamb, in which coleridge's experiences in the army, under the alias of silas tomkyn comberback, in - , and certain of coleridge's peculiarities, including his drug habit, were utilised. added to this, lloyd seems to have repeated both to lamb and southey, in distorted form, certain things which coleridge had said of them, either in confidence, or, at any rate, with no wish that they should be repeated; with the result that lamb actually went so far as to take sides with lloyd against his older friend. the following extracts from a letter from coleridge to lamb, which i am permitted by mr. ernest hartley coleridge to print, carries the story a little farther:-- [spring of .] dear lamb,--lloyd has informed me through miss wordsworth that you intend no longer to correspond with me. this has given me little pain; not that i do not love and esteem you, but on the contrary because i am confident that your intentions are pure. you are performing what you deem a duty, and humanly speaking have that merit which can be derived from the performance of a painful duty. painful, for you would not without struggles abandon me in behalf of a man [lloyd] who, wholly ignorant of all but your name, became attached to you in consequence of my attachment, caught _his_ from _my_ enthusiasm, and learned to love you at my fireside, when often while i have been sitting and talking of your sorrows and afflictions i have stopped my conversations and lifted up wet eyes and prayed for you. no! i am confident that although you do not think as a wise man, you feel as a good man. from you i have received little pain, because for you i suffer little alarm. i cannot say this for your friend; it appears to me evident that his feelings are vitiated, and that his ideas are in their combination merely the creatures of those feelings. i have received letters from him, and the best and kindest wish which, as a christian, i can offer in return is that he may feel remorse.... when i wrote to you that my sonnet to simplicity was not composed with reference to southey, you answered me (i believe these were the words): "it was a lie too gross for the grossest ignorance to believe;" and i was not angry with you, because the assertion which the grossest ignorance would believe a lie the omniscient knew to be truth. this, however, makes me cautious not too hastily to affirm the falsehood of an assertion of lloyd's that in edmund oliver's love-fit, leaving college, and going into the army he had no sort of allusion to or recollection of my love-fit, leaving college, and going into the army, and that he never thought of my person in the description of oliver's person in the first letter of the second volume. this cannot appear stranger to me than my assertion did to you, and therefore i will suspend my absolute faith.... i have been unfortunate in my connections. both you and lloyd became acquainted with me when your minds were far from being in a composed or natural state, and you clothed my image with a suit of notions and feelings which could belong to nothing human. you are restored to comparative saneness, and are merely wondering what is become of the coleridge with whom you were so passionately in love; _charles lloyd's_ mind has only changed his disease, and he is now arraying his ci-devant angel in a flaming san benito--the whole ground of the garment a dark brimstone and plenty of little devils flourished out in black. oh, me! lamb, "even in laughter the heart is sad!"... god bless you s. t. coleridge. one other passage. in a letter from lloyd at birmingham to cottle, dated june, , lloyd says, in response to cottle's suggestion that he should visit coleridge, "i love coleridge, and can forget all that has happened. at present i could not well go to stowey.... lamb quitted me yesterday, after a fortnight's visit. i have been much interested in his society. i never knew him so happy in my life. i shall write to coleridge to-day." coleridge left for germany in september. "schiller and swing in a wood." an allusion to coleridge's sonnet to schiller:-- ah! bard tremendous in sublimity! could i behold thee in thy loftier mood wand'ring at eve with finely-frenzied eye beneath some vast old tempest-swinging wood! here should perhaps come lamb's first letter to robert lloyd, not available for this edition, but printed by canon ainger, and in _charles lamb and the lloyds_, where it is dated october. lamb's first letter is one of advice, apparently in reply to some complaints of his position addressed to him by lloyd. a second and longer letter which, though belonging to august, , may be mentioned here, also counsels, commending the use of patience and humility. lamb is here seen in the character of a spiritual adviser. the letter is unique in his correspondence. robert lloyd was a younger brother of charles lloyd, and lamb had probably met him when on his visit to birmingham in the summer. the boy, then not quite twenty, was apprenticed to a quaker draper at saffron walden in essex.] letter charles lamb to robert southey saturday, july th, . i am ashamed that i have not thanked you before this for the "joan of arc," but i did not know your address, and it did not occur to me to write through cottle. the poem delighted me, and the notes amused me, but methinks she of neufchatel, in the print, holds her sword too "like a dancer." i sent your _notice_ to phillips, particularly requesting an immediate insertion, but i suppose it came too late. i am sometimes curious to know what progress you make in that same "calendar:" whether you insert the nine worthies and whittington? what you do or how you can manage when two saints meet and quarrel for precedency? martlemas, and candlemas, and christmas, are glorious themes for a writer like you, antiquity-bitten, smit with the love of boars' heads and rosemary; but how you can ennoble the st of april i know not. by the way i had a thing to say, but a certain false modesty has hitherto prevented me: perhaps i can best communicate my wish by a hint,--my birthday is on the th of february, new style; but if it interferes with any remarkable event, why rather than my country should lose her fame, i care not if i put my nativity back eleven days. fine family patronage for your "calendar," if that old lady of prolific memory were living, who lies (or lyes) in some church in london (saints forgive me, but i have forgot _what_ church), attesting that enormous legend of as many children as days in the year. i marvel her impudence did not grasp at a leap-year. three hundred and sixty-five dedications, and all in a family--you might spit in spirit on the oneness of maecenas' patronage! samuel taylor coleridge, to the eternal regret of his native devonshire, emigrates to westphalia--"poor lamb (these were his last words), if he wants any _knowledge_, he may apply to me,"--in ordinary cases, i thanked him, i have an "encyclopaedia" at hand, but on such an occasion as going over to a german university, i could not refrain from sending him the following propositions, to be by him defended or oppugned (or both) at leipsic or gottingen. theses quaedam theologicae i "whether god loves a lying angel better than a true man?" ii "whether the archangel uriel _could_ knowingly affirm an untruth, and whether, if he _could_, he _would_?" iii "whether honesty be an angelic virtue, or not rather belonging to that class of qualities which the schoolmen term 'virtutes minus splendidæ et hominis et terræ nimis participes?'" iv "whether the seraphim ardentes do not manifest their goodness by the way of vision and theory? and whether practice be not a sub-celestial, and merely human virtue?" v "whether the higher order of seraphim illuminati ever _sneer_?" vi "whether pure intelligences can _love_, or whether they love anything besides pure intellect?" vii "whether the beatific vision be anything more or less than a perpetual representment to each individual angel of his own present attainments, and future capabilities, something in the manner of mortal looking-glasses?" viii "whether an 'immortal and amenable soul' may not come _to be damned at last, and the man never suspect it beforehand_?" samuel taylor c. had not deigned an answer; was it impertinent of me to avail myself of that offered source of knowledge? lloyd is returned to town from ipswich where he has been with his brother. he has brought home three acts of a play which i have not yet read. the scene for the most part laid in a brothel. o tempora, o mores! but as friend coleridge said when he was talking bawdy to miss ---- "to the pure all things are pure." wishing "madoc" may be born into the world with as splendid promise as the second birth or purification of the maid of neufchatel,--i remain yours sincerely, c. lamb. i hope edith is better; my kindest remembrances to her. you have a good deal of trifling to forgive in this letter. [this is lamb's first letter to southey that has been preserved. probably others came before it. southey now becomes lamb's chief correspondent for some months. in canon ainger's transcript the letter ends with "love and remembrances to cottle." southey's _joan of arc_, second edition, had been published by cottle in . it has no frontispiece: the print of joan of arc must have come separately. phillips was sir richard phillips ( - ), editor of the _monthly magazine_ and the publisher satirised in sorrow's _lavengro_. the calendar ultimately became the _annual anthology_. southey had at first an idea of making it a poetical calendar or almanac. "that old lady of prolific memory." lamb is thinking, i imagine, of the story in howell's _familiar letters_ (also in evelyn's _diary_) of the "wonder of nature" near the hague. "that wonder of nature is a church-monument, where an earl and a lady are engraven with children about them, which were all deliver'd at one birth." the story tells that a beggar woman with twins asked alms of the countess, who denying that it was possible for two children to be born at once and vilifying the beggar, that woman cursed her and called upon god to show his judgment upon her by causing her to bear "at one birth as many children as there are days in the year, which she did before the same year's end, having never born child before." howell seems to have been convinced of the authenticity of the story by the spectacle of the christening basin used by the family. the beggar, who spoke on the third day of the year, meant as many days as had been in that year--three. edith was southey's wife.] letter charles lamb to robert southey oct. th, . dear southey,--i have at last been so fortunate as to pick up wither's emblems for you, that "old book and quaint," as the brief author of "rosamund gray" hath it; it is in a most detestable state of preservation, and the cuts are of a fainter impression than i have seen. some child, the curse of antiquaries and bane of bibliopolical rarities, hath been dabbling in some of them with its paint and dirty fingers, and in particular hath a little sullied the author's own portraiture, which i think valuable, as the poem that accompanies it is no common one; this last excepted, the emblems are far inferior to old quarles. i once told you otherwise, but i had not then read old q. with attention. i have picked up, too, another copy of quarles for ninepence!!! o tempora! o lectores!--so that if you have lost or parted with your own copy, say so, and i can furnish you, for you prize these things more than i do. you will be amused, i think, with honest wither's "supersedeas to all them whose custom it is, without any deserving, to importune authors to give unto them their books." i am sorry 'tis imperfect, as the lottery board annexed to it also is. methinks you might modernise and elegantise this supersedeas, and place it in front of your "joan of arc," as a gentle hint to messrs. park, &c. one of the happiest emblems and comicalest cuts is the owl and little chirpers, page . wishing you all amusement, which your true emblem-fancier can scarce fail to find in even bad emblems, i remain your caterer to command, c. lamb. love and respects to edith. i hope she is well. how does your calendar prosper? [this letter contains lamb's first reference to _rosamund gray_, his only novel, which had been published a little earlier in the year. "wither's _emblems_, an 'old book and quaint,'" was one of the few volumes belonging to old margaret, rosamund's grandmother (chapter i). see next letter and note. wither's _emblems_ was published in ; quarles' in the same year. i give wither's "supersedeas" in the appendix to my large edition, vol. vii., together with a reproduction of the owl and little chirpers from the edition of .] letter charles lamb to robert southey [october , .] dear southey,--i thank you heartily for the eclogue; it pleases me mightily, being so full of picture-work and circumstances. i find no fault in it, unless perhaps that joanna's ruin is a catastrophe too trite: and this is not the first or second time you have clothed your indignation, in verse, in a tale of ruined innocence. the old lady, spinning in the sun, i hope would not disdain to claim some kindred with old margaret. i could almost wish you to vary some circumstances in the conclusion. a gentleman seducer has so often been described in prose and verse; what if you had accomplished joanna's ruin by the clumsy arts and rustic gifts of some country-fellow? i am thinking, i believe, of the song, "an old woman clothed in grey, whose daughter was charming and young, and she was deluded away by roger's false nattering tongue." a roger-lothario would be a novel character: i think you might paint him very well. you may think this a very silly suggestion, and so, indeed, it is; but, in good truth, nothing else but the first words of that foolish ballad put me upon scribbling my "rosamund." but i thank you heartily for the poem. not having anything of my own to send you in return--though, to tell truth, i am at work upon something, which if i were to cut away and garble, perhaps i might send you an extract or two that might not displease you; but i will not do that; and whether it will come to anything, i know not, for i am as slow as a fleming painter when i compose anything. i will crave leave to put down a few lines of old christopher marlow's; i take them from his tragedy, "the jew of malta." the jew is a famous character, quite out of nature; but, when we consider the terrible idea our simple ancestors had of a jew, not more to be discommended for a certain discolouring (i think addison calls it) than the witches and fairies of marlow's mighty successor. the scene is betwixt barabas, the jew, and ithamora, a turkish captive exposed to sale for a slave. barabas (_a precious rascal_.) "as for myself, i walk abroad a-nights, and kill sick people groaning under walls: sometimes i go about, and poison wells; and now and then, to cherish christian thieves, i am content to lose some of my crowns, that i may, walking in my gallery, see'm go pinioned along by my door. being young, i studied physic, and began to practise first upon the italian: there i enriched the priests with burials, and always kept the sexton's arms in ure with digging graves and ringing dead men's knells; and, after that, was i an engineer, and in the wars 'twixt france and germany, under pretence of serving [helping] charles the fifth, slew friend and enemy with my stratagems. then after that was i an usurer, and with extorting, cozening, forfeiting, and tricks belonging unto brokery, i fill'd the jails with bankrupts in a year, and with young orphans planted hospitals, and every moon made some or other mad; and now and then one hang'd himself for grief, pinning upon his breast a long great scroll. how i with interest tormented him." now hear ithamore, the other gentle nature, explain how he spent his time:-- ithamore (_a comical dog_.) "faith, master, in setting christian villages on fire, chaining of eunuchs, binding galley-slaves. one time i was an hostler at [in] an inn, and in the night-time secretly would i steal to travellers' chambers, and there cut their throats. once at jerusalem, where the pilgrims kneel'd, i strowed powder on the marble stones, and therewithal their knees would rankle so, that i have laugh'd a-good to see the cripples go limping home to christendom on stilts." barabas "why, this is something"-- there is a mixture of the ludicrous and the terrible in these lines, brimful of genius and antique invention, that at first reminded me of your old description of cruelty in hell, which was in the true hogarthian style. i need not tell _you_ that marlow was author of that pretty madrigal, "come live with me, and be my love," and of the tragedy of "edward ii.," in which are certain _lines_ unequalled in our english tongue. honest walton mentions the said madrigal under the denomination of "certain smooth verses made long since by kit marlow." i am glad you have put me on the scent after old quarles. if i do not put up those eclogues, and that shortly, say i am no true-nosed hound. i have had a letter from lloyd; the young metaphysician of caius is well, and is busy recanting the new heresy, metaphysics, for the old dogma, greek. my sister, i thank you, is quite well. she had a slight attack the other day, which frightened me a good deal; but it went off unaccountably. love and respects to edith. yours sincerely, c. lamb. [the eclogue was "the ruined cottage," in which joanna and her widowed mother are at first as happy as rosamund gray and old blind margaret. as in lamb's story so in southey's poem, this state of felicity is overturned by a seducer. "an old woman clothed in gray." this ballad still eludes research. lamb says that the first line put him upon writing _rosamund gray_, but he is generally supposed to have taken his heroine's name from a song by charles lloyd, entitled "rosamund gray," published among his _poems_ in . at the end of the novel matravis, the seducer, in his ravings, sings the ballad. the "something" upon which lamb was then at work was his play "john woodvil," in those early days known as "pride's cure." "your old description of cruelty in hell." in "joan of arc." see letter . "if i do not put up those eclogues." lamb does not return to this subject. lloyd had just gone to cambridge, to caius college.] letter charles lamb to robert southey nov. , . i have read your eclogue ["the wedding"] repeatedly, and cannot call it bald, or without interest; the cast of it, and the design are completely original, and may set people upon thinking: it is as poetical as the subject requires, which asks no poetry; but it is defective in pathos. the woman's own story is the tamest part of it--i should like you to remould that--it too much resembles the young maid's history: both had been in service. even the omission would not injure the poem; after the words "growing wants," you might, not unconnectedly, introduce "look at that little chub" down to "welcome one." and, decidedly, i would have you end it somehow thus, "give them at least this evening a good meal. _gives her money_. now, fare thee well; hereafter you have taught me to give sad meaning to the village-bells," &c., which would leave a stronger impression (as well as more pleasingly recall the beginning of the eclogue), than the present common-place reference to a better world, which the woman "must have heard at church." i should like you, too, a good deal to enlarge the most striking part, as it might have been, of the poem--"is it idleness?" &c., that affords a good field for dwelling on sickness and inabilities, and old age. and you might also a good deal enrich the piece with a picture of a country wedding: the woman might very well, in a transient fit of oblivion, dwell upon the ceremony and circumstances of her own nuptials six years ago, the smugness of the bride-groom, the feastings, the cheap merriment, the welcomings, and the secret envyings of the maidens--then dropping all this, recur to her present lot. i do not know that i can suggest anything else, or that i have suggested anything new or material. i shall be very glad to see some more poetry, though i fear your trouble in transcribing will be greater than the service my remarks may do them. yours affectionately, c. lamb. i cut my letter short because i am called off to business. letter charles lamb to robert southey nov. th, . i do not know that i much prefer this eclogue [lamb has received 'the last of the flock'] to the last ['the wedding']; both are inferior to the former ['the ruined cottage']. "and when he came to shake me by the hand, and spake as kindly to me as he used, i hardly knew his voice--" is the only passage that affected me. servants speak, and their language ought to be plain, and not much raised above the common, else i should find fault with the bathos of this passage: "and when i heard the bell strike out, i thought (what?) that i had never heard it toll so dismally before." i like the destruction of the martens' old nests hugely, having just such a circumstance in my memory.[ ] i should be very glad to see your remaining eclogue, if not too much trouble, as you give me reason to expect it will be the second best. i perfectly accord with your opinion of old wither. quarles is a wittier writer, but wither lays more hold of the heart. quarles thinks of his audience when he lectures; wither soliloquises in company with a full heart. what wretched stuff are the "divine fancies" of quarles! religion appears to him no longer valuable than it furnishes matter for quibbles and riddles; he turns god's grace into wantonness. wither is like an old friend, whose warm-heartedness and estimable qualities make us wish he possessed more genius, but at the same time make us willing to dispense with that want. i always love w., and sometimes admire q. still that portrait poem is a fine one; and the extract from "the shepherds' hunting" places him in a starry height far above quarles. if you wrote that review in "crit. rev.," i am sorry you are so sparing of praise to the "ancient marinere;"--so far from calling it, as you do, with some wit, but more severity, "a dutch attempt," &c., i call it a right english attempt, and a successful one, to dethrone german sublimity. you have selected a passage fertile in unmeaning miracles, but have passed by fifty passages as miraculous as the miracles they celebrate. i never so deeply felt the pathetic as in that part, "a spring of love gush'd from my heart, and i bless'd them unaware--" it stung me into high pleasure through sufferings. lloyd does not like it; his head is too metaphysical, and your taste too correct; at least i must allege something against you both, to excuse my own dotage-- "so lonely 'twas, that god himself scarce seemed there to be!"--&c., &c. but you allow some elaborate beauties--you should have extracted 'em. "the ancient marinere" plays more tricks with the mind than that last poem, which is yet one of the finest written. but i am getting too dogmatical; and before i degenerate into abuse, i will conclude with assuring you that i am sincerely yours, c. lamb. i am going to meet lloyd at ware on saturday, to return on sunday. have you any commands or commendations to the metaphysician? i shall be very happy if you will dine or spend any time with me in your way through the great ugly city; but i know you have other ties upon you in these parts. love and respects to edith, and friendly remembrances to cottle. [footnote : the destruction of the martens' nests, in "the last of the family," runs thus:-- i remember, eight months ago, when the young squire began to alter the old mansion, they destroy'd the martins' nests, that had stood undisturb'd under that roof, ... ay! long before my memory. i shook my head at seeing it, and thought no good could follow.] [lamb's ripe judgment of wither will be found in his essay "on the poetical works of george wither," in the _works_, (see vol. i. of this edition). "the portrait poem" would be "the author's meditation upon sight of his picture," prefixed to _emblems_, . _lyrical ballads_, by wordsworth and coleridge, had just been published by cottle. "the ancient mariner" stood first. "that last poem" was wordsworth's "lines written a few miles above tintern abbey." southey (?) reviewed the book in the _critical review_ for october, . of the "ancient mariner" he said: "it is a dutch attempt at german sublimity. genius has here been employed in producing a poem of little merit." here should come a letter from lamb to robert lloyd, dated november , , not available for this edition. robert lloyd seems to have said in his last letter that the world was drained of all its sweets. lamb sends him a beautiful passage in praise of the world's good things--the first foretaste in the correspondence of his later ecstatic manner. here also should come a letter from lamb to southey, which apparently does not now exist, containing "the dying lover," an extract from lamb's play. i have taken the text from the version of the play sent to manning late in . the dying lover _margaret_. ... i knew a youth who died for grief, because his love proved so, and married to another. i saw him on the wedding day, for he was present in the church that day, and in his best apparel too, as one that came to grace the ceremony. i mark'd him when the ring was given, his countenance never changed; and when the priest pronounced the marriage blessing, he put a silent prayer up for the bride, _for they stood near who saw his lips move_. he came invited to the marriage-feast with the bride's friends, and was the merriest of them all that day; but they, who knew him best, call'd it feign'd mirth; and others said, he wore a smile like death's upon his face. his presence dash'd all the beholders' mirth, and he went away in tears. _simon_. what followed then? _marg_. oh! then he did not as neglected suitors use affect a life of solitude in shades, but lived, in free discourse and sweet society, among his friends who knew his gentle nature best. yet ever when he smiled, there was a mystery legible in his face, that whoso saw him said he was a man not long for this world.-- and true it was, for even then the silent love was feeding at his heart of which he died: nor ever spake word of reproach, only he wish'd in death that his remains might find a poor grave in some spot, not far from his mistress' family vault, "being the place where one day anna should herself be laid." the line in italics lamb crossed through in the manning copy. the last four lines he crossed through and marked "_very_ bad." i have reproduced them here because of the autobiographical hint contained in the word anna, which was the name given by lamb to his "fair-haired maid" in his love sonnets.] letter charles lamb to robert southey [probably november, .] the following is a second extract from my tragedy _that is to be_,--'tis narrated by an old steward to margaret, orphan ward of sir walter woodvil;--this, and the dying lover i gave you, are the only extracts i can give without mutilation. i expect you to like the old woman's curse: _old steward_.--one summer night, sir walter, as it chanc'd, was pacing to & fro in the avenue that westward fronts our house, among those aged oaks, said to have been planted three hundred years ago by a neighb'ring prior of the woodvil name, but so it was, being overtask't in thought, he heeded not the importune suitor who stood by the gate, and beg'd an alms. some say he shov'd her rudely from the gate with angry chiding; but i can never think (sir walter's nature hath a sweetness in it) that he would use a woman--an old woman-- with such discourtesy; for old she was who beg'd an alms of him. well, he refus'd her; whether for importunity, i know not, or that she came between his meditations. but better had he met a lion in the streets than this old woman that night; for she was one who practis'd the black arts. and served the devil--being since burn'd for witchcraft. she look'd at him like one that meant to blast him, and with a frightful noise ('twas partly like a woman's voice, and partly like the hissing of a snake) she nothing said but this (sir walter told the words): "a mischief, mischief, mischief, and a nine-times killing curse, by day and by night, to the caitive wight who shakes the poor like snakes from his door, and shuts up the womb of his purse; and a mischief, mischief, mischief, and a nine-fold withering curse,-- for that shall come to thee, that will render thee both all that thou fear'st, and worse." these words four times repeated, she departed, leaving sir walter like a man beneath whose feet a scaffolding had suddenly fal'n: so he describ'd it. _margaret_.--a terrible curse! _old steward_.--o lady, such bad things are told of that old woman, as, namely, that the milk she gave was sour, and the babe who suck'd her shrivel'd like a mandrake; and things besides, with a bigger horror in them, almost, i think, unlawful to be told! _margaret_.--then must i never hear them. but proceed, and say what follow'd on the witch's curse. _old steward_.--nothing immediate; but some nine months after, young stephen woodvil suddenly fell sick, and none could tell what ail'd him: for he lay, and pin'd, and pin'd, that all his hair came off; and he, that was full-flesh'd, became as thin as a two-months' babe that hath been starved in the nursing;-- and sure, i think, he bore his illness like a little child, with such rare sweetness of dumb melancholy he strove to clothe his agony in smiles, which he would force up in his poor, pale cheeks, like ill-tim'd guests that had no proper business there;-- and when they ask'd him his complaint, he laid his hand upon his heart to show the place where satan came to him a nights, he said, and prick'd him with a pin.-- and hereupon sir walter call'd to mind the beggar witch that stood in the gateway, and begg'd an alms-- _margaret_.--i do not love to credit tales of magic. heav'n's music, which is order, seems unstrung; and this brave world, creation's beauteous work, unbeautified, disorder'd, marr'd, where such strange things are acted. this is the extract i brag'd of, as superior to that i sent you from marlow. perhaps you smile; but i should like your remarks on the above, as you are deeper witch-read than i. [the passage quoted in this letter, with certain alterations, became afterwards "the witch," a dramatic sketch independent of "john woodvil." by the phrase "without mutilation," lamb possibly means to suggest that southey should print this sketch and "the dying lover" in the _annual anthology_. that was not, however, done. "the witch" was first printed in the _works_, . here should come a letter from lamb to robert lloyd, postmarked november , , not available for this edition. in this letter lamb sends lloyd the extract from "the witch" that was sent to southey.] letter charles lamb to robert southey nov. th, . i can have no objection to your printing "mystery of god" with my name and all due acknowledgments for the honour and favour of the communication; indeed, 'tis a poem that can dishonour no name. now, that is in the true strain of modern modesto-vanitas ... but for the sonnet, i heartily wish it, as i thought it was, dead and forgotten. if the exact circumstances under which i wrote could be known or told, it would be an interesting sonnet; but to an indifferent and stranger reader it must appear a very bald thing, certainly inadmissible in a compilation. i wish you could affix a different name to the volume; there is a contemptible book, a wretched assortment of vapid feelings, entitled "pratt's gleanings," which hath damned and impropriated the title for ever. pray think of some other. the gentleman is better known (better had he remained unknown) by an ode to benevolence, written and spoken for and at the annual dinner of the humane society, who walk in procession once a-year, with all the objects of their charity before them, to return god thanks for giving them such benevolent hearts. i like "bishop bruno;" but not so abundantly as your "witch ballad," which is an exquisite thing of its kind. 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, exclaimeth, "dark are the poet's eyes." i humbly represented to him that his own eyes were dark [? light], and many a living bard's besides, and recommended "clos'd are the poet's eyes." but that would not do. i found there was an antithesis between the darkness of his eyes and the splendour of his genius; and i acquiesced. your recipe for a turk's poison is invaluable and truly marlowish.... lloyd objects to "shutting-up the womb of his purse" in my curse (which for a christian witch in a christian country is not too mild, i hope); do you object? think there is a strangeness in the idea, as well as "shaking the poor like snakes from his door," which suits the speaker. witches illustrate, as fine ladies do, from their own familiar objects, and snakes and the shutting up of wombs are in their way. i don't know that this last charge has been before brought against 'em, nor either the sour milk or the mandrake babe; but i affirm these be things a witch would do if she could. my tragedy will be a medley (as [? and] i intend it to be a medley) of laughter and tears, prose and verse, and in some places rhyme, songs, wit, pathos, humour, and, if possible, sublimity; at least, it is not a fault in my intention, if it does not comprehend most of these discordant colours. heaven send they dance not the "dance of death!" i hear that the two noble englishmen have parted no sooner than they set foot on german earth, but i have not heard the reason--possibly, to give novelists an handle to exclaim, "ah me! what things are perfect?" i think i shall adopt your emendation in the "dying lover," though i do not myself feel the objection against "silent prayer." my tailor has brought me home a new coat lapelled, with a velvet collar. he assures me everybody wears velvet collars now. some are born fashionable, some achieve fashion, and others, like your humble servant, have fashion thrust upon them. the rogue has been making inroads hitherto by modest degrees, foisting upon me an additional button, recommending gaiters; but to come upon me thus in a full tide of luxury, neither becomes him as a tailor nor the ninth of a man. my meek gentleman was robbed the other day, coming with his wife and family in a one-horse shay from hampstead; the villains rifled him of four guineas, some shillings and half-pence, and a bundle of customers' measures, which they swore were bank-notes. they did not shoot him, and when they rode off he addrest them with profound gratitude, making a congee: "gentlemen, i wish you good night, and we are very much obliged to you that you have not used us ill!" and this is the cuckoo that has had the audacity to foist upon me ten buttons on a side and a black velvet collar--a damn'd ninth of a scoundrel! when you write to lloyd, he wishes his jacobin correspondents to address him as _mr_. c. l. love and respects to edith. i hope she is well. yours sincerely, c. lamb. [the poem "mystery of god" was, when printed in the _annual anthology_ for , entitled "living without god in the world." lamb never reprinted it. it is not clear to what sonnet lamb refers, possibly that to his sister, printed on page , which he himself never reprinted. it was at that time intended to call southey's collection _gleanings_; lamb refers to the _gleanings_ of samuel jackson pratt ( - ), a very busy maker of books, published in - . his _triumph of benevolence_ was published in . southey's witch ballad was "the old woman of berkeley." george dyer's principal works in verse are contained in his _poems_, , and _poetics_, . he retained the epithet "dark" for ossian's eyes. southey's recipe for a turk's poison i do not find. it may have existed only in a letter. a reference to the poem in letter will explain the remarks about witches' curses. the two noble englishmen (a sarcastic reference drawn, i imagine from palamon and arcite) were coleridge and wordsworth, then in germany. nothing definite is known, but they seem quite amicably to have decided to take independent courses. "lloyd's jacobin correspondents." this is lamb's only allusion to the attack which had been made by _the anti-jacobin_ upon himself, lloyd and their friends, particularly coleridge and southey. in "the new morality," in the last number of canning's paper, they had been thus grouped:-- and ye five other wandering bards that move in sweet accord of harmony and love, c-----dge and s--tb--y, l--d, and l--be & co. tune all your mystic harps to praise lepaux! --lepaux being the high-priest of theophilanthropy. when "the new morality" was reprinted in _the beauties of "the antijacobin_" in , a savage footnote on coleridge was appended, accusing him of hypocrisy and the desertion of his wife and children, and adding "_ex uno disce_ his associates southey and lamb." again, in the first number of the _anti-jacobin review and magazine_, august, , was a picture by gilray, representing the worshippers of lepaux, wherein lloyd and lamb appeared as a toad and a frog reading their own _blank verse_, and coleridge and southey, as donkeys, flourish "dactylics" and "saphics." in september the federated poets were again touched upon in a parody of the "ode to the passions":-- see! faithful to their mighty dam, c----dge, s--th--y, l--d, and l--b in splay-foot madrigals of love, soft moaning like the widow'd dove, pour, side-by-side, their sympathetic notes; of equal rights, and civic feasts, and tyrant kings, and knavish priests, swift through the land the tuneful mischief floats. and now to softer strains they struck the lyre, they sung the beetle or the mole, the dying kid, or ass's foal, by cruel man permitted to expire. lloyd took the caricature and the verses with his customary seriousness, going so far as to indite a "letter to _the anti-jacobin_ reviewers," which was printed in birmingham in . therein he defended lamb with some vigour: "the person you have thus leagued in a partnership of infamy with me is mr. charles lamb, a man who, so far from being a democrat, would be the first person to assent to the opinions contained in the foregoing pages: he is a man too much occupied with real and painful duties--duties of high personal self-denial--to trouble himself about speculative matters."] letter charles lamb to robert southey dec. , . dear southey,--your friend john may has formerly made kind offers to lloyd of serving me in the india house by the interest of his friend sir francis baring--it is not likely that i shall ever put his goodness to the test on my own account, for my prospects are very comfortable. but i know a man, a young man, whom he could serve thro' the same channel, and i think would be disposed to serve if he were acquainted with his case. this poor fellow (whom i know just enough of to vouch for his strict integrity & worth) has lost two or three employments from illness, which he cannot regain; he was once insane, & from the distressful uncertainty of his livelihood has reason to apprehend a return of that malady--he has been for some time dependant on a woman whose lodger he formerly was, but who can ill afford to maintain him, and i know that on christmas night last he actually walk'd about the streets all night, rather than accept of her bed, which she offer'd him, and offer'd herself to sleep in the kitchen, and that in consequence of that severe cold he is labouring under a bilious disorder, besides a depression of spirits, which incapacitates him from exertion when he most needs it--for god's sake, southey, if it does not go against you to ask favors, do it now--ask it as for me--but do not do a violence to your feelings, because he does not know of this application, and will suffer no disappointment--what i meant to say was this--there are in the india house what are called _extra clerks_, not on the establishment, like me, but employed in extra business, by-jobs--these get about £ a year, or rather more, but never rise--a director can put in at any time a young man in this office, and it is by no means consider'd so great a favor as making an established clerk. he would think himself as rich as an emperor if he could get such a certain situation, and be relieved from those disquietudes which i do fear may one day bring back his distemper-- you know john may better than i do, but i know enough to believe that he is a good man--he did make me that offer i have mention'd, but you will perceive that such an offer cannot authorize me in applying for another person. but i cannot help writing to you on the subject, for the young man is perpetually before my eyes, and i should feel it a crime not to strain all my petty interest to do him service, tho' i put my own delicacy to the question by so doing--i have made one other unsuccessful attempt already-- at all events i will thank you to write, for i am tormented with anxiety-- i suppose you have somewhere heard that poor mary dollin has poisoned herself, after some interviews with john reid, the ci-devant alphonso of her days of hope. how is edith? c. lamb. [john may was a friend and correspondent of southey whom he had met at lisbon: not to be confounded with coleridge's inn-keeping may. sir francis baring was a director of the east india company. have no knowledge as to who the young man was; nor have i any regarding mary dollin and john reid.] letter charles lamb to robert southey jan. st, . i am requested by lloyd to excuse his not replying to a kind letter received from you. he is at present situated in most distressful family perplexities, which i am not at liberty to explain; but they are such as to demand all the strength of his mind, and quite exclude any attention to foreign objects. his brother robert (the flower of his family) hath eloped from the persecutions of his father, and has taken shelter with me. what the issue of his adventure will be, i know not. he hath the sweetness of an angel in his heart, combined with admirable firmness of purpose: an uncultivated, but very original, and, i think, superior genius. but this step of his is but a small part of their family troubles. i am to blame for not writing to you before on _my own account_; but i know you can dispense with the expressions of gratitude, or i should have thanked you before for all may's kindness. he has liberally supplied the person i spoke to you of with money, and had procured him a situation just after himself had lighted upon a similar one and engaged too far to recede. but may's kindness was the same, and my thanks to you and him are the same. may went about on this business as if it had been his own. but you knew john may before this: so i will be silent. i shall be very glad to hear from you when convenient. i do not know how your calendar and other affairs thrive; but, above all, i have not heard a great while of your "madoc"--the _opus magnum_. i would willingly send you something to give a value to this letter; but i have only one slight passage to send you, scarce worth the sending, which i want to edge in somewhere into my play, which, by the way, hath not received the addition of ten lines, besides, since i saw you. a father, old walter woodvil (the witch's protÉgÉ) relates this of his son john, who "fought in adverse armies," being a royalist, and his father a parliamentary man:-- "i saw him in the day of worcester fight, whither he came at twice seven years, under the discipline of the lord falkland (his uncle by the mother's side, who gave his youthful politics a bent quite _from_ the principles of his father's house;) there did i see this valiant lamb of mars, this sprig of honour, this unbearded john, this veteran in green years, this sprout, this woodvil, (with dreadless ease guiding a fire-hot steed, which seem'd to scorn the manage of a boy), prick forth with such a _mirth_ into the field, to mingle rivalship and acts of war even with the sinewy masters of the art,-- you would have thought the work of blood had been a play-game merely, and the rabid mars had put his harmful hostile nature off, to instruct raw youth in images of war, and practice of the unedged players' foils. the rough fanatic and blood-practised soldiery seeing such hope and virtue in the boy, disclosed their ranks to let him pass unhurt, checking their swords' uncivil injuries, as loth to mar that curious workmanship of valour's beauty pourtray'd in his face." lloyd objects to "pourtray'd in his face,"--do you? i like the line. i shall clap this in somewhere. i think there is a spirit through the lines; perhaps the th, th, and th owe their origin to shakspeare, though no image is borrowed. he says in "henry the fourth"-- "this infant hotspur, mars in swathing clothes." [see pt. i., iii., , , .] but pray did lord falkland die before worcester fight? in that case i must make bold to unclify some other nobleman. kind love and respects to edith. c. lamb. [charles lloyd's perplexities turned probably once again on the question of his marriage. how long robert lloyd was with lamb we do not know; nor of what nature were the "persecutions" to which he was subjected. according to the evidence at our disposal, charles lloyd, sen., was a good father. southey's _madoc_ was not published until . the passage from the play was not printed in _john woodvil_. this, together with "the dying lover" are to be found only in the discarded version, printed in the notes to vol. iv. of the present edition. lord falkland had been killed at newbury eight years before worcester fight. lamb altered the names to ashley and naseby, although sir anthony cooper was not made lord ashley until sixteen years after naseby was fought.] letter charles lamb to robert southey [late january or early february, .] dr. southey,--lloyd will now be able to give you an account of himself, so to him i leave you for satisfaction. great part of his troubles are lightened by the partial recovery of his sister, who had been alarmingly ill with similar diseases to his own. the other part of the family troubles sleeps for the present, but i fear will awake at some future time to _confound_ and _disunite_. he will probably tell you all about it. robert still continues here with me, his father has proposed nothing, but would willingly lure him back with fair professions. but robert is endowed with a wise fortitude, and in this business has acted quite from himself, and wisely acted. his parents must come forward in the end. i like reducing parents to a sense of undutifulness. i like confounding the relations of life. pray let me see you when you come to town, and contrive to give me some of your company. i thank you heartily for your intended presents, but do by no means see the necessity you are under of burthening yourself thereby. you have read old wither's supersedeas to small purpose. you object to my pauses being at the end of my lines. i do not know any great difficulty i should find in diversifying or changing my blank verse; but i go upon the model of shakspere in my play, and endeavour after a colloquial ease and spirit, something like him. i could so easily imitate milton's versification; but my ear & feeling would reject it, or any approaches to it, in the _drama_. i do not know whether to be glad or sorry that witches have been detected aforetimes in shutting up of wombs. i certainly invented that conceit, and its coincidence with fact is incidental [? accidental], for i never heard it. i have not seen those verses on col. despard--i do not read any newspapers. are they short, to copy without much trouble? i should like to see them. i just send you a few rhymes from my play, the only rhymes in it--a forest-liver giving an account of his amusements:-- what sports have you in the forest? not many,--some few,--as thus. to see the sun to bed, and see him rise, like some hot amourist with glowing eyes, bursting the lazy bands of sleep that bound him: with all his fires and travelling glories round him: sometimes the moon on soft night-clouds to rest, like beauty nestling in a young man's breast, and all the winking stars, her handmaids, keep admiring silence, while those lovers sleep: sometimes outstretch'd in very idleness, nought doing, saying little, thinking less, to view the leaves, thin dancers upon air, go eddying round; and small birds how they fare, when mother autumn fills their beaks with corn, filch'd from the careless amalthea's horn; and how the woods berries and worms provide, without their pains, when earth hath nought beside to answer their small wants; to view the graceful deer come trooping by, then pause, and gaze, then turn they know not why, like bashful younkers in society; to mark the structure of a plant or tree; and all fair things of earth, how fair they be! &c. &c. i love to anticipate charges of unoriginality: the first line is almost shakspere's:-- "to have my love to bed & to arise." _midsummer nights dream_ [iii., i, ]. i think there is a sweetness in the versification not unlike some rhymes in that exquisite play, and the last line but three is yours: "an eye that met the gaze, or turn'd it knew not why." _rosamund's epistle_. i shall anticipate all my play, and have nothing to shew you. an idea for leviathan:-- commentators on job have been puzzled to find out a meaning for leviathan,--'tis a whale, say some; a crocodile, say others. in my simple conjecture, leviathan is neither more nor less than the lord mayor of london for the time being. "rosamund" sells well in london, maugre the non-reviewal of it. i sincerely wish you better health, & better health to edith, kind remembrances to her. c. lamb. if you come to town by ash wednesday [february ], you will certainly see lloyd here--i expect him by that time. my sister mary was never in better health or spirits than now. [writing in june, , to robert lloyd, priscilla, his sister, says: "lamb would not i think by any means be a person to take up your abode with. he is too much like yourself--he would encourage those feelings which it certainly is your duty to suppress. your station in life--the duties which are pointed out by that rank in society which you are destined to fill--differ widely from his." when next we hear of robert lloyd he has returned to birmingham, where his father soon afterwards bought him a partnership in a bookselling and printing business. "col. despard." i have not found the verses. colonel edward marcus despard, after a career that began brilliantly, was imprisoned in the spring of and executed for high treason in . the rhymed passage from _john woodvil_ is that which is best known. hazlitt relates that godwin was so taken with it when he first read it that he asked every one he met to tell him the author and play, and at last applied to lamb himself.] letter charles lamb to robert southey march th, . dear southey,--i have received your little volume, for which i thank you, though i do not entirely approve of this sort of intercourse, where the presents are all one side. i have read the last eclogue again with great pleasure. it hath gained considerably by abridgment, and now i think it wants nothing but enlargement. you will call this one of tyrant procrustes' criticisms, to cut and pull so to his own standard; but the old lady is so great a favourite with me, i want to hear more of her; and of "joanna" you have given us still less. but the picture of the rustics leaning over the bridge, and the old lady travelling abroad on a summer evening to see her garden watered, are images so new and true, that i decidedly prefer this "ruin'd cottage" to any poem in the book. indeed i think it the only one that will bear comparison with your "hymn to the penates" in a former volume. i compare dissimilar things, as one would a rose and a star for the pleasure they give us, or as a child soon learns to choose between a cake and a rattle; for dissimilars have mostly some points of comparison. the next best poem, i think, is the first eclogue; 'tis very complete, and abounding in little pictures and realities. the remainder eclogues, excepting only the "funeral," i do not greatly admire. i miss _one_, which had at least as good a title to publication as the "witch," or the "sailor's mother." you call'd it the "last of the family." the "old woman of berkeley" comes next; in some humours i would give it the preference above any. but who the devil is matthew of westminster? you are as familiar with these antiquated monastics, as swedenborg, or, as his followers affect to call him, the baron, with his invisibles. but you have raised a very comic effect out of the true narrative of matthew of westminster. 'tis surprising with how little addition you have been able to convert with so little alteration his incidents, meant for terror, into circumstances and food for the spleen. the parody is _not_ so successful; it has one famous line indeed, which conveys the finest death-bed image i ever met with: "the doctor whisper'd the nurse, and the surgeon knew what he said." but the offering the bride three times bears not the slightest analogy or proportion to the fiendish noises three times heard! in "jaspar," the circumstance of the great light is very affecting. but i had heard you mention it before. the "rose" is the only insipid piece in the volume; it hath neither thorns nor sweetness, and, besides, sets all chronology and probability at defiance. "cousin margaret," you know, i like. the allusions to the "pilgrim's progress" are particularly happy, and harmonise tacitly and delicately with old cousins and aunts. to familiar faces we do associate familiar scenes and accustomed objects; but what hath apollidon and his sea-nymphs to do in these affairs? apollyon i could have borne, though he stands for the devil; but who is apollidon? i think you are too apt to conclude faintly, with some cold moral, as in the end of the poem called "the victory"-- "be thou her comforter, who art the widow's friend;" a single common-place line of comfort, which bears no proportion in weight or number to the many lines which describe suffering. this is to convert religion into mediocre feelings, which should burn, and glow, and tremble. a moral should be wrought into the body and soul, the matter and tendency, of a poem, not tagged to the end, like a "god send the good ship into harbour," at the conclusion of our bills of lading. the finishing of the "sailor" is also imperfect. any dissenting minister may say and do as much. these remarks, i know, are crude and unwrought; but i do not lay claim to much accurate thinking. i never judge system-wise of things, but fasten upon particulars. after all, there is a great deal in the book that i must, for time, leave _unmentioned_, to deserve my thanks for its own sake, as well as for the friendly remembrances implied in the gift. i again return you my thanks. pray present my love to edith. c. l. [southey's little volume was vol. ii. of the second edition of his _poems_, published in . the last of the english eclogues included in it was "the ruined cottage," slightly altered from the version referred to in letter . the "hymn to the penates" brought the first volume of this edition to a close. the first eclogue was "the old mansion house." "the old woman of berkeley" was called "a ballad showing how an old woman rode double and who rode before her." it was preceded by a long quotation in latin from matthew of westminster. matthew of westminster is the imaginary name given to the unknown authors of a chronicle called _flares historiarum_, belonging probably to the fifteenth century. the parody was "the surgeon's warning," which begins with the two lines that lamb prints as one:-- the doctor whisper'd to the nurse, and the surgeon knew what he said. "the rose" was blank verse, addressed to edith southey. "cousin margaret" was a "metrical letter written from london," in which there are allusions to bunyan. the reference to apollidon is explained by these lines:-- the sylphs should waft us to some goodly isle, like that where whilome old apollidon built up his blameless spell.] letter charles lamb to robert southey march oth, . i am hugely pleased with your "spider," "your old freemason," as you call him. the three first stanzas are delicious; they seem to me a compound of burns and old quarles, those kind of home-strokes, where more is felt than strikes the ear; a terseness, a jocular pathos, which makes one feel in laughter. the measure, too, is novel and pleasing. i could almost wonder rob. burns in his lifetime never stumbled upon it. the fourth stanza is less striking, as being less original. the fifth falls off. it has no felicity of phrase, no old-fashioned phrase or feeling. "young hopes, and love's delightful dreams," savour neither of burns nor quarles; they seem more like shreds of many a modern sentimental sonnet. the last stanza hath nothing striking in it, if i except the two concluding lines, which are burns all over. i wish, if you concur with me, these things could be looked to. i am sure this is a kind of writing, which comes tenfold better recommended to the heart, comes there more like a neighbour or familiar, than thousands of hamuels and zillahs and madelons. i beg you will send me the "holly-tree," if it at all resemble this, for it must please me. i have never seen it. i love this sort of poems, that open a new intercourse with the most despised of the animal and insect race. i think this vein may be further opened; peter pindar hath very prettily apostrophised a fly; burns hath his mouse and his louse; coleridge, less successfully, hath made overtures of intimacy to a jackass, therein only following at unresembling distance sterne and greater cervantes. besides these, i know of no other examples of breaking down the partition between us and our "poor earth-born companions." it is sometimes revolting to be put in a track of feeling by other people, not one's own immediate thoughts, else i would persuade you, if i could (i am in earnest), to commence a series of these animal poems, which might have a tendency to rescue some poor creatures from the antipathy of mankind. some thoughts come across me;--for instance--to a rat, to a toad, to a cockchafer, to a mole--people bake moles alive by a slow oven-fire to cure consumption. rats are, indeed, the most despised and contemptible parts of god's earth. i killed a rat the other day by punching him to pieces, and feel a weight of blood upon me to this hour. toads you know are made to fly, and tumble down and crush all to pieces. cockchafers are old sport; then again to a worm, with an apostrophe to anglers, those patient tyrants, meek inflictors of pangs intolerable, cool devils; to an owl; to all snakes, with an apology for their poison; to a cat in boots or bladders. your own fancy, if it takes a fancy to these hints, will suggest many more. a series of such poems, suppose them accompanied with plates descriptive of animal torments, cooks roasting lobsters, fishmongers crimping skates, &c., &c., would take excessively. i will willingly enter into a partnership in the plan with you: i think my heart and soul would go with it too--at least, give it a thought. my plan is but this minute come into my head; but it strikes me instantaneously as something new, good and useful, full of pleasure and full of moral. if old quarles and wither could live again, we would invite them into our firm. burns hath done his part. i the other day threw off an extempore epitaph on ensign peacock of the rd regt. of the royal east india volunteers, who like other boys in this scarlet tainted age was ambitious of playing at soldiers, but dying in the first flash of his valour was at the particular instance of his relations buried with military honours! like any veteran scarr'd or chopt from blenheim or ramilies. (he was buried in sash and gorget.) marmor loquitur he lies a volunteer so fine, who died of a decline, as you or i, may do one day; reader, think of this, i pray; and i numbly hope you'll drop a tear for my poor royal volunteer. he was as brave as brave could be, nobody was so brave as he; he would have died in honor's bed, only he died at home instead. well may the royal regiment swear, they never had such a volunteer. but whatsoever they may say, death is a man that will have his way: tho' he was but an ensign in this world of pain; in the next we hope he'll be a captain. and without meaning to make any reflection on his mentals, he begg'd to be buried in regimentals. sed hæ sunt lamentabilis nugæ--but 'tis as good as some epitaphs you and i have read together in christ-church-yard. poor sam. le grice! i am afraid the world, and the camp, and the university, have spoilt him among them. 'tis certain he had at one time a strong capacity of turning out something better. i knew him, and that not long since, when he had a most warm heart. i am ashamed of the indifference i have sometimes felt towards him. i think the devil is in one's heart. i am under obligations to that man for the warmest friendship and heartiest sympathy, even for an agony of sympathy exprest both by word and deed, and tears for me, when i was in my greatest distress. but i have forgot that! as, i fear, he has nigh forgot the awful scenes which were before his eyes when he served the office of a comforter to me. no service was too mean or troublesome for him to perform. i can't think what but the devil, "that old spider," could have suck'd my heart so dry of its sense of all gratitude. if he does come in your way, southey, fail not to tell him that i retain a most affectionate remembrance of his old friendliness, and an earnest wish to resume our intercourse. in this i am serious. i cannot recommend him to your society, because i am afraid whether he be quite worthy of it. but i have no right to dismiss him from _my_ regard. he was at one time, and in the worst of times, my own familiar friend, and great comfort to me then. i have known him to play at cards with my father, meal-times excepted, literally all day long, in long days too, to save me from being teased by the old man, when i was not able to bear it. god bless him for it, and god bless you, southey. c. l. [peter pindar (dr. john wolcot) has an ode "to a fly, taken out of a bowl of punch." he also wrote "the lousiad." "poor earth-born companions." from burns' "lines to a mouse," nd stanza, line . "toads are made to fly." filliping the toad was an old pastime. a toad was placed on one end of a piece of wood, laid crosswise over a stone. the other end was struck with a beetle (_i.e._, a mallet), and the toad flew into the air. falstaff says: "fillip me with a three-man beetle." as to worms and fishermen, the late mrs. coe, who as a girl had known lamb at widford, told me that he could rarely, if ever, be tempted to join the anglers. affixing the worm was too much for him. "barbarous, barbarous," he used to say. lamb's project for a series of animal poems has to some extent been carried out by a living poet, mr. a. c. benson. neither lamb nor southey pursued it. we met sam le grice in the letter of october , . to what escapade lamb refers i do not know, but he was addicted to folly. it was sam le grice of whom leigh hunt in his _autobiography_ tells the excellent tale that he excused himself to his master for not having performed a task, by the remark that he had had a "lethargy." in april of this year died john lamb, the father. charles lamb probably at once moved from chapel street to no. , where mary lamb joined him. between this and the next letter should probably come a letter from lamb to robert lloyd, not available for this edition. it seems to follow upon robert lloyd's departure from lamb's house, and remarks that lamb knows but one being that he could ever consent to live perpetually with, and that is robert--but robert must go whither prudence and paternal regulations dictate. lamb also refers to a poem of an intimate character by charles lloyd in the _annual anthology_ ("lines to a brother and sister"), remarking that, in his opinion, these domestic addresses should not always be made public. there is also a reference to charles lloyd's novel, which lamb says he wants to read if he may be permitted a sight of it. this would be _isabel_.] letter charles lamb to robert southey oct. st, . dear southey,--i have but just got your letter, being returned from herts, where i have passed a few red-letter days with much pleasure. i would describe the county to you, as you have done by devonshire, but alas! i am a poor pen at that same. i could tell you of an old house with a tapestry bed-room, the "judgment of solomon" composing one pannel, and "actæon spying diana naked" the other. i could tell of an old marble hall, with hogarth's prints and the roman caesars in marble hung round. i could tell of a _wilderness_, and of a village church, and where the bones of my honoured grandam lie; but there are feelings which refuse to be translated, sulky aborigines, which will not be naturalised in another soil. of this nature are old family faces and scenes of infancy. i have given your address, and the books you want, to the arches; they will send them as soon as they can get them, but they do not seem quite familiar to [? with] their names. i have seen gebor! gebor aptly so denominated from geborish, _quasi_ gibberish. but gebor hath some lucid intervals. i remember darkly one beautiful simile veiled in uncouth phrases about the youngest daughter of the ark. i shall have nothing to communicate, i fear, to the anthology. you shall have some fragments of my play, if you desire them, but i think i would rather print it whole. have you seen it, or shall i lend you a copy? i want your opinion of it. i must get to business, so farewell. my kind remembrances to edith. c. lamb. [lamb had probably been staying at widford. many years later he described his hertfordshire days in more than one essay (see the _elia_ essays "mackery end" and "blakesmoor in h-----shire" and "dream-children"). the old house was, of course, blakesware. the wilderness, which lay at the back of the house, is, with widford, mentioned in _rosamund gray_. the arches were the brothers arch, the booksellers of ludgate hill. gebor stands for _gebir_, landor's poem, published in . the simile in question would be this: from book vii., lines - :-- never so eager, when the world was waves, stood the less daughter of the ark, and tried (innocent this temptation) to recall with folded vest and casting arm the dove. the reference to southey's anthology is to vol. ii., then in preparation. the play was now finished: it circulated in manuscript before being published in . in a letter to robert lloyd, dated december , , lamb thanks him for a present of porter, adding that wine makes him hot, and brandy drunk, but porter warms without intoxication. here should come an unpublished letter from lamb to charles lloyd at cambridge, asking for the return of his play. kemble, he says, had offered to put it in the hands of the proprietor of drury lane, and therefore lamb wishes to have a second copy in the house. kemble, as it turned out, returned no answer for a year, and then he stated that he had lost the copy. lamb mentions coleridge's settlement with his family in lodgings in the adelphi. coleridge, having returned from germany and undertaken work for the _morning post_, took lodgings at buckingham street, strand, close to the adelphi, in november, . the letter is interesting in containing the first mention of manning, whom we are now to meet.] letter charles lamb to thomas manning dec., . dear manning,--the particular kindness, even up to a degree of attachment, which i have experienced from you, seems to claim some distinct acknowledgment on my part. i could not content myself with a bare remembrance to you, conveyed in some letter to lloyd. will it be agreeable to you, if i occasionally recruit your memory of me, which must else soon fade, if you consider the brief intercourse we have had. i am not likely to prove a troublesome correspondent. my scribbling days are past. i shall have no sentiments to communicate, but as they spring up from some living and worthy occasion. i look forward with great pleasure to the performance of your promise, that we should meet in london early in the ensuing year. the century must needs commence auspiciously for me, that brings with it manning's friendship as an earnest of its after gifts. i should have written before, but for a troublesome inflammation in one of my eyes, brought on by night travelling with the coach windows sometimes up. what more i have to say shall be reserved for a letter to lloyd. i must not prove tedious to you in my first outset, lest i should affright you by my ill-judged loquacity. i am, yours most sincerely, c. lamb. [this is the first letter that has been preserved in the correspondence between lamb and manning. lamb first met manning at cambridge, in the autumn of , when on a visit to charles lloyd. much of manning's history will be unfolded as the letters proceed, but here it should be stated that he was born on november , , and was thus a little more than two years older than lamb. he was at this time acting as private tutor in mathematics at cambridge, among his pupils being charles lloyd, of caius, manning's own college. manning, however, did not take his degree, owing to an objection to oaths and tests. lamb's reference to the beginning of the century shows that he shared with many other non-mathematically-minded persons the belief that the century begins with the hundredth, and not the hundred and first, year. he says of manning, in the _elia_ essay "the old and the new schoolmaster": "my friend m., with great painstaking, got me to think i understood the first proposition in euclid, but gave me over in despair at the second."] letter charles lamb to thomas manning dec. th, . dear manning,--having suspended my correspondence a decent interval, as knowing that even good things may be taken to satiety, a wish cannot but recur to learn whether you be still well and happy. do all things continue in the state i left them in cambridge? do your night parties still flourish? and do you continue to bewilder your company with your thousand faces running down through all the keys of idiotism (like lloyd over his perpetual harpsicord), from the smile and the glimmer of half-sense and quarter-sense to the grin and hanging lip of betty foy's own johnny? and does the face-dissolving curfew sound at twelve? how unlike the great originals were your petty terrors in the postscript, not fearful enough to make a fairy shudder, or a lilliputian fine lady, eight months full of child, miscarry. yet one of them, which had more beast than the rest, i thought faintly resembled _one_ of your brutifications. but, seriously, i long to see your own honest manning-face again. i did not mean a pun,--your _man's_ face, you will be apt to say, i know your wicked will to pun. i cannot now write to lloyd and you too, so you must convey as much interesting intelligence as this may contain, or be thought to contain, to him and sophia, with my dearest love and remembrances. by the by, i think you and sophia both incorrect with regard to the _title_ of the _play_. allowing your objection (which is not necessary, as pride may be, and is in real life often, cured by misfortunes not directly originating from its own acts, as jeremy taylor will tell you a naughty desire is sometimes sent to cure it--i know you read these _practical divines_). but allowing your objection, does not the betraying of his father's secret directly spring from pride?--from the pride of wine and a full heart, and a proud over-stepping of the ordinary rules of morality, and contempt of the prejudices of mankind, which are not to bind superior souls--"as _trust_ in _the matter_ of _secret_ all _ties_ of _blood_, &c., &c., keeping of _promises_, the feeble mind's religion, binding our _morning knowledge_ to the performance of what _last night's ignorance_ spake"--does he not prate, that "_great spirits_" must do more than die for their friend--does not the pride of wine incite him to display some evidence of friendship, which its own irregularity shall make great? this i know, that i meant his punishment not alone to be a cure for his daily and habitual _pride_, but the direct consequence and appropriate punishment of a particular act of pride. if you do not understand it so, it is my fault in not explaining my meaning. i have not seen coleridge since, and scarcely expect to see him,--perhaps he has been at cambridge. i dined with him in town and breakfasted with him and priscilla, who you may tell charles has promised to come and see me when she returns [to] clapham. i will write to charles on monday. need i turn over to blot a fresh clean half-sheet? merely to say, what i hope you are sure of without my repeating it, that i would have you consider me, dear manning, your sincere friend, c. lamb. what is your proper address? ["betty foy's own johnny"--"the idiot boy," in the _lyrical ballads_. "in the postscript." a reference presumably to some drawings of faces in one of manning's letters. "the title of the play." writing to lamb on december , , manning had said: "i had some conversation the other day with sophia concerning your tragedy; and she made some very sensible observations (as i thought) with respect to the unfitness of its title, 'the folly,' whose consequences humble the pride and ambition of john's heart, does not originate in the workings of those passions, but from an underpart in his character, and as it were accidentally, _viz_., from the ebullitions of a drunken mind and from a rash confidence." "you will understand what i mean, without my explaining myself any further. god bless you, and keep you from all evil things, that walk upon the face of the earth--i mean nightmares, hobgoblins and spectres." lamb refers in this letter particularly to act iii. of his play. "i have not seen coleridge since." since when is not clear. possibly coleridge had been at cambridge when lamb was there.] letter charles lamb to s.t. coleridge ? jan. , . dear coleridge,--now i write, i cannot miss this opportunity of acknowledging the obligations myself, and the readers in general of that luminous paper, the "morning post," are under to you for the very novel and exquisite manner in which you combined political with grammatical science, in your yesterday's dissertation on mr. wyndham's unhappy composition. it must have been the death-blow to that ministry. i expect pitt and grenville to resign. more especially the delicate and cottrellian grace with which you officiated, with a ferula for a white wand, as gentleman usher to the word "also," which it seems did not know its place. i expect manning of cambridge in town to-night--will you fulfil your promise of meeting him at my house? he is a man of a thousand. give me a line to say what day, whether saturday, sunday, monday, &c., and if sara and the philosopher can come. i am afraid if i did not at intervals call upon you, i should _never see you_. but i forget, the affairs of the nation engross your time and your mind. farewell. c.l. [the first letter that has been preserved of the second period of lamb's correspondence with coleridge, which was to last until the end. in the _morning post_ of january , , had appeared the correspondence between buonaparte and lord grenville, in which buonaparte made an offer of peace. lord grenville's note, it was pointed out in the _morning post_ for january , was really written by william windham, secretary for war, and on january appeared an article closely criticising its grammar. here is the passage concerning "also," to which lamb particularly alludes a little later in the letter:-- ... "the _same_ system, to the prevalence of which france justly ascribes all her present miseries, is that which has _also_ involved the rest of europe in a long and destructive warfare, of a nature long since unknown _to_ the practice of civilized nations." here the connective word "also" should have followed the word "europe." as it at present stands, the sentence implies that france, miserable as she may be, has, however, not been involved in a warfare. the word "same" is absolutely expletive; and by appearing to refer the reader to some foregoing clause, it not only loads the sentence, but renders it obscure. the word "to" is absurdly used for the word "in." a thing may be unknown _to_ practitioners, as humanity and sincerity may be unknown to the practitioners of state-craft, and foresight, science, and harmony may have been unknown to the planners and practitioners of continental expeditions; but even "cheese-parings and candle-ends" cannot be known or unknown "_to_" a practice!! windham was destined to be attacked by another stalwart in lamb's circle, for it was his speech in opposition to lord erskine's cruelty to animals bill in that inspired john lamb to write his fierce pamphlet (see page ). "cottrellian grace." the cotterells were masters of the ceremonies from to . the philosopher was hartley coleridge, aged three, so called after his great namesake, david hartley. the coleridges were now, as we have seen, living at buckingham street, strand.] letter charles lamb to thomas manning [p.m. feb. , .] dear manning,--olivia is a good girl, and if you turn to my letter, you will find that this very plea you set up to vindicate lloyd i had made use of as a reason why he should never have employed olivia to make a copy of such a letter--a letter i could not have sent to my enemy's b----h, if she had thought fit to seek me in the way of marriage. but you see it in one view, i in another. rest you merry in your opinion! opinion is a species of property; and though i am always desirous to share with my friend to a certain extent, i shall ever like to keep some tenets and some property properly my own. some day, manning, when we meet, substituting corydon and fair amaryllis, for charles lloyd and mary hayes, we will discuss together this question of moral feeling, "in what cases and how far sincerity is a virtue?" i do not mean truth--a good olivia-like creature--god bless her, who, meaning no offence, is always ready to give an answer when she is asked why she did so and so; but a certain forward-talking half-brother of hers, sincerity, that amphibious gentleman, who is so ready to perk up his obnoxious sentiments unasked into your notice, as midas would his ears into your face uncalled for. but i despair of doing anything by a letter in the way of explaining or coming to explanations. a good wish, or a pun, or a piece of secret history, may be well enough that way conveyed; nay, it has been known that intelligence of a turkey hath been conveyed by that medium without much ambiguity. godwin i am a good deal pleased with. he is a very well-behaved, decent man, nothing very brilliant about him, or imposing, as you may suppose; quite another guess sort of gentleman from what your anti-jacobin christians imagine him. i was well pleased to find he has neither horns nor claws; quite a tame creature, i assure you. a middle-sized man, both in stature and in understanding; whereas, from his noisy fame, you would expect to find a briareus centimanus, or a tityus tall enough to pull jupiter from his heavens. i begin to think you atheists not quite so tall a species. coleridge inquires after you pretty often. i wish to be the pandar to bring you together again once before i die. when we die, you and i must part; the sheep, you know, take the right hand, and the goats the left. stripped of its allegory, you must know, the sheep are _i_ and the apostles, and the martyrs, and the popes, and bishop taylor, and bishop horsley, and coleridge, &c., &c.; the goats are the atheists and the adulterers, and dumb dogs, and godwin and m-----g, and that thyestaean 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. pray, is it a part of your sincerity to show my letters to lloyd? for really, gentlemen ought to explain their virtues upon a first acquaintance, to prevent mistakes. god bless you, manning. take my trifling _as trifling_; and believe me, seriously and deeply, your well-wisher and friend, c. l. [mary hayes was a friend of mary wollstonecraft, and also of southey and coleridge. she wrote a novel, _memoirs of emma courtney_, which lloyd says contained her own love letters to godwin and frend, and also _female biography, or memoirs of illustrious and celebrated women_. lloyd and she had been very intimate. a passage from a letter of coleridge to southey, dated january , , bears upon the present situation: "miss hayes i have seen. charles lloyd's conduct has been atrocious beyond what you stated. lamb himself confessed to me that during the time in which he kept up his ranting, sentimental correspondence with miss hayes, he frequently read her letters in company, as a subject for _laughter_, and then sate down and answered them quite _à la rousseau_! poor lloyd! every hour new-creates him; he is his own posterity in a perpetually flowing series, and his body unfortunately retaining an external identity, _their_ mutual contradictions and disagreeings are united under one name, and of course are called lies, treachery, and rascality!" another letter from lamb to manning at this time tells the story of the charles lloyd and mary hayes imbroglio. lloyd had written to miss hayes a very odd letter concerning her godwinite creed, in which he refers to her belief that she was in love with him and repeats old stories that she had been in love both with godwin and frend. here is one sentence: "in the confounding medley of ordinary conversation, i have interwoven my abhorrence of your principles with a glanced contempt for your personal character." this letter lloyd had given to his sister olivia to copy--"an ignorant quaker girl," says lamb, "i mean ignorant in the best sense, who ought not to know, that such a thing was possible or in rerum naturae that a woman should court a man." later: "as long as lloyd or i have known col. [coleridge] so long have we known him in the daily and hourly habit of quizzing the world by lyes, most unaccountable and most disinterested fictions." and here is one more passage: "to sum up my inferences from the above facts, i am determined to live a merry life in the midst of sinners. i try to consider all men as such, and to pitch any expectations from human nature as low as possible. in this view, all unexpected virtues are godsends and beautiful exceptions." lamb had just met william godwin ( - ), probably having been introduced to him by coleridge. godwin, known chiefly by his _political justice_, ; _caleb williams_, , and _st. leon_, , stood at that time for everything that was advanced in thought and conduct. we shall meet with him often in the correspondence of the next few years. bishop horsley (then of rochester, afterwards st. asaph's) was probably included ironically, on account of his hostility to priestley.] letter charles lamb to thomas manning [p.m. march , .] i hope by this time you are prepared to say the "falstaf's letters" are a bundle of the sharpest, queerest, profoundest humours, of any these juice-drained latter times have spawned. i should have advertised you, that the meaning is frequently hard to be got at; and so are the future guineas, that now lie ripening and aurifying in the womb of some undiscovered potosi; but dig, dig, dig, dig, manning! i set to with an unconquerable propulsion to write, with a lamentable want of what to write. my private goings on are orderly as the movements of the spheres, and stale as their music to angels' ears. public affairs--except as they touch upon me, and so turn into private, i cannot whip up my mind to feel any interest in. i grieve, indeed, that war and nature, and mr. pitt, that hangs up in lloyd's best parlour, should have conspired to call up three necessaries, simple commoners as our fathers knew them, into the upper house of luxuries; bread, and beer, and coals, manning. but as to france and frenchmen, and the abbé sièyes and his constitutions, i cannot make these present times present to me. i read histories of the past, and i live in them; although, to abstract senses, they are far less momentous than the noises which keep europe awake. i am reading burnet's own times. did you ever read that garrulous, pleasant history? he tells his story like an old man past political service, bragging to his sons on winter evenings of the part he took in public transactions, when his "old cap was new." full of scandal, which all true history is. no palliatives, but all the stark wickedness, that actually gives the _momentum_ to national actors. quite the prattle of age and out-lived importance. truth and sincerity staring out upon you perpetually in _alto relievo_. himself a party man--he makes you a party man. none of the damned philosophical humeian indifference, so cold, and unnatural, and inhuman! none of the damned gibbonian fine writing, so fine and composite. none of mr. robertson's periods with three members. none of mr. roscoe's sage remarks, all so apposite, and coming in so clever, lest the reader should have had the trouble of drawing an inference. burnet's good old prattle i can bring present to my mind--i can make the revolution present to me; the french revolution, by a converse perversity in my nature, i fling as far _from_ me. to quit this damn'd subject, and to relieve you from two or three dismal yawns, which i hear in spirit, i here conclude my more than commonly obtuse letter; dull up to the dulness of a dutch commentator on shakspeare. my love to lloyd and sophia. c. l. ["war and nature, and mr. pitt." the war had sent up taxation to an almost unbearable height. pitt was chancellor of exchequer, as well as prime minister. hume, gibbon and robertson were among the books which, in the elia essay "detached thoughts on books and reading," lamb described as _biblia-a-biblia_. william roscoe's principal work was his _life of lorenzo de' medici_, .] letter charles lamb to thomas manning [p.m. march , .] dear manning,--i am living in a continuous feast. coleridge has been with me now for nigh three weeks, and the more i see of him in the quotidian undress and relaxation of his mind, the more cause i see to love him, and believe him a _very good man_, and all those foolish impressions to the contrary fly off like morning slumbers. he is engaged in translations, which i hope will keep him this month to come. he is uncommonly kind and friendly to me. he ferrets me day and night to _do something_. he tends me, amidst all his own worrying and heart-oppressing occupations, as a gardener tends his young _tulip_. marry come up! what a pretty similitude, and how like your humble servant! he has lugged me to the brink of engaging to a newspaper, and has suggested to me for a first plan the forgery of a supposed manuscript of burton the anatomist of melancholy. i have even written the introductory letter; and, if i can pick up a few guineas this way, i feel they will be most _refreshing_, bread being so dear. if i go on with it, i will apprise you of it, as you may like to see my thing's! and the _tulip_, of all flowers, loves to be admired most. pray pardon me, if my letters do not come very thick. i am so taken up with one thing or other, that i cannot pick out (i will not say time, but) fitting times to write to you. my dear love to lloyd and sophia, and pray split this thin letter into three parts, and present them with the _two biggest_ in my name. they are my oldest friends; but ever the new friend driveth out the old, as the ballad sings! god bless you all three! i would hear from lloyd, if i could. c. l. flour has just fallen nine shillings a sack! we shall be all too rich. tell charles i have seen his mamma, and have almost fallen in love with _her_, since i mayn't with olivia. she is so fine and graceful, a complete matron-lady-quaker. she has given me two little books. olivia grows a charming girl--full of feeling, and thinner than she was. but i have not time to fall in love. mary presents her _general compliments_. she keeps in fine health! huzza! boys, and down with the atheists. [coleridge, having sent his wife and hartley into the country, had, for a while, taken up his abode with lamb at pentonville, and given up the _morning post_ in order to proceed with his translation of schiller's _wallenstein_. lamb's forgery of burton, together with those mentioned in the next letter, which were never printed by stuart, for whom they were written, was included in the _john woodvil_ volume, , among the "curious fragments, extracted from a commonplace book, which belonged to robert burton, the famous author of the anatomy of melancholy." see the _miscellaneous prose_, vol. i. of this edition. "they are my oldest friends." coleridge and southey were, of course, older. the ballad i have not found. mrs. charles lloyd, sen., _née_ mary farmer, and olivia, her second daughter, had been staying in london. lamb had breakfasted with them. the reference to atheists is explained by a passage from manning's letter to lamb in march, : "one thing tho' i must beg of you--that is not to call me atheist in your letters--for though it may be mere raillery in you, and not meant as a serious imputation on my faith, yet, if the catholic or any other intolerant religion should [illegible] and become established in england, (which [illegible] if the bishop of r----r may be the case) and if the post-people should happen to open and read your letters, (which, considering the sometimes quaintness of their form, they may possibly be incited to do) such names might send me to smithfield on a hurdle,--and nothing _upon earth_ is more discordant to my wishes, than to become one of the smithfield illuminati."] letter charles lamb to thomas manning [p.m. april , .] c.l.'s moral sense presents her compliments to doctor manning, is very thankful for his medical advice, but is happy to add that her disorder has died of itself. dr. manning, coleridge has left us, to go into the north, on a visit to his god wordsworth. with him have flown all my splendid prospects of engagement with the "morning post," all my visionary guineas, the deceitful wages of unborn scandal. in truth, i wonder you took it up so seriously. all my intention was but to make a little sport with such public and fair game as mr. pitt, mr. wilberforce, mrs. fitzherbert, the devil, &c.--gentry dipped in styx all over, whom no paper javelin-lings can touch. to have made free with these cattle, where was the harm? 'twould have been but giving a polish to lampblack, not nigrifying a negro primarily. after all, i cannot but regret my involuntary virtue. damn virtue that's thrust upon us; it behaves itself with such constraint, till conscience opens the window and lets out the goose. i had struck off two imitations of burton, quite abstracted from any modern allusions, which it was my intent only to lug in from time to time to make 'em popular. stuart has got these, with an introductory letter; but, not hearing from him, i have ceased from my labours, but i write to him today to get a final answer. i am afraid they won't do for a paper. burton is a scarce gentleman, not much known; else i had done 'em pretty well. i have also hit off a few lines in the name of burton, being a conceit of "diabolic possession." burton was a man often assailed by deepest melancholy, and at other times much given to laughing and jesting, as is the way with melancholy men. i will send them you: they were almost extempore, and no great things; but you will indulge them. robert lloyd is come to town. he is a good fellow, with the best heart, but his feelings are shockingly _un_sane. priscilla meditates going to see pizarro at drury lane to-night (from her uncle's) under cover of coming to dine with me... _heu! tempora! heu! mores!_--i have barely time to finish, as i expect her and robin every minute.--yours as usual. c. l. [for coleridge's movements see note to the next letter.--"pizarro" was sheridan's drama. it was acted this season, - , sixty-seven times. lamb's next letter to manning, which is not available for this edition, contained the promised copy of the "conceit of diabolical possession." it also contained a copy of thekla's song in "wallenstein," in lamb's translation (see vol. iv.), which he says is better than the original "a huge deal". finally lamb copies the old ballad "edward, edward" and calls it "the very first dramatic poem in the english language."] letter charles lamb to s. t. coleridge [probably april or , .] i send you, in this parcel, my play, which i beg you to present in my name, with my respect and love, to wordsworth and his sister. you blame us for giving your direction to miss wesley; the woman has been ten times after us about it, and we gave it her at last, under the idea that no further harm would ensue, but she would once write to you, and you would bite your lips and forget to answer it, and so it would end. you read us a dismal homily upon "realities." we know, quite as well as you do, what are shadows and what are realities. you, for instance, when you are over your fourth or fifth jorum, chirping about old school occurrences, are the best of realities. shadows are cold, thin things, that have no warmth or grasp in them. miss wesley and her friend, and a tribe of authoresses that come after you here daily, and, in defect of you, hive and cluster upon us, are the shadows. you encouraged that mopsey, miss wesley, to dance after you, in the hope of having her nonsense put into a nonsensical anthology. we have pretty well shaken her off, by that simple expedient of referring her to you; but there are more burrs in the wind. i came home t'other day from business, hungry as a hunter, to dinner, with nothing, i am sure, of _the author but hunger_ about me, and whom found i closeted with mary but a friend of this miss wesley, one miss benje, or benjey--i don't know how she spells her name. i just came in time enough, i believe, luckily to prevent them from exchanging vows of eternal friendship. it seems she is one of your authoresses, that you first foster, and then upbraid us with. but i forgive you. "the rogue has given me potions to make me love him." well; go she would not, nor step a step over our threshold, till we had promised to come and drink tea with her next night. i had never seen her before, and could not tell who the devil it was that was so familiar. we went, however, not to be impolite. her lodgings are up two pairs of stairs in east street. tea and coffee, and macaroons--a kind of cake i much love. we sat down. presently miss benje broke the silence, by declaring herself quite of a different opinion from d'israeli, who supposes the differences of human intellect to be the mere effect of organization. she begged to know my opinion. i attempted to carry it off with a pun upon organ; but that went off very flat. she immediately conceived a very low opinion of my metaphysics; and, turning round to mary, put some question to her in french,--possibly having heard that neither mary nor i understood french. the explanation that took place occasioned some embarrassment and much wondering. she then fell into an insulting conversation about the comparative genius and merits of all modern languages, and concluded with asserting that the saxon was esteemed the purest dialect in germany. from thence she passed into the subject of poetry; where i, who had hitherto sat mute and a hearer only, humbly hoped i might now put in a word to some advantage, seeing that it was my own trade in a manner. but i was stopped by a round assertion, that no good poetry had appeared since dr. johnson's time. it seems the doctor has suppressed many hopeful geniuses that way by the severity of his critical strictures in his "lives of the poets." i here ventured to question the fact, and was beginning to appeal to names, but i was assured "it was certainly the case." then we discussed miss more's book on education, which i had never read. it seems dr. gregory, another of miss benjey's friends, has found fault with one of miss more's metaphors. miss more has been at some pains to vindicate herself--in the opinion of miss benjey, not without success. it seems the doctor is invariably against the use of broken or mixed metaphor, which he reprobates against the authority of shakspeare himself. we next discussed the question, whether pope was a poet? i find dr. gregory is of opinion he was not, though miss seward does not at all concur with him in this. we then sat upon the comparative merits of the ten translations of "pizarro," and miss benjey or benje advised mary to take two of them home; she thought it might afford her some pleasure to compare them _verbatim_; which we declined. it being now nine o'clock, wine and macaroons were again served round, and we parted, with a promise to go again next week, and meet the miss porters, who, it seems, have heard much of mr. coleridge, and wish to meet _us_, because we are _his_ friends. i have been preparing for the occasion. i crowd cotton in my ears. i read all the reviews and magazines of the past month against the dreadful meeting, and i hope by these means to cut a tolerable second-rate figure. pray let us have no more complaints about shadows. we are in a fair way, _through you_, to surfeit sick upon them. our loves and respects to your host and hostess. our dearest love to coleridge. take no thought about your proof-sheets; they shall be done as if woodfall himself did them. pray send us word of mrs. coleridge and little david hartley, your little reality. farewell, dear substance. take no umbrage at any thing i have written. c. lamb, _umbra_. land of shadows, shadow-month the th or th, . coleridge, i find loose among your papers a copy of "_christabel_." it wants about thirty lines; you will very much oblige me by sending me the beginning as far as that line,-- "and the spring comes slowly up this way;" and the intermediate lines between-- "the lady leaps up suddenly. the lovely lady christabel;" and the lines,-- "she folded her arms beneath her cloak, and stole to the other side of the oak." the trouble to you _will be small_, and the benefit to us _very great_! a pretty antithesis! a figure in speech i much applaud. godwin has called upon us. he spent one evening here. was very friendly. kept us up till midnight. drank punch, and talked about you. he seems, above all men, mortified at your going away. suppose you were to write to that good-natured heathen--"or is he a _shadow_?" if i do not _write_, impute it to the long postage, of which you have so much cause to complain. i have scribbled over a _queer letter_, as i find by perusal; but it means no mischief. i am, and will be, yours ever, in sober sadness, c. l. write your _german_ as plain as sunshine, for that must correct itself. you know i am homo unius linguae: in english, illiterate, a dunce, a ninny. [having left lamb, coleridge went to grasmere, where he stayed at dove cottage with wordsworth and finished his translation, which was ready for the printer on april . to what lamb alludes in his reference to the homily on "realities" i cannot say, but presumably coleridge had written a metaphysical letter on this subject. lamb returns to the matter at the end of the first part of his reply. miss wesley was sarah wesley ( - ), the daughter of charles wesley and, therefore, niece of the great john and samuel. she moved much in literary society. miss benjay, or benjé, was in reality elizabeth ogilvy benger ( - ), a friend of mrs. inchbald, mrs. barbauld and the aikins, and other literary people. madame de stael called her the most interesting woman she had met in england. she wrote novels and poems and biographies. in those days there were two east streets, one leading from red lion square to lamb's conduit street, and one in the neighbourhood of clare market. d'israeli was isaac disraeli, the author of _the curiosities of literature_ and other books about books and authors; miss more was hannah more, and her book, _strictures on the modern system of female education, _; dr. gregory i have not traced; miss seward was anna seward, the swan of lichfield; and the miss porters were jane and anna maria, authors (later) respectively of _the scottish chiefs_ and _thaddeus of warsaw_, and _the hungarian brothers_. the proof-sheets were those of _wallenstein_. henry sampson woodfall was the famous printer of the _letters of junius_. _christabel_, coleridge's poem, had been begun in ; it was finished, in so far as it was finished, later in the year . it was published first in . "_homo unius linguae_." lamb exaggerated here. he had much latin, a little greek and apparently a little french. the sentence is in the manner of burton, whom lamb had been imitating. here should come a letter dated april , , to robert lloyd, which treats of obedience to parental wish. lloyd seems to have objected to attend the meetings of the society of friends, of which he was a birthright member. lamb bids him go; adding that, if his own parents were to live again, he would do more things to please them than merely sitting still a few hours in a week.] letter charles lamb to s.t. coleridge [? spring, .] by some fatality, unusual with me, i have mislaid the list of books which you want. can you, from memory, easily supply me with another? i confess to statius, and i detained him wilfully, out of a reverent regard to your style. statius, they tell me, is turgid. as to that other latin book, since you know neither its name nor subject, your wants (i crave leave to apprehend) cannot be very urgent. meanwhile, dream that it is one of the lost decades of livy. your partiality to me has led you to form an erroneous opinion as to the measure of delight you suppose me to take in obliging. pray, be careful that it spread no further. 'tis one of those heresies that is very pregnant. pray, rest more satisfied with the portion of learning which you have got, and disturb my peaceful ignorance as little as possible with such sort of commissions. did you never observe an appearance well known by the name of the man in the moon? some scandalous old maids have set on foot a report that it is endymion. dr. stoddart talks of going out king's advocate to malta. he has studied the civil and canon law just three canon months, to my knowledge. _fiat justitia, ruat caelum._ your theory about the first awkward step a man makes being the consequence of learning to dance, is not universal. we have known many youths bred up at christ's, who never learned to dance, yet the world imputes to them no very graceful motions. i remember there was little hudson, the immortal precentor of st. paul's, to teach us our quavers: but, to the best of my recollection, there was no master of motions when we were at christ's. farewell, in haste. c.l. [talfourd does not date this letter, merely remarking that it belongs to the present period. canon ainger dated it june , ; but this i think cannot be right when we take into consideration letter and what it says about lamb's last letter to coleridge (clearly that of may ), and the time that has since elapsed. the birth of charles lloyd's first child, july , gives us the latest date to which letter could belong. "your theory ..." this may have been contained in one of coleridge's letters, now lost; i do not find it in any of the known _morning post_ articles.] letter charles lamb to s.t. coleridge monday, may th, . my dear coleridge--i don't know why i write, except 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 nothing 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 dreadful; nor is it the least of our evils that her case and all our story is so well 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. c. lamb. [hetty was the lambs' aged servant. here should come a letter from lamb to thomas manning clearly written on may , , the same day as that to coleridge, stating that lamb has given up his house, and is looking for lodgings,--white (with whom he had stayed) having "all kindness but not sympathy".] letter charles lamb to thomas manning [p.m. may , .] dear manning,--i feel myself unable to thank you sufficiently 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 me to live in town, where we shall be much more _private_, and to quit a house and neighbourhood where poor mary's disorder, so frequently recurring, has made us a sort of marked people. we can be nowhere private except in the midst of london. we shall 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 prospect, 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 pleasure.--farewell. c. lamb. [manning's letter containing the choice poetry has not been preserved. the friend in town was john mathew gutch ( - ), with whom lamb had been at school at christ's hospital, who was now a law stationer, in partnership with one anderson, at southampton buildings, chancery lane, since demolished.] letter charles lamb to thomas manning [no date. ? may , .] dear manning, i am a letter in your debt, but i am scarcely rich enough (in spirits) to pay you.--i am writing at an inn on the ware road, in the neighbourhood of which i am going to pass two days, being whitsuntide.--excuse the pen, tis the best i can get.--poor mary is very bad yet. i went yesterday hoping i should see her getting well, then i might have come into the country more chearful, but i could not get to see her. this has been a sad damp. indeed i never in my life have been more wretched than i was all day yesterday. i am glad i am going away from business for a little while, for my head has been hot and ill. i shall be very much alone where i am going, which always revives me. i hope you will accept of this worthless memento, which i merely send as a token that i am in your debt. i will write upon my return, on thursday at farthest. i return on wednesday.-- god bless you. i was afraid you would think me forgetful, and that made me scribble this jumble. sunday. [here probably also should come an unpublished letter from lamb to manning, in which lamb remarks that his goddess is pecunia. in another letter to manning belonging to the same period, lamb returns to the subject of poverty:--"you dropt a word whether in jest or earnest, as if you would join me in some work, such as a review or series of papers, essays, or anything.--were you serious? i want home occupation, & i more want money. had you any scheme, or was it, as g. dyer says, en passant? if i don't have a legacy left me shortly i must get into pay with some newspaper for small gains. mutton is twelvepence a pound." here should come a letter from lamb to robert lloyd, in which he describes a visit to gutch's family at oxford, and mentions his admiration for a fine head of bishop taylor in all souls' library, which was an inducement to the oxford visit. he refers to charles lloyd's settlement in the lakes, and suggests that it may be the means of again uniting him and coleridge; adding that such men as coleridge and wordsworth would exclude solitude in the hebrides or thule. the following undated letter, which may be placed a little too soon in its present position, comes with a certain fitness here:--] letter charles lamb to john mathew gutch [no date. .] dear gutch, anderson is not come home, and i am almost afraid to tell you what has happen'd, lest it should seem to have happened by my fault in not writing for you home sooner.-- this morning henry, the eldest lad, was missing. we supposd he was only gone out on a morning's stroll, and that he would return, but he did not return & we discovered that he had opened your desk before he went, & i suppose taken all the money he could find, for on diligent search i could find none, and on opening your letter to anderson, which i thought necessary to get at the key, i learn that you had a good deal of money there. several people have been here after you to-day, & the boys seem quite frightened, and do not know what to do. in particular, one gentleman wants to have some writings finished by tuesday--for god's sake set out by the first coach. mary has been crying all day about it, and i am now just going to some law stationer in the neighbourhood, that the eldest boy has recommended, to get him to come and be in the house for a day or so, to manage. i cannot think what detains anderson. his sister is quite frightend about him. i am very sorry i did not write yesterday, but henry persuaded me to wait till he could ascertain when some job must be done (at the furthest) for mr. foulkes, and as nothing had occurrd besides i did not like to disturb your pleasures. i now see my error, and shall be heartily ashamed to see you. [_that is as far as the letter goes on the first page. we then turn over, and find (as gutch, to his immense relief, found before us) written right across both pages:_] a bite!!! anderson is come home, and the wheels of thy business are going on as ever. the boy is honest, and i am thy friend. and how does the coach-maker's daughter? thou art her phaeton, her gig, and her sociable. commend me to rob. c. lamb. saturday. [this letter is the first example extant of lamb's tendency to hoaxing. gutch was at that time courting a miss wheeley, the daughter of a birmingham coachbuilder. it was while he was in birmingham that lamb wrote the letter. anderson was his partner in business. rob would be robert lloyd, then at birmingham again. this, and one other, are the only letters of lamb to gutch that escaped destruction.] letter charles lamb to s.t. coleridge [? late july, .] 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 me, the rooms being at a reasonable 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 knew all our story and the perpetual liability to a recurrence in my sister's disorder, 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 £ a year. here i soon found myself at home; and here, in six weeks after, mary was well enough to join me. so we 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 oxford on a visit, which 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 particularly 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 without _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 little philosopher. lloyd's wife is on the point of favouring the world. have you seen the new edition of burns? his posthumous works and letters? i have only been able to procure the first volume, which contains his life--very confusedly and badly written, and interspersed with dull pathological and _medical_ discussions. it is written by a dr. currie. do you know the well-meaning doctor? alas, _ne sutor ultra crepitum_! [_a few words omitted here_.] i hope to hear again from you very soon. godwin is gone to ireland on a visit to grattan. before he went i passed much time with him, and he has showed me particular attentions: 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 grasmere about "christabel," and comply with my request contained therein. love to all friends round skiddaw. c. lamb. [the coleridges had recently moved into greta hall, keswick. thomson would, i think, be marmaduke thompson, an old christ's hospitaller, to whom lamb dedicated _rosamund gray_. he became a missionary. "another little philosopher." derwent coleridge was born september , . lloyd's eldest son, charles grosvenor lloyd, was born july , . dr. james currie's life of burns was prefixed to an edition of his poems in . dugald stewart called it "a strong and faithful picture." it was written to raise funds for burns' widow and family. godwin had gone to stay with curran: he saw much of grattan also. johnson, the publisher and bookseller, lived at st. paul's churchyard. he published priestley's works.] letter charles lamb to s. t. coleridge aug. th, . dear coleridge,--i have taken to-day, and delivered to longman and co., _imprimis_: your books, viz., three ponderous german dictionaries, one volume (i can find no more) of german and french ditto, sundry other german books unbound, as you left them, percy's ancient poetry, and one volume of anderson's poets. i specify them, that you may not lose any. _secundo_: a dressing-gown (value, fivepence), in which you used to sit and look like a conjuror, when you were translating "wallenstein." a case of two razors and a shaving-box and strap. this it has cost me a severe struggle to part with. they are in a brown-paper parcel, which also contains sundry papers and poems, sermons, _some few epic_ poems,--one about cain and abel, which came from poole, &c., &c., and also your tragedy; with one or two small german books, and that drama in which gotfader performs. _tertio_: a small oblong box containing _all your letters_, collected from all your waste papers, and which fill the said little box. all other waste papers, which i judged worth sending, are in the paper parcel aforesaid. but you will find _all_ your letters in the box by themselves. thus have i discharged my conscience and my lumber-room of all your property, save and except a folio entitled tyrrell's bibliotheca politica, which you used to learn your politics out of when you wrote for the post, _mutatis mutandis, i.e._, applying past inferences to modern _data_. i retain that, because i am sensible i am very deficient in the politics myself; and i have torn up--don't be angry, waste paper has risen forty per cent., and i can't afford to buy it--all buonaparte's letters, arthur young's treatise on corn, and one or two more light-armed infantry, which i thought better suited the flippancy of london discussion than the dignity of keswick thinking. mary says you will be in a damned passion about them when you come to miss them; but you must study philosophy. read albertus magnus de chartis amissis five times over after phlebotomising,--'tis burton's recipe--and then be angry with an absent friend if you can. i have just heard that mrs. lloyd is delivered of a fine boy, and mother and boy are doing well. fie on sluggards, what is thy sara doing? sara is obscure. am i to understand by her letter, that she sends a _kiss_ to eliza buckingham? pray tell your wife that a note of interrogation on the superscription of a letter is highly ungrammatical--she proposes writing my name _lamb_? lambe is quite enough. i have had the anthology, and like only one thing in it, _lewti_; but of that the last stanza is detestable, the rest most exquisite!--the epithet _enviable_ would dash the finest poem. for god's sake (i never was more serious), don't make me ridiculous any more by terming me gentle-hearted in print, or do it in better verses. it did well enough five years ago when i came to see you, and was moral coxcomb enough at the time you wrote the lines, to feed upon such epithets; but, besides that, the meaning of gentle is equivocal at best, and almost always means poor-spirited, the very quality of gentleness is abhorrent to such vile trumpetings. my _sentiment_ is long since vanished. i hope my _virtues_ have done _sucking_. i can scarce think but you meant it in joke. i hope you did, for i should be ashamed to think that you could think to gratify me by such praise, fit only to be a cordial to some green-sick sonneteer. i have hit off the following in imitation of old english poetry, which, i imagine, i am a dab at. the measure is unmeasureable; but it most resembles that beautiful ballad of the "old and young courtier;" and in its feature of taking the extremes of two situations for just parallel, it resembles the old poetry certainly. if i could but stretch out the circumstances to twelve more verses, i.e., if i had as much genius as the writer of that old song, i think it would be excellent. it was to follow an imitation of burton in prose, which you have not seen. but fate "and wisest stewart" say no. i can send you pens and six quires of paper _immediately_, if they will answer the carriage by coach. it would be foolish to pack 'em up _cum multis libris et caeteris_,--they would all spoil. i only wait your commands to coach them. i would pay five-and-forty thousand carriages to read w.'s tragedy, of which i have heard so much and seen so little--only what i saw at stowey. pray give me an order in writing on longman for "lyrical ballads." i have the first volume, and, truth to tell, six shillings is a broad shot. i cram all i can in, to save a multiplying of letters--those pretty comets with swingeing tails. i'll just crowd in god bless you! c. lamb. wednesday night. [the epic about cain and abel was "the wanderings of cain," which coleridge projected but never finished. the drama in which got-fader performs would be perhaps "faust"--"der herr" in the prologue--or some old miracle play. "'tis burton's recipe." lamb was just now steeped in the _anatomy_; but there is no need to see if burton says this. "eliza buckingham." sara coleridge's message was probably intended for eliza, a servant at the buckingham street lodgings. lambe was _the anti-jacobin's_ idea of lamb's name; and indeed many persons adhered to it to the end. mrs. coleridge, when writing to her husband under care of lamb at the india house, added "e" to lamb's name to signify that the letter was for coleridge. wordsworth later also had some of his letters addressed in the same way--for the same economical reason. coleridge's "lewti" was reprinted, with alterations, from the _morning post_, in the _annual anthology_, vol. ii. line ran-- "had i the enviable power;" coleridge changed this to-- "voice of the night! had i the power." "this lime-tree bower my prison; a poem, addressed to charles lamb of the india house, london," was also in the _annual anthology_. lamb objected to the phrase "my gentle-hearted charles" (see above). lamb says "five years ago"; he means three. coleridge did not alter the phrase. it was against this poem that he wrote in pencil on his deathbed in : "ch. and mary lamb--dear to my heart, yea, as it were, my heart.--s. t. c. aet. , . - = years!" "i have hit off the following"--"a ballad denoting the difference between the rich and the poor," first printed among the imitations of burton in the _john woodvil_ volume, , see vol. iv. "and wisest stewart"--stuart of the _morning post_. adapted from milton's "hymn on the nativity"-- "but wisest fate says no." "w.'s (wordsworth's) tragedy" was "the borderers." the second edition of _lyrical ballads_ was just ready.] letter charles lamb to thomas manning [p.m. august , .] dear manning,--i suppose you have heard of sophia lloyd's good fortune, and paid the customary compliments to the parents. heaven keep the new-born infant from star-blasting and moon-blasting, from epilepsy, marasmus, and the devil! may he live to see many days, and they good ones; some friends, and they pretty regular correspondents, with as much wit as wisdom as will eat their bread and cheese together under a poor roof without quarrelling; as much goodness as will earn heaven! here i must leave off, my benedictory powers failing me. i could _curse_ the sheet full; so much stronger is corruption than grace in the natural man. and now, when shall i catch a glimpse of your honest face-to-face countenance again--your fine _dogmatical sceptical_ face, by punch-light? o! one glimpse of the human face, and shake of the human hand, is better than whole reams of this cold, thin correspondence--yea, of more worth than all the letters that have sweated the fingers of sensibility from madame sévigné and balzac (observe my larning!) to sterne and shenstone. coleridge is settled with his wife and the young philosopher at keswick with the wordsworths. they have contrived to spawn a new volume of lyrical ballads, which is to see the light in about a month, and causes no little excitement in the _literary world_. george dyer too, that good-natured heathen, is more than nine months gone with his twin volumes of ode, pastoral, sonnet, elegy, spenserian, horatian, akensidish, and masonic verse--clio prosper the birth! it will be twelve shillings out of somebody's pocket. i find he means to exclude "personal satire," so it appears by his truly original advertisement. well, god put it into the hearts of the english gentry to come in shoals and subscribe to his poems, for he never put a kinder heart into flesh of man than george dyer's! now farewell: for dinner is at hand. c. l. [southey's letters contain a glimpse (as mr. j.a. rutter has pointed out) of lamb and manning by punch-light. writing in , describing a certain expression of mrs. coleridge's face, southey says:-- first, then, it was an expression of dolorous alarm, such as le brun ought to have painted: but such as manning never could have equalled, when, while mrs. lloyd was keeping her room in child-bed, he and charles lamb sate drinking punch in the room below till three in the morning-- manning acting le brun's passions (punchified at the time), and charles lamb (punchified also) roaring aloud and swearing, while the tears ran down his cheeks, that it required more genius than even shakespeare possessed to personate them so well; charles lloyd the while (not punchified) praying and entreating them to go to bed, and not disturb his wife by the uproar they were making. southey's reminiscence, though interesting, is very confusing. lamb does not seem to have visited cambridge between the end of and january , . at the latter date the lloyds were in the north. possibly southey refers to an earlier illness of mrs. lloyd, which, writing after a long interval, he confused with confinement. "balzac." not, of course, the novelist; but jean louis guez de balzac ( - ) the letter-writer. two or three lines have been omitted from this letter which can be read as written only in the boston bibliophile edition.] letter charles lamb to thomas manning [p.m. august , .] my dear fellow (_n.b._ mighty familiar of late!) for me to come to cambridge now is one of god almighty's impossibilities. metaphysicians tell us, even he can work nothing which implies a contradiction. i can explain this by telling you that i am engaged to do double duty (this hot weather!) for a man who has taken advantage of this very weather to go and cool himself in "green retreats" all the month of august. but for you to come to london instead!--muse upon it, revolve it, cast it about in your mind. i have a bed at your command. you shall drink rum, brandy, gin, aqua-vitae, usquebaugh, or whiskey a' nights; and for the after-dinner trick i have eight bottles of genuine port, which, if mathematically divided, gives - / for every day you stay, provided you stay a week. hear john milton sing, "let euclid rest and archimedes pause." twenty-first sonnet. and elsewhere,-- "what neat repast shall feast us, light[ ] and choice, of attic taste, with wine,[ ] whence we may rise to hear the lute well touch'd, or artful voice warble immortal notes and tuscan air?" indeed, the poets are full of this pleasing morality-- "veni cito, domine manning!" think upon it. excuse the paper: it is all i have. _n.b._--i lives at no. southampton buildings, holborn. c. lamb. [footnote : we poets generally give _light_ dinners.] [footnote : no doubt the poet here alludes to port wine at s. the dozen.] letter charles lamb to s. t. coleridge thursday, aug. , . read on and you'll come to the _pens_. my head is playing all the tunes in the world, ringing such peals. it has just finished the "merry christ church bells," and absolutely is beginning "turn again, whittington." buz, buz, buz: bum, bum, bum: wheeze, wheeze, wheeze: feu, feu, feu: tinky, tinky, tinky: _craunch_. i shall certainly come to be damned at last. i have been getting drunk for two days running. i find my moral sense in the last stage of a consumption, and my religion burning as blue and faint as the tops of evening bricks. hell gapes and the devil's great guts cry cupboard for me. in the midst of this infernal torture, conscience (and be damn'd to her), is barking and yelping as loud as any of them. i have sat down to read over again, and i think i do begin to spy out something with beauty and design in it. i perfectly accede to all your alterations, and only desire that you had cut deeper, when your hand was in. in the next edition of the "anthology" (which phoebus avert and those nine other wandering maids also!) please to blot out _gentle-hearted_, and substitute drunken: dog, ragged-head, seld-shaven, odd-eyed, stuttering, or any other epithet which truly and properly belongs to the gentleman in question. and for charles read tom, or bob, or richard _for more delicacy_. damn you, i was beginning to forgive you and believe in earnest that the lugging in of my proper name was purely unintentional on your part, when looking back for further conviction, stares me in the face _charles lamb of the india house. now_ i am convinced it was all done in malice, heaped sack-upon-sack, congregated, studied malice. you dog! your st page shall not save you. i own i was just ready to acknowledge that there is a something not unlike good poetry in that page, if you had not run into the unintelligible abstraction-fit about the manner of the deity's making spirits perceive his presence. god, nor created thing alive, can receive any honour from such thin show-box attributes. by-the-by, where did you pick up that scandalous piece of private history about the angel and the duchess of devonshire? if it is a fiction of your own, why truly it is a very modest one _for you_. now i do affirm that "lewti" is a very beautiful poem. i _was_ in earnest when i praised it. it describes a silly species of one not the wisest of passions. _therefore_ it cannot deeply affect a disenthralled mind. but such imagery, such novelty, such delicacy, and such versification never got into an "anthology" before. i am only sorry that the cause of all the passionate complaint is not greater than the trifling circumstance of lewti being out of temper one day. in sober truth, i cannot see any great merit in the little dialogue called "blenheim." it is rather novel and pretty; but the thought is very obvious and children's poor prattle, a thing of easy imitation. _pauper vult videri et_ est. "gualberto" certainly has considerable originality, but sadly wants finishing. it is, as it is, one of the very best in the book. next to "lewti" i like the "raven," which has a good deal of humour. i was pleased to see it again, for you once sent it me, and i have lost the letter which contained it. now i am on the subject of anthologies, i must say i am sorry the old pastoral way has fallen into disrepute. the gentry which now indite sonnets are certainly the legitimate descendants of the ancient shepherds. the same simpering face of description, the old family face, is visibly continued in the line. some of their ancestors' labours are yet to be found in allan ramsay's and jacob tonson's _miscellanies_. but, miscellanies decaying and the old pastoral way dying of mere want, their successors (driven from their paternal acres) now-a-days settle and hive upon magazines and anthologies. this race of men are uncommonly addicted to superstition. some of them are idolaters and worship the moon. others deify qualities, as love, friendship, sensibility, or bare accidents, as solitude. grief and melancholy have their respective altars and temples among them, as the heathens builded theirs to mors, febris, palloris. they all agree in ascribing a peculiar sanctity to the number fourteen. one of their own legislators affirmeth, that whatever exceeds that number "encroacheth upon the province of the elegy"--_vice versa_, whatever "cometh short of that number abutteth upon the premises of the epigram." i have been able to discover but few _images_ in their temples, which, like the caves of delphos of old, are famous for giving _echoes_. they impute a religious importance to the letter o, whether because by its roundness it is thought to typify the moon, their principal goddess, or for its analogies to their own labours, all ending where they began; or whatever other high and mystical reference, i have never been able to discover, but i observe they never begin their invocations to their gods without it, except indeed one insignificant sect among them, who use the doric a, pronounced like ah! broad, instead. these boast to have restored the old dorian mood. 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. the first volume contains every sort of poetry except personal satire, which george, in his truly original prospectus, renounceth for ever, whimsically 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, thomsonian, masonic and akensidish more especially. the second volume is all criticism; wherein he demonstrates to the entire 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 warning to all moderns)--that charles lloyd, charles lamb, and william wordsworth, in later days, have struck the true chords of poesy. o, george, george, with a head uniformly wrong and a heart uniformly right, that i had power and might equal to my wishes!--then i would call 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 subscribers. i can only put twelve shillings into thy pocket (which, i will answer for them, will not stick there long), out of a pocket almost as bare as thine. [_lamb here erases six lines._] 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 aptly call "the affected." but i am suffering from the combined effect of two days' drunkenness, and at such times it is not very easy to think or express in a natural series. the only useful object of this letter is to apprize you that on saturday i shall transmit the pens by the same coach i sent the parcel. so enquire them out. you had better write to godwin _here_, directing your letter to be forwarded to him. i don't know his address. you know your letter must at any rate come to london first. c. l. ["your satire upon me"--"this lime-tree bower my prison" (see above). "those nine other wandering maids"--the muses. a recollection of _the anti-jacobin's_ verses on lamb and his friends (see above). "your st page." "this lime-tree bower" again. by "unintelligible abstraction-fit" lamb refers to the passage:-- ah! slowly sink behind the western ridge, thou glorious sun! shine in the slant beams of the sinking orb, ye purple heath-flowers! richlier burn, ye clouds! live in the yellow light, ye distant groves! and kindle, thou blue ocean! so my friend struck with deep joy may stand, as i have stood, silent with swimming sense; yea, gazing round on the wide landscape, gaze till all doth seem less gross than bodily; and of such hues as veil the almighty spirit, when yet he makes spirits perceive his presence. "that scandalous piece of private history." a reference to coleridge's "ode to georgiana, duchess of devonshire," reprinted in the _annual anthology_ from the _morning post_. "blenheim"--southey's ballad, "it was a summer's evening." "gualberto." the poem "st. gualberto" by southey, in the _annual anthology_. "the raven" was referred to in lamb's letter of feb. , . george dyer's _poems_, in two volumes, were published in . see note to letter . upon the phrase "the tops of evening bricks" in this letter, editors have been divided. the late dr. garnett, who annotated the boston bibliophile edition, is convinced that "evening" is the word, and he says that the bricks meant were probably briquettes of compressed coal dust.] letter charles lamb to thomas manning [p.m. august , .] dear manning,--i am going to ask a favour 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 have had the best grace in begging of all the 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 excellent poet, george dyer, made me a visit yesternight, on purpose 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 assistance. you must know he is just now diverted from the pursuit of bell letters by a paradox, which he has heard his friend frend (that learned mathematician) maintain, that the negative quantities of mathematicians were _merae nugae_, things scarcely _in rerum naturá_, and smacking too much of mystery for gentlemen of mr. frend's clear unitarian capacity. however, the dispute once set a-going has seized violently on george's pericranick; 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 has 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 find on saturday morning, lying for him at the porter's lodge, clifford's inn,--his safest address--manning's algebra, with a neat manuscriptum in the blank leaf, running thus, from the 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 infinite regret of the whole literary world. n.b.--dirty books [?backs], smeared leaves, and dogs' ears, will be rather a recommendation than otherwise. n.b.--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 laws of verse; to prove that theocritus first introduced the pastoral, 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 imposed 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 _studies_ (not to mention his _turn_, which i take to be chiefly towards the lyrical poetry) hardly qualified him for these disquisitions, i modestly inquired what plays he had read? i found by george's reply that he _had_ read shakspeare, but that was a good while since: he calls him a great but irregular genius, which i think to be an original and just remark. (beaumont and fletcher, massinger, ben jonson, 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 shakspeare, 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 accompany your present with a dissertation on negative quantities. c. l. [mr. melmoth. a translation of the _letters_ of pliny the younger was made by william melmoth in . trismegistus--thrice greatest--was the term applied to hermes, the egyptian philosopher. manning had written _an introduction to arithmetic and algebra_, , . william frend ( - ), the mathematician and unitarian, who had been prosecuted in the vice-chancellor's court at cambridge for a tract entitled "peace and union recommended to the associated bodies of republicans and anti-republicans," in which he attacked much of the liturgy of the church of england. he was found guilty and banished from the university of cambridge. he had been a friend of robert robinson, whose life dyer wrote, and remained a friend of dyer to the end of his life. coleridge had been among the undergraduates who supported frend at his trial. "...'s brain." in a later letter lamb uses judge park's wig, when his head is in it, as a simile for emptiness.] letter charles lamb to s. t. coleridge august th, . how do you like this little epigram? it is not my writing, nor had i any finger in it. if you concur with me in thinking it very elegant and very original, i shall be tempted to name the author to you. i will just hint that it is almost or quite a first attempt. helen repentant too late high-born helen, round your dwelling these twenty years i've paced in vain: haughty beauty, your lover's duty has been to glory in his pain. high-born helen! proudly telling stories of your cold disdain; i starve, i die, now you comply, and i no longer can complain. these twenty years i've lived on tears, dwelling for ever on a frown; on sighs i've fed, your scorn my bread; i perish now you kind are grown. can i, who loved my beloved but for the "scorn was in her eye," can i be moved for my beloved, when she "returns me sigh for sigh?" in stately pride, by my bed-side, high-born helen's portrait's hung; deaf to my praise; my mournful lays are nightly to the portrait sung. to that i weep, nor ever sleep, complaining all night long to her! _helen, grown old, no longer cold, said_, "you to all men i prefer." godwin returned from wicklow the week before last, tho' he did not reach home till the sunday after. he might much better have spent that time with you.--but you see your invitation would have been too late. he greatly regrets the occasion he mist of visiting you, but he intends to revisit ireland in the next summer, and then he will certainly take keswick in his way. i dined with the heathen on sunday. by-the-by, i have a sort of recollection that somebody, i think _you_, promised me a sight of wordsworth's tragedy. i should be very glad of it just now; for i have got manning with me, and should like to read it _with him_. but this, i confess, is a refinement. under any circumstances, alone in cold bath prison, or in the desert island, just when prospero & his crew had set off, with caliban in a cage, to milan, it would be a treat to me to read that play. manning has read it, so has lloyd, and all lloyd's family; but i could not get him to betray his trust by giving me a sight of it. lloyd is sadly deficient in some of those virtuous vices. i have just lit upon a most beautiful fiction of hell punishments, by the author of "hurlothrumbo," a mad farce. the inventor imagines that in hell there is a great caldron of hot water, in which a man can scarce hold his finger, and an immense sieve over it, into which the probationary souls are put. "and all the little souls pop through the riddle holes." mary's love to mrs. coleridge--mine to all. n.b.--i pays no postage.-- george dyer is the only literary character i am happily 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 brought a dr. anderson to see me. the doctor is a very pleasant old man, a great genius for agriculture, one that ties his breeches-knees with packthread, & 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., are verbally copied from _homer_. george, who had been sitting quite inattentive to the doctor's criticism, no sooner heard the sound of _homer_ strike his pericraniks, than up he gets, and declares he must see that poem immediately: where was it to be had? an epic poem of [? , ] 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, knowing that his peculiar _turn_ lies in the lyric species of composition, i questioned george what english plays he had read. i found that he _had_ read shakspere (whom he calls an original, but irregular, genius), but it was a good while ago; and he has dipt 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 seem'd even to have heard of fletcher, ford, marlow, 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 aristotle & some others have imposed upon it, which is very good-natured of him, and very necessary just now! now i am _touching_ so deeply upon poetry, can i forget that i have just received from cottle a magnificent copy of his guinea epic. four-and-twenty books to read in the dog-days! i got as far as the mad monk the first day, & fainted. mr. cottle's genius strongly points him to the _pastoral_, but his inclinations divert him perpetually from his calling. he imitates southey, as rowe did shakspeare, with his "good morrow to ye; good master lieut't." instead of _a_ man, _a_ woman, _a_ daughter, he constantly writes one a man, one a woman, one his daughter. instead of _the_ king, _the_ hero, he constantly writes, he the king, he the hero--two flowers of rhetoric palpably from the "joan." but mr. cottle 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 nothing, with adders' tongues for bannisters--my god! 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 together! c. l. [the little epigram was by mary lamb. it was printed first in the _john woodvil_ volume in ; and again, in a footnote to lamb's essay "blakesmoor in h----shire," . godwin's return was from his visit to curran. coleridge had asked him to break his journey at keswick. "wordsworth's tragedy"--"the borderers." "i would write a novel." lamb returns to this idea in letter . one of dyer's printed criticisms of shakespeare, in his _poetics_, some years later might be quoted: "shakespeare had the inward clothing of a fine mind; the outward covering of solid reading, of critical observation, and the richest eloquence; and compared with these, what are the trappings of the schools?" "cottle's guinea epic" would be _alfred, an epic poem_, by joseph cottle, the publisher.] letter charles lamb to thomas manning [p.m. august , .] george dyer is an archimedes, and an archimagus, and a tycho brahé, 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 carcase on the monday, and after dining with us on tripe, calves' kidneys, or whatever else the cornucopia of st. clare may be willing to pour out on the occasion, might we not adjourn together to the 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 _his_--oh the long time!) with tears of joy. thou shouldst settle his scruples and unravel his cobwebs, and sponge off the sad stuff that weighs upon his dear wounded pia mater; thou shouldst restore light to his eyes, and him to his friends and the public; parnassus 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. anderson, 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 "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, jumping up, he begged to know where he could meet with wilkie's work. "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 lines!" i was pleased with this transient return of his reason and recurrence to his old ways of thinking: it gave me great hopes of a recovery, which nothing but your book can completely insure. pray come on monday if you _can_, 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 _not_ 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. johnson's malevolent strictures on the higher species of the ode. ["thy black back"--manning's algebra. dr. anderson was james anderson ( - ), the editor, at that time, of _recreations in agriculture, natural history, arts, and miscellaneous history_, published in monthly parts. lamb gave him a copy of verses--three extracts from _john woodvil_ which were printed in the number for november, , as being "from an unpublished drama by c. lamb." they were the "description of a forest life," "the general lover" ("what is it you love?") and "fragment or dialogue," better known as "the dying lover." all have slight variations from other versions. the most striking is the epithet "lubbar bands of sleep," instead of "lazy bands of sleep," in the "description of a forest life." wilkie was william wilkie ( - ), the "scottish homer," whose _epigoniad_ in nine books, based on the fourth book of the _iliad_, was published in .] letter charles lamb to thomas manning [p.m. sept. , .] dear manning,--you needed not imagine any apology necessary. your fine hare and fine birds (which just now 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 for his body to-day, and being low and puling, requireth to be pampered. foh! 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 consistence of bread and cream (y'clept bread-sauce), each to each giving double grace, do mutually illustrate and set off (as skilful goldfoils to rare jewels) 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), yearneth sometimes to have thee here to pick a wing or so. i question if your norfolk sauces match our london culinaric. george dyer has introduced me to the table of an agreeable old gentleman, dr. anderson, 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 preposterously before his small dwelling, which, with the circumstance of his taking several panes of glass out of bedroom windows (for air), causeth his neighbours 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 better for it. the doctor, in his pursuits, joins agricultural to poetical science, and has set george's brains mad about the old scotch writers, harbour, douglas's aeneid, blind harry, &c. we returned home in a return postchaise (having dined with the doctor), and george kept wondering 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 begged 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 genius!" this fine genius, without anything to show for it or any title beyond george's courtesy, without even a name! and barbour, and douglas, and blind harry, now are the predominant sounds in george's pia mater, and their buzzings exclude politics, criticism, and algebra--the late 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, reiterated as often as possible, there could be nothing painful, nothing distracting. god bless me, here are the birds, smoking hot! all that is gross and unspiritual in me rises at the sight! avaunt friendship and all memory of absent friends! c. lamb. ["divine spirit of gravy." this passage is the first of lamb's outbursts of gustatory ecstasy, afterwards to become frequent in his writings. here should come a letter, dated october , , in the richest spirit of comedy, describing to coleridge an evening with george dyer and the cottles after the death of their brother amos; and how lamb, by praising joseph cottle's poem, drew away that good man's thoughts from his grief. "joseph, who till now had sat with his knees cowering in by the fireplace, wheeled about, and with great difficulty of body shifted the same round to the corner of a table where i was sitting, and first stationing one thigh over the other, which is his sedentary mood, and placidly fixing his benevolent face right against mine, waited my observations. at that moment it came strongly into my mind, that i had got uncle toby before me, he looked so kind and so good." the letter, printed in full in other editions, is, i am given to understand, not available for this.] letter charles lamb to thomas manning [p.m. oct. , .] dear manning,--had you written one week before you did, i certainly should have obeyed your injunction; you should have seen me before my letter. i will explain to you my situation. there are six of us in one department. two of us (within these four days) are confined with severe fevers; and two more, who belong to the tower militia, expect to have marching orders on friday. now six are absolutely necessary. i have already asked and obtained two young hands to supply the loss of the _feverites_; and, with the other prospect before me, you may believe i cannot decently ask leave of absence for myself. all i can promise (and i do promise with the sincerity of saint peter, and the contrition of sinner peter if i fail) that i will come _the very first spare week_, and go nowhere till i have been at cambridge. no matter if you are in a state of pupilage when i come; for i can employ myself in cambridge very pleasantly in the mornings. are there not libraries, halls, colleges, books, pictures, statues? i wish to god you had made london in your way. there is an exhibition quite uncommon in europe, which could not have escaped _your genius_,--a live rattlesnake, ten feet in length, and the thickness of a big leg. i went to see it last night by candlelight. we were ushered into a room very little bigger than ours at pentonville. a man and woman and four boys live in this room, joint tenants with nine snakes, most of them such as no remedy has been discovered for their bite. we walked into the middle, which is formed by a half-moon of wired boxes, all mansions of _snakes_,--whip-snakes, thunder-snakes, pig-nose-snakes, american vipers, and _this monster_. he lies curled up in folds; and immediately a stranger enters (for he is used to the family, and sees them play at cards,) he set up a rattle like a watchman's in london, or near as loud, and reared up a head, from the midst of these folds, like a toad, and shook his head, and showed every sign a snake can show of irritation. i had the foolish curiosity to strike the wires with my finger, and the devil flew at me with his toad-mouth wide open: the inside of his mouth is quite white. i had got my finger away, nor could he well have bit me with his damn'd big mouth, which would have been certain death in five minutes. but it frightened me so much, that i did not recover my voice for a minute's space. i forgot, in my fear, that he was secured. you would have forgot too, for 'tis incredible how such a monster can be confined in small gauzy-looking wires. i dreamed of snakes in the night. i wish to heaven you could see it. he absolutely swelled with passion to the bigness of a large thigh. i could not retreat without infringing on another box, and just behind, a little devil not an inch from my back, had got his nose out, with some difficulty and pain, quite through the bars! he was soon taught better manners. all the snakes were curious, and objects of terror: but this monster, like aaron's serpent, swallowed up the impression of the rest. he opened his damn'd mouth, when he made at me, as wide as his head was broad. i hallooed out quite loud, and felt pains all over my body with the fright. i have had the felicity of hearing george dyer read out one book of "the farmer's boy." i thought it rather childish. no doubt, there is originality in it, (which, in your self-taught geniuses, is a most rare quality, they generally getting hold of some bad models in a scarcity of books, and forming their taste on them,) but no _selection_. _all_ is described. mind, i have only heard read one book. yours sincerely, philo-snake, c. l. [_the farmer's boy_, by robert bloomfield, was published in march, , and was immensely popular. other criticisms upon it by lamb will be found in this work. lamb's visit to cambridge was deferred until january , .] letter charles lamb to thomas manning [p.m. nov. , .] _ecquid meditatur archimedes?_ what is euclid doing? what has happened to learned trismegist?--doth he take it in ill part, that his humble friend did not comply with his courteous invitation? let it suffice, i could not come--are impossibilities nothing--be they abstractions of the intellects or not (rather) most sharp and mortifying realities? nuts in the will's mouth too hard for her to crack? brick and stone walls in her way, which she can by no means eat through? sore lets, _impedimenta viarum_, no thoroughfares? _racemi nimium alte pendentes_? is the phrase classic? i allude to the grapes in aesop, which cost the fox a strain, and gained the world an aphorism. observe the superscription of this letter. in adapting the size of the letters, which constitute _your_ name and mr. _crisp's_ name respectively, i had an eye to your different stations, in life. 'tis really curious, and must be soothing to an _aristocrat_. i wonder it has never been hit on before my time. i have made an acquisition latterly of a _pleasant hand_, one rickman, to whom i was introduced by george dyer, not the most flattering auspices under which one man can be introduced to another. george brings all sorts of people together, setting up a sort of agrarian law, or common property, in matter of society; but for once he has done me a great pleasure, while he was only pursuing a principle, as _ignes fatui may_ light you home. this rickman lives in our buildings, immediately opposite our house; the finest fellow to drop in a' nights, about nine or ten o'clock--cold bread-and-cheese time--just in the _wishing_ time of the night, when you _wish_ for somebody to come in, without a distinct idea of a probable anybody. just in the nick, neither too early to be tedious, nor too late to sit a reasonable time. he is a most pleasant hand: a fine rattling fellow, has gone through life laughing at solemn apes; himself hugely literate, oppressively full of information in all stuff of conversation, from matter of fact to xenophon and plato--can talk greek with porson, politics with thelwall, conjecture with george dyer, nonsense with me, and anything with anybody: a great farmer, somewhat concerned in an agricultural magazine--reads no poetry but shakspeare, very intimate with southey, but never reads his poetry: relishes george dyer, thoroughly penetrates into the ridiculous wherever found, understands the _first time_ (a great desideratum in common minds)--you need never twice speak to him; does not want explanations, translations, limitations, as professor godwin does when you make an assertion: _up_ to anything, _down_ to everything--whatever _sapit hominem_. a perfect _man_. all this farrago, which must perplex you to read, and has put me to a little trouble to _select_, only proves how impossible it is to describe a _pleasant hand_. you must see rickman to know him, for he is a species in one. a new class. an exotic, any slip of which i am proud to put in my garden-pot. the clearest-headed fellow. fullest of matter with least verbosity. if there be any alloy in my fortune to have met with such a man, it is that he commonly divides his time between town and country, having some foolish family ties at christchurch, by which means he can only gladden our london hemisphere with returns of light. he is now going for six weeks. at last i have written to kemble, to know the event of my play, which was presented last christmas. as i suspected, came an answer back that the copy was lost, and could not be found--no hint that anybody had to this day ever looked into it--with a courteous (reasonable!) request of another copy (if i had one by me,) and a promise of a definite answer in a week. i could not resist so facile and moderate a demand, so scribbled out another, omitting sundry things, such as the witch story, about half of the forest scene (which is too leisurely for story), and transposing that damn'd soliloquy about england getting drunk, which, like its reciter, stupidly stood alone, nothing prevenient or antevenient, and cleared away a good deal besides; and sent this copy, written _all out_ (with alterations, &c., _requiring judgment_) in one day and a half! i sent it last night, and am in weekly expectation of the tolling-bell and death-warrant. this is all my lunnon news. send me some from the _banks of cam_, as the poets delight to speak, especially george dyer, who has no other name, nor idea, nor definition of cambridge: namely, its being a market-town, sending members to parliament, never entered into his definition: it was and is, simply, the banks of the cam or the fair cam, as oxford is the banks of the isis or the fair isis. yours in all humility, most illustrious trismegist, c. lamb. (read on; there's more at the bottom.) you ask me about the "farmer's boy"--don't you think the fellow who wrote it (who is a shoemaker) has a poor mind? don't you find he is always silly about _poor giles_, and those abject kind of phrases, which mark a man that looks up to wealth? none of burns's poet-dignity. what do you think? i have just opened him; but he makes me sick. dyer knows the shoemaker (a damn'd stupid hound in company); but george promises to introduce him indiscriminately to all friends and all combinations. [mr. crisp was manning's landlord, a barber in st. mary's passage, cambridge. in one letter at least lamb spells his name crips--a joke he was fond of. "rickman" was john rickman ( - ), already a friend of southey's, whom he had met at burton, near christchurch, in hampshire, where rickman's father lived. a graduate of lincoln college, oxford, he was at this time secretary to charles abbot, afterwards lord colchester. he had conducted the _commercial, agricultural_, and manufacturer's magazine, and he was practically the originator of the census in england. we shall meet with him often in the correspondence. kemble was john philip kemble, then manager of drury lane. the play was "john woodvil." for an account of the version which lamb submitted, see the notes to vol. iv. george dyer wrote a _history of cambridge university_. george daniel, the antiquary and bookseller, tells us that many years later he took bloomfield to dine with lamb at islington.] letter charles lamb to thomas manning [p.m. nov. , .] dear manning,--i have received a very kind invitation from lloyd and sophia to go and spend a month with them at the lakes. now it fortunately happens (which is so seldom the case!) that i have spare cash by me, enough to answer the expenses of so long a journey; and i am determined to get away from the office by some means. the purpose of this letter is to request of you (my dear friend) that you will not take it unkind if i decline my proposed visit to cambridge _for the present_. perhaps i shall be able to take cambridge _in my way_, going or coming. i need not describe to you the expectations which such an one as myself, pent up all my life in a dirty city, have formed of a tour to the lakes. consider grasmere! ambleside! wordsworth! coleridge! i hope you will.* hills, woods, lakes, and mountains, to the eternal devil. i will eat snipes with thee, thomas manning. only confess, confess, a _bite_. _p.s._ i think you named the th; but was it not modest of lloyd to send such an invitation! it shows his knowledge of money and time. i would be loth to think he meant "ironic satire sidelong sklented on my poor pursie."--burns. for my part, with reference to my friends northward, i must confess that i am not romance-bit about _nature_. the earth, and sea, and sky (when all is said) is but as a house to dwell in. if the inmates be courteous, and good liquors flow like the conduits at an old coronation; if they can talk sensibly and feel properly; i have no need to stand staring upon the gilded looking-glass (that strained my friend's purse-strings in the purchase), nor his five-shilling print over the mantelpiece of old nabbs the carrier (which only betrays his false taste). just as important to me (in a sense) is all the furniture of my world-- eye-pampering, but satisfies no heart. streets, streets, streets, markets, theatres, churches, covent gardens, shops sparkling with pretty faces of industrious milliners, neat sempstresses, ladies cheapening, gentlemen behind counters lying, authors in the street with spectacles, george dyers (you may know them by their gait), lamps lit at night, pastry-cooks' and silver-smiths' shops, beautiful quakers of pentonville, noise of coaches, drowsy cry of mechanic watchman at night, with bucks reeling home drunk; if you happen to wake at midnight, cries of fire and stop thief; inns of court, with their learned air, and halls, and butteries, just like cambridge colleges; old book-stalls, jeremy taylors, burtons on melancholy, and religio medicis on every stall. these are thy pleasures, o london with-the-many-sins. o city abounding in whores, for these may keswick and her giant brood go hang! c. l. [charles lloyd had just settled at old brathay, about three miles from ambleside. manning's reply to this letter indicates that lamb's story of the invitation to stay with lloyd was a hoax. the first page, ended where i have put the *asterisk--as in the letter, to gutch. manning writes: "n.b. your lake story completely took me in till i got to the d page. i was pleased to think you were so rich, but i confess rather wondered how you should be able conveniently to take so long a journey this inside-fare time of the year." manning also says: "i condole, with you, mr. lamb, on the tragic fate of your tragedie--i wonder what fool it was that read it! by the bye, you would do me a very very great favour by letting me have a copy. if beggars might be chusers, i should ask to have it transcribed partly by you and partly by your sister. i have a desire to possess some of mary's handwriting" (see letter ). "beautiful quakers of pentonville." this is almost certainly a reference to hester savory, the original of lamb's poem "hester." the whole passage is the first of three eulogies of london in the letters, all very similar. to "the londoner" we come later.] letter charles lamb to william godwin [dec. , .] dear sir,--i send this speedily after the heels of cooper (o! the dainty expression) to say that mary is obliged to stay at home on sunday to receive a female friend, from whom i am equally glad to escape. so that we shall be by ourselves. i write, because it may make _some_ difference in your marketting, &c. c. l. thursday morning. i am sorry to put you to the expense of twopence postage. but i calculate thus: if mary comes she will eat beef plates, d. _batter pudding_ do. d. beer, a pint, d. wine, glasses, d. i drink no wine! chesnuts, after dinner, d. tea and supper at moderate calculation, d. --------- s. d. from which deduct d. postage ---------- s. d. you are a clear gainer by her not coming. [if the date be correct this becomes the first extant letter proper which lamb sent to the author of _political justice_. godwin was then forty-four years old, and had long been busy upon his tragedy "antonio," in which lamb had been assisting with suggestions. in this connection i place here the following document, which belongs, however, naturally to an earlier date, but is not harmed by its present position.] letter charles lamb to william godwin [no date. autumn, .] queries. whether the best conclusion would not be a solemn judicial pleading, appointed by the king, before himself in person of antonio as proxy for roderigo, and guzman for himself--the form and ordering of it to be highly solemn and grand. for this purpose, (allowing it,) the king must be reserved, and not have committed his royal dignity by descending to previous conference with antonio, but must refer from the beginning to this settlement. he must sit in dignity as a high royal arbiter. whether this would admit of spiritual interpositions, cardinals &c.--appeals to the pope, and haughty rejection of his interposition by antonio--(this merely by the way). the pleadings must be conducted by short speeches--replies, taunts, and bitter recriminations by antonio, in his rough style. in the midst of the undecided cause, may not a messenger break up the proceedings by an account of roderigo's death (no improbable or far-fetch'd event), and the whole conclude with an affecting and awful invocation of antonio upon roderigo's spirit, now no longer dependent upon earthly tribunals or a froward woman's will, &c., &c. almanza's daughter is now free, &c. this might be made _very affecting_. better nothing follow after; if anything, she must step forward and resolve to take the veil. in this case, the whole story of the former nunnery _must_ be omitted. but, i think, better leave the final conclusion to the imagination of the spectator. probably the violence of confining her in a convent is not necessary; antonio's own castle would be sufficient. to relieve the former part of the play, could not some sensible images, some work for the eye, be introduced? a gallery of pictures, almanza's ancestors, to which antonio might affectingly point his sister, one by one, with anecdote, &c. at all events, with the present want of action, the play must not extend above four acts, unless it is quite new modell'd. the proposed alterations might all be effected in a few weeks. solemn judicial pleadings always go off well, as in henry the th, merchant of venice, and perhaps othello. [lamb, said mr. paul, writing of this critical minute, was so genuinely kind and even affectionate, in his criticism that godwin did not perceive his real disapproval. mr swinburne, writing in _the athenæum_ for may , , made an interesting comment upon one of lamb's suggestions in the foregoing document. it contains, he remarks, "a singular anticipation of one of the most famous passages in the work of the greatest master of our own age, the scene of the portraits in 'hernani:' 'to relieve the former part of the play, could not some sensible images, some work for the eye, be introduced? _a gallery of pictures, alexander's ancestors, to which antonio might affectingly point his sister, one by one, with anecdote_, &c.' i know of no coincidence more pleasantly and strangely notable than this between the gentle genius of the loveliest among english essayists and the tragic invention of the loftiest among french poets." after long negotiation "antonio" was now actually in rehearsal at drury lane, to be produced on december . lamb supplied the epilogue. cooper was godwin's servant.] letter charles lamb to william godwin dec. th, . wednesday morning. dear sir,--i expected a good deal of pleasure from your company to-morrow, but i am sorry i must beg of you to excuse me. i have been confined ever since i saw you with one of the severest colds i ever experienced, occasioned by being in the night air on sunday, and on the following day, very foolishly. i am neither in health nor spirits to meet company. i hope and trust i shall get out on saturday night. you will add to your many favours, by transmitting to me as early as possible as many tickets as conveniently you can spare,--yours truly, c. l. i have been plotting how to abridge the epilogue. but i cannot see that any lines can be spared, retaining the connection, except these two, which are better out. "why should i instance, &c., the sick man's purpose, &c.," and then the following line must run thus, "the truth by an example best is shown." excuse this _important_ postscript. letter charles lamb to thomas manning [p.m. dec. , .] don't spill the cream upon this letter. i have received your letter _this moment_, not having been at the office. i have just time to scribble down the epilogue. to your epistle i will just reply, that i will certainly come to cambridge before january is out: i'll come _when i can_. you shall have an amended copy of my play early next week. mary thanks you; but her handwriting is too feminine to be exposed to a cambridge gentleman, though i endeavour to persuade her that you understand algebra, and must understand her hand. the play is the man's you wot of; but for god's sake (who would not like to have so pious a _professor's_ work _damn'd_) do not mention it--it is to come out in a feigned name, as one tobin's. i will omit the introductory lines which connect it with the play, and give you the concluding tale, which is the mass and bulk of the epilogue. the _name_ is _jack_ incident. it is about promise-breaking--you will see it all, if you read the _papers_. jack, of dramatic genius justly vain, purchased a renter's share at drury-lane; a prudent man in every other matter, known at his club-room for an honest hatter; humane and courteous, led a civil life, and has been seldom known to beat his wife; but jack is now grown quite another man, frequents the green-room, knows the plot and plan of each new piece, and has been seen to talk with sheridan! in at the play-house just at six he pops, and never quits it till the curtain drops, is never absent on the _author's night_, knows actresses and actors too--by sight; so humble, that with suett he'll confer, or take a pipe with plain jack bannister; nay, with an author has been known so free, he once suggested a catastrophe-- in short, john dabbled till his head was turn'd; his wife remonstrated, his neighbours mourn'd, his customers were dropping off apace, and jack's affairs began to wear a piteous face. one night his wife began a curtain lecture; "my dearest johnny, husband, spouse, protector, take pity on your helpless babes and me, save us from ruin, you from bankruptcy-- look to your business, leave these cursed plays, and try again your old industrious ways." jack who was always scared at the gazette, and had some bits of skull uninjured yet, promised amendment, vow'd his wife spake reason, "he would not see another play that season--" three stubborn fortnights jack his promise kept, was late and early in his shop, eat, slept, and walk'd and talk'd, like ordinary men; no _wit_, but john the hatter once again-- visits his club: when lo! one _fatal night_ his wife with horror view'd the well-known sight-- john's _hat, wig, snuff-box_--well she knew his tricks-- and jack decamping at the hour of six, just at the counter's edge a playbill lay, announcing that "pizarro" was the play-- "o johnny, johnny, this is your old doing." quoth jack, "why what the devil storm's a-brewing? about a harmless play why all this fright? i'll go and see it if it's but for spite-- zounds, woman! nelson's[ ] to be there to-night." _n.b_.--this was intended for jack bannister to speak; but the sage managers have chosen miss _heard_,--except miss tidswell, the worst actress ever seen or _heard_. now, i remember i have promised the loan of my play. i will lend it _instantly_, and you shall get it ('pon honour!) by this day week. i must go and dress for the boxes! first night! finding i have time, i transcribe the rest. observe, you have read the last first; it begins thus:--the names i took from a little outline g. gave me. i have not read the play. "ladies, ye've seen how guzman's consort died, poor victim of a spaniard brother's pride, when spanish honour through the world was blown, and spanish beauty for the best was known[ ] in that romantic, unenlighten'd time, a _breach of promise_[ ] was a sort of crime-- which of you handsome english ladies here, but deems the penance bloody and severe? a whimsical old saragossa[ ] fashion, that a dead father's dying inclination, should _live_ to thwart a living daughter's passion,[ ] unjustly on the sex _we_[ ] men exclaim, rail at _your_[ ] vices,--and commit the same;-- man is a promise-breaker from the womb, and goes a promise-breaker to the tomb-- what need we instance here the lover's vow, the sick man's purpose, or the great man's bow?[ ] the truth by few examples best is shown-- instead of many which are better known, take poor jack incident, that's dead and gone. jack," &c. &c. &c. now you have it all-how do you like it? i am going to hear it recited!!! c. l. [footnote : a good clap-trap. nelson has exhibited two or three times at both theatres--and advertised himself.] [footnote : four _easy_ lines.] [footnote : for which the _heroine died_.] [footnote : in _spain!!?] [footnote : two _neat_ lines.] [footnote : or _you_.] [footnote : or _our_, as _they_ have altered it.] [footnote : antithesis.] ["as one tobin's." the rehearsals of "antonio" were attended by godwin's friend, john tobin, subsequently author of "the honeymoon," in the hope, on account of godwin's reputation for heterodoxy, of deceiving people as to the real authorship of the play. it was, however, avowed by godwin on the title-page. jack bannister, the comedian, was a favourite actor of lamb's. see the _elia_ essay "on some of the old actors." miss heard was a daughter of william heard, the author of "the snuff-box," a feeble comedy. miss tidswell, by the irony of fate, had a part in lamb's own play, "mr. h.," six years later. "i have not read the play." meaning probably, "i have not read it in its final form." lamb must have read it in earlier versions. i quote mr. kegan paul's summary of the plot of "antonio":-- "helena was betrothed, with her father's consent, to her brother antonio's friend, roderigo. while antonio and roderigo were at the wars, helena fell in love with, and married, don gusman. she was the king's ward, who set aside the pre-contract. antonio, returning, leaves his friend behind; he has had great sorrows, but all will be well when he comes to claim his bride. when antonio finds his sister is married, the rage he exhibits is ferocious. he carries his sister off from her husband's house, and demands that the king shall annul the marriage with gusman. there is then talk of helena's entrance into a convent. at last the king, losing patience, gives judgment, as he had done before, that the pre-contract with roderigo was invalid, and the marriage to gusman valid. whereupon antonio bursts through the guards, and kills his sister."] letter charles lamb to william godwin dec. , . late o' sunday. dear sir,--i have performed my office in a slovenly way, but judge for me. i sat down at o'clock, and never left reading (and i read out to mary) your play till . in this sitting i noted down lines as they occurred, exactly as you will read my rough paper. do not be frightened at the bulk of my remarks, for they are almost all upon single lines, which, put together, do not amount to a hundred, and many of them merely verbal. i had but one object in view, abridgement for compression sake. i have used a dogmatical language (which is truly ludicrous when the trivial nature of my remarks is considered), and, remember, my office was to hunt out faults. you may fairly abridge one half of them, as a fair deduction for the infirmities of error, and a single reading, which leaves only fifty objections, most of them merely against words, on no short play. remember, you constituted me executioner, and a hangman has been seldom seen to be ashamed of his profession before master sheriff. we'll talk of the beauties (of which i am more than ever sure) when we meet,--yours truly, c. l. i will barely add, as you are on the very point of printing, that in my opinion neither prologue nor epilogue should accompany the play. it can only serve to remind your readers of its fate. _both_ suppose an audience, and, that jest being gone, must convert into burlesque. nor would i (but therein custom and decorum must be a law) print the actors' names. some things must be kept out of sight. i have done, and i have but a few square inches of paper to fill up. i am emboldened by a little jorum of punch (vastly good) to say that next to _one man_, i am the most hurt at our ill success. the breast of hecuba, where she did suckle hector, looked not to be more lovely than marshal's forehead when it spit forth sweat, at critic-swords contending. i remember two honest lines by marvel, (whose poems by the way i am just going to possess) "where every mower's wholesome heat smells like an alexander's sweat." ["antonio" was performed on december , with john philip kemble in the title-rôle, and was a complete failure. lamb wrote an account of the unlucky evening many years later in the "old actors" series in the _london magazine_ (see vol. ii. of the present edition). he speaks there, as here, of marshal's forehead--marshal being john marshall, a friend of the godwins. after the play godwin supped with lamb, when it was decided to publish "antonio" at once. lamb retained the ms. for criticism. the present letter in the original contains his comments, the only one of which that mr. kegan paul thought worth reproducing being the following:-- "'enviable' is a very bad word. i allude to 'enviable right to bless us.' for instance, burns, comparing the ills of manhood with the state of infancy, says, 'oh! enviable early days;' here 'tis good, because the passion lay in comparison. excuse my insulting your judgment with an illustration. i believe i only wanted to beg in the name of a favourite bardie, or at most to confirm my own judgment." lamb, it will be remembered, had refused to let coleridge use "enviable" in "lewti." burns's poem to which lamb alludes is "despondency, an ode," stanza , "oh! enviable, early days." godwin's play was published in without lamb's epilogue.] letter charles lamb to thomas manning dec. th, . we are damn'd! not the facetious epilogue could save us. for, as the editor of the "morning post," quick-sighted gentleman! hath this morning truly observed, (i beg pardon if i falsify his _words_, their profound _sense_ i am sure i retain,) both prologue and epilogue were worthy of accompanying such a piece; and indeed (mark the profundity, mister manning) were received with proper indignation by such of the audience only as thought either worth attending to. professor, thy glories wax dim! again, the incomparable author of the "true briton" declareth in _his_ paper (bearing same date) that the epilogue was an indifferent attempt at humour and character, and failed in both. i forbear to mention the other papers, because i have not read them. o professor, how different thy feelings now (_quantum mutatus ab illo professore, qui in agris philosophiae tantas victorias aquisivisti_),--how different thy proud feelings but one little week ago,--thy anticipation of thy nine nights,--those visionary claps, which have soothed thy soul by day and thy dreams by night! calling in accidentally on the professor while he was out, i was ushered into the study; and my nose quickly (most sagacious always) pointed me to four tokens lying loose upon thy table, professor, which indicated thy violent and satanical pride of heart. imprimis, there caught mine eye a list of six persons, thy friends, whom thou didst meditate inviting to a sumptuous dinner on the thursday, anticipating the profits of thy saturday's play to answer charges; i was in the honoured file! next, a stronger evidence of thy violent and almost satanical pride, lay a list of all the morning papers (from the "morning chronicle" downwards to the "porcupine,") with the places of their respective offices, where thou wast meditating to insert, and didst insert, an elaborate sketch of the story of thy play--stones in thy enemy's hand to bruise thee with; and severely wast thou bruised, o professor! nor do i know what oil to pour into thy wounds. next, which convinced me to a dead conviction of thy pride, violent and almost satanical pride--lay a list of books, which thy un-tragedy-favoured pocket could never answer; dodsley's old plays, malone's shakspeare (still harping upon thy play, thy philosophy abandoned meanwhile to christians and superstitious minds); nay, i believe (if i can believe my memory), that the ambitious encyclopaedia itself was part of thy meditated acquisitions; but many a playbook was there. all these visions are _damned_; and thou, professor, must read shakspere in future out of a common edition; and, hark ye, pray read him to a little better purpose! last and strongest against thee (in colours manifest as the hand upon belshazzar's wall), lay a volume of poems by c. lloyd and c. lamb. thy heart misgave thee, that thy assistant might possibly not have talent enough to furnish thee an epilogue! manning, all these things came over my mind; all the gratulations that would have thickened upon him, and even some have glanced aside upon his humble friend; the vanity, and the fame, and the profits (the professor is £ ideal money out of pocket by this failure, besides £ he would have got for the copyright, and the professor is never much beforehand with the world; what he gets is all by the sweat of his brow and dint of brain, for the professor, though a sure man, is also a slow); and now to muse upon thy altered physiognomy, thy pale and squalid appearance (a kind of _blue sickness_ about the eyelids), and thy crest fallen, and thy proud demand of £ from thy bookseller changed to an uncertainty of his taking it at all, or giving thee full £ . the professor has won my heart by this _his_ mournful catastrophe. you remember marshall, who dined with him at my house; i met him in the lobby immediately after the damnation of the professor's play, and he looked to me like an angel: his face was lengthened, and all over sweat; i never saw such a care-fraught visage; i could have hugged him, i loved him so intensely--"from every pore of him a perfume fell." i have seen that man in many situations, and from my soul i think that a more god-like honest soul exists not in this world. the professor's poor nerves trembling with the recent shock, he hurried him away to my house to supper; and there we comforted him as well as we could. he came to consult me about a change of catastrophe; but alas! the piece was condemned long before that crisis. i at first humoured him with a specious proposition, but have since joined his true friends in advising him to give it up. he did it with a pang, and is to print it as _his_. l. [the professor was lamb's name for godwin. the _porcupine_ was cobbett's paper.] letters and charles lamb to thomas manning [middle december.] i send you all of coleridge's letters to me, which i have preserved: some of them are upon the subject of my play. i also send you kemble's two letters, and the prompter's courteous epistle, with a curious critique on "pride's cure," by a young physician from edinbro, who modestly suggests quite another kind of a plot. these are monuments of my disappointment which i like to preserve. in coleridge's letters you will find a good deal of amusement, to see genuine talent struggling against a pompous display of it. i also send you the professor's letter to me (careful professor! to conceal his _name_ even from his correspondent), ere yet the professor's pride was cured. oh monstrous and almost satanical pride! you will carefully keep all (except the scotch doctor's, _which burn in status quo_), till i come to claim mine own. c. lamb. for mister manning, teacher of mathematics and the black arts. there is another letter in the inside cover of the book opposite the blank leaf that _was_. mind this goes for a letter. (acknowledge it _directly_, if only in ten words.) dear manning--(i shall want to hear this comes safe.) i have scratched out a good deal, as you will see. generally, what i have rejected was either false in feeling, or a violation of character--mostly of the first sort. i will here just instance in the concluding few lines of the "dying lover's story," which completely contradicted his character of _silent_ and _unreproachful_. i hesitated a good deal what copy to send you, and at last resolved to send the worst, because you are familiar with it, and can make it out; and a stranger would find so much difficulty in doing it, that it would give him more pain than pleasure. this is compounded precisely of the two persons' hands you requested it should be.--yours sincerely, c. lamb. [these were the letters accompanying the copy of "pride's cure" (or "john woodvil") which charles and mary lamb together made for manning, as requested in the note on page . all the letters mentioned by lamb have vanished; unless by an unlikely chance the bundle contained coleridge's letters on mrs. lamb's death and on the quarrel with lamb and lloyd. manning's reply, dated december, , gives a little information concerning the edinburgh physician's letter--"that gentleman whose fertile brain can, at a moment's warning, furnish you with thousand models of a plot--'the greatest variety of rapes, murders, deathsheads, &c., &c., sold here.'" manning thinks that the scotch doctor understands lamb's tragedy better than coleridge does. he adds: "p.s.--my verdict upon the poet's epitaph is 'genuine.'" this probably applies to a question asked by lamb concerning wordsworth's poem of that name.] letter charles lamb to thomas manning december th, . 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 pertinaciously 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 that's the reason he wore nankeen that 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, expressly formed for the exclusion of such impertinents. then he caught at a proof sheet, and catched up a laundress's bill instead--made a dart at blomfield'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 impressions of his poems, which were ready for delivery to subscribers, and the preface must all be expunged. there were eighty pages of preface, and not till that morning had he discovered that in the very first page of said preface he had set out with a principle of criticism fundamentally-wrong, which vitiated all his following reasoning. the preface must be expunged, although it cost him £ --the lowest calculation, taking in paper and printing! in vain have his real friends remonstrated against this midsummer 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_!" as for the other professor, he has actually begun to dive into tavernier and chardin's _persian_ travels for a story, to form a new drama for the sweet tooth of this fastidious age. hath not bethlehem college a fair action for non-residence against such professors? are poets so _few_ in _this age_, that he must write poetry? is _morals_ a subject so exhausted, that he must quit that line? is the metaphysic well (without a bottom) drained dry? if i can guess at the wicked pride of the professor's heart, i would take a shrewd wager that he disdains ever again to dip his pen in _prose_. adieu, ye splendid theories! farewell, dreams of political justice! lawsuits, where i was counsel for archbishop fenelon _versus_ my own mother, in the famous fire cause! vanish from my mind, professors, one and all! i have metal more attractive on foot. man of many snipes, i will sup with thee, deo volente et diabolo nolente, on monday night the th of january, in the new year, and crush a cup to the infant century. a word or two of my progress. embark at six o'clock in the morning, with a fresh gale, on a cambridge one-decker; very cold till eight at night; land at st. mary's light-house, muffins and coffee upon table (or any other curious production of turkey or both indies), snipes exactly at nine, punch to commence at ten, with _argument_; difference of opinion is expected to take place about eleven; perfect unanimity, with some haziness and dimness, before twelve.--n.b. my single affection is not so singly wedded to snipes; but the curious and epicurean eye would also take a pleasure in beholding a delicate and well-chosen assortment of teals, ortolans, the unctuous and palate-soothing flesh of geese wild and tame, nightingales' brains, the sensorium of a young sucking-pig, or any other christmas dish, which i leave to the judgment of you and the cook of gonville. c. lamb. [lamb's copy of george dyer's _poems_ is in the british museum. it has the original withdrawn title-page and the cancelled preface bound up with it, and lamb has written against the reference to the sacrifice, in the new preface: "one copy of this cancelled preface, snatch'd out of the fire, is prefaced to this volume." see letter , page . it runs to sixty-five pages, whereas the new one is but a few words. southey tells grosvenor bedford in one of his letters that lamb gave dyer the title of cancellarius magnus. dyer reprinted in the edition of his poems the greater part of the cancelled preface and all of the first page--so that it is difficult to say what the fallacy was. the original edition of his _poems_, was to be in three large volumes. in it had come down to two small ones. godwin's persian drama was "abbas, king of persia," but he could not get it acted. the reference to fénélon is to godwin's _political justice_ (first edition, vol. i., page ) where he argues on the comparative worth of the persons of fénélon, a chambermaid, and godwin's mother, supposing them to have been present at the famous fire at cambrai and only one of them to be saved. (as a matter of fact fénélon was not at the fire.) we must suppose that lamb carried out his intention of visiting manning on january ; but there is no confirmation.] letter charles lamb to william wordsworth [p.m. january , .] 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 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 shakesperian character of the happy man, in the brothers, --that creeps about the fields, following his fancies by the hour, to bring tears down his cheek, 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 herself, first substituting her own feelings for the beggar's, and, in the same breath detecting the fallacy, will not part with the wish.--the poet's epitaph is disfigured, to my taste by the vulgar satire upon parsons and lawyers in the beginning, and the coarse epithet of pin point in the th 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 & modern poets, who continually put a sign post up to shew 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 beautiful bare narratives. there is implied an unwritten compact between author and reader; i will tell you a story, 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 with praise and blame. i have written so much, only that you may not think i have passed over your book without observation,--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 us, 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 piper's magic whistle. i totally differ from your idea that the marinere should have had a character and profession. this is a beauty in gulliver's travels, where the mind is kept in a placid state of little wonderments; but the ancient marinere undergoes 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 observation is i think as well a little unfounded: the marinere from being conversant in supernatural events _has_ acquired a supernatural and strange cast of _phrase_, eye, appearance, &c. which frighten the wedding guest. you will excuse my remarks, because i am hurt and vexed that you should think it necessary, with a prose apology, to open the eyes of dead men that cannot see. to sum up a general opinion of the second vol.--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.--i could, too, have wished the critical preface had appeared in a separate treatise. all its dogmas are true and just, and most of them new, _as_ criticism. but they associate a _diminishing_ idea with the poems which follow, as having been written for _experiment_ on the public taste, more than having sprung (as they must have done) from living and daily circumstances.--i am prolix, because i am gratifyed in the opportunity of writing to you, and i don't well know when to leave off. i ought before this to have reply'd to your very kind invitation into cumberland. with you and your sister i could gang any where. but i am afraid whether i shall ever be able to afford so desperate a journey. separate from the pleasure of your company, i don't much care if i never see a mountain in my life. i have passed all my days in london, until i have formed as many and intense local attachments, as any of you mountaineers can have done with dead nature. the lighted shops of the strand and fleet street, the innumerable trades, tradesmen and customers, coaches, waggons, playhouses, all the bustle and wickedness round about covent garden, the very women of the town, the watchmen, drunken scenes, rattles,--life awake, if you awake, at all hours of the night, the impossibility of being dull in fleet street, the crowds, the very dirt & mud, the sun shining upon houses and pavements, the print shops, the old book stalls, parsons cheap'ning books, coffee houses, steams of soups from kitchens, the pantomimes, london itself a pantomime and a masquerade,--all these things work themselves into my mind and feed me, without a power of satiating me. the wonder of these sights impells me into night-walks about her crowded streets, and i often shed tears in the motley strand from fulness of joy at so much life.--all these emotions must be strange to you. so are your rural emotions to me. but consider, what must i have been doing all my life, not to have lent great portions of my heart with usury to such scenes?-- my attachments are all local, purely local. i have no passion (or have had none since i was in love, and then it was the spurious engendering of poetry & books) to groves and vallies. the rooms where i was born, the furniture which has been before my eyes all my life, a book case which has followed me about (like a faithful dog, only exceeding him in knowledge) wherever i have moved--old chairs, old tables, streets, squares, where i have sunned myself, my old school,--these are my mistresses. have i not enough, without your mountains? i do not envy you. i should pity you, did i not know, that the mind will make friends of any thing. your sun & moon and skys and hills & lakes affect me no more, or scarcely come to me in more venerable characters, than as a gilded room with tapestry and tapers, where i might live with handsome visible objects. i consider the clouds above me but as a roof, beautifully painted but unable to satisfy the mind, and at last, like the pictures of the apartment of a connoisseur, unable to afford him any longer a pleasure. so fading upon me, from disuse, have been the beauties of nature, as they have been confinedly called; so ever fresh & green and warm are all the inventions of men and assemblies of men in this great city. i should certainly have laughed with dear joanna. give my kindest love, _and my sister's_, to d. & your_self_ and a kiss from me to little barbara lewthwaite. c. lamb. thank you for liking my play!! [this is the first--and perhaps the finest--letter from lamb to wordsworth that has been preserved. wordsworth, then living with his sister dorothy at dove cottage, grasmere, was nearly thirty-one years of age; lamb was nearly twenty-six. the work criticised is the second edition of the _lyrical ballads_. the second and sixth stanzas of the "poet's epitaph" ran thus:-- a lawyer art thou?--draw not nigh; go, carry to some other place the hardness of thy coward eye, the falshood of thy sallow face. * * * * * wrapp'd closely in thy sensual fleece o turn aside, and take, i pray, that he below may rest in peace, thy pin-point of a soul away! _st. leon_ was by godwin. of "the ancient mariner, a poet's reverie," wordsworth had said in a note to the first volume of _lyrical ballads_:-- "the poem of my friend has indeed great defects; first, that the principal person has no distinct character, either in his profession of mariner, or as a human being who having been long under the controul of supernatural impressions might be supposed himself to partake of something supernatural; secondly, that he does not act, but is continually acted upon; thirdly, that the events having no necessary connection do not produce each other; and lastly, that the imagery is somewhat too laboriously accumulated." "the mad mother." the poem beginning, "her eyes are wild, her head is bare." "i could, too, have wished." the passage from these words to "don't well know when to leave off," used to be omitted in the editions of lamb's letters. when wordsworth sent the correspondence to moxon, for talfourd's use, in , he wrote:-- "there are, however, in them some parts which had better be kept back.... i have also thought it proper to suppress every word of criticism [wordsworth meant adverse criticism] upon my own poems.... those relating to my works are withheld, partly because i shrink from the thought of assisting in any way to spread my own praises, and still more i being convinced that the opinions or judgments of friends given in this way are of little value." "joanna." joanna of the laugh. "barbara lewthwaite." see wordsworth's "pet lamb." "thank you for liking my play!!" we must suppose this postscript to contain a touch of sarcasm. lamb had sent "john woodvil" to grasmere and keswick. wordsworth apparently had been but politely interested in it. coleridge had written to godwin: "talking of tragedies, at every perusal my love and admiration of his [lamb's] play rises a peg." here should come a letter from lamb to robert lloyd, dated at end february , , not available for this edition. it is one of the best letters written by lamb to robert lloyd, or to any one. lamb first praises izaak walton, whose _compleat angler_ he loved for two reasons: for itself and for its connection with his own hertfordshire country, hoddesdon, broxbourne, amwell and the ware neighbourhood. the letter passes to a third eulogy of london. lamb closes by remarking that manning is "a dainty chiel, and a man of great power, an enchanter almost."] letter charles lamb to thomas manning feb. , . i had need be cautious henceforward what opinion i give of the "lyrical ballads." all the north of england are in a turmoil. cumberland and westmoreland have already declared a state of war. i lately received from wordsworth a copy of the second volume, accompanied by an acknowledgement of having received from me many months since a copy of a certain tragedy, with excuses for not having made any acknowledgement sooner, it being owing to an "almost insurmountable aversion from letter-writing." this letter i answered in due form and time, and enumerated several of the passages which had most affected me, adding, unfortunately, that no single piece had moved me so forcibly as the "ancient mariner," "the mad mother," or the "lines at tintern abbey." the post did not sleep a moment. i received almost instantaneously a long letter of four sweating pages from my reluctant letter-writer, the purport of which was, that he was sorry his d vol. had not given me more pleasure (devil a hint did i give that it had _not pleased me_), and "was compelled to wish that my range of sensibility was more extended, being obliged to believe that i should receive large influxes of happiness and happy thoughts" (i suppose from the l.b.)--with a deal of stuff about a certain union of tenderness and imagination, which in the sense he used imagination was not the characteristic of shakspeare, but which milton possessed in a degree far exceeding other poets: which union, as the highest species of poetry, and chiefly deserving that name, "he was most proud to aspire to;" then illustrating the said union by two quotations from his own d vol. (which i had been so unfortunate as to miss). st specimen--a father addresses his son:-- "when thou first camest into the world, as it befalls to new-born infants, thou didst sleep away two days: and _blessings from thy father's tongue then fell upon thee_." the lines were thus undermarked, and then followed "this passage, as combining in an extraordinary degree that union of imagination and tenderness which i am speaking of, i consider as one of the best i ever wrote!" d specimen.--a youth, after years of absence, revisits his native place, and thinks (as most people do) that there has been strange alteration in his absence:-- "and that the rocks and everlasting hills themselves were changed." you see both these are good poetry: but after one has been reading shakspeare twenty of the best years of one's life, to have a fellow start up, and prate about some unknown quality, which shakspeare possessed in a degree inferior to milton and _somebody else_!! this was not to be _all_ my castigation. coleridge, who had not written to me some months before, starts up from his bed of sickness to reprove me for my hardy presumption: four long pages, equally sweaty and more tedious, came from him; assuring me that, when the works of a man of true genius such as w. undoubtedly was, do not please me at first sight, i should suspect the fault to lie "in me and not in them," etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. what am i to do with such people? i certainly shall write them a very merry letter. writing to _you_, i may say that the d vol. has no such pieces as the three i enumerated. it is full of original thinking and an observing mind, but it does not often make you laugh or cry.--it too artfully aims at simplicity of expression. and you sometimes doubt if simplicity be not a cover for poverty. the best piece in it i will send you, being _short_. i have grievously offended my friends in the north by declaring my undue preference; but i need not fear you:-- "she dwelt among the untrodden ways beside the springs of dove, a maid whom there were few [none] to praise and very few to love. "a violet, by a mossy stone, half hidden from the eye. fair as a star when only one is shining in the sky. "she lived unknown; and few could know, when lucy ceased to be. but she is in the grave, and oh! the difference to me." this is choice and genuine, and so are many, many more. but one does not like to have 'em rammed down one's throat. "pray, take it--it's very good--let me help you--eat faster." [it cannot be too much regretted that lamb's "very merry letter" in answer to wordsworth and coleridge's remonstrances has not been preserved. at the end of the letter is a passage which can be read only in the boston bibliophile edition, referring to dyer's poems, to _john woodvil_ and to godwin.] letter charles lamb to thomas manning [late february, .] you masters of logic ought to know (logic is nothing more than a knowledge of _words_, as the greek etymon implies), that all words are no more to be taken in a literal sense at all times than a promise given to a tailor. when i expressed an apprehension that you were mortally offended, i meant no more than by the application of a certain formula of efficacious sounds, which had _done_ in similar cases before, to rouse a sense of decency in you, and a remembrance of what was due to me! you masters of logic should advert to this phenomenon in human speech, before you arraign the usage of us dramatic geniuses. imagination is a good blood mare, and goes well; but the misfortune is, she has too many paths before her. 'tis true i might have imaged to myself, that you had trundled your frail carcass to norfolk. i might also, and did imagine, that you had not, but that you were lazy, or inventing new properties in a triangle, and for that purpose moulding and squeezing landlord crisp's three-cornered beaver into fantastic experimental forms; or that archimedes was meditating to repulse the french, in case of a cambridge invasion, by a geometric hurling of folios on their red caps; or, peradventure, that you were in extremities, in great wants, and just set out for trinity-bogs when my letters came. in short, my genius (which is a short word now-a-days for what-a-great-man-am-i) was absolutely stifled and overlaid with its own riches. truth is one and poor, like the cruse of elijah's widow. imagination is the bold face that multiplies its oil: and thou, the old cracked pipkin, that could not believe it could be put to such purposes. dull pipkin, to have elijah for thy cook! imbecile recipient of so fat a miracle! i send you george dyer's poems, the richest production of the lyric muse _this century_ can justly boast: for wordsworth's l.b. were published, or at least written, before christmas. please to advert to pages to for the most astonishing account of where shakspeare's muse has been all this while. i thought she had been dead, and buried in stratford church, with the young man _that kept her company_,-- "but it seems, like the devil, buried in cole harbour. some say she's risen again, 'gone prentice to a barber." n.b.--i don't charge anything for the additional manuscript notes, which are the joint productions of myself and a learned translator of schiller, john stoddart, esq. n.b. the nd.--i should not have blotted your book, but i had sent my own out to be bound, as i was in duty bound. a liberal criticism upon the several pieces, lyrical, heroical, amatory, and satirical, would be acceptable. so, you don't think there's a word's--worth of good poetry in the great l.b.! i daren't put the dreaded syllables at their just length, for my back tingles from the northern castigation. i send you the three letters, which i beg you to return along with those former letters, which i hope you are not going to print by your detention. but don't be in a hurry to send them. when you come to town will do. apropos of coming to town, last sunday was a fortnight, as i was coming to town from the professor's, inspired with new rum, i tumbled down, and broke my nose. i drink nothing stronger than malt liquors. i am going to change my lodgings, having received a hint that it would be agreeable, at our lady's next feast. i have partly fixed upon most delectable rooms, which look out (when you stand a tiptoe) over the thames and surrey hills, at the upper end of king's bench walks in the temple. there i shall have all the privacy of a house without the encumbrance, and shall be able to lock my friends out as often as i desire to hold free converse with my immortal mind; for my present lodgings resemble a minister's levee, i have so increased my acquaintance (as they call 'em), since i have resided in town. like the country mouse, that had tasted a little of urban manners, i long to be nibbling my own cheese by my dear self without mouse-traps and time-traps. by my new plan, i shall be as airy, up four pair of stairs, as in the country; and in a garden, in the midst of [that] enchanting, more than mahometan paradise, london, whose dirtiest drab-frequented alley, and her lowest bowing tradesman, i would not exchange for skiddaw, helvellyn, james, walter, and the parson into the bargain. o! her lamps of a night! her rich goldsmiths, print-shops, toyshops, mercers, hardwaremen, pastry-cooks! st. paul's churchyard! the strand! exeter change! charing cross, with the man _upon_ a black horse! these are thy gods, o london! ain't you mightily moped on the banks of the cam! had not you better come and set up here? you can't think what a difference. all the streets and pavements are pure gold, i warrant you. at least i know an alchemy that turns her mud into that metal,--a mind that loves to be at home in crowds. 'tis half-past twelve o'clock, and all sober people ought to be a-bed. between you and me, the "lyrical ballads" are but drowsy performances. c. lamb (as you may guess). [lamb refers in his opening sentences to a letter from himself to manning which no longer exists. in manning's last letter, dated february , he complains that he found on returning to cambridge three copies of a letter from lamb suggesting that he was offended because he had not answered. the passage in george dyer's _poems_ between pages and is long, but it is so quaint and so illustrative of its author's mind that i give it in full, footnotes and all, in the appendix to this volume. stoddart we have already met. he had translated, with georg heinrich noehden, schiller's _fiesco_, , and _don carlos_, . the copy of dyer's _poems_ annotated by lamb and stoddart i have not seen. "so, you don't think there's a word's-worth..." manning had written, on february , , of the second volume of _lyrical ballads_: "i think 'tis utterly absurd from one end to the other. you tell me 'tis good poetry--if you mean that there is nothing puerile, nothing bombast or conceited, everything else that is so often found to disfigure poetry, i agree, but will you read it over and over again? answer me that, master lamb." the three letters containing the northern castigation are unhappily lost. "my back tingles." "back" is not lamb's word. "i am going to change my lodgings." the lambs were still at southampton buildings; they moved to mitre court buildings just before lady day, . "james, walter, and the parson." in wordsworth's poem "the brothers." exeter change, which stood where burleigh street now is, was a great building, with bookstalls and miscellaneous stalls on the ground floor and a menagerie above. it was demolished in .] letter charles lamb to thomas manning april, . i was not aware that you owed me anything beside that guinea; but i dare say you are right. i live at no. mitre-court buildings, a pistol-shot off baron maseres'. you must introduce me to the baron. i think we should suit one another mainly. he lives on the ground floor for convenience of the gout; i prefer the attic story for the air! he keeps three footmen and two maids; i have neither maid nor laundress, not caring to be troubled with them! his forte, i understand, is the higher mathematics; my turn, i confess, is more to poetry and the belles lettres. the very antithesis of our characters would make up a harmony. you must bring the baron and me together.--n.b. when you come to see me, mount up to the top of the stairs--i hope you are not asthmatical--and come in flannel, for it's pure airy up there. and bring your glass, and i will shew you the surrey hills. my bed faces the river so as by perking up upon my haunches, and supporting my carcase with my elbows, without much wrying my neck, i can see the white sails glide by the bottom of the king's bench walks as i lie in my bed. an excellent tiptoe prospect in the best room: casement windows with small panes, to look more like a cottage. mind, i have got no bed for you, that's flat; sold it to pay expenses of moving. the very bed on which manning lay--the friendly, the mathematical manning! how forcibly does it remind me of the interesting otway! "the very bed which on thy marriage night gave thee into the arms of belvidera, by the coarse hands of ruffians--" (upholsterers' men,) &c. my tears will not give me leave to go on. but a bed i will get you, manning, on condition you will be my day-guest. i have been ill more than month, with a bad cold, which comes upon me (like a murderer's conscience) about midnight, and vexes me for many hours. i have successively been drugged with spanish licorice, opium, ipecacuanha, paregoric, and tincture of foxglove (tinctura purpurae digitalis of the ancients). i am afraid i must leave off drinking. [francis maseres ( - ), whom lamb mentions again in his _elia_ essay on "the old benchers," was the mathematician (hence his interest to manning) and reformer. his rooms were at king's bench walk. he became cursitor baron of the exchequer in . to the end he wore a three-cornered hat, a wig and ruffles. priestley praised the baron's mathematical labours, in which he had the support of william frend.] letter charles lame to thomas manning [no date. ? april, .] dear manning,--i sent to brown's immediately. mr. brown (or pijou, as he is called by the moderns) denied the having received a letter from you. the one for you he remembered receiving, and remitting to leadenhall street; whither i immediately posted (it being the middle of dinner), my teeth unpicked. there i learned that if you want a letter set right, you must apply at the first door on the left hand before one o'clock. i returned and picked my teeth. and this morning i made my application in form, and have seen the vagabond letter, which most likely accompanies this. if it does not, i will get rickman to name it to the speaker, who will not fail to lay the matter before parliament the next sessions, when you may be sure to have all abuses in the post department rectified. n.b. there seems to be some informality epidemical. you direct yours to me in mitre court; my true address is mitre court buildings. by the pleasantries of fortune, who likes a joke or a _double entendre_ as well as the best of her children, there happens to be another mr. lamb (that there should be two!!) in mitre court. farewell, and think upon it. c. l. [here should come a letter from lamb to robert lloyd, dated april , , in praise of jeremy taylor, particularly the _holy dying_. lamb recommends lloyd to read the story of the ephesian matron in the eighth section. here also should come a letter from lamb to robert lloyd, dated june , , containing a very interesting criticism of george frederick cooke's acting as richard iii. at covent garden. lamb wrote for the _morning post_, january , , a criticism of cooke in this part, which will be found in vol. i. of the present edition.] letter charles lamb to william godwin june , . dear sir,--doctor christy's brother and sister are come to town, and have shown me great civilities. i in return wish to requite them, having, _by god's grace_, principles of generosity _implanted_ (as the moralists say) in my nature, which have been duly cultivated and watered by good and religious friends, and a pious education. they have picked up in the northern parts of the island an astonishing admiration of the great author of the new philosophy in england, and i have ventured to promise their taste an evening's gratification by seeing mr. godwin _face_ to _face!!!!!_ will you do them and me _in_ them the pleasure of drinking tea and supping with me at the _old_ number on friday or saturday next? an early nomination of the day will very much oblige yours sincerely, ch. lamb. [dr. christy's brother and sister i do not identify.] letter charles lamb to walter wilson august th, . 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 considerable 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, without sufficient 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 importance and reality of a religious belief. latterly, i acknowledge, much of my 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 certainty of the usefulness of religion. i will not pretend to more gravity or feeling than i at present possess; my intention is not to persuade you that any great alteration is probable 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. [walter wilson ( - ) was, perhaps, at this time, or certainly previously, in the india house with lamb. later he became a bookseller, and then, inheriting money, he entered at the inner temple. we meet him again later in the correspondence, in connection with his _life of defoe_, . one wonders if the following passage in hazlitt's essay "on coffee-house politicians" in _table talk_ has any reference to the richmond incident:-- "elia, the grave and witty, says things not to be surpassed in essence: but the manner is more painful and less a relief to my own thoughts. some one conceived he could not be an excellent companion, because he was seen walking down the side of the thames, _passibus iniquis_, after dining at richmond. the objection was not valid."] letter charles lamb to thomas manning [august,] . dear manning,--i have forborne writing so long (and so 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 neglect--from illness, or some mishap which may have befallen 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 excuse 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 oracular response. i have been confined some days with swelled cheek and rheumatism--they divide and govern me with a viceroy-headache in the middle. i can neither write nor read without great pain. it must be something like obstinacy that i choose this time to write to you in after many months interruption. i will close my letter of simple inquiry with an epigram on mackintosh, the "vindiciae gallicae"-man--who has got a place at last--one of the last i _did_ for the "albion";-- "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 wisely hanged himself: this thou may do at last, yet much i doubt, if thou hast any _bowels_ to gush out!" yours, as ever, c. lamb. [the albion was at the time of its decease owned and edited by john fenwick, a friend of lamb's whom we shall meet again. lamb told the story in the _elia_ essay on "newspapers" in the following passage:-- "from the office of the _morning post_ (for we may as well exhaust our newspaper reminiscences at once) by change of property in the paper, we were transferred, mortifying exchanged to the office of the albion newspaper, late rackstrow's museum, in fleet street. what a transition-- from a handsome apartment, from rose-wood desks, and silver inkstands, to an office--no office, but a _den_ rather, but just redeemed from the occupation of dead monsters, of which it seemed redolent--from the centre of loyalty and fashion, to a focus of vulgarity and sedition! here in murky closet, inadequate from its square contents to the receipt of the two bodies of editor, and humble paragraph-maker, together at one time, sat in the discharge of his new editorial functions (the 'bigod' of _elia_) the redoubted john fenwick. "f., without a guinea in his pocket, and having left not many in the pockets of his friends whom he might command, had purchased (on tick doubtless) the whole and sole editorship, proprietorship, with all the rights and titles (such as they were worth) of the albion, from one lovell; of whom we know nothing, save that he had stood in the pillory for a libel on the prince of wales. with this hopeless concern--for it had been sinking ever since its commencement, and could now reckon upon not more than a hundred subscribers--f. resolutely determined upon pulling down the government in the first instance, and making both our fortunes by way of corollary. for seven weeks and more did this infatuated democrat go about borrowing seven shilling pieces, and lesser coin, to meet the daily demands of the stamp office, which allowed no credit to publications of that side in politics. an outcast from politer bread, we attached our small talents to the forlorn fortunes of our friend. our occupation now was to write treason. "recollections of feelings--which were all that now remained from our first boyish heats kindled by the french revolution, when if we were misled, we erred in the company of some, who are accounted very good men now--rather than any tendency at this time to republican doctrines-- assisted us in assuming a style of writing, while the paper lasted, consonant in no very under-tone to the right earnest fanaticism of f. our cue was now to insinuate, rather than recommend, possible abdications. blocks, axes, whitehall tribunals, were covered with flowers of so cunning a periphrasis--as mr. bayes says, never naming the _thing_ directly--that the keen eye of an attorney-general was insufficient to detect the lurking snake among them. there were times, indeed, when we signed for our more gentleman-like occupation under stuart. but with change of masters it is ever change of service. already one paragraph, and another, as we learned afterwards from a gentleman at the treasury, had begun to be marked at that office, with a view of its being submitted at least to the attention of the proper law officers-- when an unlucky, or rather lucky epigram from our pen, aimed at sir j------s m------h, who was on the eve of departing for india to reap the fruits of his apostacy, as f. pronounced it, (it is hardly worth particularising), happening to offend the nice sense of lord, or, as he then delighted to be called, citizen stanhope, deprived f. at once of the last hopes of a guinea from the last patron that had stuck by us; and breaking up our establishment, left us to the safe, but somewhat mortifying, neglect of the crown lawyers." there are, however, in lamb's account, written thirty years afterwards, some errors. he passed rather from the _albion_ to the _post_ than from the _post_ to the _albion_ (see the notes in vol. ii.). sir james mackintosh was not in on the eve of departing for india: he did not get the post of recordership of bombay until two years later. the epigram probably referred to an earlier rumour of a post for him. his apostasy consisted in recanting in from the opinions set forth in his _vindiciae gallicae_, , a book supporting the french revolutionists, and in becoming a close friend of his old enemy burke. i have not succeeded in finding a file of the albion, nor, i believe, has any one else. "the nobleman in 'st. mark.'" lamb was thinking of luke xiv. - .] letter charles lamb to thomas manning [p.m. august , .] i heard that you were going to china, with a commission from the wedgwoods to collect hints for their pottery, and to teach the chinese _perspective_. but i did not know that london lay in your way to pekin. i am seriously glad of it, for i shall trouble you with a small present for the emperor of usbeck tartary, as you go by his territories: it is a fragment of a "dissertation on the state of political parties in england at the end of the eighteenth century," which will no doubt be very interesting to his imperial majesty. it was written originally in english for the use of the _two_ and _twenty_ readers of "the albion" (this _calculation_ includes a printer, four pressmen, and a devil); but becoming of no use when "the albion" stopped, i got it translated into usbeck tartar by my good friend tibet kulm, who is come to london with a _civil_ invitation from the cham to the english nation to go over to the worship of the lama. "the albion" is dead--dead as nail in door--and my revenues have died with it; but i am not as a man without hope. i have got a sort of opening to the "morning chronicle," !!! mister manning, by means of that common dispenser of benevolence, mister dyer. i have not seen perry the editor yet: but i am preparing a specimen. i shall have a difficult job to manage, for you must know that mister perry, in common with the great body of the whigs, thinks "the albion" _very low_. i find i must rise a peg or so, be a little more decent and less abusive; for, to confess the truth, i had arrived to an abominable pitch; i spared neither age nor sex when my cue was given me. _n'importe_ (as they say in french): any climate will suit me. so you are about to bring your old face-making face to london. you could not come in a better time for my purposes; for i have just lost rickman, a faint idea of whose character i sent you. he is gone to ireland for a year or two, to make his fortune; and i have lost by his going, what [it] seems to me i can never recover--_a finished man_. his memory will be to me as the brazen serpent to the israelites,--i shall look up to it, to keep me upright and honest. but he may yet bring back his honest face to england one day. i wish your affairs with the emperor of china had not been _so urgent_, that you might have stayed in great britain a year or two longer, to have seen him; for, judging from _my own_ experience, i almost dare pronounce you never saw his equal. i never saw a man that could be at all a second or substitute for him in any sort. imagine that what is here erased was an apology and explanation, perfectly satisfactory you may be sure! for rating this man so highly at the expense of ----, and ----, and ----, and m----, and ----, and ----, and ----. but mister burke has explained this phenomenon of our nature very prettily in his letter to a member of the national assembly, or else in his appeal to the old whigs, i forget which. do you remember an instance, from homer (who understood these matters tolerably well) of priam driving away his other sons with expressions of wrath and bitter reproach, when hector was just dead. i live where i did, in a _private_ manner, because i don't like _state_. nothing is so disagreeable to me as the clamours and applauses of the mob. for this reason i live in an _obscure_ situation in one of the courts of the temple. c. l. [manning had taken up chinese at cambridge, and in he had moved to paris to study the language under dr. hagan. he did not, however, go to china until . the wedgwoods were coleridge's patrons. lamb's reference to them is, of course, a joke. the _morning chronicle_ was then the chief whig paper, the principal opponent of the _morning post_. i have, i think, traced two or three of lamb's contributions to the _chronicle_ at this period, but they are not of his best. he quickly moved on to the _post_, but, as we shall see, only for a short period. rickman went to dublin in with abbot, the chief secretary for ireland, and was appointed deputy-keeper of the privy seal. he returned in february, . the reference to burke is to his justification of his particular solicitude for the crown, as the part of the british constitution then in danger, though not in itself more important than the other parts, in the "appeal from the new to the old whigs." the priam-hector illustration is there employed. "homer." see _the iliad_, book , lines - . pope translates thus:-- next on his sons his erring fury falls, polites, paris, agathon, he calls; his threats dïphobus and dius hear, hippothoüs, pammon, helenus the seer, and generous antiphon: for yet these nine survived, sad relics of his numerous line. following this letter should come one from lamb to john rickman, dated september , (the first of a valuable series printed in canon ainger's latest edition), saying that he and his sister are at margate. he has been trying to write for the _morning chronicle_ but with little success. is now meditating a book: "why should every creature make books but i?" after a passage concerning george burnett, lamb describes godwin and his courtship of his second wife--"a very disgusting woman." "you never saw such a philosophic coxcomb, nor any one play the romeo so unnaturally." here should come a mutilated letter, not yet printed, i believe, shown to me by mr. bertram dobell, from lamb to manning, written probably at margate, where this year's holidays were spent. it is deeply interesting and i wish could print it even with its imperfections. there are references to white, dyer, coleridge ("pity that such human frailties should perch upon the margin of ulswater lake") and the lloyds. also to politics and the riddle of life. "what we came here for i know no more than [an] ideot."] letter charles lamb to william godwin sept. , . dear sir,--nothing runs in my head when i think of your story, but that you should make it as like the life of savage as possible. that is a known and familiar tale, and its effect on the public mind has been very great. many of the incidents in the true history are readily made dramatical. for instance, savage used to walk backwards and forwards o' nights to his mother's window, to catch a glimpse of her, as she passed with a candle. with some such situation the play might happily open. i would plunge my hero, exactly like savage, into difficulties and embarrassments, the consequences of an unsettled mind: out of which he may be extricated by the unknown interference of his mother. he should be attended from the beginning by a friend, who should stand in much the same relation towards him as horatio to altamont in the play of the fair penitent. a character of this sort seems indispensable. this friend might gain interviews with the mother, when the son was refused sight of her. like horatio with calista, he might wring his [her?] soul. like horatio, he might learn the secret _first_. he might be exactly in the same perplexing situation, when he had learned it, whether to tell it or conceal it from the son (i have still savage in my head) might _kill_ a man (as he did) in an affray--he should receive a pardon, as savage did--and the mother might interfere to have him _banished_. this should provoke the friend to demand an interview with her husband, and disclose the whole secret. the husband, refusing to believe anything to her dishonour, should fight with him. the husband repents before he dies. the mother explains and confesses everything in his presence. the son is admitted to an interview with his now acknowledged mother. instead of embraces, she resolves to abstract herself from all pleasure, even from his sight, in voluntary penance all her days after. this is crude indeed!! but i am totally unable to suggest a better. i am the worst hand in the world at a plot. but i understand enough of passion to predict that your story, with some of savage's, which has no repugnance, but a natural alliance with it, cannot fail. the mystery of the suspected relationship--the suspicion, generated from slight and forgotten circumstances, coming at last to act as instinct, and so to be mistaken for instinct--the son's unceasing pursuit and throwing of himself in his mother's way, something like falkland's eternal persecution of williams--the high and intricate passion in the mother, the being obliged to shun and keep at a distance the thing nearest to her heart--to be cruel, where her heart yearns to be kind, without a possibility of explanation. you have the power of life and death and the hearts of your auditors in your hands; still harris will want a skeleton, and he must have it. i can only put in some sorry hints. the discovery to the son's friend may take place not before the d act--in some such way as this. the mother may cross the street--he may point her out to some gay companion of his as the beauty of leghorn--the pattern for wives, &c. &c. his companion, who is an englishman, laughs at his mistake, and knows her to have been the famous nancy dawson, or any one else, who captivated the english king. some such way seems dramatic, and speaks to the eye. the audience will enter into the friend's surprise, and into the perplexity of his situation. these ocular scenes are so many great landmarks, rememberable headlands and lighthouses in the voyage. macbeth's witch has a good advice to a magic [? tragic] writer, what to do with his spectator. "_show_ his _eyes_, and grieve his heart." the most difficult thing seems to be, what to do with the husband? you will not make him jealous of his own son? that is a stale and an unpleasant trick in douglas, etc. can't you keep him out of the way till you want him, as the husband of isabella is conveniently sent off till his cue comes? there will be story enough without him, and he will only puzzle all. catastrophes are worst of all. mine is most stupid. i only propose it to fulfil my engagement, not in hopes to convert you. it is always difficult to get rid of a woman at the end of a tragedy. _men_ may fight and die. a woman must either take poison, _which is a nasty trick_, or go mad, which is not fit to be shown, or retire, which is poor, only retiring is most reputable. i am sorry i can furnish you no better: but i find it extremely difficult to settle my thoughts upon anything but the scene before me, when i am from home, i am from home so seldom. if any, the least hint crosses me, i will write again, and i very much wish to read your plan, if you could abridge and send it. in this little scrawl you must take the will for the deed, for i most sincerely wish success to your play.--farewell, c. l. [this and the letter that follows it contain lamb's suggestions for godwin's play "faulkener," upon which he was now meditating, but which was not performed until . lamb wrote the prologue, a poem in praise of defoe, since it was in _roxana_, or at least in one edition of it, that the counterpart to, or portion of, godwin's plot is found. there, however, the central figure is a daughter, not a son. see the letters to walter wilson. mr. swinburne, in the little article to which i have already alluded, says of this and the following letter: "several of lamb's suggestions, in spite of his own modest disclaimer ('i am the worst hand in the world at a plot'), seem to me, especially as coming from the author of a tragedy memorable alike for sweetness of moral emotion and emptiness of theatrical subject, worthy of note for the instinctive intuition of high dramatic effect implied in their rough and rapid outlines." richard savage, the poet, whose life johnson wrote, claimed to be the illegitimate son of lady macclesfield by lord rivers. savage killed sinclair in a tavern quarrel in , and was condemned to death. his pardon was obtained by the countess of hertford. "the fair penitent" is by nicholas rowe. falkland and williams are in godwin's novel _caleb williams_, dramatised by colman as "the iron chest." "harris will want a skeleton." thomas harris, stage manager of covent garden theatre. nancy dawson ( ?- ), the famous dancer and _bona roba_. "douglas"--home's tragedy. "the husband of isabella." in southern's "fatal marriage."] letter (_fragment_) charles lamb to william godwin margate, sep. , . i shall be glad to come home and talk these matters over with you. i have read your scheme very attentively. that arabella has been mistress to king charles is sufficient to all the purposes of the story. it can only diminish that respect we feel for her to make her turn whore to one of the lords of his bed-chamber. her son must not know that she has been a whore: it matters not that she has been whore to a _king_: equally in both cases it is against decorum and against the delicacy of a son's respect that he should be privy to it. no doubt, many sons might feel a wayward pleasure in the honourable guilt of their mothers; but is it a true feeling? is it the best sort of feeling? is it a feeling to be exposed on theatres to mothers and daughters? your conclusion (or rather defoe's) comes far short of the tragic ending, which is always expected; and it is not safe to disappoint. a tragic auditory wants _blood_. they care but little about a man and his wife parting. besides, what will you do with the son, after all his pursuits and adventures? even quietly leave him to take guinea-and-a-half lodgings with mamma in leghorn! o impotent and pacific measures!... i am certain that you must mix up some strong ingredients of distress to give a savour to your pottage. i still think that you may, and must, graft the story of savage upon defoe. your hero must _kill a man or do some thing_. can't you bring him to the gallows or some great mischief, out of which she _must_ have recourse to an explanation with her husband to save him. think on this. the husband, for instance, has great friends in court at leghorn. the son is condemned to death. she cannot teaze him for a stranger. she must tell the whole truth. or she _may_ tease him, as for a stranger, till (like othello in cassio's case) he begins to suspect her for her importunity. or, being pardoned, can she not teaze her husband to get him banished? something of this i suggested before. _both_ is best. the murder and the pardon will make business for the fourth act, and the banishment and explanation (by means of the _friend_ i want you to draw) the fifth. you must not open any of the truth to dawley by means of a letter. a letter is a feeble messenger on the stage. somebody, the son or his friend, must, as a _coup de main_, be exasperated, and obliged to tell the husband. damn the husband and his "gentlemanlike qualities." keep him out of sight, or he will trouble all. let him be in england on trade, and come home, as biron does in isabella, in the fourth act, when he is wanted. i am for introducing situations, sort of counterparts to situations, which have been tried in other plays--_like_ but not the _same_. on this principle i recommended a friend like horatio in the "fair penitent," and on this principle i recommend a situation like othello, with relation to desdemona's intercession for cassio. by-scenes may likewise receive hints. the son may see his mother at a mask or feast, as romeo, juliet. the festivity of the company contrasts with the strong perturbations of the individuals. dawley may be told his wife's past unchastity at a mask by some witch-character--as macbeth upon the heath, in dark sentences. this may stir his brain, and be forgot, but come in aid of stronger proof hereafter. from this, what you will perhaps call whimsical way of counterparting, this honest stealing, and original mode of plagiarism, much yet, i think, remains to be sucked. excuse these abortions. i thought you would want the draught soon again, and i would not send it empty away.--yours truly, william godwin!!! somers town, th sept., . [the point of signing this letter with godwin's name and adding his address (lamb, it will be noticed, was then at margate) is not clear. i place here the following letter, not having any clue as to date, which is immaterial:--] letter charles lamb to mrs. william godwin dear mrs. g.,--having observed with some concern that mr. godwin is a little fastidious in what he eats for supper, i herewith beg to present his palate with a piece of dried salmon. i am assured it is the best that swims in trent. if you do not know how to dress it, allow me to add that it should be cut in thin slices and boiled in paper _previously prepared in butter_. wishing it exquisite, i remain,--much as before, yours sincerely, c. lamb. some add _mashed potatoes_. [following this letter should come a letter from lamb to john rickman, describing the state of their two george friends: george the first (george dyer) and george the second (george burnett). burnett, he says, as ill becomes adversity as dyer would prosperity. he tells also of another poor acquaintance of rickman's--one simonds with a slit lip, who has been to lamb to borrow money. "saving his dirty shirt and his physiognomy and his 'bacco box, together with a certain kiddy air in his walk, a man w'd have gone near to have mistaken him for a gentleman. he has a sort of ambition to be so misunderstood."] letter charles lamb to john rickman to john rickman, esqr., dublin castle. [no date. ? november, .] a letter from g. dyer will probably accompany this. i wish i could convey to you any notion of the whimsical scenes i have been witness to in this fortnight past. 'twas on tuesday week the poor heathen scrambled up to my door about breakfast time. he came thro' a violent rain with no neckcloth on, and a _beard_ that made him a spectacle to men and angels, and tap'd at the door. mary open'd it, and he stood stark still and held a paper in his hand importing that he had been ill with a fever. he either wouldn't or couldn't speak except by signs. when you went to comfort him he put his hand upon his heart and shook his head and told us his complaint lay where no medicines could reach it. i was dispatch'd for dr. dale, mr. phillips of st. paul's church yard, and mr. frend, who is to be his executor. george solemnly delivered into mr. frend's hands and mine an old burnt preface that had been in the fire, with injunctions which we solemnly vow'd to obey that it should be printed after his death with his last corrections, and that some account should be given to the world why he had not fulfill'd his engagement with subscribers. having done this and borrow'd two guineas of his bookseller (to whom he imparted in confidence that he should leave a great many loose papers behind him which would only want methodizing and arranging to prove very lucrative to any bookseller after his death), he laid himself down on my bed in a mood of complacent resignation. by the aid of meat and drink put into him (for i all along suspected a vacuum) he was enabled to sit up in the evening, but he had not got the better of his intolerable fear of dying; he expressed such philosophic indifference in his speech and such frightened apprehensions in his physiognomy that if he had truly been dying, and i had known it, i could not have kept my countenance. in particular, when the doctor came and ordered him to take little white powders (i suppose of chalk or alum, to humour him), he ey'd him with a _suspicion_ which i could not account for; he has since explain'd that he took it for granted dr. dale knew his situation and had ordered him these powders to hasten his departure that he might suffer as little pain as possible. think what an aspect the heathen put on with these fears upon a dirty face. to recount all his freaks for two or three days while he thought he was going, and how the fit operated, and sometimes the man got uppermost and sometimes the author, and he had this excellent person to serve, and he must correct some proof sheets for phillips, and he could not bear to leave his subscribers unsatisfy'd, but he must not think of these things now, he was going to a place where he should satisfy all his debts--and when he got a little better he began to discourse what a happy thing it would be if there was a place where all the good men and women in the world might meet, meaning heav'n, and i really believe for a time he had doubts about his soul, for he was very near, if not quite, light-headed. the fact was he had not had a good meal for some days and his little dirty niece (whom he sent for with a still dirtier nephew, and hugg'd him, and bid them farewell) told us that unless he dines out he subsists on tea and gruels. and he corroborated this tale by ever and anon complaining of sensations of gnawing which he felt about his heart, which he mistook his stomach to be, and sure enough these gnawings were dissipated after a meal or two, and he surely thinks that he has been rescued from the jaws of death by dr. dale's white powders. he is got quite well again by nursing, and chirps of odes and lyric poetry the day long--he is to go out of town on monday, and with him goes the dirty train of his papers and books which follow'd him to our house. i shall not be sorry when he takes his nipt carcase out of my bed, which it has occupied, and vanishes with all his lyric lumber, but i will endeavour to bring him in future into a method of dining at least once a day. i have proposed to him to dine with me (and he has nearly come into it) whenever he does not go out; and pay me. i will take his money beforehand and he shall eat it out. if i don't it will go all over the world. some worthless relations, of which the dirty little devil that looks after him and a still more dirty nephew are component particles, i have reason to think divide all his gains with some lazy worthless authors that are his constant satellites. the literary fund has voted him seasonably £ and if i can help it he shall spend it on his own carcase. i have assisted him in arranging the remainder of what he calls poems and he will get rid of 'em i hope in another. [_here three lines are torn away at the foot of the page, wherein lamb makes the transition from george dyer to another poor author, george burnett._] i promised burnet to write when his parcel went. he wants me to certify that he is more awake than you think him. i believe he may be by this time, but he is so full of self-opinion that i fear whether he and phillips will ever do together. what he is to do for phillips he whimsically seems to consider more as a favor done _to_ p. than a job _from_ p. he still persists to call employment _dependence_, and prates about the insolence of booksellers and the tax upon geniuses. poor devil! he is not launched upon the ocean and is sea-sick with aforethought. i write plainly about him, and he would stare and frown finely if he read this treacherous epistle, but i really am anxious about him, and that [? it] nettles me to see him so proud and so helpless. if he is not serv'd he will never serve himself. i read his long letter to southey, which i suppose you have seen. he had better have been furnishing copy for phillips than luxuriating in tracing the causes of his imbecillity. i believe he is a little wrong in not ascribing more to the structure of his own mind. he had his yawns from nature, his pride from education. i hope to see southey soon, so i need only send my remembrance to him now. doubtless i need not tell him that burnett is not to be foster'd in self-opinion. his eyes want opening, to see himself a man of middling stature. i am not oculist enough to do this. the booksellers may one day remove the film. i am all this time on the most cordial supping terms of amity with g. burnett and really love him at times: but i must speak freely of people behind their backs and not think it back-biting. it is better than godwin's way of telling a man he is a fool to his face. i think if you could do any thing for george in the way of an office (god knows whether you can in any haste [? case], but you did talk of it) it is my firm belief that it would be his _only chance_ of settlement; he will never live by his _literary exertions_, as he calls them--he is too proud to go the usual way to work and he has no talents to make that way unnecessary. i know he talks big in his letter to southey that his mind is undergoing an alteration and that the die is now casting that shall consign him to honor or dishonour, but these expressions are the convulsions of a fever, not the sober workings of health. translated into plain english, he now and then perceives he must work or starve, and then he thinks he'll work; but when he goes about it there's a lion in the way. he came dawdling to me for an encyclopædia yesterday. i recommended him to norris' library and he said if he could not get it there, phillips was bound to furnish him with one; it was phillips' interest to do so, and all that. this was true with some restrictions--but as to phillips' interests to oblige g.b.! lord help his simple head! p. could by a _whistle_ call together a host of such authors as g. b. like robin hood's merry men in green. p. has regular regiments in pay. poor writers are his crab-lice and suck at him for nutriment. his round pudding chops are their _idea_ of plenty when _in their idle fancies they aspire to be rich_. what do you think of a life of g. dyer? i can scarcely conceive a more amusing novel. he has been connected with all sects in the world and he will faithfully tell all he knows. every body will read it; and if it is not done according to my fancy i promise to put him in a novel when he dies. nothing shall escape _me_. if you think it feasible, whenever you write you may encourage him. since he has been so close with me i have perceiv'd the workings of his inordinate vanity, his gigantic attention to particles and to prevent open vowels in his odes, his solicitude that the public may not lose any tittle of his poems by his death, and all the while his utter ignorance that the world don't care a pin about his odes and his criticisms, a fact which every body knows but himself--he _is a rum genius_. c. l. [dr. dale would probably be thomas dale of devonshire square, bishopsgate, who had a large city practice in those days. he died in . "an old burnt preface." see note on page . george burnett we have already met. he was born probably in . he went to balliol, met southey and coleridge and became a pantisocratist. subsequently he became a dissenting minister at yarmouth, and then a medical student at edinburgh; and later he succeeded george dyer as tutor in the family of lord stanhope. he became one of phillips' hacks, as lamb's letter tells us. his principal work was the _specimens of english prose writers_, , in three volumes, in which it has been stated that lamb had a hand. he died in want in . the reference to southey being in dublin is explained by the fact that, through rickman, he had been appointed private secretary to mr. corry, chancellor of the exchequer for ireland, at a salary of £ . he did not long retain the post, as it was vexatious and the duties very irregular. lamb's next letter to rickman, dated november , , contains better news of dyer and returns to the subject of _john woodvil_. "dyer regularly dines with me when he does not go a visiting, and brings his shilling." also, says lamb, he talks of marrying. "he has not forgiven me for betraying to you his purpose of writing his own life. he says, that if it once spreads, so many people will expect and wish to have a place in it, that he is sure he shall disoblige all his friends." another, undated, letter to rickman should probably come here-abouts, saying that dyer has been lent a house at enfield full of books, where he is at work on his poems. here perhaps should come a letter from lamb to robert lloyd, returning to jeremy taylor, and deprecating a selection from his works, which robert lloyd had suggested that lamb should make. (in basil montagu, afterwards, if not now, a friend of lamb's, published a volume of _selections from the works of taylor, etc_.) lamb says that manning and coleridge are in town, and he is making a thorough alteration in the structure of his play (_john woodvil_) for publication. here perhaps should come a further undated letter to rickman in which lamb says that the receipt of £ for an old debt has made it possible to print _john woodvil_. dyer, he says, is "the most unmanageable of god's creatures." burnett is in a very bad way again. fenwick's paper _the plough_ has become a weekly. godwin is not yet married. fell, godwin's shadow, is writing a comedy: "an owl making a pun would be no bad emblem of the unnatural attempt." in a postscript lamb says that he has since read the play and it is not bad: "who knows, but owls do make puns when they hoot by moonshine." the best news is that lamb hopes to be a theatrical critic for the _morning post_. here should come a letter to rickman dated january , , the principal news in which is that george dyer is consorting with the earl of buchan, the "eccentric biographer of fletcher of saltoun," and has brought him to see lamb. "i wan't at home, but mary was washing--a pretty pickle to receive an earl in! lord have mercy upon us! a lord in my garret! my utmost ambition was some time or other to receive a secretary. well, i am to breakfast with this mad lord on sunday." lamb refers to his article in the _post_ on cooke's "richard iii." here should come a letter to rickman dated january , , in which lamb confesses to the authorship of "dick strype" in the _morning post_ of january (see vol. iv.); also of a whimsical account of the lord mayor's state bed (see vol. i.); and of some of the twelfth night epigrams (see vol. iv.). he includes two epigrams which the editor rejected. here should come a note to rickman dated january , , relating to a joint subscription with rickman's father for certain newspapers. here should come a letter to rickman dated february , , giving the first draft of the epitaph for mary druitt (see vol. iv.). he also says that george burnett, who had just been appointed tutor to the sons of lord ("citizen") stanhope, is perplexed because his pupils have run away. here should come a note to rickman, dated february , , accompanying three copies of _john woodvil_ and saying that an annuity is to be bought for george dyer by certain friends. here should come a letter to rickman, dated february , , which contains the news that lamb has given up the _post_. he feels much relieved in consequence, in spite of the loss of money. george dyer's dinner money is now paid from his friends' fund, and burnett is happy in doing nothing for lord stanhope's salary. mary lamb does not want rickman to know that "helen," in the _john woodvil_ volume, is of her writing.] letter charles lamb to thomas manning [no date. ? feb. , .] not a sentence, not a syllable of trismegistus, shall be lost through my neglect. i am his word-banker, his storekeeper of puns and syllogisms. you cannot conceive (and if trismegistus cannot, no man can) the strange joy which i felt at the receipt of a letter from paris. it seemed to give me a learned importance, which placed me above all who had not parisian correspondents. believe that i shall carefully husband every scrap, which will save you the trouble of memory, when you come back. you cannot write things so trifling, let them only be about paris, which i shall not treasure. in particular, i must have parallels of actors and actresses. i must be told if any building in paris is at all comparable to st. paul's, which, contrary to the usual mode of that part of our nature called admiration, i have looked up to with unfading wonder every morning at ten o'clock, ever since it has lain in my way to business. at noon i casually glance upon it, being hungry; and hunger has not much taste for the fine arts. is any night-walk comparable to a walk from st. paul's to charing cross, for lighting and paving, crowds going and coming without respite, the rattle of coaches and the cheerfulness of shops? have you seen a man guillotined yet? is it as good as hanging? are the women _all_ painted, and the men _all_ monkeys? or are there not a _few_ that look like _rational_ of _both sexes_? are you and the first consul _thick_? all this expense of ink i may fairly put you to, as your letters will not be solely for my proper pleasure, but are to serve as memoranda and notices, helps for short memory, a kind of rumfordising recollection, for yourself on your return. your letter was just what a letter should be, crammed and very funny. every part of it pleased me till you came to paris; and your damn'd philosophical indolence or indifference stung me. you cannot stir from your rooms till you know the language! what the devil!--are men nothing but word-trumpets? are men all tongue and ear? have these creatures, that you and i profess to know _something about_, no faces, gestures, gabble: no folly, no absurdity, no induction of french education upon the abstract idea of men and women, no similitude nor dis-similitude to english! why! thou damn'd smell-fungus! your account of your landing and reception, and bullen (i forget how you spell it--it was spelt my way in harry the eighth's time,) was exactly in that minute style which strong impressions inspire (writing to a frenchman, i write as a frenchman would). it appears to me as if i should die with joy at the first landing in a foreign country. it is the nearest pleasure, which a grown man can substitute for that unknown one, which he can never know--the pleasure of the first entrance into life from the womb. i dare say, in a short time, my habits would come back like a "stronger man" armed, and drive out that new pleasure; and i should soon sicken for known objects. nothing has transpired here that seems to me of sufficient importance to send dry-shod over the water: but i suppose you will want to be told some news. the best and the worst to me is, that i have given up two guineas a week at the "post," and regained my health and spirits, which were upon the wane. i grew sick, and stuart unsatisfied. _ludisti satis, tempus abire est_; i must cut closer, that's all. in all this time i have done but one thing, which i reckon tolerable, and that i will transcribe, because it may give you pleasure, being a picture of _my_ humours. you will find it in my last page. it absurdly is a first number of a series, thus strangled in its birth. more news! the professor's rib has come out to be a damn'd disagreeable woman, so much so as to drive me and some more old cronies from his house. if a man will keep snakes in his house, he must not wonder if people are shy of coming to see him because of the _snakes_. c. l. mister fell--or as you, with your usual facetiousness and drollery, call him, mr. f + ii--has stopped short in the middle of his play. some _friend_ has told him that it has not the least merit in it. oh! that i had the rectifying of the litany! i would put in a _libera nos (scriptores videlicet) ab amicis_! that's all the news. _a propos_ (is it pedantry, writing to a frenchman, to express myself sometimes by a french word, when an english one would not do as well? methinks, my thoughts fall naturally into it). _apropos_, i think you wrong about my play. all the omissions are right. and the supplementary scene, in which sandford narrates the manner in which his master is affected, is the best in the book. it stands where a hodge-podge of german puerilities used to stand. i insist upon it that you like that scene. love me, love that scene. i will now transcribe the "londoner" (no. ), and wind up all with affection and humble servant at the end. the londoner. no. . in compliance with my own particular humour, no less than with thy laudable curiosity, reader, i proceed to give thee some account of my history and habits. i was born under the nose of st. dunstan's steeple, just where the conflux of the eastern and western inhabitants of this twofold city meet and justle in friendly opposition at temple-bar. the same day which gave me to the world saw london happy in the celebration of her great annual feast. this i cannot help looking upon as a lively type or omen of the future great goodwill which i was destined to bear toward the city, resembling in kind that solicitude which every chief magistrate is supposed to feel for whatever concerns her interests and well-being. indeed, i consider myself in some sort a speculative lord mayor of london: for, though circumstances unhappily preclude me from the hope of ever arriving at the dignity of a gold chain and spital sermon, yet thus much will i say of myself, in truth, that _whittington_ himself with his _cat_ (just emblem of _vigilance_ and a _furred gown_), never went beyond me in affection, which i bear to the citizens. shut out from serving them in the most honourable mode, i aspire to do them benefit in another, scarcely less honourable; and if i cannot, by virtue of office, commit vice and irregularity to the _material counter_, i will, at least, erect a _spiritual one_, where they shall be _laid fast by the heels_. in plain words, i will do my best endeavour to _write them down_. to return to _myself_ (from whence my zeal for the public good is perpetually causing me to digress), i will let thee, reader, into certain more of my peculiarities. i was born (as you have heard), bred, and have passed most of my time, in a _crowd_. this has begot in me an entire affection for that way of life, amounting to an almost insurmountable aversion from solitude and rural scenes. this aversion was never interrupted or suspended, except for a few years in the younger part of my life, during a period in which i had fixed my affections upon a charming young woman. every man, while the _passion_ is upon him, is for a time at least addicted to groves and meadows, and purling streams. during this short period of my existence, i contracted just enough familiarity with rural objects to understand tolerably well ever after the _poets_, when they declaim in such passionate terms in favour of a _country life_. for my own part, now the _fit_ is long past, i have no hesitation in declaring, that a mob of happy faces crowding up at the pit door of drury-lane theatre just at the hour of five, give me ten thousand finer pleasures, than i ever received from all the flocks of _silly sheep_, that have whitened the plains of _arcadia_ or _epsom downs_. this passion for crowds is no where feasted so full as in london. the man must have a rare _recipe_ for melancholy, who can be dull in fleet-street. i am naturally inclined to _hypochondria_, but in london it vanishes, like all other ills. often when i have felt a weariness or distaste at home, have i rushed out into her crowded strand, and fed my humour, till tears have wetted my cheek for inutterable sympathies with the multitudinous moving picture, which she never fails to present at all hours, like the shifting scenes of a skilful pantomime. the very deformities of london, which give distaste to others, from habit do not displease me. the endless succession of shops, where fancy (miscalled folly) is supplied with perpetual new gauds and toys, excite in me no puritanical aversion. i gladly behold every appetite supplied with its proper food. the obliging customer, and the obliged tradesmen-- things which live by bowing, and things which exist but for homage, do not affect me with disgust; from habit i perceive nothing but urbanity, where other men, more refined, discover meanness. i love the very smoke of london, because it has been the medium most familiar to my vision. i see grand principles of honour at work in the dirty ring which encompasses two combatants with fists, and principles of no less eternal justice in the tumultuous detectors of a pickpocket. the salutary astonishment with which an execution is surveyed, convinces me more forcibly than an hundred volumes of abstract polity, that the universal instinct of man, in all ages, has leaned to order and good government. thus an art of extracting morality, from the commonest incidents of a town life, is attained by the same well-natured alchemy, with which the _foresters of arden_ in a beautiful country found tongues in trees, books in the running brooks, sermons in stones, and good in every thing-- where has spleen her food but in london--humour, interest, curiosity, suck at her measureless breasts without a possibility of being satiated. nursed amid her noise, her crowds, her beloved smoke--what have i been doing all my life, if i have not lent out my heart with usury to such scenes? reader, in the course of my peregrinations about the great city, it is hard, if i have not picked up matter, which may serve to amuse thee, as it has done me, a winter evening long. when next we meet, i purpose opening my budget--till when, farewell. * * * * * "what is all this about?" said mrs. shandy. "a story of a cock and a bull," said yorick: and so it is; but manning will take good-naturedly what _god will send him_ across the water: only i hope he won't _shut_ his _eyes_, and _open_ his _mouth_, as the children say, for that is the way to _gape_, and not to _read_. manning, continue your laudable purpose of making me your register. i will render back all your remarks; and _i, not you_, shall have received usury by having read them. in the mean time, may the great spirit have you in his keeping, and preserve our englishmen from the inoculation of frivolity and sin upon french earth. _allons_--or what is it you say, instead of _good-bye_? mary sends her kind remembrance, and covets the remarks equally with me. c. lamb. [the reference to the "word-banker" and "register" is explained by manning's first letter to lamb from paris, in which he says: "i ... beg you to keep all my letters. i hope to send you many--and i may in the course of time, make some observations that i shall wish to recall to my memory when i return to england." "are you and the first consul _thick_?"--napoleon, with whom manning was destined one day to be on terms. in , on the declaration of war, when he wished to return to england, manning's was the only passport that napoleon signed; again, in , on returning from china, manning was wrecked near st. helena, and, waiting on the island for a ship, conversed there with the great exile. "rumfordising." a word coined by lamb from sir benjamin thompson, count von rumford, the founder of the royal institution, the deviser of the rumford stove, and a tireless scientific and philosophical experimentalist. "smellfungus." an allusion to sterne's attack on smollett, in _the sentimental journey_: "the lamented smelfungus travelled from boulogne to paris, from paris to rome, and so on; but he set out with the spleen and jaundice, and every object he passed by was discoloured or distorted." "the _post_." lamb had been writing criticisms of plays; but stuart, as we have seen, wanted them on the same night as the performance and lamb found this impossible. "i have done but one thing"--"the londoner," referred to later. "the professor's rib"--godwin's second wife, the widow clairmont (mother of jane clairmont), whom he had married in december, . "fell"--r. fell, author of a _tour through the batavian republic_, . later he compiled a _life of charles james fox_, . lamb knew him, as well as fenwick, through godwin. "_apropos_, i think you wrong about my play." _john woodvil_ had just been published and lamb had sent manning a copy. manning, in return, had written from paris early in february: "i showed your tragedy to holcroft, who had taste enough to discover that 'tis full of poetry--but the plot he condemns _in toto_. tell me how it succeeds. i think you were ill advised to retrench so much. i miss the beautiful branches you have lopped off and regret them. in some of the pages the sprinkling of words is so thin as to be quite _outré_. there you were wrong again." "the londoner" was published in the _morning post_, february , . i have quoted the article from that paper, as lamb's copy for manning has disappeared. concerning it manning wrote, in his next letter--april , --"i like your 'londoner' very much, there is a deal of happy fancy in it, but it is not strong enough to be seen by the generality of readers, yet if you were to write a volume of essays in the same stile you might be sure of its succeeding."] letter charles lamb to john rickman , mitre court buildings, inner temple, april , . dear rickman,--the enclosed letter explains itself. it will save me the danger of a corporal interview with the man-eater who, if very sharp-set, may take a fancy to me, if you will give me a short note, declaratory of probabilities. these from him who hopes to see you once or twice more before he goes hence, to be no more seen: for there is no tipple nor tobacco in the grave, whereunto he hasteneth. c. lamb. how clearly the goul writes, and like a gentleman! [a friend of burnett, named simonds, is meant. lamb calls him a "goul" in another letter, and elsewhere says he eats strange flesh. see note on page .] letter charles lamb to thomas manning [no date. ?end of april, .] my dear manning,--although something of the latest, and after two months' waiting, your letter was highly gratifying. some parts want a little explication; for example, "the god-like face of the first consul." _what god_ does he most resemble? mars, bacchus, or apollo? or the god serapis who, flying (as egyptian chronicles deliver) from the fury of the dog anubis (the hieroglyph of an english mastiff), lighted on monomotapa (or the land of apes), by some thought to be old france, and there set up a tyranny, &c. our london prints of him represent him gloomy and sulky, like an angry jupiter. i hear that he is very small, even less than me, who am "less than the least of the apostles," at least than they are painted in the vatican. i envy you your access to this great man, much more than your séances and conversaziones, which i have a shrewd suspicion must be something dull. what you assert concerning the actors of paris, that they exceed our comedians, "bad as ours are," is _impossible_. in one sense it may be true, that their fine gentlemen, in what is called genteel comedy, may possibly be more brisk and _dégagé_ than mr. caulfield or mr. whitfield; but have any of them the power to move _laughter in excess_? or can a frenchman _laugh_? can they batter at your judicious ribs till they _shake_, nothing both to be so shaken? this is john bull's criterion, and it shall be mine. you are frenchified. both your tastes and morals are corrupt and perverted. by-and-by you will come to assert, that buonaparte is as great a general as the old duke of cumberland, and deny that one englishman can beat three frenchmen. read "henry the fifth" to restore your orthodoxy. all things continue at a stay-still in london. i cannot repay your new novelties with my stale reminiscences. like the prodigal, i have spent my patrimony, and feed upon the superannuated chaff and dry husks of repentance; yet sometimes i remember with pleasure the hounds and horses, which i kept in the days of my prodigality. i find nothing new, nor anything that has so much of the gloss and dazzle of novelty, as may rebound in narrative, and cast a reflective glimmer across the channel. something i will say about people that you and i know. fenwick is still in debt, and the professor has not done making love to his new spouse. i think he never looks into an almanack, or he would have found by the calendar that the honeymoon was extinct a moon ago. lloyd has written to me and names you. i think a letter from maison magnan (is that a person or a thing?) would gratify him. g. dyer is in love with an ideot who loves a doctor, who is incapable of loving anything but himself. a puzzling circle of perverse providences! a maze as un-get-out-again-able as the house which jack built. southey is secretary to the chancellor of the irish exchequer; £ a year. stoddart is turned doctor of civil law, and dwells in doctors' commons. i fear _his_ commons are short, as they say. did i send you an epitaph i scribbled upon a poor girl who died at nineteen, a good girl and a pretty girl, and a clever girl, but strangely neglected by all her friends and kin? "under this cold marble stone sleep the sad remains of one who, when alive, by few or none was loved, as loved she might have been, if she prosperous days had seen, or had thriving been, i ween. only this cold funeral stone tells she was beloved by one, who on the marble graves his moan." brief, and pretty, and tender, is it not? i send you this, being the only piece of poetry i have _done_, since the muses all went with t. m. to paris. i have neither stuff in my brain, nor paper in my drawer, to write you a longer letter. liquor and company and wicked tobacco a'nights, have quite dispericraniated me, as one may say; but you who spiritualise upon champagne may continue to write long letters, and stuff 'em with amusement to the end. too long they cannot be, any more than a codicil to a will which leaves me sundry parks and manors not specified in the deed. but don't be _two months_ before you write again. these from merry old england, on the day of her valiant patron st. george. c. lamb. [this letter is usually dated , but i feel sure it should be . southey had given up his irish appointment in that year, and godwin's honeymoon began in december, . "even less than me." mr. w. c. hazlitt gives in _mary and charles lamb_ a vivid impression of lamb's spare figure. a farmer at widford, mr. charles tween, himself not a big man, told mr. hazlitt that when walking out with lamb he would place his hands under his arm and lift him over the stiles as if it were nothing. napoleon's height was feet or inches. thomas caulfield, a brother of the antiquary and print-seller, james caulfield, was a comedian and mimic at drury lane; whitfield was an actor at drury lane, who later moved to covent garden. "an epitaph." these lines were written upon a friend of rickman's, mary druitt of wimborne. they were printed in the _morning post_ for february , , signed c. l. see later.] letter (_fragment_) charles lamb to s. t. coleridge sept. th, . dear coleridge,--i thought of not writing till we had performed some of our commissions; but we have been hindered from setting about them, which yet shall be done to a tittle. we got home very pleasantly on sunday. mary is a good deal fatigued, and finds the difference of going to a place, and coming _from_ it. i feel that i shall remember your mountains to the last day i live. they haunt me perpetually. i am like a man who has been falling in love unknown to himself, which he finds out when he leaves the lady. i do not remember any very strong impression while they were present; but, being gone, their mementos are shelved in my brain. we passed a very pleasant little time with the clarksons. the wordsworths are at montagu's rooms, near neighbours to us. they dined with us yesterday, and i was their guide to bartlemy fair! [in the summer of the lambs paid a sudden visit to coleridge at keswick. afterwards they went to grasmere, although the wordsworths were away from home; but they saw thomas clarkson, the philanthropist, then living at ullswater (see the next letter). they had reached london again on september . procter records that on being asked how he felt when among the lakes and mountains, lamb replied that in order to bring down his thoughts from their almost painful elevation to the sober regions of life, he was obliged to think of the ham and beef shop near st. martin's lane. lamb says that after such a holiday he finds his office work very strange. "i feel debased; but i shall soon break in my mountain spirit." the last two words were a recollection of his own poem "the grandame"-- hers was else a mountain spirit.... this letter, the original of which is i know not where, is here, for dismal copyright reasons, very imperfectly given. mr. macdonald prints it apparently in full, although mrs. gilchrist in her memoir of mary lamb supplies another passage, as follows:--"lloyd has written me a fine letter of friendship all about himself and sophia and love and cant which i have not answered. i have not given up the idea of writing to him but it will be done very plainly and sincerely, without acrimony." lamb also says that pi-pos (as coleridge's second child derwent was called) was the only one, except a beggar's brat, that he had ever wanted to steal from its parents. he says also: "i was pleased to recognise your blank-verse poem (the picture) in the _morn. post_ of monday. it reads very well, and i feel some dignity in the notion of being able to understand it better than most southern readers." coleridge's poem "the picture; or, the lover's resolution," was printed in the _morning post_ for september . its scenery was probably pointed out to lamb by coleridge at keswick. basil montagu, the lawyer, an old friend of wordsworth's. it is his son edward who figures in the "anecdote for fathers." bartholomew fair, held at smithfield, continued until , but its glories had been decreasing for some years.] letter charles lamb to thomas manning th sept., , london. my dear manning,--since the date of my last letter, i have been a traveller. a strong desire seized me of visiting remote regions. my first impulse was to go and see paris. it was a trivial objection to my aspiring mind, that i did not understand a word of the language, since i certainly intend some time in my life to see paris, and equally certainly never intend to learn the language; therefore that could be no objection. however, i am very glad i did not go, because you had left paris (i see) before i could have set out. i believe, stoddart promising to go with me another year prevented that plan. my next scheme, (for to my restless, ambitious mind london was become a bed of thorns) was to visit the far-famed peak in derbyshire, where the devil sits, they say, without breeches. _this_ my purer mind rejected as indelicate. and my final resolve was a tour to the lakes. i set out with mary to keswick, without giving coleridge any notice; for my time being precious did not admit of it. he received us with all the hospitality in the world, and gave up his time to show us all the wonders of the country. he dwells upon a small hill by the side of keswick, in a comfortable house, quite enveloped on all sides by a net of mountains: great floundering bears and monsters they seemed, all couchant and asleep. we got in in the evening, travelling in a post-chaise from penrith, in the midst of a gorgeous sunshine, which transmuted all the mountains into colours, purple, &c. &c. we thought we had got into fairyland. but that went off (as it never came again--while we stayed we had no more fine sunsets); and we entered coleridge's comfortable study just in the dusk, when the mountains were all dark with clouds upon their heads. such an impression i never received from objects of sight before, nor do i suppose can ever again. glorious creatures, fine old fellows, skiddaw, &c. i never shall forget ye, how ye lay about that night, like an intrenchment; gone to bed, as it seemed for the night, but promising that ye were to be seen in the morning. coleridge had got a blazing fire in his study; which is a large, antique, ill-shaped room, with an old-fashioned organ, never played upon, big enough for a church, shelves of scattered folios, an Æolian harp, and an old sofa, half-bed, &c. and all looking out upon the last fading view of skiddaw and his broad-breasted brethren: what a night! here we stayed three full weeks, in which time i visited wordsworth's cottage, where we stayed a day or two with the clarksons (good people and most hospitable, at whose house we tarried one day and night), and saw lloyd. the wordsworths were gone to calais. they have since been in london and past much time with us: he is now gone into yorkshire to be married to a girl of small fortune, but he is in expectation of augmenting his own in consequence of the death of lord lonsdale, who kept him out of his own in conformity with a plan my lord had taken up in early life of making everybody unhappy. so we have seen keswick, grasmere, ambleside, ulswater (where the clarksons live), and a place at the other end of ulswater--i forget the name--to which we travelled on a very sultry day, over the middle of helvellyn. we have clambered up to the top of skiddaw, and i have waded up the bed of lodore. in fine, i have satisfied myself, that there is such a thing as that which tourists call _romantic_, which i very much suspected before: they make such a spluttering about it, and toss their splendid epithets around them, till they give as dim a light as at four o'clock next morning the lamps do after an illumination. mary was excessively tired, when she got about half-way up skiddaw, but we came to a cold rill (than which nothing can be imagined more cold, running over cold stones), and with the reinforcement of a draught of cold water she surmounted it most manfully. oh, its fine black head, and the bleak air atop of it, with a prospect of mountains all about, and about, making you giddy; and then scotland afar off, and the border countries so famous in song and ballad! it was a day that will stand out, like a mountain, i am sure, in my life. but i am returned (i have now been come home near three weeks--i was a month out), and you cannot conceive the degradation i felt at first, from being accustomed to wander free as air among mountains, and bathe in rivers without being controlled by any one, to come home and _work_. i felt very _little_. i had been dreaming i was a very great man. but that is going off, and i find i shall conform in time to that state of life to which it has pleased god to call me. besides, after all, fleet-street and the strand are better places to live in for good and all than among skiddaw. still, i turn back to those great places where i wandered about, participating in their greatness. after all, i could not _live_ in skiddaw. i could spend a year--two, three years--among them, but i must have a prospect of seeing fleet-street at the end of that time, or i should mope and pine away, i know. still, skiddaw is a fine creature. my habits are changing, i think: _i.e._ from drunk to sober. whether i shall be happier or not remains to be proved. i shall certainly be more happy in a morning; but whether i shall not sacrifice the fat, and the marrow, and the kidneys, _i.e._ the night, the glorious care-drowning night, that heals all our wrongs, pours wine into our mortifications, changes the scene from indifferent and flat to bright and brilliant!--o manning, if i should have formed a diabolical resolution, by the time you come to england, of not admitting any spirituous liquors into my house, will you be my guest on such shameworthy terms? is life, with such limitations, worth trying? the truth is, that my liquors bring a nest of friendly harpies about my house, who consume me. this is a pitiful tale to be read at st. gothard; but it is just now nearest my heart. fenwick is a ruined man. he is hiding himself from his creditors, and has sent his wife and children into the country. fell, my other drunken companion (that has been: nam hic caestus artemque repono), is turned editor of a "naval chronicle." godwin (with a pitiful artificial wife) continues a steady friend, though the same facility does not remain of visiting him often. that bitch has detached marshall from his house, marshall the man who went to sleep when the "ancient mariner" was reading: the old, steady, unalterable friend of the professor. holcroft is not yet come to town. i expect to see him, and will deliver your message. how i hate _this part_ of a letter. things come crowding in to say, and no room for 'em. some things are too little to be told, _i.e._ to have a preference; some are too big and circumstantial. thanks for yours, which was most delicious. would i had been with you, benighted &c. i fear my head is turned with wandering. i shall never be the same acquiescent being. farewell; write again quickly, for i shall not like to hazard a letter, not knowing where the fates have carried you. farewell, my dear fellow. c. lamb. [lamb suggests in letter that he knew some french. marshall we met in the letters to godwin of december , , and to manning, december , . "holcroft"--thomas holcroft ( - ), a miscellaneous writer, who is best known by his play "the road to ruin." lamb says of him in his "letter to southey" (see vol. i. of this edition) that he was "one of the most candid, most upright, and single-meaning men" that he had ever met.] letter charles lamb to s. t. coleridge october , . carolus agnus coleridgio suo s. carissime--scribis, ut nummos scilicet epistolarios solvam et postremo in tartara abeam: immo tu potius tartaricum (ut aiunt) deprehendisti, qui me vernaculâ meâ linguâ pro scribâ conductitio per tot annos satis eleganter usum ad latinè impure et canino fere ore latrandum per tuasmet epistolas benè compositas et concinnatas percellere studueris. conabor tamen: attamen vereor, ut Ædes istas nostri christi, inter quas tantâ diligentiâ magistri improbâ [?improbi] bonis literulis, quasi per clysterem quendam injectis, infrà supraque olim penitùs imbutus fui, barnesii et marklandii doctissimorum virorum nominibus adhuc gaudentes, barbarismis meis peregrinis et aliunde quæsitis valde dehonestavero [_sic_]. sed pergere quocunque placet. adeste igitur, quotquot estis, conjugationum declinationumve turmae, terribilia spectra, et tu imprimis ades, umbra et imago maxima obsoletas (diis gratiæ) virgæ, quâ novissime in mentem receptâ, horrescunt subito natales [nates], et parum deest quo minùs braccas meas ultro usque ad crura demittam, et ipse puer pueriliter ejulem. ista tua carmina chamouniana satis grandia esse mihi constat; sed hoc mihi nonnihil displicet, quòd in iis illae montium grisosonum inter se responsiones totidem reboant anglice, _god, god_, haud aliter atque temet audivi tuas monies cumbrianas resonare docentes, _tod, tod_, nempe doctorem infelicem: vocem certe haud deum sonantem. pro caeteris plaudo. itidem comparationes istas tuas satis callidas et lepidas certè novi: sed quid hoc ad verum? cum illi consulari viro et _mentem irritabilem_ istam julianam: et etiam _astutias frigidulas_ quasdam augusto propriores, nequaquam congruenter uno afflatu comparationis causâ insedisse affirmaveris: necnon nescio quid similitudinis etiam cum tiberio tertio in loco solicite produxetis. quid tibi equidem cum uno vel altero caesare, cùm universi duodecim ad comparationes tuas se ultro tulerint? praeterea, vetustati adnutans, comparationes iniquas odi. istas wordsworthianas nuptias (vel potius cujusdam _edmundii_ tui) te retulisse mirificum gaudeo. valeas, maria, fortunata nimium, et antiquae illae mariae virgini (comparatione plusquam caesareanâ) forsitan comparanda, quoniam "beata inter mulieres:" et etiam fortasse wordsworthium ipsum tuum maritum angelo salutatori aequare fas erit, quoniam e coelo (ut ille) descendunt et musae et ipsi musicolae: at wordsworthium musarum observantissimum semper novi. necnon te quoque affinitate hâc novâ, dorothea, gratulor: et tu certe alterum _donum dei_. istum ludum, quem tu, coleridgi, americanum garris, a ludo (ut ludi sunt) maximè abhorrentem praetereo: nempe quid ad ludum attinet, totius illae gentis columbianae, a nostrâ gente, eadem stirpe ortâ, ludi singuli causa voluntatem perperam alienare? quasso ego materiam ludi: tu bella ingeris. denique valeas, et quid de latinitate meâ putes, dicas; facias ut opossum illum nostrum volantem vel (ut tu malis) quendam piscem errabundum, a me salvum et pulcherrimum esse jubeas. valeant uxor tua cum hartleiio nostro. soror mea salva est et ego: vos et ipsa salvere jubet. ulterius progrediri [? progredi] non liquet: homo sum aeratus. p.s.--pene mihi exciderat, apud me esse librorum a johanno miltono latinè scriptorum volumina duo, quae (deo volente) cum caeteris tuis libris ocyùs citiùs per maria [?] ad te missura [_sic_] curabo; sed me in hoc tali genere rerum nullo modo _festinantem_ novisti: habes confitentem reum. hoc solum dici [_sic_] restat, praedicta volumina pulchra esse et omnia opera latina j. m. in se continere. circa defensionem istam pro pop°. ang°. acerrimam in praesens ipse praeclaro gaudio moror. jussa tua stuartina faciam ut diligenter colam. iterum iterumque valeas: et facias memor sis nostri. [i append a translation from the pen of mr. stephen gwynn:-- charles lamb to his friend coleridge, greeting. dear friend--you write that i am to pay my debt, to wit in coin of correspondence, and finally that i am to go to tartarus: no but it is you have caught a tartar (as the saying is), since after all these years employing my own vernacular tongue, and prettily enough for a hired penman, you have set about to drive me by means of your well composed and neatly turned epistles to gross and almost doggish barking in the latin. still, i will try: and yet i fear that the hostel of our christ,--wherein by the exceeding diligence of a relentless master i was in days gone by deeply imbued from top to bottom with polite learning, instilled as it were by a clyster--which still glories in the names of the erudite barnes and markland, will be vilely dishonoured by my outlandish and adscititious barbarisms. but i am determined to proceed, no matter whither. be with me therefore all ye troops of conjugations and declensions, dread spectres, and approach thou chiefest, shade and phantom of the disused (thank heaven) birch, at whose entry to my imagination a sudden shiver takes my rump, and a trifle then more would make me begin to let down my breeches to my calves, and turning boy, howl boyishly. that your ode at chamounix is a fine thing i am clear; but here is a thing offends me somewhat, that in the ode your answers of the grison mountains to each other should so often echo in english god, god--in the very tone that i have heard your own lips teaching your cumbrian mountains to resound tod, tod, meaning the unlucky doctor--a syllable assuredly of no godlike sound. for the rest, i approve. moreover, i certainly recognise that your comparisons are acute and witty; but what has this to do with truth? since you have given to the great consul at once that irritable mind of julius, and also a kind of cold cunning, more proper to augustus--attributing incongruous characteristics in one breath for the sake of your comparison: nay, you have even in the third instance laboriously drawn out some likeness to tiberius. what had you to do with one caesar, or a second, when the whole twelve offered themselves to your comparison? moreover, i agree with antiquity, and think comparisons odious. your wordsworth nuptials (or rather the nuptials of a certain edmund of yours) fill me with joy in your report. may you prosper, mary, fortunate beyond compare, and perchance comparable to that ancient virgin mary (a comparison more than cæsarean) since "blessed art thou among women:" perhaps also it will be no impiety to compare wordsworth himself your husband to the angel of salutation, since (like the angel) from heaven descend both muses and the servants of the muses: whose devoutest votary i always know wordsworth to be. congratulations to thee, dorothea, in this new alliance: you also assuredly are another "gift of god." as for your ludus [lloyd], whom you talk of as an "american," i pass him by as no sportsman (as sport goes): what kind of sport is it, to alienate utterly the good will of the whole columbian people, our own kin, sprung of the same stock, for the sake of one ludd [lloyd]? i seek the material for diversion: you heap on war. finally, fare you well, and pray tell me what you think of my latinity. kindly wish health and beauty from me to our flying possum or (as you prefer to call it) roving fish. good health to your wife and my friend hartley. my sister and i are well. she also sends you greeting. i do not see how to get on farther: i am a man in debt [or possibly in "fetters"]. p.s.--i had almost forgot, i have by me two volumes of the latin writings of john milton, which (d.v.) i will have sent you sooner or later by mary: but you know me no way precipitate in this kind: the accused pleads guilty. this only remains to be said, that the aforesaid volumes are handsome and contain all the latin works of j. m. at present i dwell with much delight on his vigorous defence of the english people. i will be sure to observe diligently your stuartial tidings. again and again farewell: and pray be mindful of me. coleridge's "hymn before sun-rise, in the vale of chamouni," was printed in the _morning post_ for september , . the poem contains this passage:-- god! let the torrents, like a shout of nations, answer! and let the ice-plains echo, god! god! sing ye meadow-streams with gladsome voice! ye pine-groves, with your soft and soul-like sounds! and they too have a voice, yon piles of snow, and in their perilous fall shall thunder, god! canon ainger suggests that by tod, the unlucky doctor, lamb meant dr. william dodd ( - ), the compiler of the _beauties of shakespeare_ and the forger, who was hanged at tyburn. "your comparisons." coleridge's "comparison of the present state of france with that of rome under julius and augustus cæsar" was printed in the _morning post_, september , september , and october , . see _essays on his own times_, , vol. iii., page . wordsworth's marriage to mary hutchinson, on october , , had called forth from coleridge his ode on "dejection," printed in the _morning post_ for the same day, in which wordsworth was addressed as edmund. in later editions coleridge suppressed its personal character. ludus is lloyd. lamb means by "american" what we should mean by pro-american. "stuartial." referring to daniel stuart of the _morning post_.] letter charles lamb to s. t. coleridge oct. th, . dear coleridge,--your offer about the german poems is exceedingly kind; but i do not think it a wise speculation, because the time it would take you to put them into prose would be nearly as great as if you versified them. indeed, i am sure you could do the one nearly as soon as the other; so that, instead of a division of labour, it would be only a multiplication. but i will think of your offer in another light. i dare say i could find many things of a light nature to suit that paper, which you would not object to pass upon stuart as your own, and i should come in for some light profits, and stuart think the more highly of your assiduity. "bishop hall's characters" i know nothing about, having never seen them. but i will reconsider your offer, which is very plausible; for as to the drudgery of going every day to an editor with my scraps, like a pedlar, for him to pick out, and tumble about my ribbons and posies, and to wait in his lobby, &c., no money could make up for the degradation. you are in too high request with him to have anything unpleasant of that sort to submit to. it was quite a slip of my pen, in my latin letter, when i told you i had milton's latin works. i ought to have said his prose works, in two volumes, birch's edition, containing all, both latin and english, a fuller and better edition than lloyd's of toland. it is completely at your service, and you must accept it from me; at the same time, i shall be much obliged to you for your latin milton, which you think you have at howitt's; it will leave me nothing to wish for but the "history of england," which i shall soon pick up for a trifle. but you must write me word whether the miltons are worth paying carriage for. you have a milton; but it is pleasanter to eat one's own peas out of one's own garden, than to buy them by the peck at covent garden; and a book reads the better, which is our own, and has been so long known to us, that we know the topography of its blots and dog's-ears, and can trace the dirt in it to having read it at tea with buttered muffins, or over a pipe, which i think is the maximum. but, coleridge, you must accept these little things, and not think of returning money for them, for i do not set up for a factor or general agent. as for the fantastic debt of £., i'll think you were dreaming, and not trouble myself seriously to attend to you. my bad latin you properly correct; but _natales_ for _nates_ was an inadvertency: i knew better. _progrediri_ or _progredi_ i thought indifferent, my authority being ainsworth. however, as i have got a fit of latin, you will now and then indulge me with an _epistola_. i pay the postage of this, and propose doing it by turns. in that case i can now and then write to you without remorse; not that you would mind the money, but you have not always ready cash to answer small demands--the _epistolarii nummi_. your "epigram on the sun and moon in germany" is admirable. take 'em all together, they are as good as harrington's. i will muster up all the conceits i can, and you shall have a packet some day. you and i together can answer all demands surely: you, mounted on a terrible charger (like homer in the battle of the books) at the head of the cavalry: i will lead the light horse. i have just heard from stoddart. allen and he intend taking keswick in their way home. allen wished particularly to have it a secret that he is in scotland, and wrote to me accordingly very urgently. as luck was, i had told not above three or four; but mary had told mrs. green of christ's hospital! for the present, farewell: never forgetting love to pi-pos and his friends. c. lamb. [coleridge, who seems to have been asked by stuart of the _morning post_ for translations of german verse, had suggested, i presume, that he should supply lamb (who knew no german) with literal prose translations, and that lamb should versify them, as he had in the case of "thekla's song" in coleridge's translation of the first part of _wallenstein_ nearly three years before. lamb's suggestion is that he should send to stuart epigrams and paragraphs in coleridge's name. whether or not he did so, i cannot say. bishop hall's _characters of vices and virtues_ was published in . coleridge may have suggested that lamb should imitate them for the _morning post_. lamb later came to know hall's satires, for he quotes from them in his review of barron field's poems in . milton's prose works were edited by thomas birch, and by john toland in folio. "my bad latin"--in the letter of october , . ainsworth was robert ainsworth, compiler of the _thesaurus linguæ latinæ_, , for many years the best latin dictionary. "your epigram"--coleridge's epigram "on the curious circumstance that in the german language the sun is feminine and the moon masculine." it appeared in the _morning post_ on october , . coleridge had been sending epigrams and other verse to the _post_ for some time. harrington was sir john harington ( - ), the author of many epigrams. stoddart and allen we have met. i do not know anything of mrs. green.] letter charles lamb to s.t. coleridge oct. rd, . your kind offer i will not a second time refuse. you shall send me a packet and i will do them into english with great care. is not there one about w'm. tell, and would not that in the present state of discussions be likely to _tell_? the epigrams i meant are to be found at the end of harrington's translation of orlando furioso: if you could get the book, they would some of them answer your purpose to modernize. if you can't, i fancy i can. baxter's holy commonwealth i have luckily met with, and when i have sent it, you shall if you please consider yourself indebted to me s. d. the cost of it: especially as i purchased it after your solemn injunctions. the plain case with regard to my presents (which you seem so to shrink from) is that i have not at all affected the character of a donor, or thought of violating your sacred law of give and take: but i have been _taking_ and partaking the good things of your house (when i know you were not over-abounding) and i now _give_ unto you of mine; and by the grace of god i happen to be myself a little super-abundant at present. i expect i shall be able to send you my final parcel in about a week: by that time i shall have gone thro' all milton's latin works. there will come with it the holy commonwealth, and the identical north american bible which you helped to dogs ear at xt's.--i call'd at howell's for your little milton, and also to fetch away the white cross street library books, which i have not forgot: but your books were not in a state to be got at then, and mrs. h. is to let me know when she packs up. they will be sent by sea; and my little præcursor will come to you by the whitehaven waggon accompanied with pens, penknife &c.--mrs. howell was as usual very civil; and asked with great earnestness, if it were likely you would come to town in the winter. she has a friendly eye upon you. i read daily your political essays. i was particularly pleased with "once a jacobin:" though the argument is obvious enough, the style was less swelling than your things sometimes are, and it was plausible _ad populum_. a vessel has just arrived from jamaica with the news of poor sam le grice's death. he died at jamaica of the yellow fever. his course was rapid and he had been very foolish; but i believe there was more of kindness and warmth in him than in almost any other of our schoolfellows. the annual meeting of the blues is to-morrow, at the london tavern, where poor sammy dined with them two years ago, and attracted the notice of all by the singular foppishness of his dress. when men go off the stage so early, it scarce seems a noticeable thing in their epitaphs, whether they had been wise or silly in their lifetime. i am glad the snuff and pi-pos's books please. "goody two shoes" is almost out of print. mrs. barbauld's stuff has banished all the old classics of the nursery; and the shopman at newbery's hardly deigned to reach them off an old exploded corner of a shelf, when mary asked for them. mrs. b.'s and mrs. trimmer's nonsense lay in piles about. knowledge insignificant and vapid as mrs. b.'s books convey, it seems, must come to a child in the _shape_ of _knowledge_, and his empty noddle must be turned with conceit of his own powers when he has learnt that a horse is an animal, and billy is better than a horse, and such like; instead of that beautiful interest in wild tales which made the child a man, while all the time he suspected himself to be no bigger than a child. science has succeeded to poetry no less in the little walks of children than with men. is there no possibility of averting this sore evil? think what you would have been now, if instead of being fed with tales and old wives' fables in childhood, you had been crammed with geography and natural history? damn them!--i mean the cursed barbauld crew, those blights and blasts of all that is human in man and child. as to the translations, let me do two or three hundred lines, and then do you try the nostrums upon stuart in any way you please. if they go down i will bray more. in fact, if i got or could but get l. a year only, in addition to what i have, i should live in affluence. have you anticipated it, or could not you give a parallel of bonaparte with cromwell, particularly as to the contrast in their deeds affecting _foreign_ states? cromwell's interference for the albigenses, b[uonaparte]'s against the swiss. then religion would come in; and milton and you could rant about our countrymen of that period. this is a hasty suggestion, the more hasty because i want my supper. i have just finished chapman's homer. did you ever read it?--it has most the continuous power of interesting you all along, like a rapid original, of any, and in the uncommon excellence of the more finished parts goes beyond fairfax or any of 'em. the metre is fourteen syllables, and capable of all sweetness and grandeur. cowper's damn'd blank verse detains you every step with some heavy miltonism; chapman gallops off with you his own free pace. take a simile for an example. the council breaks up-- "being abroad, the earth was overlaid with flockers to them, that came forth; as when of frequent bees swarms rise out of a hollow rock, repairing the degrees _of their egression endlessly, with ever rising new_ from forth their sweet nest; as their store, still as it faded, grew, _and never would cease sending forth her clusters to the spring_, they still crowd out so: this flock here, that there, belabouring the loaded flowers. so," &c. &c. [_iliad_, book ii., - .] what _endless egression of phrases_ the dog commands! take another: agamemnon wounded, bearing his wound heroically for the sake of the army (look below) to a woman in labour. "he, with his lance, sword, mighty stones, poured his heroic wreak on other squadrons of the foe, whiles yet warm blood did break thro' his cleft veins: but when the wound was quite exhaust and crude, the eager anguish did approve his princely fortitude. as when most sharp and bitter pangs distract a labouring dame, which the divine ilithiæ, that rule the painful frame of human childbirth, pour on her; the ilithiæ that are the daughters of saturnia; with whose extreme repair the woman in her travail strives to take the worst it gives; with thought, it _must be, 'tis love's fruit, the end for which she lives; the mean to make herself new born, what comforts_ will redound: so," &c. [_iliad_, book xi., - .] i will tell you more about chapman and his peculiarities in my next. i am much interested in him. yours ever affectionately, and pi-pos's. c.l. [coleridge was just now contributing political essays as well as verse to the _morning post_. "once a jacobin always a jacobin" appeared on october , . these were afterwards reprinted in _essays on his own times_. _ad populum_ is a reminder of coleridge's first political essays, the _conciones ad populum_ of . "goody two shoes"--one of newbery's most famous books for children, sometimes attributed to goldsmith, though, i think, wrongly. mrs. barbauld ( - ) was the author of _hymns in prose for children_, and she contributed to her brother john aikin's _evenings at home_, both very popular books. lamb, who afterwards came to know mrs. barbauld, described her and mrs. inchbald as the two bald women. mrs. sarah trimmer ( - ) was the author of many books for children; she lives by the _story of the robins_. the translation for stuart either was not made or not accepted; nor did coleridge carry out the project of the parallel of buonaparte with cromwell. hallam, however, did so in his _constitutional history of england_, unfavourably to cromwell. george chapman's _odyssey_ was paraphrased by lamb in his _adventures of ulysses_, . lamb either did not return to the subject with coleridge, or his "next letter" has been lost.] letter charles lamb to s.t. coleridge nov. th, . observe, there comes to you, by the kendal waggon to-morrow, the illustrious th of november, a box, containing the miltons, the strange american bible, with white's brief note, to which you will attend; baxter's "holy commonwealth," for which you stand indebted to me s. d.; an odd volume of montaigne, being of no use to me, i having the whole; certain books belonging to wordsworth, as do also the strange thick-hoofed shoes, which are very much admired at in london. all these sundries i commend to your most strenuous looking after. if you find the miltons in certain parts dirtied and soiled with a crumb of right gloucester blacked in the candle (my usual supper), or peradventure a stray ash of tobacco wafted into the crevices, look to that passage more especially: depend upon it, it contains good matter. i have got your little milton which, as it contains salmasius--and i make a rule of never hearing but one side of the question (why should i distract myself?)--i shall return to you when i pick up the _latina opera_. the first defence is the greatest work among them, because it is uniformly great, and such as is befitting the very mouth of a great nation speaking for itself. but the second defence, which is but a succession of splendid episodes slightly tied together, has one passage which if you have not read, i conjure you to lose no time, but read it; it is his consolations in his blindness, which had been made a reproach to him. it begins whimsically, with poetical flourishes about tiresias and other blind worthies (which still are mainly interesting as displaying his singular mind, and in what degree poetry entered into his daily soul, not by fits and impulses, but engrained and innate); but the concluding page, i.e. of _this passage_ (not of the _defensio_) which you will easily find, divested of all brags and flourishes, gives so rational, so true an enumeration of his comforts, so human, that it cannot be read without the deepest interest. take one touch of the religious part:--"et sane haud ultima dei cura caeci--(_we blind folks_, i understand it not _nos_ for _ego_;)--sumus; qui nos, quominus quicquam aliud praeter ipsum cernere valemus, eo clementius atque benignius respicere dignatur. vae qui illudit nos, vae qui laedit, execratione publica devovendo; nos ab injuriis hominum non modo incolumes, sed pene sacros divina lex reddidit, divinus favor: nee tam _oculorum hebetudine_ quam _coelestium alarum umbrâ_ has nobis fecisse tenebras videtur, factas illustrare rursus interiore ac longe praestabiliore lumine haud raro solet. huc refero, quod et amici officiosius nunc etiam quam solebant, colunt, observant, adsunt; quod et nonnulli sunt, quibuscum pyladeas atque theseas alternare voces verorum amicorum liceat. "vade gubernaculum mei pedis. da manum ministro amico. da collo manum tuam, ductor autem viæ ero tibi ego." all this, and much more, is highly pleasing to know. but you may easily find it;--and i don't know why i put down so many words about it, but for the pleasure of writing to you and the want of another topic. yours ever, c. lamb. to-morrow i expect with anxiety s.t.c.'s letter to mr. fox. [lamb refers to milton's _defensio secunda pro populo anglicano contra alexandrum morum ecclesiasten_. the following is a translation of the latin passage by robert fellowes:-- and indeed, in my blindness, i enjoy in no inconsiderable degree the favour of the deity; who regards me with more tenderness and compassion in proportion as i am able to behold nothing but himself. alas! for him who insults me, who maligns and merits public execration! for the divine law not only shields me from injury, but almost renders me too sacred to attack; not indeed so much from the privation of my sight, as from the overshadowing of those heavenly wings, which seem to have occasioned this obscurity; and which, when occasioned, he is wont to illuminate with an interior light, more precious and more pure. to this i ascribe the more tender assiduities of my friends, their soothing attentions, their kind visits, their reverential observances; among whom there are some with whom i may interchange the pyladean and thesean dialogue of inseparable friends. _orest_. proceed, and be rudder of my feet, by showing me the most endearing love. [eurip. in _orest_.] and in another place-- "lend your hand to your devoted friend, throw your arm round my neck, and i will conduct you on the way." coleridge's first letter to charles james fox was printed in the _morning post_ for november , , his second on november .] letter charles lamb to thomas manning [november, .] my dear manning,--i must positively write, or i shall miss you at toulouse. i sit here like a decayed minute hand (i lie; _that_ does not _sit_), and being myself the exponent of no time, take no heed how the clocks about me are going. you possibly by this time may have explored all italy, and toppled, unawares, into etna, while you went too near those rotten-jawed, gap-toothed, old worn-out chaps of hell,--while i am meditating a quiescent letter to the honest postmaster at toulouse. but in case you should not have been _felo de se_, this is to tell you, that your letter was quite to my palate--in particular your just remarks upon industry, damned industry (though indeed you left me to explore the reason), were highly relishing. i've often wished i lived in the golden age, when shepherds lay stretched upon flowers, and roused themselves at their leisure,--the genius there is in a man's natural idle face, that has not learned his multiplication table! before doubt, and propositions, and corollaries, got into the world! _now_, as joseph cottle, a bard of nature, sings, going up malvern hills, "how steep! how painful the ascent! it needs the evidence of _close deduction_ to know that ever i shall gain the top." you must know that joe is lame, so that he had some reason for so singing. these two lines, i assure you, are taken _totidem literis_ 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 way-lay him; he thereupon pathetically exclaims-- "_twelve_, dost thou say? where be those dozen villains!" cottle read two or three acts out to us, very 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. apropos: if you should go to florence or to rome, inquire what works are extant in gold, silver, bronze, or marble, of benvenuto cellini, a florentine artist, whose life doubtless, you have read; or, if not, without controversy you must read: so hark ye, send for it immediately from lane's circulating library. it is always put among the romances, very properly; but you have read it, i suppose. in particular, inquire at florence for his colossal bronze statue (in the grand square or somewhere) of perseus. you may read the story in tooke's "pantheon." nothing material has _transpired_ in these parts. coleridge has indited a violent philippic against mr. fox in the "morning post," which is a compound of expressions of humility, gentlemen-ushering-in most arrogant charges. it will do mr. fox no real injury among those that know him. [manning's letter of september had told lamb he was on his way to toulouse. cottle's epic was _alfred_. the quoted lines were added in the twelfth edition. he had also written _john the baptist_. "cellini's life." lamb would probably have read the translation by nugent, . cellini's perseus in bronze is in the loggia de' lanzi at florence.] letter charles lamb to thomas manning [dated at end: feb. th, .] my dear manning,--the general scope of your letter afforded no indications of insanity, but some particular points raised a scruple. for god's sake don't think any more of "independent tartary." what have you to do among such ethiopians? is there no _lineal descendant_ of prester john? is the chair empty? is the sword unswayed?--depend upon't they'll never make you their king, as long as any branch of that great stock is remaining. i tremble for your christianity. they'll certainly circumcise you. read sir john maundevil's travels to cure you, or come over to england. there is a tartar-man now exhibiting at exeter change. come and talk with him, and hear what he says first. indeed, he is no very favorable specimen of his countrymen! but perhaps the best thing you can do, is to _try_ to get the idea out of your head. for this purpose repeat to yourself every night, after you have said your prayers, the words independent tartary, independent tartary, two or three times, and associate with them the _idea of oblivion_ ('tis hartley's method with obstinate memories), or say, independent, independent, have i not already got an _independence_? that was a clever way of the old puritans--pun-divinity. my dear friend, think what a sad pity it would be to bury such _parts_ in heathen countries, among nasty, unconversable, horse-belching, tartar people! some say, they are cannibals; and then conceive a tartar-fellow _eating_ my friend, and adding the _cool malignity_ of mustard and vinegar! i am afraid 'tis the reading of chaucer has misled you; his foolish stories about cambuscan and the ring, and the horse of brass. believe me, there's no such things, 'tis all the poet's _invention_; but if there were such _darling_ things as old chaucer sings, i would _up_ behind you on the horse of brass, and frisk off for prester john's country. but these are all tales; a horse of brass never flew, and a king's daughter never talked with birds! the tartars, really, are a cold, insipid, smouchey set. you'll be sadly moped (if you are not eaten) among them. pray _try_ and cure yourself. take hellebore (the counsel is horace's, 'twas none of my thought _originally_). shave yourself oftener. eat no saffron, for saffron-eaters contract a terrible tartar-like yellow. pray, to avoid the fiend. eat nothing that gives the heart-burn. _shave the upper lip_. go about like an european. read no books of voyages (they're nothing but lies): only now and then a romance, to keep the fancy _under_. above all, don't go to any sights of _wild beasts_. _that has been your ruin_. accustom yourself to write familiar letters on common subjects to your friends in england, such as are of a moderate understanding. and think about common things more. there's your friend holcroft now, has written a play. you used to be fond of the drama. nobody went to see it. notwithstanding this, with an audacity perfectly original, he faces the town down in a preface, that they _did like_ it very much. i have heard a waspish punster say, "sir, why did you not laugh at my jest?" but for a man boldly to face me out with, "sir, i maintain it, you did laugh at my jest," is a little too much. i have seen h. but once. he spoke of you to me in honorable terms. h. seems to me to be drearily dull. godwin is dull, but then he has a dash of affectation, which smacks of the coxcomb, and your coxcombs are always agreeable. i supped last night with rickman, and met a merry _natural_ captain, who pleases himself vastly with once having made a pun at otaheite in the o. language. 'tis the same man who said shakspeare he liked, because he was so _much of the gentleman_. rickman is a man "absolute in all numbers." i think i may one day bring you acquainted, if you do not go to tartary first; for you'll never come back. have a care, my dear friend, of anthropophagi! their stomachs are always craving. but if you do go among [them] pray contrive to _stink_ as soon as you can that you may [? not] hang a [? on] hand at the butcher's. 'tis terrible to be weighed out for d. a-pound. to sit at table (the reverse of fishes in holland), not as a guest, but as a meat. god bless you: do come to england. air and exercise may do great things. talk with some minister. why not your father? god dispose all for the best. i have discharged my duty. your sincere fr'd, c. lamb. th feb., , london. [manning's letter producing this reply is endorsed by lamb, "received february , ," so that he lost no time. manning wrote: "i am actually thinking of independent tartary as i write this, but you go out and skate--you go out and walk some times? very true, that's a distraction--but the moment i set myself down quietly to any-thing, in comes independent tartary--for example i attend chemical lectures but every drug that mr. vauquelin presents to me tastes of cream of tartar--in short i am become good for nothing for a time, and as i said before, i should not have written now, but to assure you of my friendly and affectionate remembrance, but as you are not in the same unhappy circumstances, i expect you'll write to me and not measure page for page. this is the first letter i have begun for england for three months except one i sent to my father yesterday." manning returned to london before leaving for china. he did not sail until . prester john, the name given by old writers to the king of ethiopia in abyssinia. a corruption of belul gian, precious stone; in latin first johanus preciosus, then presbyter johannes, and then prester john. in sir john mandeville's _voiage and travails_, , prester john is said to be a lineal descendant of ogier the dane.--hartley would be david hartley, the metaphysician, after whom coleridge's son was named.--the reader must go to chaucer's "squire's tale" for cambuscan, king of sarra, in tartary; his horse of brass which conveyed him in a day wherever he would go; and the ring which enabled his daughter canacé to understand the language of birds. holcroft's play was "a tale of mystery." rickman had returned from ireland some months previously. the merry natural captain was james burney ( - ), with whom the lambs soon became very friendly. he was the centre of their whist-playing circle. burney, who was brother of madame d'arblay, had sailed with captain cook. "the reverse of fishes in holland." an allusion to andrew marvell's whimsical satire against the dutch:-- the fish ofttimes the burgher dispossessed and sat not as a meat but as a guest. "why not your father?" manning's father was the rev. william manning, rector of diss, in norfolk, who died in .] letter charles lamb to thomas manning march, . dear manning, i send you some verses i have made on the death of a young quaker you may have heard me speak of as being in love with for some years while i lived at pentonville, though i had never spoken to her in my life. she died about a month since. if you have interest with the abbé de lisle, you may get 'em translated: he has done as much for the georgics. hester when maidens such as hester die, their place ye may not well supply, though ye among a thousand try, with vain endeavour. a month or more hath she been dead, yet cannot i by force be led to think upon the wormy bed, and her together. a springy motion in her gait, a rising step, did indicate of pride and joy no common rate, that flush'd her spirit. i know not by what name beside i shall it call:--if 'twas not pride, it was a joy to that allied, she did inherit. her parents held the quaker rule, which doth the human feeling cool, but she was train'd in nature's school, nature had blest her. a waking eye, a prying mind, a heart that stirs, is hard to bind, a hawk's keen sight ye cannot blind, ye could not hester. my sprightly neighbour, gone before to that unknown and silent shore, shall we not meet, as heretofore, some summer morning, when from thy cheerful eyes a ray hath struck a bliss upon the day, a bliss that would not go away, a sweet forewarning? [this letter is possibly only a fragment. i have supplied "hester" from the text. the young quaker was hester savory, the daughter of joseph savory, a goldsmith of the strand. she was married july , , and died a few months after. "the abbé de lisle." l'abbé jacques delille ( - ), known by his _géorgiques_, , a translation into french of virgil's _georgics_.] letter charles lamb to william wordsworth [dated at end: march , .] dear wordsworth, having a guinea of your sister's left in hand, after all your commissions, and as it does not seem likely that you will trouble us, as the phrase is, for some time to come, i send you a pound note, and with it the best things in the verse way i have lit upon for many a day. i believe they will be new to you. you know cotton, who wrote a d part to walton's angler. a volume of his miscellaneous poems is scarce. take what follows from a poem call'd winter. i omit verses, in which a storm is described, to hasten to the best:-- louder, and louder, still they[ ] come, nile's cataracts to these are dumb, the cyclops to these blades are still, whose anvils shake the burning hill. were all the stars-enlighten'd skies as full of ears, as sparkling eyes, this rattle in the crystal hall would be enough to deaf them all. what monstrous race is hither tost, thus to alarm our british coast, with outcries such as never yet war, or confusion, could beget? oh! now i know them, let us home, our mortal enemy is come, winter, and all his blustring train have made a voyage o'er the main. with bleak, and with congealing winds, the earth in shining chain he binds; and still as he doth further pass, quarries his way with liquid glass. hark! how the blusterers of the bear their gibbous cheeks in triumph bear, and with continued shouts do ring the entry of their palsied king! the squadron, nearest to your eye, is his forlorn of infantry, bowmen of unrelenting minds, whose shafts are feather'd with the winds. now you may see his vanguard rise above the earthy precipice, bold horse, on bleakest mountains bred, with hail, instead of provend, fed. their lances are the pointed locks, torn from the brows of frozen rocks, their shields are chrystal as their swords, the steel the rusted rock affords. see, the main body now appears! and hark! th' aeolian trumpeters. by their hoarse levels do declare, that the bold general rides there. and look where mantled up in white he sleds it, like the muscovite. i know him by the port he bears, and his lifeguard of mountaineers. their caps are furr'd with hoary frosts, the bravery their cold kingdom boasts; their spungy plads are milk-white frieze, spun from the snowy mountain's fleece. their partizans are fine carv'd glass, fring'd with the morning's spangled grass; and pendant by their brawny thighs hang cimetars of burnish'd ice. fly, fly, the foe advances fast, into our fortress let us haste, where all the roarers of the north can neither storm, nor starve, us forth. there under ground a magazine of sovran juice is cellar'd in, liquor that will the siege maintain, should phoebus ne'er return again. 'tis that, that gives the poet rage, and thaws the gelly'd blood of age, matures the young, restores the old, and makes the fainting coward bold. it lays the careful head to rest, calms palpitations in the breast, renders our live's misfortunes sweet, and venus frolic in the sheet. then let the chill scirocco blow, and gird us round with hills of snow, or else go whistle to the shore, and make the hollow mountains roar. whilst we together jovial sit, careless, and crown'd with mirth and wit, where tho' bleak winds confine us home, our fancies thro' the world shall roam. we'll think of all the friends we know, and drink to all, worth drinking to; when, having drunk all thine and mine, we rather shall want health than wine! but, where friends fail us, we'll supply our friendships with our charity. men that remote in sorrows live, shall by our lusty bumpers thrive. we'll drink the wanting into wealth, and those that languish into health, th' afflicted into joy, th' opprest into security & rest. the worthy in disgrace shall find favour return again more kind, and in restraint who stifled lye, shall taste the air of liberty. the brave shall triumph in success, the lovers shall have mistresses, poor unregarded virtue praise, and the neglected poet bays. thus shall our healths do others good, while we ourselves do all we wou'd, for freed from envy, and from care, what would we be, but what we are? 'tis the plump grape's immortal juice, that does this happiness produce, and will preserve us free together, maugre mischance, or wind, & weather. then let old winter take his course, and roar abroad till he be hoarse, and his lungs crack with ruthless ire, it shall but serve to blow our fire. let him our little castle ply with all his loud artillery, whilst sack and claret man the fort, his fury shall become our sport. or let him scotland take, and there confine the plotting presbyter; his zeal may freeze, whilst we kept warm with love and wine can know no harm. [footnote : the winds.] how could burns miss the series of lines from to ? there is also a long poem from the latin on the inconveniences of old age. i can't set down the whole, tho' right worthy, having dedicated the remainder of my sheet to something else. i just excerp here and there, to convince you, if after this you need it, that cotton was a first rate. tis old callus speaks of himself, once the delight of the ladies and gallants of rome:-- the beauty of my shape & face are fled, and my revolted form bespeaks me dead, for fair, and shining age, has now put on a bloodless, funeral complexion. my skin's dry'd up, my nerves unpliant are, and my poor limbs my nails plow up and tear. my chearful eyes now with a constant spring of tears bewail their own sad suffering; and those soft lids, that once secured my eye now rude, and bristled grown, do drooping lie, bolting mine eyes, as in a gloomy cave, which there on furies, and grim objects, rave. 'twould fright the full-blown gallant to behold the dying object of a man so old. and can you think, that once a man he was, of human reason who no portion has. the letters split, when i consult my book, and every leaf i turn does broader look. in darkness do i dream i see the light, when light is darkness to my perishd sight. * * * * * is it not hard we may not from men's eyes cloak and conceal age's indecencies. unseeming spruceness th' old man discommends, and in old men, only to live, offends. * * * * * how can i him a living man believe, whom light, and air, by whom he panteth, grieve; the gentle sleeps, which other mortals ease, scarce in a winter's night my eyelids seize. * * * * * the boys, and girls, deride me now forlorn, and but to call me, sir, now think it scorn, they jeer my countnance, and my feeble pace, and scoff that nodding head, that awful was. * * * * * a song written by cowper, which in stile is much above his usual, and emulates in noble plainness any old balad i have seen. hayley has just published it &c. with a life. i did not think cowper _up_ to it:-- song on the loss of the royal george toll for the brave! the brave, that are no more! all sunk beneath the wave, fast by their native shore.-- eight hundred of the brave, whose courage well was tried, had made the vessel heel, and laid her on her side. a land breeze shook the shrouds, and she was over set; down went the royal george, with all her sails complete. toll for the brave! brave kempenfelt is gone: his last sea-fight is fought; his work of glory done. it was not in the battle, no tempest gave the shock; she sprang no fatal leak; she ran upon no rock. his sword was in its sheath; his fingers held the pen, when kempenfelt went down, with twice four hundred men. weigh the vessel up! once dreaded by our foes! and mingle with the cup the tear that england owes. her timbers yet are sound, and she may float again, full charg'd with england's thunder, and plow the distant main. but kempenfelt is gone, his victories are o'er; and he, and his eight hundred, shall plow the wave no more. in your obscure part of the world, which i take to be ultima thule, i thought these verses out of books which cannot be accessible would not be unwelcome. having room, i will put in an epitaph i writ for a _real occasion_, a year or two back. on mary druit who died aged under this cold marble stone sleep the sad remains of one, who, when alive, by few or none was lov'd, as lov'd she might have been, if she prosp'rous days had seen, or had thriving been, i ween. only this cold funeral stone tells, she was belov'd by one, who on the marble graves his moan. i conclude with love to your sister and mrs. w. yours affect'y, c. lamb. mary sends love, &c. th march, . on consulting mary, i find it will be foolish inserting the note as i intended, being so small, and as it is possible you _may_ have to _trouble_ us again e'er long; so it shall remain to be settled hereafter. however, the verses shan't be lost. n.b.--all orders executed with fidelity and punctuality by c. & m. lamb. [_on the outside is written:_] i beg to open this for a minute to add my remembrances to you all, and to assure you i shall ever be happy to hear from or see, much more to be useful to any of my old friends at grasmere. j. stoddart. a _lean_ paragraph of the doctor's. c. lamb. [charles cotton ( - ). wordsworth praises the poem on winter in his preface to the edition of his works, and elsewhere sets up a comparison between the character of cotton and that of burns. hayley's _life of cowper_ appeared first in . lamb's epitaph was written at the request of rickman. see also the letter to manning of april, . rickman seems to have supplied lamb with a prose epitaph and asked for a poetical version. canon ainger prints an earlier version in a letter to rickman, dated february , . lamb printed the epitaph in the _morning post_ for february , , over his initials (see vol. iv. of this edition). mary druit, or druitt, lived at wimborne, and according to john payne collier, in _an old man's diary_, died of small-pox at the age of nineteen. he says that lamb's lines were cut on her tomb, but correspondence in _notes and queries_ has proved this to be incorrect. "the doctor." stoddart, having taken his d.c.l. in , was now called dr. stoddart. soon after this letter mary lamb was taken ill again.] letter charles lamb to s. t. coleridge april th, . my dear coleridge,--things have gone on better with me since you left me. i expect to have my old housekeeper 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 cayenned eggs and such bolsters to discomfort. there was death in that cap. i mischievously wished that by some inauspicious jolt the whole contents might be shaken, and the coach set on fire. for you said they had that property. how the old gentleman, who joined you at grantham, would have clappt his hands to his knees, and not knowing but it was an immediate visitation of god 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--a damn'd 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 sideboard again. [_here is a paragraph erased._] what do you think of smoking? i want your sober, _average noon opinion_ of it. i generally am eating my dinner about the time i should determine it. [_another small erasure._] morning is a girl, and can't smoke--she's no evidence one way or other; and night is so evidently _bought over_, that _he_ can't be a very upright judge. may be the truth is, that _one_ pipe is wholesome, _two_ pipes toothsome, _three_ 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 they 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 children--pi-pos 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 its effects as a remonstrance. i went to bed pot-valiant. by the way, may not the ogles of somersetshire be remotely descended from king lear? love to sara, and ask her what gown she means that mary has got of hers. i know of none but what went with miss wordsworth's things to wordsworth, and was paid for out of their money. i allude to a part which i may have read imperfectly in a letter of hers to you. c. l. [coleridge had been in london early in april and had stayed with lamb in the temple. from the following letter to his wife, dated april , we get light on lamb's allusion to his "old housekeeper," _i.e._, mary lamb, and her rapid mending:-- "i had purposed not to speak of mary lamb, but i had better write it than tell it. the thursday before last she met at rickman's a mr. babb, an old friend and admirer of her mother. the next day she _smiled_ in an ominous way; on sunday she told her brother that she was getting bad, with great agony. on tuesday morning she laid hold of me with violent agitation and talked wildly about george dyer. i told charles there was not a moment to lose; and i did not lose a moment, but went for a hackney-coach and took her to the private mad-house at hugsden. she was quite calm, and said it was the best to do so. but she wept bitterly two or three times, yet all in a calm way. charles is cut to the heart." lamb's first articulate doubts as to smoking are expressed in this letter. one may perhaps take in this connection the passage on tobacco and alcohol in the "confessions of a drunkard" (see vol. i.). "montero cap"--a recollection of _tristram shandy_. the ogles and king lear (_i.e._, leer)--merely a pun.] letter charles lamb to s. t. coleridge [no date. may, .] mary sends love from home. dr. c.,--i do confess that i have not sent your books as i ought to be [have] done; but you know how the human freewill 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 juvenile--then on "to chatterton," &c.--on, lastly, to the "ode on the departing year," and "musings,"--which finish. longman wanted the ode first; but the arrangement i have made is precisely that marked out in the dedication, following the order of time. i told longman i was sure that you would omit a good portion of the first edition. i instanced in several sonnets, &c.--but that was 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 yourself 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 nicety 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 whatever, 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 accessory 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 familiar in pope,) but no others--you have your cue. for my part, i had rather all the _juvenilia_ were kept--_memories causa_. rob lloyd has written me a masterly letter, containing 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 learning, when from business, with all the vigour of a young man italian. he is really a wonderful man. he mixes public and private business, the intricacies of discording life with his religion and devotion. no one more rationally enjoys the romantic scenes of nature, and the chit-chat and little vagaries of his children; and, though surrounded 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 opportunities of noting him) is most exquisite. "charles is become steady as a church, and as straightforward as a roman road. it would distract him to mention anything that was not as plain as sense; he seems to have run the whole scenery of life, and now rests as the formal precisian 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 date is usually given as march , but is may ; certainly after coleridge's visit to town (see preceding letter). _poems_, by s. t. coleridge, third edition, was now in preparation by longman & rees. lamb saw the volume through the press. the second edition was followed, except that lloyd's and lamb's contributions were omitted, together with the following poems by coleridge: "to the rev. w. j. h.," "sonnet to koskiusko," "written after a walk" (which lamb inaccurately called "flicker and flicker's wife"), "from a young lady" ("the silver thimble"), "on the christening of a friend's child," "introductory sonnet to lloyd's 'poems on the death of priscilla farmer.'" "the man of ross" (whom pope also celebrates in the _moral essays_, iii., lines - ) was retained, and also the "lines in the manner of spenser." the piece rechristened "kisses" had been called "the composition of a kiss." biggs was the printer. see also the next letter. of robert lloyd's father we hear more later.] letter charles lamb to s. t. coleridge th may, . 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 precarious--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 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 th may, by kendal waggon, from white horse, cripplegate. you 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 literary 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 then circuitously to cripplegate, when their business is to take a short cut down holborn-hill, up snow do., on to woodstreet, &c.? the former mode seems a sad superstitious subdivision of labour. well! the "man of ross" is to stand; longman 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 subtracting 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 "reflections at an inn about a known character," and sucking an old story into an accommodation with present feelings. here is no breaking spears with pope, but a new, independent, 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_ moments 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 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 a _fac-nihil_--at most, a _fac-simile_. 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. [coleridge, who was getting more and more nervous about his health, had long been on the point of starting on some southern travels with thomas wedgwood, but wedgwood had gone alone; his friend james webbe tobin, mentioned later in the letter, lived at nevis, in the west indies: possibly coleridge had thoughts of returning with him. the malta experiment, of which we are to hear later, had not, i think, yet been mooted. "the man of ross." in the edition the poem had run thus, partly by lamb's advice (see the letters of june , , and february , ):-- lines written at the king's-arms, ross, formerly the house of the "man of ross" richer than miser o'er his countless hoards, nobler than kings, or king-polluted lords, here dwelt the man of ross! o trav'ller, hear! departed merit claims a reverent tear. friend to the friendless, to the sick man health, with generous joy he view'd his modest wealth; he hears the widow's heaven-breath'd prayer of praise, he marks the shelter'd orphan's tearful gaze, or where the sorrow-shrivel'd captive lay, pours the bright blaze of freedom's noon-tide ray. beneath this roof if thy cheer'd moments pass, fill to the good man's name one grateful glass; to higher zest shall mem'ry wake thy soul, and virtue mingle in th' ennobled bowl. but if, like me, thro' life's distressful scene lonely and sad thy pilgrimage hath been; and if, thy breast with heart-sick anguish fraught, thou journeyest onward tempest-tost in thought; here cheat thy cares! in generous visions melt, and dream of goodness, thou hast never felt! lamb changed it by omitting lines to , coleridge agreeing. the poet would not, however, restore "wine-cheer'd" as in his earliest version, . in the edition of the six lines were put back. "breathe, dear harmonist" was the poem "to the rev. w. j. h.," and "the child that was fed with manna" was "on the christening of a friend's child." "lady holland's mob." elizabeth vassall fox, third lady holland ( - ), was beginning her reign as a muse. lamb by his phrase means occasional and political verse generally. the reference to "christabel" helps to controvert fanny godwin's remark in a letter to mrs. shelley, on july , , that lamb "says _christabel_ ought never to have been published; that no one understood it." canon ainger's transcript adds: "a word of your health will be richly acceptable."] letter mary lamb to dorothy wordsworth [dated at end: july . p.m. july , .] my dear miss wordsworth--we rejoice with exceeding great joy to hear the delightful tidings you were so _very_ kind to remember to send us--i hope your dear sister is perfectly well, and makes an excellent nurse. are you not now the happiest family in the world? i have been in better health and spirits this week past than since my last illness--i continued so long so very weak & dejected i began to fear i should never be at all comfortable again. i strive against low spirits all i can, but it is a very hard thing to get the better of. i am very uneasy about poor coleridge, his last letters are very melancholy ones. remember me affectionately to him and sara. i hope you often see him. southey is in town. he seems as proud of his little girl as i suppose your brother is of his boy; he says his home is now quite a different place to what it used to be. i was glad to hear him say this--it used to look rather chearless. we went last week with southey and rickman and his sister to sadlers wells, the lowest and most london-like of all our london amusements--the entertainments were goody two shoes, jack the giant killer, and _mary of buttermere_! poor mary was very happily married at the end of the piece, to a sailor her former sweetheart. we had a prodigious fine view of her father's house in the vale of buttermere--mountains very like large haycocks, and a lake like nothing at all. if you had been with us, would you have laughed the whole time like charles and miss rickman or gone to sleep as southey and rickman did? stoddart is in expectation of going soon to malta as judge advocate; it is likely to be a profitable situation, fifteen hundred a year or more. if he goes he takes with him his sister, and, as i hear from her as a very great secret, a _wife_; you must not mention this because if he stays in england he may not be rich enough to marry for some years. i do not know why i should trouble you with a secret which it seems i am unable to keep myself and which is of no importance to you to hear; if he succeeds in this appointment he will be in a great bustle, for he must set out to malta in a month. in the mean time he must go to scotland to marry and fetch his wife, and it is a match against her parents' consent, and they as yet know nothing of the malta expedition; so that he expects many difficulties, but the young lady and he are determined to conquer them. he then must go to salisbury to take leave of his father and mother, who i pity very much, for they are old people and therefore are not very likely ever to see their children again. charles is very well and very _good_--i mean very sober, but he is very good in every sense of the word, for he has been very kind and patient with me and i have been a sad trouble to him lately. he has shut out all his friends because he thought company hurt me, and done every thing in his power to comfort and amuse me. we are to go out of town soon for a few weeks, when i hope i shall get quite stout and lively. you saw fenwick when you was with us--perhaps you remember his wife and children were with his brother, a tradesman at penzance. he (the brother), who was supposed to be in a great way of business, has become a bankrupt; they are now at penzance without a home and without money; and poor fenwick, who has been editor of a country newspaper lately, is likely soon to be quite out of employ; i am distressed for them, for i have a great affection for mrs. fenwick. how pleasant your little house and orchard must be now. i almost wish i had never seen it. i am always wishing to be with you. i could sit upon that little bench in idleness day long. when you have a leisure hour, a letter from [you], kind friend, will give me the greatest pleasure. we have money of yours and i want you to send me some commission to lay it out. are you not in want of anything? i believe when we go out of town it will be to margate--i love the seaside and expect much benefit from it, but your mountain scenery has spoiled us. we shall find the flat country of the isle of thanet very dull. charles joins me in love to your brother and sister and the little john. i hope you are building more rooms. charles said i was so long answering your letter mrs. wordsworth would have another little one before you received it. our love and compliments to our kind molly, i hope she grows younger and happier every day. when, and where, shall i ever see you again? not i fear for a very long time, you are too happy ever to wish to come to london. when you write tell me how poor mrs. clarkson does. god bless you and yours. i am your affectionate friend, m. lamb. july th. [wordsworth's eldest child, john, was born on june , . southey's little girl was edith, born in september of the preceding year. it was southey who made the charming remark that no house was complete unless it had in it a child rising six years, and a kitten rising six months. coleridge had been ill for some weeks after his visit to london. he was about to visit scotland with the wordsworths. mary of buttermere was mary robinson, the beauty of buttermere, whom the swindler john hatfield had married in october, , under the false name of hope. mary was the daughter of the landlord of the fish inn at buttermere, and was famous in the lake country for her charm. coleridge sent to the _morning post_ in october some letters on the imposture, and mary's name became a household word. hatfield was hanged in september, . funds were meanwhile raised for mary, and she ultimately married a farmer, after being the subject of dramas, ballads and novels. the play which the lambs saw was by charles dibdin the younger, produced on april , . its title was "edward and susan; or, the beauty of buttermere." a benefit performance for the real beauty of buttermere was promised. both grimaldi and belzoni were among the evening's entertainers. stoddart was the king's and the admiralty's advocate at malta from to . he married isabella moncrieff in . his sister was sarah stoddart, of whom we are about to hear much. according to the next letter the lambs went not to margate, but to the isle of wight--to cowes, with the burneys. molly was an old cottager at grasmere whom the lambs had been friendly with on their northern visit. mrs. clarkson, the wife of thomas clarkson, was catherine buck. she survived her husband, who died in .] letter charles lamb to john rickman saturday morning, july th, . dear rickman,--i enclose you a wonder, a letter from the shades. a dead body wants to return, and be inrolled _inter vivos_. 'tis a gentle ghost, and in this galvanic age it may have a chance. mary and i are setting out for the isle of wight. we make but a short stay, and shall pass the time betwixt that place and portsmouth, where fenwick is. i sadly wanted to explore the peak this summer; but mary is against steering without card or compass, and we should be at large in darbyshire. we shall be at home this night and to-morrow, if you can come and take a farewell pipe. i regularly transmitted your notices to the "morning post," but they have not been duly honoured. the fault lay not in me.-- yours truly, c. lamb. [i cannot explain the reference to the dead body. mr. bertram dobell considers it to apply to an article which he believes lamb to have written, called "an appeal from the shades," printed in the _london magazine_, new series, vol. v. (see _sidelights on charles lamb_, , pages - ). i cannot, however, think that lamb could write in in the deliberate manner of that essay; that the "appeal" is by him; or that the reference in the letter is to an essay at all. i have no real theory to put forward; but it once occurred to me that the letter from the shades was from george burnett, who had quarrelled with rickman, may reasonably be believed to have threatened suicide, and had now possibly appealed to his mercy through lamb. later, burnett entered the militia as a surgeon, and at the beginning of he left for poland. following this should come a letter from lamb to rickman, dated july , . it is part of one from captain burney describing the adventures of the burneys and lambs at cowes. lamb, says the captain, on their way to newport "very ingeniously and unconsciously cast loose the fastenings of the mast, so that mast, sprit, sails, and all the rest tumbled overboard with a crash." lamb on his part is amusing about the captain and martin burney, and says he longs for holborn scenery again.] letter mary lamb to sarah stoddart [dated at end: september , .] my dear sarah, i returned home from my visit yesterday, and was much pleased to find your letter; for i have been very anxious to hear how you are going on. i could hardly help expecting to see you when i came in; yet, though i should have rejoiced to have seen your merry face again, i believe it was better as it was--upon the whole; and, all things considered, it is certainly better you should go to malta. the terms you are upon with your lover does (as you say it will) appear wondrous strange to me; however, as i cannot enter into your feelings, i certainly can have nothing to say to it, only that i sincerely wish you happy in your own way, however odd that way may appear to me to be. i would begin now to advise you to drop all correspondence with william; but, as i said before, as i cannot enter into your feelings and views of things, _your ways not being my ways_, why should i tell you what i would do in your situation? so, child, take thy own ways, and god prosper thee in them! one thing my advising spirit must say--use as little _secrecy_ as possible; and, as much as possible, make a friend of your sister-in-law--you know i was not struck with her at first sight; but, upon your account, i have watched and marked her very attentively; and, while she was eating a bit of cold mutton in our kitchen, we had a serious conversation. from the frankness of her manner, i am convinced she is a person i could make a friend of; why should not you? we talked freely about you: she seems to have a just notion of your character, and will be fond of you, if you will let her. my father had a sister lived with us--of course, lived with my mother, her sister-in-law; they were, in their different ways, the best creatures in the world--but they set out wrong at first. they made each other miserable for full twenty years of their lives--my mother was a perfect gentlewoman, my aunty as unlike a gentlewoman as you can possibly imagine a good old woman to be; so that my dear mother (who, though you do not know it, is always in my poor head and heart) used to distress and weary her with incessant and unceasing attention and politeness, to gain her affection. the old woman could not return this in kind, and did not know what to make of it--thought it all deceit, and used to hate my mother with a bitter hatred; which, of course, was soon returned with interest. a little frankness, and looking into each other's characters at first, would have spared all this, and they would have lived, as they died, fond of each other for the last few years of their life. when we grew up, and harmonised them a little, they sincerely loved each other. my aunt and my mother were wholly unlike you and your sister, yet in some degree theirs is the secret history i believe of all sisters-in-law--and you will smile when i tell you i think myself the only woman in the world who could live with a brother's wife, and make a real friend of her, partly from early observation of the unhappy example i have just given you, and partly from a knack i know i have of looking into people's real characters, and never expecting them to act out of it--never expecting another to do as i would in the same case. when you leave your mother, and say, if you never shall see her again, you shall feel no remorse, and when you make a _jewish_ bargain with your _lover_, all this gives me no offence, because it is your nature, and your temper, and i do not expect or want you to be otherwise than you are. i love you for the good that is in you, and look for no change. _but_, certainly, you ought to struggle with the evil that does most easily beset you--a total want of politeness in behaviour, i would say modesty of behaviour, but that i should not convey to you my idea of the word modesty; for i certainly do not mean that you want _real modesty_; and what is usually called false, or mock, modesty is [a quality] i certainly do not wish you to possess; yet i trust you know what i mean well enough. _secrecy_, though you appear all frankness, is certainly a grand failing of yours; it is likewise your _brother's_, and, therefore, a family failing--by secrecy, i mean you both want the habit of telling each other at the moment every thing that happens--where you go,--and what you do,--the free communication of letters and opinions just as they arrive, as charles and i do,--and which is, after all, the only groundwork of friendship. your brother, i will answer for [it,] will never tell his wife or his sister all that [is in] his mind--he will receive letters, and not [mention it]. this is a fault mrs. stoddart can never [tell him of;] but she can, and will, feel it: though, [on] the whole, and in every other respect, she is [very] happy with him. begin, for god's sake, at the first, and tell her every thing that passes. at first she may hear you with indifference; but in time this will gain her affection and confidence; show her all your letters (no matter if she does not show hers)--it is a pleasant thing for a friend to put into one's hand a letter just fresh from the post. i would even say, begin with showing her this, but that it is written freely and loosely, and some apology ought to be made for it--which i know not how to make, for i must write freely or not at all. if you do this, she will tell your brother, you will say; and what then, quotha? it will beget a freer communication amongst you, which is a thing devoutly to be wished-- god bless you, and grant you may preserve your integrity, and remain unmarried and penniless, and make william a good and a happy wife. your affectionate friend, m. lamb. charles is very unwell, and my head aches. he sends his love: mine, with my best wishes, to your brother and sister. i hope i shall get another letter from you. wednesday, st september, . [sarah stoddart was the sister of dr. john stoddart, who had just been appointed the king's and the admiralty's advocate at malta, whither miss stoddart followed him. her lover of that moment was a mr. turner, and william was an earlier lover still. her sister-in-law was mrs. john stoddart, _née_ isabella moncrieff, whom her brother had only just married. "my mother." this is the only reference to her mother in any of mary lamb's letters. the sister was sarah lamb, usually known as aunt hetty.] letter charles lamb to william godwin nov. , . my dear sir,--i have been sitting down for three or four days successively to the review, which i so much wished to do well, and to your satisfaction. but i can produce nothing but absolute flatness and nonsense. my health and spirits are so bad, and my nerves so irritable, that i am sure, if i persist, i shall teaze myself into a fever. you do not know how sore and weak a brain i have, or you would allow for many things in me which you set down for whims. i solemnly assure you that i never more wished to prove to you the value which i have for you than at this moment; but although in so seemingly trifling a service i cannot get through with it, i pray you to impute it to this one sole cause, ill health. i hope i am above subterfuge, and that you will do me this justice to think so. you will give me great satisfaction by sealing my pardon and oblivion in a line or two, before i come to see you, or i shall be ashamed to come.--your, with great truth, c. lamb. letter charles lamb to william godwin nov. , . dear godwin,--you never made a more unlucky and perverse mistake than to suppose that the reason of my not writing that cursed thing was to be found in your book. i assure you most sincerely that i have been greatly delighted with chaucer. i may be wrong, but i think there is one considerable error runs through it, which is a conjecturing spirit, a fondness for filling out the picture by supposing what chaucer did and how he felt, where the materials are scanty. so far from meaning to withhold from you (out of mistaken tenderness) this opinion of mine, i plainly told mrs. godwin that i did find a _fault_, which i should reserve naming until i should see you and talk it over. this she may very well remember, and also that i declined naming this fault until she drew it from me by asking me if there was not too much fancy in the work. i then confessed generally what i felt, but refused to go into particulars until i had seen you. i am never very fond of saying things before third persons, because in the relation (such is human nature) something is sure to be dropped. if mrs. godwin has been the cause of your misconstruction, i am very angry, tell her; yet it is not an anger unto death. i remember also telling mrs. g. (which she may have _dropt_) that i was by turns considerably more delighted than i expected. but i wished to reserve all this until i saw you. i even had conceived an expression to meet you with, which was thanking you for some of the most exquisite pieces of criticism i had ever read in my life. in particular, i should have brought forward that on "troilus and cressida" and shakespear which, it is little to say, delighted me, and instructed me (if not absolutely _instructed_ me, yet put into _full-grown sense_ many conceptions which had arisen in me before in my most discriminating moods). all these things i was preparing to say, and bottling them up till i came, thinking to please my friend and host, the author! when lo! this deadly blight intervened. i certainly ought to make great allowances for your misunderstanding me. you, by long habits of composition and a greater command gained over your own powers, cannot conceive of the desultory and uncertain way in which i (an author by fits) sometimes cannot put the thoughts of a common letter into sane prose. any work which i take upon myself as an engagement will act upon me to torment, _e.g._, when i have undertaken, as three or four times i have, a school-boy copy of verses for merchant taylors' boys, at a guinea a copy, i have fretted over them, in perfect inability to do them, and have made my sister wretched with my wretchedness for a week together. the same, till by habit i have acquired a mechanical command, i have felt in making paragraphs. as to reviewing, in particular, my head is so whimsical a head, that i cannot, after reading another man's book, let it have been never so pleasing, give any account of it in any methodical way. i cannot follow his train. something like this you must have perceived of me in conversation. ten thousand times i have confessed to you, talking of my talents, my utter inability to remember in any comprehensive way what i read. i can vehemently applaud, or perversely stickle, at _parts_; but i cannot grasp at a whole. this infirmity (which is nothing to brag of) may be seen in my two little compositions, the tale and my play, in both which no reader, however partial, can find any story. i wrote such stuff about chaucer, and got into such digressions, quite irreducible into - / column of a paper, that i was perfectly ashamed to show it you. however, it is become a serious matter that i should convince you i neither slunk from the task through a wilful deserting neglect, or through any (most imaginary on your part) distaste of chaucer; and i will try my hand again, i hope with better luck. my health is bad and my time taken up, but all i can spare between this and sunday shall be employed for you, since you desire it: and if i bring you a crude, wretched paper on sunday, you must burn it, and forgive me; if it proves anything better than i predict, may it be a peace-offering of sweet incense between us. c. lamb. [lamb's review of godwin's _life of chaucer_, issued in october, , has not been identified. perhaps it was never completed. writing to wordsworth, december , , he says that his review of _the excursion_ is the first he ever did. lamb's early merchant taylors' verses have been lost, but two epigrams that he wrote many years later for the sons of hessey, the publisher, have been preserved (see the letter to southey, may , ).] letter charles lamb to thomas poole [dated at end: feb. , .] dear sir--i am sorry we have not been able to hear of lodgings to suit young f. but we will not desist in the enquiry. in a day or two something may turn up. boarding houses are common enough, but to find a family where he would be safe from impositions within & impositions without is not so easy.-- i take this opportunity of thanking you for your kind attentions to the lad i took the liberty of recommending. _his_ mother was disposed to have taken in young f. but could not possibly make room. your obliged &c c. lamb. temple, feb., . [i do not know to what lads the note refers, but probably young f. was young fricker, the brother of mrs. coleridge and mrs. southey. the note is interesting only as giving another instance of lamb's willing helpfulness to others.] letter charles lamb to s. t. coleridge [p.m. march , .] dr c. i blunderd open this letter, its weight making me conjecture it held an inclosure; but finding it poetry (which is no man's ground, but waste and common) i perused it. do you remember that you are to come to us to-night? c. l. to mr. coleridge, mr. tobin's, barnards inn, holborn. [this is written on the back of a paper addressed (to save postage) to mr. lamb, india house, containing a long extract from "madoc" in southey's hand. coleridge, having been invited by stoddart to malta, was now in london on his way thither. tobin was probably james webbe tobin, brother of john tobin, the solicitor and dramatist. between this letter and the next comes a letter from lamb to robert lloyd, dated at the end march , , in which lamb congratulates robert lloyd on his approaching marriage to hannah hart. the wedding was celebrated on august , .] letter mary lamb to sarah stoddart [no date. ? march, .] my dearest sarah,--i will just write a few hasty lines to say coleridge is setting off sooner than we expected; and i every moment expect him to call in one of his great hurrys for this. charles intended to write by him, but has not: most likely he will send a letter after him to portsmouth: if he does, you will certainly hear from him soon. we rejoiced with exceeding joy to hear of your safe arrival: i hope your brother will return home in a few years a very rich man. seventy pounds in one fortnight is a pretty beginning-- i envy your brother the pleasure of seeing coleridge drop in unexpectedly upon him; we talk--but it is but wild and idle talk--of following him: he is to get my brother some little snug place of a thousand a year, and we are to leave all, and come and live among ye. what a pretty dream. coleridge is very ill. i dread the thought of his long voyage--write as soon as he arrives, whether he does or not, and tell me how he is. jamaica bodies... [_words illegible_]. he has got letters of recommendation to governor ball, and god knows who; and he will talk and talk, and be universally admired. but i wish to write for him a _letter of recommendation_ to mrs. stoddart, and to yourself, to take upon ye, on his first arrival, to be kind affectionate nurses; and mind, now, that you perform this duty faithfully, and write me a good account of yourself. behave to him as you would to me, or to charles, if we came sick and unhappy to you. i have no news to send you; coleridge will tell you how we are going on. charles has lost the newspaper; but what we dreaded as an evil has proved a great blessing, for we have both strangely recovered our health and spirits since this has happened; and i hope, when i write next, i shall be able to tell you charles has begun something which will produce a little money; for it is not well to be _very poor_--which we certainly are at this present writing. i sit writing here, and thinking almost you will see it tomorrow; and what a long, long time it will be ere you receive this--when i saw your letter, i fancy'd you were even just then in the first bustle of a new reception, every moment seeing new faces, and staring at new objects, when, at that time, every thing had become familiar to you; and the strangers, your new dancing partners, had perhaps become gossiping fireside friends. you tell me of your gay, splendid doings; tell me, likewise, what manner of home-life you lead--is a quiet evening in a maltese drawing room as pleasant as those we have passed in mitre court and bell yard?--tell me all about it, every thing pleasant, and every thing unpleasant, that befalls you. i want you to say a great deal about yourself. _are you happy? and do you not repent going out?_ i wish i could see you for one hour only. remember me affectionately to your sister and brother; and tell me, when you write, if mrs. stoddart likes malta, and how the climate agrees with her and with thee. we heard you were taken prisoners, and for several days believed the tale. how did the pearls, and the fine court finery, bear the fatigues of the voyage, and how often have they been worn and admired? rickman wants to know if you are going to be married yet--satisfy him in that little particular when you write. the fenwicks send their love, and mrs. reynolds her love, and the little old lady her best respects. mrs. jefferies, who i see now and then, talks of you with tears in her eyes, and, when she heard you was taken prisoner, lord! how frightened she was. she has heard, she tells me, that mr. stoddart is to have a pension of two thousand a year, whenever he chuses to return to england. god bless you, and send you all manner of comforts and happinesses. your most affectionate friend, mary lamb. how-do? how-do? no time to write. s.t.c. going off in a great hurry. ch. lamb. [miss stoddart was now in malta. governor ball was sir alexander ball, to whom coleridge was to act as private secretary and of whom he wrote some years later in _the friend_. "charles has lost the newspaper"--his work on the _morning post_. lamb's principal period on this paper had begun after stuart sold it in september, , and it lasted until february, (see notes in vol. ii. of this edition). "we heard you were taken prisoners"--by the french. "mrs. reynolds"--lamb's old schoolmistress and pensioner. mrs. jefferies i do not know.] letter charles lamb to s. t. coleridge [p.m. april , .] mary would send her best love, but i write at office. thursday [april ]. the £ came safe. my dear c.--i but just received your commission-abounding letter. all shall be done. make your european heart easy in malta, all shall be performed. you say i am to transcribe off part of your letters and send to x somebody (but the name is lost under the wafer, so you must give it me)--i suppose wordsw'th. i have been out of town since saturday, the reason i had not your letter before. n.b. n.b. knowing i had or easter holydays, it was my intention to have ask'd you if my accompanying you to portsm'th would have been pleasant. but you were not visible, except just at the critical moment of going off from the inn, at which time i could not get at you. so deus aliter disposuit, and i went down into hertfordshire. i write in great bustle indeed--god bless you again. attend to what i have written mark'd x above, and don't merge any part of your orders under seal again. c. lamb. [addressed to "s. t. coleridge, esq'r., j. c. mottley's, esq'r., portsmouth, hants." coleridge had left london for portsmouth on march ; he sailed for malta on april .] letter charles lamb to thomas poole [dated at end: temple, th may, .] dear sir--i have no sort of connexion with the morning post at present, nor acquaintance with its late editor (the present editor of the courier) to ask a favour of him with propriety; but if it will be of any use, i believe i could get the insertions into the british press (a morning paper) through a friend.-- yours truly c. lamb. letter charles lamb to thomas poole [dated at end: temple, may, .] dear sir--i can get the insertions into the british press without any difficulty at all. i am only sorry that i have no interest in the m. post, having so much greater circulation. if your friend chuses it, you will be so good as to return me the critique, of which i forgot to take a copy, and i suppose on monday or tuesday it will be in. the sooner i have it, the better. yours &c. c. lamb. i did formerly assist in the post, but have no longer any engagement.-- [stuart, having sold the _morning post_, was now developing the _courier_. the notes are interesting only as showing lamb's attitude to stuart. writing to the _gentleman's magazine_ in june, , concerning his association as editor with coleridge, stuart said: "but as for good charles lamb, i never could make any-thing of his writings. coleridge often and repeatedly pressed me to settle him on a salary, and often and repeatedly did i try; but it would not do. of politics he knew nothing; they were out of his line of reading and thought; and his drollery was vapid, when given in short paragraphs fit for a newspaper: yet he has produced some agreeable books, possessing a tone of humour and kind feeling, in a quaint style, which it is amusing to read, and cheering to remember."] letter charles lamb to dorothy wordsworth [dated at end: june , .] dear miss wordsworth, the task of letter-writing in my family falls to me; you are the organ of correspondence in yours, so i address you rather than your brother. we are all sensibly obliged to you for the little scraps (arthur's bower and his brethren) which you sent up; the bookseller has got them and paid mrs. fenwick for them. so while some are authors for fame, some for money, you have commenced author for charity. the least we can do, is to see your commissions fulfilled; accordingly i have booked this d june from the waggon inn in cripplegate the watch and books which i got from your brother richard, together with purchas's pilgrimage and brown's religio medici which i desire your brother's acceptance of, with some _pens_, of which i observed no great frequency when i tarried at grasmere. (i suppose you have got coleridge's letter)--these things i have put up in a deal box directed to mr. wordsworth, grasmere, near ambleside, kendal, by the kendal waggon. at the same time i have sent off a parcel by c.'s desire to mr. t. hutchinson to the care of mr. "t. monkhouse, or t. markhouse" (for c.'s writing is not very plain) penrith, by the penrith waggon this day; which i beg you to apprize them of, lest my direction fail. in your box, you will find a little parcel for mrs. coleridge, which she wants as soon as possible; also for yourselves the cotton, magnesia, bark and oil, which come to £ . . . thus. sh. thread and needles magnesia bark . oil . -------- . . packing case . ------ . . deduct a guinea i owe you, which c. was to pay, . . - but did not ------ leaves you indebted . . whereby you may see how punctual i am. i conclude with our kindest remembrances to your brother and mrs. w. we hear, the young john is a giant. and should you see charles lloyd, pray _forget_ to give my love to him. yours truly, d'r miss w. c. lamb. june , . i send you two little copies of verses by mary l--b:-- dialogue between a mother and child _child_. (_sings_) "o lady, lay your costly robes aside, no longer may you glory in your pride." _mother_. wherefore to day art singing in mine ear sad songs were made so long ago, my dear? this day i am to be a bride, you know. why sing sad songs were made so long ago? _child_. "o mother lay your costly robes aside," _for you may never be another's bride_: that line i learnt not in the old sad song. _mother_. i pray thee, pretty one, now hold thy tongue; play with the bride maids, and be glad, my boy, for thou shall be a second father's joy. _child_. one father fondled me upon his knee: one father is enough alone for me. suggested by a print of females after leo[nardo da] vinci, called prudence & beauty, which hangs up in our ro[om]. o! that you could see the print!! the lady blanch, regardless of all her lovers' fears, to the urseline convent hastens, and long the abbess hears: "o blanch, my child, repent thee of the courtly life ye lead." blanch looked on a rose-bud, and little seem'd to heed; she looked on the rose-bud, she looked round, and thought on all her heart had whisper'd, and all the nun had taught. "i am worshipped by lovers, and brightly shines my fame, all christendom resoundeth the noble blanch's name; nor shall i quickly wither like the rose-bud from the tree, my queen-like graces shining when my beauty's gone from me. but when the sculptur'd marble is raised o'er my head, and the matchless blanch lies lifeless among the noble dead, this saintly lady abbess has made me justly fear. it nothing will avail me that i were worshipt here." i wish they may please you: we in these parts are not a little proud of them. c. l. ["the little scraps." professor knight informed me that the scraps were not written but only copied by miss wordsworth. arthur's bower ran thus:-- arthur's bower has broke his band, he comes riding up the land, the king of scots with all his power cannot build up arthur's bower. "your brother richard"--wordsworth's eldest brother. "purchas's pilgrimage." samuel purchas ( ?- ) was the author of _purchas his pilgrimage_, ; _purchas his pilgrim_, ; and _hakluytus posthumus, or purchas his pilgrimes_, . this last is purchas's best work, and is probably that which lamb sent to grasmere. mary lamb's two poems, her earliest that we know, with the exception of "helen," were printed in the _works_, .] letter mary lamb to sarah stoddart [late july, .] my dearest sarah,--your letter, which contained the news of coleridge's arrival, was a most welcome one; for we had begun to entertain very unpleasant apprehensions for his safety; and your kind reception of the forlorn wanderer gave me the greatest pleasure, and i thank you for it in my own and my brother's name. i shall depend upon you for hearing of his welfare; for he does not write himself; but, as long as we know he is safe, and in such kind friends' hands, we do not mind. your letters, my dear sarah, are to me very, very precious ones. they are the kindest, best, most natural ones i ever received. the one containing the news of the arrival of coleridge perhaps the best i ever saw; and your old friend charles is of my opinion. we sent it off to mrs. coleridge and the wordsworths--as well because we thought it our duty to give them the first notice we had of our dear friend's safety, as that we were proud of shewing our sarah's pretty letter. the letters we received a few days after from you and your brother were far less welcome ones. i rejoiced to hear your sister is well; but i grieved for the loss of the dear baby; and i am sorry to find your brother is not so successful as he at first expected to be; and yet i am almost tempted to wish his ill fortune may send him over [to] us again. he has a friend, i understand, who is now at the head of the admiralty; why may he not return, and make a fortune here? i cannot condole with you very sincerely upon your little failure in the fortune-making way. if you regret it, so do i. but i hope to see you a comfortable english wife; and the forsaken, forgotten william, of english-partridge memory, i have still a hankering after. however, i thank you for your frank communication, and i beg you will continue it in future; and if i do not agree with a good grace to your having a maltese husband, i will wish you happy, provided you make it a part of your marriage articles that your husband shall allow you to come over sea and make me one visit; else may neglect and overlookedness be your portion while you stay there. i would condole with you when the misfortune has fallen your poor leg; but such is the blessed distance we are at from each other, that i hope, before you receive this, that you forgot it ever happened. our compliments [to] the high ton at the maltese court. your brother is so profuse of them to me, that being, as you know, so unused to them, they perplex me sadly; in future, i beg they may be discontinued. they always remind me of the free, and, i believe, very improper, letter i wrote to you while you were at the isle of wight. the more kindly you and your brother and sister took the impertinent advice contained in it, the more certain i feel that it was unnecessary, and therefore highly improper. do not let your brother compliment me into the memory of it again. my brother has had a letter from your mother, which has distressed him sadly--about the postage of some letters being paid by my brother. your silly brother, it seems, has informed your mother (i did not think your brother could have been so silly) that charles had grumbled at paying the said postage. the fact was, just at that time we were very poor, having lost the morning post, and we were beginning to practise a strict economy. my brother, who never makes up his mind whether he will be a miser or a spendthrift, is at all times a strange mixture of both: of this failing, the even economy of your correct brother's temper makes him an ill judge. the miserly part of charles, at that time smarting under his recent loss, then happened to reign triumphant; and he would not write, or let me write, so often as he wished, because the postage cost two and four pence. then came two or three of your poor mother's letters nearly together; and the two and four pences he wished, but grudged, to pay for his own, he was forced to pay for hers. in this dismal distress, he applied to fenwick to get his friend motley to send them free from portsmouth. this mr. fenwick could have done for half a word's speaking; but this he did not do. then charles foolishly and unthinkingly complained to your brother in a half serious, half joking way; and your brother has wickedly, and with malice afore thought, told your mother. o fye upon him! what will your mother think of us? i too feel my share of blame in this vexatious business; for i saw the unlucky paragraph in my brother's letter; and i had a kind of foreboding that it would come to your mother's ears--although i had a higher opinion of your brother's good sense than i find he deserved. by entreaties and prayers, i might have prevailed on my brother to say nothing about it. but i make a point of conscience never to interfere or cross my brother in the humour he happens to be in. it always appears to me to be a vexatious kind of tyranny, that women have no business to exercise over men, which, merely because _they having a better judgement_, they have the power to do. let _men_ alone, and at last we find they come round to the right way, which _we_, by a kind of intuition, perceive at once. but better, far better, that we should let them often do wrong, than that they should have the torment of a monitor always at their elbows. charles is sadly fretted now, i know, at what to say to your mother. i have made this long preamble about it to induce [you,] if possible, to reinstate us in your mother's good graces. say to her it was a jest misunderstood; tell her charles lamb is not the shabby fellow she and her son took him for; but that he is now and then a trifle whimsical or so. i do not ask your brother to do this, for i am offended with him for the mischief he has made. i feel that i have too lightly passed over the interesting account you sent me of your late disappointment. it was not because i did not feel and compl[ete]ly enter into the affair with you. you surprise and please me with the frank and generous way in which you deal with your lovers, taking a refusal from their so prudential hearts with a better grace and more good humour than other women accept a suitor's service. continue this open artless conduct, and i trust you will at last find some man who has sense enough to know you are well worth risking a peaceable life of poverty for. i shall yet live to see you a poor, but happy, english wife. remember me most affectionately to coleridge; and i thank you again and again for all your kindness to him. to dear mrs. stoddart and your brother, i beg my best love; and to you all i wish health and happiness, and a _soon_ return to old england. i have sent to mr. burrel's for your kind present; but unfortunately he is not in town. i am impatient to see my fine silk handkerchiefs; and i thank you for them, not as a present, for i do not love presents, but as a [_word illegible_] remembrance of your old friend. farewell. i am, my best sarah, your most affectionate friend, mary lamb. good wishes, and all proper remembrances, from old nurse, mrs. jeffries, mrs. reynolds, mrs. rickman, &c. &c. &c. long live queen hoop-oop-oop-oo, and all the old merry phantoms! letter charles lamb to sarah stoddart (_same letter_) my dear miss stoddart,--mary has written so fully to you, that i have nothing to add but that, in all the kindness she has exprest, and loving desire to see you again, i bear my full part. you will, perhaps, like to tear this half from the sheet, and give your brother only his strict due, the remainder. so i will just repay your late kind letter with this short postscript to hers. come over here, and let us all be merry again. c. lamb. [coleridge reached valetta on may , ; but no opportunity to send letters home occurred until june . miss stoddart seems to have given up all her lovers at home in the hope of finding one in malta. "the blessed distance." here mary lamb throws out an idea afterwards developed by her brother in the elia essay on "distant correspondents." lamb's letter to stoddart containing the complaint as to postage no longer exists. mrs. stoddart, sarah's mother, had remained in england, at salisbury. of mr. burrel i know nothing: he was probably an agent; nor can i explain queen hoop-oop-oop-oo. here should come a letter from lamb to robert lloyd, dated september , , not available for this edition, in which lamb expresses his inability to accept an invitation, having had a month's holiday at richmond. after alluding to priscilla lloyd's approaching marriage (to christopher wordsworth) he says that these new nuptials do not make him the less satisfied with his bachelor state.] letter charles lamb to william wordsworth [p.m. october , .] (turn over leaf for more letters.) dear wordsworth--i have not forgot your commissions. but the truth is, and why should i not confess it? i am not plethorically abounding in cash at this present. merit, god knows, is very little rewarded; but it does not become me to speak of myself. my motto is "contented with little, yet wishing for more." now the books you wish for would require some pounds, which i am sorry to say i have not by me: so i will say at once, if you will give me a draft upon your town-banker for any sum you propose to lay out, i will dispose of [it] to the very best of my skill in choice old books, such as my own soul loveth. in fact, i have been waiting for the liquidation of a debt to enable myself to set about your commission handsomely, for it is a scurvy thing to cry give me the money first, and i am the first of the family of the lambs that have done it for many centuries: but the debt remains as it was, and my old friend that i accommodated has generously forgot it! the books which you want i calculate at about £ . ben jonson is a guinea book. beaumont & fletcher in folio, the right folio, not now to be met with; the octavos are about £ . as to any other old dramatists, i do not know where to find them except what are in dodsley's old plays, which are about £ also: massinger i never saw but at one shop, but it is now gone, but one of the editions of dodsley contains about a fourth (the best) of his plays. congreve and the rest of king charles's moralists are cheap and accessible. the works on ireland i will enquire after, but i fear, spenser's is not to be had apart from his poems; i never saw it. but you may depend upon my sparing no pains to furnish you as complete a library of old poets & dramatists as will be prudent to buy; for i suppose you do not include the £ edition of hamlet, single play, which kemble has. marlow's plays and poems are totally vanished; only one edition of dodsley retains one, and the other two, of his plays: but john ford is the man after shakespear. let me know your will and pleasure soon: for i have observed, next to the pleasure of buying a bargain for one's self is the pleasure of persuading a friend to buy it. it tickles one with the image of an imprudency without the penalty usually annex'd. c. lamb. letter mary lamb to dorothy wordsworth (_same letter_) [p.m. october , .] my dear miss wordsworth--i writ a letter immediately upon the receipt of yours, to thank you for sending me the welcome tidings of your little niece's birth, and mrs. wordsworth's safety, & waited till i could get a frank to send it in. not being able to procure one, i will defer my thanks no longer for fear mrs. wordsworth should add another little baby to your family, before my congratulations on the birth of the little dorothy arrive. i hope mrs. wordsworth, & the pretty baby, & the young philosopher, are well: they are three strangers to me whom i have a longing desire to be acquainted with. my brother desires me not to send such a long gossiping letter as that i had intended for you, because he wishes to fill a large share of the paper with his acknowledgments to mr. wordsworth for his letters, which he considers as a very uncommon favor, your brother seldom writing letters. i must beg my brother will tell mr. wordsworth how very proud he has made me also by praising my poor verses. will you be so kind as to forward the opposite page to mrs. coleridge. this sheet of paper is quite a partnership affair. when the parliament meets you shall have a letter for your sole use. my brother and i have been this summer to richmond; we had a lodging there for a month, we passed the whole time there in wandering about, & comparing the views from the banks of the thames with your mountain scenery, & tried, & wished, to persuade ourselves that it was almost as beautiful. charles was quite a mr. clarkson in his admiration and his frequent exclamations, for though we had often been at richmond for a few hours we had no idea it was so beautiful a place as we found it on a month's intimate acquaintance. we rejoice to hear of the good fortune of your brave sailor-brother, i should have liked to have been with you when the news first arrived. your very friendly invitations have made us long to be with you, and we promise ourselves to spend the first money my brother earns by writing certain books (charles often plans but never begins) in a journey to grasmere. when your eyes (which i am sorry to find continue unwell) will permit you to make use of your pen again i shall be very happy to see a letter in your own hand writing. i beg to be affectionately remembered to your brother & sister & remain ever your affectionate friend m. lamb. compliments to old molly. letter mary lamb to mrs. s. t. coleridge (_same letter_) [p.m. october , .] my dear mrs. coleridge--i have had a letter written ready to send to you, which i kept, hoping to get a frank, and now i find i must write one entirely anew, for that consisted of matter not now in season, such as condolence on the illness of your children, who i hope are now quite well, & comfortings on your uncertainty of the safety of coleridge, with wise reasons for the delay of the letters from malta, which must now be changed for pleasant congratulations. coleridge has not written to us, but we have had two letters from the stoddarts since the one i sent to you, containing good accounts of him, but as i find you have had letters from himself i need not tell you the particulars. my brother sent your letters to mr. motley according to coleridge's direction, & i have no doubt but he forwarded them. one thing only in my poor letter the time makes no alteration in, which is that i have half a bed ready for you, & i shall rejoice with exceeding great joy to have you with me. pray do not change your mind for i shall be sadly disappointed if you do. will hartley be with you? i hope he will, for you say he goes with you to liverpool, and i conclude you come from thence to london. i have seen your brother lately, and i find he entertains good hopes from mr. sake, and his present employment i hear is likely to continue a considerable time longer, so that i hope you may consider him as good as provided for. he seems very steady, and is very well spoken of at his office. i have lately been often talking of you with mrs. hazlitt. william hazlitt is painting my brother's picture, which has brought us acquainted with the whole family. i like william hazlitt and his sister very much indeed, & i think mrs. hazlitt a pretty good-humoured woman. she has a nice little girl of the pypos kind, who is so fond of my brother that she stops strangers in the street to tell them when _mr. lamb is coming to see her_. i hope mr. southey and your sister and the little edith are well. i beg my love to them. god bless you, and your three little darlings, & their wandering father, who i hope will soon return to you in high health & spirits. i remain ever your affectionate friend mary lamb. compliments to mr. jackson and darling friend. i hope they are well. [charles lamb adds:--] c. lamb particularly desires to be remembered to southey and all the southeys, as well as to mrs. c. and her little coleridges. mrs. c.'s letters have all been sent as coleridge left word, to motley's, portsmouth. [the ben jonson in lamb's own library was the folio; his beaumont and fletcher, which may be seen at the british museum, was the folio or . spenser's prose work, _view of the present state of ireland_, is that referred to. "john ford." lamb says in the _dramatic specimens_, , "ford was of the first order of poets." dorothy wordsworth (afterwards the wife of edward quillinan) was born august , . "your brave sailor-brother"--john wordsworth. mrs. coleridge now had three children--hartley, derwent and sara. we do not know whether or no she stayed with the lambs, as suggested. her brother was george fricker. william hazlitt's sister was peggy hazlitt. his sister-in-law, mrs. hazlitt, was the wife of john hazlitt, the miniature painter. hazlitt's portrait of lamb was the one in the dress of a venetian senator, reproduced as frontispiece to vol. i. of this edition. it now hangs in the national portrait gallery.] letter charles lamb to robert southey nov., . dear southey,--you were the last person from whom we heard of dyer, and if you know where to forward the news i now send to him, i shall be obliged to you to lose no time. d.'s sister-in-law, who lives in st. dunstan's court, wrote to him about three weeks ago, to the hope inn, cambridge, to inform him that squire houlbert, or some such name, of denmark hill, has died, and left her husband a thousand pounds, and two or three hundred to dyer. her letter got no answer, and she does not know where to direct to him; so she came to me, who am equally in the dark. her story is, that dyer's immediately coming to town now, and signing some papers, will save him a considerable sum of money--how, i don't understand; but it is very right he should hear of this. she has left me barely time for the post; so i conclude with all love, &c., to all at keswick. dyer's brother, who, by his wife's account, has got _l_. left him, is father of the little dirty girl, dyer's niece and factotum. in haste, yours truly, c. lamb. if you send george this, cut off the last paragraph. d.'s laundress had a letter a few days since; but george never dates. letter charles lamb to william wordsworth [p.m. february , .] my dear wordsworth, the subject of your letter has never been out of our thoughts since the day we first heard of it, and many have been our impulses towards you, to write to you, or to write to enquire about you; but it never seemed the time. we felt all your situation, and how much you would want coleridge at such a time, and we wanted somehow to make up to you his absence, for we loved and honoured your brother, and his death always occurs to my mind with something like a feeling of reproach, as if we ought to have been nearer acquainted, and as if there had been some incivility shown him by us, or something short of that respect which we now feel: but this is always a feeling when people die, and i should not foolishly offer a piece of refinement, instead of sympathy, if i knew any other way of making you feel how little like indifferent his loss has been to us. i have been for some time wretchedly ill and low, and your letter this morning has affected me so with a pain in my inside and a confusion, that i hardly know what to write or how. i have this morning seen stewart, the 'd mate, who was saved: but he can give me no satisfactory account, having been in quite another part of the ship when your brother went down. but i shall see gilpin tomorrow, and will communicate your thanks, and learn from him all i can. all accounts agree that just before the vessel going down, your brother seemed like one overwhelmed with the situation, and careless of his own safety. perhaps he might have saved himself; but a captain who in such circumstances does all he can for his ship and nothing for himself, is the noblest idea. i can hardly express myself, i am so really ill. but the universal sentiment is, that your brother did all that duty required; and if he had been more alive to the feelings of those distant ones whom he loved, he would have been at that time a less admirable object; less to be exulted in by them: for his character is high with all that i have heard speak of him, and no reproach can fix upon him. tomorrow i shall see gilpin, i hope, if i can get at him, for there is expected a complete investigation of the causes of the loss of the ship, at the east india house, and all the officers are to attend: but i could not put off writing to you a moment. it is most likely i shall have something to add tomorrow, in a second letter. if i do not write, you may suppose i have not seen g. but you shall hear from me in a day or two. we have done nothing but think of you, particularly of dorothy. mary is crying by me while i with difficulty write this: but as long as we remember any thing, we shall remember your brother's noble person, and his sensible manly modest voice, and how safe and comfortable we all were together in our apartment, where i am now writing. when he returned, having been one of the triumphant china fleet, we thought of his pleasant exultation (which he exprest here one night) in the wish that he might meet a frenchman in the seas; and it seem'd to be accomplished, all to his heart's desire. i will conclude from utter inability to write any more, for i am seriously unwell: and because i mean to gather something like intelligence to send to you to-morrow: for as yet, i have but heard second hand, and seen one narrative, which is but a transcript of what was common to all the papers. god bless you all, and reckon upon us as entering into all your griefs. [_signature cut away._] [this is the first of a series of letters bearing upon the loss of the east indiaman _earl of abergavenny_, which was wrecked off portland bill on february , , persons and the captain, john wordsworth, being lost. the character of wordsworth's "happy warrior" is said to have been largely drawn from his brother john. his age was only thirty-three.] letter charles lamb to william wordsworth [p.m. february , .] my dear wordsworth, i yesterday wrote you a very unsatisfactory letter. to day i have not much to add, but it may be some satisfaction to you that i have seen gilpin, and thanked him in all your names for the assistance he tried to give: and that he has assured me that your brother did try to save himself, and was doing so when gilpin called to him, but he was then struggling with the waves and almost dead. g. heard him give orders a very little before the vessel went down, with all possible calmness, and it does not at all appear that your brother in any absence of mind neglected his own safety. but in such circumstances the memory of those who escaped cannot be supposed to be very accurate; and there appears to be about the persons that i have seen a good deal of reservedness and unwillingness to enter into detail, which is natural, they being officers of the ship, and liable to be examined at home about its loss. the examination is expected to day or to-morrow, and if any thing should come out, that can interest you, i shall take an early opportunity of sending it to you. mary wrote some few days since to miss stoddart, containing an account of your brother's death, which most likely coleridge will have heard, before the letter comes: we both wish it may hasten him back. we do not know any thing of him, whether he is settled in any post (as there was some talk) or not. we had another sad account to send him, of the death of his schoolfellow allen; tho' this, i am sure, will much less affect him. i don't know whether you knew allen; he died lately very suddenly in an apoplexy. when you do and can write, particularly inform us of the healths of you all. god bless you all. mary will write to dorothy as soon as she thinks she will be able to bear it. it has been a sad tidings to us, and has affected us more than we could have believed. i think it has contributed to make me worse, who have been very unwell, and have got leave for some few days to stay at home: but i am ashamed to speak of myself, only in excuse for the unfeeling sort of huddle which i now send. i could not delay it, having seen gilpin, and i thought his assurance might be some little ease to you. we will talk about the books, when you can better bear it. i have bought none yet. but do not spare me any office you can put me on, now or when you are at leisure for such things. adopt me as one of your family in this affliction; and use me without ceremony as such. mary's kindest love to all. c.l. tuesday [feb. ]. [mary lamb's letter to miss stoddart, here referred to, is no longer preserved. coleridge a little later accepted the post of private secretary to the governor of malta, vice-admiral sir alexander john ball. allen was bob allen, whom we have already met.] letter charles lamb to thomas manning mitre-court buildings, saturday, th [_i.e._ rd] feb., . dear manning,--i have been very unwell since i saw you. a sad depression of spirits, a most unaccountable nervousness; from which i have been partially relieved by an odd accident. you knew dick hopkins, the swearing scullion of caius? this fellow, by industry and agility, has thrust himself into the important situations (no sinecures, believe me) of cook to trinity hall and caius college: and the generous creature has contrived with the greatest delicacy imaginable, to send me a present of cambridge brawn. what makes it the more extraordinary is, that the man never saw me in his life that i know of. i suppose he has _heard_ of me. i did not immediately recognise the donor; but one of richard's cards, which had accidentally fallen into the straw, detected him in a moment. dick, you know, was always remarkable for flourishing. his card imports, that "orders (to wit, for brawn), from any part of england, scotland, or ireland, will be duly executed," &c. at first, i thought of declining the present; but richard knew my blind side when he pitched upon brawn. 'tis of all my hobbies the supreme in the eating way. he might have sent sops from the pan, skimmings, crumplets, chips, hog's lard, the tender brown judiciously scalped from a fillet of veal (dexterously replaced by a salamander), the tops of asparagus, fugitive livers, runaway gizzards of fowls, the eyes of martyred pigs, tender effusions of laxative woodcocks, the red spawn of lobsters, leverets' ears, and such pretty filchings common to cooks; but these had been ordinary presents, the everyday courtesies of dishwashers to their sweethearts. brawn was a noble thought. it is not every common gullet-fancier that can properly esteem it. it is like a picture of one of the choice old italian masters. its gusto is of that hidden sort. as wordsworth sings of a modest poet,--"you must love him, ere to you he will seem worthy of your love;" so brawn, you must taste it, ere to you it will seem to have any taste at all. but 'tis nuts to the adept: those that will send out their tongues and feelers to find it out. it will be wooed, and not unsought be won. now, ham-essence, lobsters, turtle, such popular minions, absolutely _court you_, lay themselves out to strike you at first smack, like one of david's pictures (they call him _darveed_), compared with the plain russet-coated wealth of a titian or a correggio, as i illustrated above. such are the obvious glaring heathen virtues of a corporation dinner, compared with the reserved collegiate worth of brawn. do me the favour to leave off the business which you may be at present upon, and go immediately to the kitchens of trinity and caius, and make my most respectful compliments to mr. richard hopkins, and assure him that his brawn is most excellent; and that i am moreover obliged to him for his innuendo about salt water and bran, which i shall not fail to improve. i leave it to you whether you shall choose to pay him the civility of asking him to dinner while you stay in cambridge, or in whatever other way you may best like to show your gratitude to _my friend_. richard hopkins, considered in many points of view, is a very extraordinary character. adieu: i hope to see you to supper in london soon, where we will taste richard's brawn, and drink his health in a cheerful but moderate cup. we have not many such men in any rank of life as mr. r. hopkins. crisp the barber, of st. mary's, was just such another. i wonder _he_ never sent me any little token, some chestnuts, or a pufif, or two pound of hair just to remember him by; gifts are like nails. _praesens ut absens_, that is, your _present_ makes amends for your absence. yours, c. lamb. [this letter is, i take it, a joke: that is to say, the brawn was sent to lamb by manning, who seems to have returned to cambridge for a while, and lamb affects to believe that hopkins, from whom it was bought, was the giver. i think this view is supported by the reference to mr. crisp, at the end,--mr. crisp being manning's late landlord. the following advertisement occurs in the _cambridge chronicle_ for february , . it is sent me by dr. wharry:-- "cambridge brawn. "r. hopkins, cook of trinity hall and caius college, begs leave to inform the nobility, gentry, &c. that he has now ready for sale, brawn, brawn heads & cheeks. "all orders will be thankfully received, and forwarded to any part of the kingdom." lamb stayed at st. mary's passage, now rebuilt and occupied by messrs. leach & son ( ). the letter contains lamb's second expression of epicurean rapture: the first in praise of pig. "as wordsworth sings"--in the "poet's epitaph":-- he is retired as noontide dew, or fountain in a noon-day grove; and you must love him, ere to you he will seem worthy of your love. "_praesens ut absens_." lamb enlarged upon the topic of gifts and giving many years later, in the popular fallacy "that we must not look a gift horse in the mouth," , and in his "thoughts on presents of game," .] letter charles lamb to william wordsworth [p.m. march , .] my dear wordsworth, if gilpin's statement has afforded you any satisfaction, i can assure you that he was most explicit in giving it, and even seemed anxious (interrupting me) to do away any misconception. his statement is not contradicted by the last and fullest of the two narratives which have been published (the former being a mere transcript of the newspapers), which i would send you if i did not suppose that you would receive more pain from the unfeeling canting way in which it is drawn up, than satisfaction from its contents; and what relates to your brother in particular is very short. it states that your brother was seen talking to the first mate but a few minutes before the ship sank, with apparent cheerfulness, and it contradicts the newspaper account about his depression of spirits procrastinating his taking leave of the court of directors; which the drawer up of the narrative (a man high in the india house) is likely to be well informed of. it confirms gilpin's account of his seeing your brother striving to save himself, and adds that "webber, a joiner, was near the captain, who was standing on the hencoop when the ship went down, whom he saw washed off by a sea, which also carried him (webber) overboard;"--this is all which concerns your brother personally. but i will just transcribe from it, a copy of gilpin's account delivered in to the court of directors:-- "memorandum respecting the loss of the e. of a." "at a.m. being about leagues to the westward of portland, the commodore made the signal to bear up--did so accordingly; at this time having maintop gallant mast struck, fore and mizen d°. on deck, and the jib boom in the wind about w.s.w. at p.m. got on board a pilot, being about leagues to the westward of portland; ranged and bitted both cables at about ½ past , called all hands and got out the jib boom at about . while crossing the east end of the shambles, the wind suddenly died away, and a strong tide setting the ship to the westward, drifted her into the breakers, and a sea striking her on the larboard quarter, brought her to, with her head to the northward, when she instantly struck, it being about p.m. let out all the reefs, and hoisted the topsails up, in hopes to shoot the ship across the shambles. about this time the wind shifted to the n.w. the surf driving us off, and the tide setting us on alternately, sometimes having ½ at others fathoms, sand of the sea about feet; continued in this situation till about ½ past , when she got off. during the time she was on the shambles, had from to feet water; kept the water at this height about minutes, during the whole time the pumps constantly going. finding she gained on us, it was determined to run her on the nearest shore. about the wind shifted to the eastward: the leak continuing to gain upon the pumps, having or feet water, found it expedient to bale at the forescuttles and hatchway. the ship would not bear up--kept the helm hard a starboard, she being water-logg'd: but still had a hope she could be kept up till we got her on weymouth sands. cut the lashings of the boats--could not get the long boat out, without laying the main-top-sail aback, by which our progress would have been so delayed, that no hope would have been left us of running her aground, and there being several sloops in sight, one having sent a small skiff on board, took away ladies and other passengers, and put them on board the sloop, at the same time promising to return and take away a hundred or more of the people: she finding much difficulty in getting back to the sloop, did not return. about this time the third mate and purser were sent in the cutter to get assistance from the other ships. continued pumping and baling till p.m. when she sunk. last cast of the lead fathoms; having fired guns from the time she struck till she went down, about a.m. boats came and took the people from the wreck about in number. the troops, in particular the dragoons, pumped very well. "(signed) thos. gilpin." and now, my dear w.--i must apologize for having named my health. but indeed it was because, what with the ill news, your letter coming upon me in a most wretched state of ill spirits, i was scarce able to give it an answer, and i felt what it required. but we will say no more about it. i am getting better. and when i have persisted time enough in a course of regular living i shall be well. but i am now well enough; and have got to business afresh. mary thanks you for your invitation. i have wished myself with you daily since the news. i have wished that i were coleridge, to give you any consolation. you have not mourned without one to have a feeling of it. and we have not undervalued the intimation of your friendship. we shall one day prove it by intruding on your privacy, when these griefs shall be a little calmed. this year, i am afraid, it is impossible: but i shall store it up as among the good things to come, which keep us up when life and spirits are sinking. if you have not seen, or wish to see, the wretched narrative i have mentioned, i will send it. but there is nothing more in it affecting you. i have hesitated to send it, because it is unfeelingly done, and in the hope of sending you something from some of the actual spectators; but i have been disappointed, and can add nothing yet. whatever i pick up, i will store for you. it is perfectly understood at the e. i. house, that no blame whatever belongs to the captn. or officers. i can add no more but mary's warmest love to all. when you can write without trouble, do it, for you are among the very chief of our interests. c. lamb. march. letter charles lamb to william wordsworth [dated at end: march , .] dear wordsworth, upon the receipt of your last letter before that which i have just received, i wrote myself to gilpin putting your questions to him; but have yet had no answer. i at the same time got a person in the india house to write a much fuller enquiry to a relative of his who was saved, one yates a midshipman. both these officers (and indeed pretty nearly all that are left) have got appointed to other ships and have joined them. gilpin is in the comet, india man, now lying at gravesend. neither yates nor gilpin have yet answered, but i am in daily expectation. i have sent your letter of this morning also to gilpin. the waiting for these answers has been my reason for not writing you. i have made very particular enquiries about webber, but in vain. he was a common seaman (not the ship's carpenter) and no traces of him are at the i. house: it is most probable that he has entered in some privateer, as most of the crew have done. i will keep the £ note till you find out something i can do with it. i now write idly, having nothing to send: but i cannot bear that you should think i have quite neglected your commission. my letter to g. was such as i thought he could not but answer: but he may be busy. the letter to yates i hope i can promise will be answered. one thing, namely why the other ships sent no assistance, i have learn'd from a person on board one of them: the firing was never once heard, owing to the very stormy night, and no tidings came to them till next morning. the sea was quite high enough to have thrown out the most expert swimmer, and might not your brother have received some blow in the shock, which disabled him? we are glad to hear poor dorothy is a little better. none of you are able to bear such a stroke. to people oppressed with feeling, the loss of a good-humoured happy man that has been friendly with them, if he were no brother, is bad enough. but you must cultivate his spirits, as a legacy: and believe that such as he cannot be lost. he was a chearful soul! god bless you. mary's love always. c. lamb. st march, . letter charles lamb to william wordsworth [p.m. april , .] dear wordsworth, i have this moment received this letter from gilpin in reply to or short questions i put to him in my letter before yours for him came. he does not notice having rec'd yours, which i sent immediately. perhaps he has already answered it to you. you see that his hand is sprain'd, and your questions being more in number, may delay his answer to you. my first question was, when it was he called to your brother: the rest you will understand from the answers. i was beginning to have hard thoughts of g. from his delay, but now i am confirm'd in my first opinion that he is a rare good-hearted fellow. how is dorothy? and all of you? yours sincerely c. lamb. th question was, was capt. w. standing near the shrouds or any place of safety at the moment of sinking? comet, northfleet, march , . sir--i did not receive yours of th ins't, till this day, or sh'd. have answered it sooner. to your first question, i answer after the ship had sunk. to your second, my answer is, i was in the starboard mizen rigging--i thought i see the capt'n hanging by a rope that was fast to the mizen mast. i came down and haild him as loud as i could, he was about feet distant from me. i threw a rope which fell close to him, he seem'd quite motionless and insensible (it was excessive cold), and was soon after sweep'd away, and i see him no more. it was near about five minutes after the ship went down. with respect to the capt'n and webber being on the same hencoop, i can give no answer, all i can say, i did not see them. your fourth question, i cannot answer, as i did not see capt. wordsworth at the moment the ship was going down, tho i was then on the poop less than one minute before i see the capt'n there. the statement in the printed pamphlet is by no means correct. i have sprained my wrist, most violently, and am now in great pain, which will, i hope, be an apology for the shortness of this letter. believe me truly yours [*] thos. gilpin. this letter as been detained till april th. [footnote: this is merely a kind way of expressing himself, for i have no acquaintance with him, nor ever saw him but that once i got introduced to him. i think i did not mention in my last, that i sent yours to t. evans, richmond. i hope you have got an answer.] letter mary lamb to dorothy wordsworth [p.m. may , .] my dear miss wordsworth--i thank you, my kind friend, for your most comfortable letter. till i saw your own handwriting, i could not persuade myself that i should do well to write 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 memory of their affliction would in time become a constant part not only of their "dream, but of their most wakeful sense of happiness." that 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 experience in sorrow, but till you yourself began to feel this i did not dare tell you so, but i send you some poor lines which i wrote under this conviction of mind, and before i heard coleridge was returning home. i will transcribe them now before i finish my letter, lest a false shame prevent me then, for i know they are much worse 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 anything i have once laid aside with dissatisfaction. why is he wandering on the sea? coleridge should now with wordsworth be. 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 remember'd 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. mr. and mrs. clarkson came to see us last week, i find it was at your request they sought us out; you cannot think how glad we were to see them, so little as we have ever seen of them, yet they seem to us like very old friends. poor mrs. clarkson looks very ill indeed, she walked near a mile, and came up our high stairs, which fatigued her very much, but when she had sat a while her own natural countenance with which she cheared us in your little cottage seemed to return to her, and then i began to have hopes she would get the better of her complaint. charles does not think she is so much altered as i do. i wish he may be the better judge. we talked of nothing but you. she means to try to get leave of dr. beddoes to come and see you--her heart is with you, and i do not think it would hurt her so much to come to you, as it would distress you to see her so ill. she read me a part of your letter wherein you so kindly express your wishes that we would come and see you this summer. i wish we could, for i am sure it would be a blessed thing for you and for us to be a few weeks together--i fear it must not be. mrs. clarkson is to be in town again in a fortnight and then they have promised we shall see more of them. i am very sorry for the poor little dorothy's illness--i hope soon to hear she is perfectly recovered. remember me with affection to your brother, and your good sister. what a providence it is that your brother and you have this kind friend, and these dear little ones--i rejoice with her and with you that your brother is employed upon his poem again. pray remember us to old molly. mrs. clarkson says her house is a pattern of neatness to all her neighbours--such good ways she learnt of "mistress." how well i remember the shining ornaments of her kitchen, and her old friendly face, not [the] least ornamental part of it. excuse the haste i write in. i am unexpectedly to go out to dinner, else i think i have much more to say, but i will not put it off till next post, because you so kindly say i must not write if i feel unwilling-- you do not know what very great joy i have in being again writing to you. thank you for sending the letter of mr. evans, it was a very kind one. have you received one from a cornet burgoine? my brother wrote to him and desires he would direct his answer to your brother. god bless you and yours my dear friend. i am yours affectionately m. lamb. [dr. beddoes, who was attending mrs. clarkson, would be, i suppose, thomas beddoes of clifton ( - ), the father of thomas lovell beddoes and a friend of coleridge and southey. in a letter from dorothy wordsworth to mrs. clarkson, dated april , (recently printed by mr. hale white in the _athenaeum_), we read:-- i have great pleasure in thinking that you may see miss lamb; do not miss it if you can possibly go without injury to yourself--they are the best good creatures--blessings be with them! they have sympathised in our sorrow as tenderly as if they had grown up in the same [town?] with us and known our beloved john from his childhood. charles has written to us the most consolatory letters, the result of diligent and painful inquiry of the survivors of the wreck,--for this we must love him as long as we have breath. i think of him and his sister every day of my life, and many times in the day with thankfulness and blessings. talk to dear miss lamb about coming into this country and let us hear what she says of it. i cannot express how much we all wish to see her and her brother while we are at grasmere. we look forward to coleridge's return with fear and painful hope--but indeed i dare not look to it--i think as little as i can of him.] letter charles lamb to dorothy wordsworth [_slightly torn. the conjectures in square brackets are talfourd's._] friday, th june, . my dear miss wordsworth, your long kind letter has not been thrown away (for it has given me great pleasure to find you are all resuming your old occupations, and are better) but poor mary to whom it is addrest cannot yet relish it. she has been attacked by one of her severe illnesses, and is at present _from 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 easy to say what is best to do. being by ourselves is bad, and going out is bad. i get so irritable and wretched with fear, that i constantly hasten on the disorder. you cannot conceive the misery of such a foresight. i am sure that for the week before she left me, i was little better than light-headed. i now am calm, but sadly taken down, and flat. i have every reason to suppose that this illness, like all her former ones, will be but temporary; but i cannot always feel so. meantime she is dead to me, and i miss a prop. all my strength is gone, and i am like a [fool, ber]eft of her co-operation. i dare not think, lest i [should think] wrong; so used am i to look up to her [in the least] and the biggest perplexity. to say _all that_ [i know of her] would be more than i think any body could [believe or even under]stand; 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 me, and all my wretched imperfections 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 me. and i know i have been wasting and teazing her life for five years past incessantly with my cursed drinking and ways of going on. but even in this up-braiding 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. i am stupid and lose myself in what i write. i write rather what answers to my feelings (which are sometimes sharp enough) than express my present ones, for i am only flat and stupid. poor miss stoddart! she is coming to england under the notion of passing her time between her mother and mary, between london and salisbury. since she talk'd of coming, word has been sent to malta that her mother is gone out of her mind. this letter, with mine to stoddart with an account of allen's death, &c., has miscarried (taken by the french) [_word missing_]. she is coming home, with no soul to receive [_words missing_]. she has not a woman-friend in london. i am sure you will excuse my writing [any more, i] am very poorly. i cannot resist tra[nscribing] three or four lines which poor mary made upon a picture (a holy family) which we saw at an auction only one week before she left home. she was then beginning to show signs of ill boding. they are sweet lines, and upon a sweet picture. but i send them, only as the last memorial of her. virgin and child. l. da vinci maternal lady with the virgin-grace, heaven-born thy jesus seemeth sure, and thou a virgin pure. lady most perfect, when thy angel face men look upon, they wish to be a catholic, madona fair, to worship thee. you had her lines about the "lady blanch." you have not had some which she wrote upon a copy of a girl from titian, which i had hung up where that print of blanch and the abbess (as she beautifully interpreted two female figures from l. da vinci) had hung, in our room. 'tis light and pretty. who art thou, fair one, who usurp'st the place of blanch, the lady of the matchless grace? come, fair and pretty, tell to me who in thy lifetime thou mightst be? thou pretty art and fair, but with the lady blanch thou never must compare. no need for blanch her history to tell, whoever saw her face, they there did read it well. but when i look on thee, i only know there liv'd a pretty maid some hundred years ago. this is a little unfair, to tell so much about ourselves, and to advert so little to your letter, so full of comfortable tidings of you all. but my own cares press pretty close upon me, and you can make allowance. that you may go on gathering strength and peace is the next wish to mary's recovery. i had almost forgot your repeated invitation. supposing that mary will be well and able, there is another _ability_ which you may guess at, which i cannot promise myself. in prudence we ought not to come. this illness will make it still more prudential to wait. it is not a balance of this way of spending our money against another way, but an absolute question of whether we shall stop now, or go on wasting away the little we have got beforehand, which my wise conduct has already incroach'd upon one half. my best love, however, to you all; and to that most friendly creature, mrs. clarkson, and better health to her, when you see or write to her. c. lamb. [the reference to miss stoddart is explained later, in the next letter but one. mary lamb's two poems were included in the _works_, . "lady blanch" is the poem quoted on page .] letter charles lamb to thomas manning [dated by mr. hazlitt: july , .] dear archimedes,--things have gone on badly with thy ungeometrical friend; but they are on the turn. my old housekeeper has shown signs of convalescence, and will shortly resume the power of the keys, so i shan't be cheated of my tea and liquors. wind in the west, which promotes tranquillity. have leisure now to anticipate seeing thee again. have been taking leave of tobacco in a rhyming address. had thought _that vein_ had long since closed up. [_a sentence omitted here._] find i can rhyme and reason too. think of studying mathematics, to restrain the fire of my genius, which g.d. recommends. have frequent bleedings at the nose, which shows plethoric. maybe shall try the sea myself, that great scene of wonders. got incredibly sober and regular; shave oftener, and hum a tune, to signify cheerfulness and gallantry. suddenly disposed to sleep, having taken a quart of pease with bacon and stout. will not refuse nature, who has done such things for me! nurse! don't call me unless mr. manning comes.--what! the gentleman in spectacles?--yes. _dormit_. c. l. saturday, hot noon. ["have been taking leave of tobacco." on august , , lamb tells hood that he designs to give up smoking.] letter mary lamb to sarah stoddart [? sept. , .] my dear sarah,--i have made many attempts at writing to you, but it has always brought your troubles and my own so strongly into my mind, that i have been obliged to leave off, and make charles write for me. i am resolved now, however few lines i write, this shall go; for i know, my kind friend, you will like once more to see my own handwriting. i have been for these few days past in rather better spirits, so that i begin almost to feel myself once more a living creature, and to hope for happier times; and in that hope i include the prospect of once more seeing my dear sarah in peace and comfort in our old garret. how did i wish for your presence to cheer my drooping heart when i returned home from banishment. is your being with, or near, your poor dear mother necessary to her comfort? does she take any notice of you? and is there any prospect of her recovery? how i grieve for her and for you.... i went to the admiralty about your mother's pension; from thence i was directed to an office in lincoln's inn, where they are paid. they informed me at the office that it could not be paid to any person except mr. wray, without a letter of attorney from your mother; and as the stamp for that will cost one pound, it will, perhaps, be better to leave it till mr. wray comes to town, if he does come before christmas; they tell me it can be received any thursday between this and christmas, if you send up a letter of attorney, let it be in my name. if you think, notwithstanding their positive assurance to the contrary, that you can put me in any way of getting it without, let me know. are you acquainted with mr. pearce, and will my taking another letter from you to him be of any service? or will a letter from mr. wray be of any use?--though i fear not, for they said at the office they had orders to pay no pension without a letter of attorney. the attestation you sent up, they said, was sufficient, and that the same must be sent every year. do not let us neglect this business; and make use of me in any way you can. i have much to thank you and your kind brother for; i kept the dark silk, as you may suppose: you have made me very fine; the broche is very beautiful. mrs. jeffries wept for gratitude when she saw your present; she desires all manner of thanks and good wishes. your maid's sister was gone to live a few miles from town; charles, however, found her out, and gave her the handkerchief. i want to know if you have seen william, and if there is any prospect in future there. all you said in your letter from portsmouth that related to him was burnt so in the fumigating, that we could only make out that it was unfavourable, but not the particulars; tell us again how you go on, and if you have seen him: i conceit affairs will some how be made up between you at last. i want to know how your brother goes on. is he likely to make a very good fortune, and in how long a time? and how is he, in the way of home comforts?--i mean, is he very happy with mrs. stoddart? this was a question i could not ask while you were there, and perhaps is not a fair one now; but i want to know how you all went on--and, in short, twenty little foolish questions that one ought, perhaps, rather to ask when we meet, than to write about. but do make me a little acquainted with the inside of the good doctor's house, and what passes therein. was coleridge often with you? or did your brother and col. argue long arguments, till between the two great arguers there grew a little coolness?--or perchance the mighty friendship between coleridge and your sovereign governor, sir alexander ball, might create a kind of jealousy, for we fancy something of a coldness did exist, from the little mention ever made of c. in your brother's letters. write us, my good girl, a long, gossiping letter, answering all these foolish questions--and tell me any silly thing you can recollect--any, the least particular, will be interesting to us, and we will never tell tales out of school: but we used to wonder and wonder, how you all went on; and when you was coming home we said, "now we shall hear all from sarah." god bless you, my dear friend. i am ever your affectionate mary lamb. if you have sent charles any commissions he has not executed, write me word--he says he has lost or mislaid a letter desiring him to inquire about a wig. write two letters--one of business and pensions, and one all about sarah stoddart and malta. is mr. moncrief doing well there? wednesday morning. we have got a picture of charles; do you think your brother would like to have it? if you do, can you put us in a way how to send it? [mrs. stoddart was the widow of a lieutenant in the royal navy. mr. wray and mr. pearce were presumably gentlemen connected with the admiralty or in some way concerned with the pension. "william" is still the early william--not william hazlitt, whom sarah was destined to marry. mr. moncrieff was mrs. john stoddart's eldest brother, who was a king's advocate in the admiralty court at malta. the picture of charles might be some kind of reproduction of hazlitt's portrait of him, painted in the preceding year; but more probably, i think, a few copies of hancock's drawing, made in for cottle, had been struck off.] letter charles lamb to william and dorothy wordsworth [p.m. september , .] 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 handwriting (in this age of female calligraphy) often deter 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 afford each other, denominated us not unaptly gum boil and tooth ache: for they use to say that a gum boil is a great relief to a tooth ache. we have been two tiny excursions this summer, for three or four days each: to a place near harrow, and to egham, where cooper's hill is: and that is the total history of our rustications this year. alas! how poor a sound to skiddaw, and helvellyn, and borrodaile, and the magnificent sesquipedalia of the year . poor old molly! to have lost her pride, that "last infirmity of noble mind," and her cow--providence need not have set her wits to such an old molly. i am heartily sorry for her. remember 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 we feel for her health as much as is 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 off in the morning; but now i have bid farewell to my "sweet enemy" tobacco, as you will see in my next page, i perhaps shall set soberly to work. hang work! i wish that all the year were holyday. i am sure that indolence indefeazible indolence is the true state of man, and business the invention of the old teazer who persuaded adam's master to give him an apron and set him a houghing. pen and ink, and clerks, and desks, were the refinements of this old torturer a thousand years after, under pretence of commerce allying distant shores, promoting and diffusing knowledge, good, &c.-- a farewell to tobacco may the babylonish curse strait confound my stammering verse, if i can a passage see in this word-perplexity, or a fit expression find, or a language to my mind, (still the phrase is wide an acre) to take leave of thee, tobacco; or in any terms relate half my love, or half my hate, for i hate yet love thee so, that, whichever thing i shew, the plain truth will seem to be a constrain'd hyperbole, and the passion to proceed more from a mistress than a weed. sooty retainer to the vine, bacchus' black servant, negro fine, sorcerer that mak'st us doat upon thy begrim'd complexion, and, for thy pernicious sake more and greater oaths to break than reclaimed lovers take 'gainst women: thou thy siege dost lay much too in the female way, while thou suck'st the labouring breath faster than kisses; or than death. thou in such a cloud dost bind us, that our worst foes cannot find us, and ill fortune (that would thwart us) shoots at rovers, shooting at us; while each man thro' thy heightening steam, does like a smoking etna seem, and all about us does express (fancy and wit in richest dress) a sicilian fruitfulness. thou through such a mist does shew us, that our best friends do not know us; and, for those allowed features, due to reasonable creatures, liken'st us to fell chimeras, monsters, that, who see us, fear us, worse than cerberus, or geryon, or, who first loved a cloud, ixion. bacchus we know, and we allow his tipsy rites. but what art thou? that but by reflex canst shew what his deity can do, as the false egyptian spell aped the true hebrew miracle-- some few vapours thou may'st raise, the weak brain may serve to amaze, but to the reins and nobler heart canst nor life nor heat impart. brother of bacchus, later born, the old world was sure forlorn, wanting thee; that aidest more the god's victories than before all his panthers, and the brawls of his piping bacchanals; these, as stale, we disallow, or judge of _thee meant_: only thou his true indian conquest art; and, for ivy round his dart, the reformed god now weaves a finer thyrsus of thy leaves. scent to match thy rich perfume chymic art did ne'er presume through her quaint alembic strain; none so sovran to the brain. nature, that did in thee excell, framed again no second smell. roses, violets, but toys for the smaller sort of boys, or for greener damsels meant, thou'rt the only manly scent. stinking'st of the stinking kind, filth of the mouth and fog of the mind, africa that brags her foyson, breeds no such prodigious poison, henbane, nightshade, both together, hemlock, aconite-------- nay rather, plant divine, of rarest virtue, blisters on the tongue would hurt you; 'twas but in a sort i blamed thee, none e'er prosper'd who defamed thee: irony all, and feign'd abuse, such as perplext lovers use at a need, when in despair to paint forth their fairest fair, or in part but to express that exceeding comeliness which their fancies does so strike, they borrow language of dislike, and instead of dearest miss, honey, jewel, sweetheart, bliss, and, those forms of old admiring, call her cockatrice and syren, basilisk and all that's evil, witch, hyena, mermaid, devil, ethiop wench, and blackamoor, monkey, ape, and twenty more, friendly traitress, loving foe: not that she is truly so, but no other way they know a contentment to express, borders so upon excess, that they do not rightly wot, whether it be pain or not. or, as men, constrain'd to part with what's nearest to their heart, while their sorrow's at the height, lose discrimination quite, and their hasty wrath let fall, to appease their frantic gall, on the darling thing whatever, whence they feel it death to sever, though it be, as they, perforce, guiltless of the sad divorce, for i must (nor let it grieve thee, friendliest of plants, that i must) leave thee-- for thy sake, _tobacco_, i would do anything but die; and but seek to extend my days long enough to sing thy praise. but, as she, who once has been a king's consort, is a queen ever after; nor will bate any tittle of her state, though a widow, or divorced, so i, from thy converse forced, the old name and style retain, (a right katherine of spain;) and a seat too 'mongst the joys of the blest tobacco boys: where, though i by sour physician am debarr'd the full fruition of thy favours, i may catch some collateral sweets, and snatch sidelong odours, that give life like glances from a neighbour's wife; and still dwell in the by-places, and the suburbs of thy graces, and in thy borders take delight, an unconquer'd canaanite. i wish you may think this a handsome farewell to my "friendly traitress." tobacco has been my evening comfort and my morning curse for these five years: and you know how difficult it is from refraining to pick one's lips even, when it has become a habit. this poem is the only one which i have finished since so long as when i wrote "hester savory." i have had it in my head to do it these two years, but tobacco stood in its own light when it gave me head aches that prevented my singing its praises. now you have got it, you have got all my store, for i have absolutely not another line. no more has mary. we have nobody about us that cares for poetry, and who will rear grapes when he shall be the sole eater? perhaps if you encourage us to shew you what we may write, we may do something now and then before we absolutely forget the quantity of an english line for want of practice. the "tobacco," being a little in the way of withers (whom southey so much likes) perhaps you will somehow convey it to him with my kind remembrances. then, everybody will have seen it that i wish to see it: i have sent it to malta. i remain dear w. and d--yours truly, c. lamb. th sep., . ["hang work." this paragraph is the germ of the sonnet entitled "work" which lamb wrote fourteen years later (see the letter to bernard barton, sept. , ). he seems always to have kept his thoughts in sight. the "farewell to tobacco" was printed in the _reflector_, no. iv., or , and then in the works, (see notes to vol. iv. of this edition). lamb's farewell was frequently repeated; but it is a question whether he ever entirely left off smoking. talfourd says that he did; but the late mrs. coe, who remembered lamb at widford about - , credited him with the company of a black clay pipe. it was lamb who, when dr. parr asked him how he managed to emit so much smoke, replied that he had toiled after it as other men after virtue. and macready relates that he remarked in his presence that he wished to draw his last breath through a pipe and exhale it in a pun. coleridge writing to rickman (see _the life and letters of john rickman_, ) says of lamb and smoking: "were it possible to win c.l. from the pipe, other things would follow with comparative ease, for till he gets a pipe i have regularly observed that he is contented with porter--and that the unconquerable appetite for spirit comes in with the tobacco--the oil of which, especially in the gluttonous manner in which he _volcanizes_ it, acts as an instant poison on his stomach or lungs". "hestor savory." see above.] letter mary lamb to sarah stoddart [early november, .] my dear sarah,--certainly you are the best letter-writer (besides writing the best hand) in the world. i have just been reading over again your two long letters, and i perceive they make me very envious. i have taken a brand new pen, and put on my _spectacles_, and am peering with all my might to see the lines in the paper, which the sight of your even lines had well nigh tempted me to rule: and i have moreover taken two pinches of snuff extraordinary, to clear my head, which feels more cloudy than common this fine, chearful morning. all i can gather from your clear and, i have no doubt, faithful history of maltese politics is, that the good doctor, though a firm friend, an excellent fancier of brooches, a good husband, an upright advocate, and, in short, all that they say upon tomb stones (for i do not recollect that they celebrate any fraternal virtues there) yet is but a _moody_ brother, that your sister in law is pretty much like what all sisters in law have been since the first happy invention of the happy marriage state; that friend coleridge has undergone no alteration by crossing the atlantic,--for his friendliness to you, as well as all the oddities you mention, are just what one ought to look for from him; and that you, my dear sarah, have proved yourself just as unfit to flourish in a little, proud garrison town as i did shrewdly suspect you were before you went there. if i possibly can, i will prevail upon charles to write to your brother by the conveyance you mention; but he is so unwell, i almost fear the fortnight will slip away before i can get him in the right vein. indeed, it has been sad and heavy times with us lately: when i am pretty well, his low spirits throws me back again; and when he begins to get a little chearful, then i do the same kind office for him. i heartily wish for the arrival of coleridge; a few such evenings as we have sometimes passed with him would wind us up, and set us a going again. do not say any thing, when you write, of our low spirits--it will vex charles. you would laugh, or you would cry, perhaps both, to see us sit together, looking at each other with long and rueful faces, and saying, "how do you do?" and "how do you do?" and then we fall a-crying, and say we will be better on the morrow. he says we are like toothach and his friend gum bile--which, though a kind of ease, is but an uneasy kind of ease, a comfort of rather an uncomfortable sort. i rejoice to hear of your mother's amendment; when you can leave her with any satisfaction to yourself--which, as her sister, i think i understand by your letters, is with her, i hope you may soon be able to do--let me know upon what plan you mean to come to town. your brother proposed your being six months in town, and six with your mother; but he did not then know of your poor mother's illness. by his desire, i enquired for a respectable family for you, to board with; and from capt'n. burney i heard of one i thought would suit you at that time. he particularly desires i would not think of your being with us, not thinking, i conjecture, the home of a single man _respectable_ enough. your brother gave me most unlimited orders to domineer over you, to be the inspector of all your actions, and to direct and govern you with a stern voice and a high hand, to be, in short, a very elder brother over you--does not the hearing of this, my meek pupil, make you long to come to london? i am making all the proper enquiries against the time of the newest and most approved modes (being myself mainly ignorant in these points) of etiquette, and nicely correct maidenly manners. but to speak seriously. i mean, when we mean [? meet], that we will lay our heads together, and consult and contrive the best way of making the best girl in the world the fine lady her brother wishes to see her; and believe me, sarah, it is not so difficult a matter as one is sometimes apt to imagine. i have observed many a demure lady, who passes muster admirably well, who, i think, we could easily learn to imitate in a week or two. we will talk of these things when we meet. in the mean time, i give you free license to be happy and merry at salisbury in any way you can. has the partridge-season opened any communication between you and william--as i allow you to be imprudent till i see you, i shall expect to hear you have invited him to taste his own birds. have you scratched him out of your will yet? rickman is married, and that is all the news i have to send you. your wigs were sent by mr. varvell about five months ago; therefore, he could have arrived when you came away. i seem, upon looking over my letter again, to have written too lightly of your distresses at malta; but, however i may have written, believe me, i enter very feelingly into all your troubles. i love you, and i love your brother; and between you, both of whom i think have been to blame, i know not what to say--only this i say, try to think as little as possible of past miscarriages; it was, perhaps, so ordered by providence, that you might return home to be a comfort to your poor mother. and do not, i conjure you, let her unhappy malady afflict you too deeply. i speak from experience, and from the opportunity i have had of much observation in such cases, that insane people, in the fancy's they take into their heads, do not feel as one in a sane state of mind does under the real evil of poverty, the perception of having done wrong, or any such thing that runs in their heads. think as little as you can, and let your whole care be to be certain that she is treated with _tenderness_. i lay a stress upon this, because it is a thing of which people in her state are uncommonly susceptible, and which hardly any one is at all aware of: a hired nurse never, even though in all other respects they are good kind of people. i do not think your own presence necessary, unless she _takes to you very much_, except for the purpose of seeing with your own eyes that she is very kindly treated. i do so long to see you! god bless and comfort you! yours affectionately, m. lamb. [miss stoddart had now returned to england, to her mother at salisbury, who had been and was very ill. coleridge meanwhile had had coolnesses with stoddart and had transferred himself to the roof of the governor. rickman married, on october , , susanna postlethwaite of harting, in sussex.] letter charles lamb to william hazlitt november , . dear hazlitt,--i was very glad to hear from you, and that your journey was so _picturesque_. we miss you, as we foretold we should. one or two things have happened, which are beneath the dignity of epistolary communication, but which, seated about our fire at night, (the winter hands of pork have begun) gesture and emphasis might have talked into some importance. something about rickman's wife, for instance: how tall she is and that she visits prank'd out like a queen of the may with green streamers--a good-natured woman though, which is as much as you can expect from a friend's wife, whom you got acquainted with a bachelor. some things too about monkey, which can't so well be written--how it set up for a fine lady, and thought it had got lovers, and was obliged to be convinc'd of its age from the parish register, where it was proved to be only twelve; and an edict issued that it should not give itself airs yet these four years; and how it got leave to be called miss, by grace;--these and such like hows were in my head to tell you, but who can write? also how manning's come to town in spectacles, and studies physic; is melancholy and seems to have something in his head, which he don't impart. then, how i am going to leave off smoking. o la! your leonardos of oxford made my mouth water. i was hurried thro' the gallery, and they escaped me. what do i say? i was a goth then, and should not have noticed them. i had not settled my notions of beauty. i have now for ever!--the small head, the [_here is drawn a long narrow eye_] long eye,--that sort of peering curve, the wicked italian mischief! the stick-at-nothing, herodias'-daughter kind of grace. you understand me. but you disappoint me, in passing over in absolute silence the blenheim leonardo. didn't you see it? excuse a lover's curiosity. i have seen no pictures of note since, except mr. dawe's gallery. it is curious to see how differently two great men treat the same subject, yet both excellent in their way: for instance, milton and mr. dawe. mr. dawe has chosen to illustrate the story of sampson exactly in the point of view in which milton has been most happy: the interview between the jewish hero, blind and captive, and dalilah. milton has imagined his locks grown again, strong as horse-hair or porcupine's bristles; doubtless shaggy and black, as being hairs "which of a nation armed contained the strength." i don't remember, he _says_ black: but could milton imagine them to be yellow? do you? mr. dawe with striking originality of conception has crowned him with a thin yellow wig, in colour precisely like dyson's, in curl and quantity resembling mrs. professor's, his limbs rather stout, about such a man as my brother or rickman--but no atlas nor hercules, nor yet so bony as dubois, the clown of sadler's wells. this was judicious, taking the spirit of the story rather than the fact: for doubtless god could communicate national salvation to the trust of flax and tow as well as hemp and cordage, and could draw down a temple with a golden tress as soon as with all the cables of the british navy.--miss dawe is about a portrait of sulky fanny imlay, alias godwin: but miss dawe is of opinion that her subject is neither reserved nor sullen, and doubtless she will persuade the picture to be of the same opinion. however, the features are tolerably like--too much of dawes! wasn't you sorry for lord nelson? i have followed him in fancy ever since i saw him walking in pall mall (i was prejudiced against him before) looking just as a hero should look; and i have been very much cut about it indeed. he was the only pretence of a great man we had. nobody is left of any name at all. his secretary died by his side. i imagined him, a mr. scott, to be the man you met at hume's; but i learn from mrs. hume that it is not the same. i met mrs. h. one day, and agreed to go on the sunday to tea, but the rain prevented us, and the distance. i have been to apologise, and we are to dine there the first fine sunday. strange perverseness! i never went while you staid here, and now i _go to find you_! what other news is there, mary?--what puns have i made in the last fortnight? you never remember them. you have no relish for the comic. "o! tell hazlitt not to forget to send the american farmer. i dare say it isn't so good as he fancies; but a book's a book." i have not heard from wordsworth or from malta since. charles kemble, it seems, enters into possession to-morrow. we sup at russell st. this evening. i wish your brother wouldn't drink. it's a blemish in the greatest characters. you send me a modern quotation poetical. how do you like this in an old play? vittoria corombona, a spunky italian lady, a leonardo one, nick-named the white devil, being on her trial for murder, &c.--and questioned about seducing a duke from his wife and the state, makes answer: "condemn you me for that the duke did love me? so may you blame some fair and chrystal river, for that some melancholic distracted man hath drown'd himself in it."-- our ticket was a £ . alas!! are both yours blanks? p.s.--godwin has asked after you several times. n.b.--i shall expect a line from you, if but a bare line, whenever you write to russell st., and a letter often when you do not. i pay no postage; but i will have consideration for you until parliament time and franks. luck to ned search and the new art of colouring. monkey sends her love, and mary especially. yours truly, c. lamb. [addressed to hazlitt at wem. this is the first letter from lamb to hazlitt that has been preserved. the two men first met at godwin's. holcroft and coleridge were disputing which was best--man as he is, or man as he ought to be. lamb broke in with, "give me man as he ought _not_ to be." hazlitt at this date was twenty-six, some three years younger than lamb. he had just abandoned his project of being a painter and was settling down to literary work. "rickman's wife." this passage holds the germ of lamb's essay on "the behaviour of married persons," first printed in the _reflector_, no. iv., in or , and afterwards included with the _elia_ essays. "monkey" was louisa martin, a little girl of whom lamb was fond and whom he knew to the end of his life. manning studied medicine at the westminster hospital for six months previous to may, . "the oxford leonardos ... the blenheim leonardo." the only leonardos at oxford are the drawings at christ church. the blenheim leonardo was probably boltraffio's "virgin and child" which used to be ascribed to da vinci, as indeed were many pictures he never painted. hazlitt subsequently wrote a work on the picture galleries of england, but he mentions none of these works. "mr. dawe's gallery." george dawe ( - ), afterwards r.a., of whom lamb wrote his essay "recollections of a late royal academician," where he alludes again to the picture of samson (see vol. i. of this edition). "dyson's." dyson was a friend of godwin. mrs. professor was mrs. godwin. "miss dawe." i know nothing further of george dawe's sister. fanny imlay was the unfortunate daughter of mary wollstonecraft godwin (by gilbert imlay the author). she committed suicide in . nelson was killed on october , . scott was his chaplain, and he was not killed. hume was joseph hume, an official at somerset house, whom we shall meet again directly. the _american farmer_ was very likely gilbert imlay's novel _the emigrants_, , or possibly his _topographical description of the western territory of north america_, . charles kemble, brother of john philip kemble and father of fanny kemble. john hazlitt, the miniature painter, lived at russell street. lamb's quotation, afterwards included in his _dramatic specimens_, , is from webster's "the white devil," act iii., scene i. the £ ticket was presumably in the lottery. lamb's essay "the illustrious defunct" (see vol. i.) shows him to have been interested in lotteries; and in letter no. mary lamb states that he wrote lottery puffs. "ned search." hazlitt was engaged on an abridgment of _the light of nature pursued_, in seven volumes, - , nominally by edward search, but really by abraham tucker. "the new art of colouring" is a reference, i fancy, to tingry, mentioned again below.] letter mary lamb to sarah stoddart [november and , .] my dear sarah,--after a very feverish night, i writ a letter to you; and i have been distressed about it ever since. in the first place, i have thought i treated too lightly your differences with your brother--which i freely enter into and feel for, but which i rather wished to defer saying much about till we meet. but that which gives me most concern is the way in which i talked about your mother's illness, and which i have since feared you might construe into my having a doubt of your showing her proper attention without my impertinent interference. god knows, nothing of this kind was ever in my thoughts; but i have entered very deeply into your affliction with regard to your mother; and while i was wishing, the many poor souls in the kind of desponding way she is in, whom i have seen, came afresh into my mind; and all the mismanagement with which i have seen them treated was strong in my mind, and i wrote under a forcible impulse, which i could not at that time resist, but i have fretted so much about it since, that i think it is the last time i will ever let my pen run away with me. your kind heart will, i know, even if you have been a little displeased, forgive me, when i assure you my spirits have been so much hurt by my last illness, that at times i hardly know what i do. i do not mean to alarm you about myself, or to plead an excuse; but i am very much otherwise than you have always known me. i do not think any one perceives me altered, but i have lost all self-confidence in my own actions, and one cause of my low spirits is, that i never feel satisfied with any thing i do--a perception of not being in a sane state perpetually haunts me. i am ashamed to confess this weakness to you; which, as i am so sensible of, i ought to strive to conquer. but i tell you, that you may excuse any part of my letter that has given offence: for your not answering it, when you are such a punctual correspondent, has made me very uneasy. write immediately, my dear sarah, but do not notice this letter, nor do not mention any thing i said relative to your poor mother. your handwriting will convince me you are friends with me; and if charles, who must see my letter, was to know i had first written foolishly, and then fretted about the event of my folly, he would both ways be angry with me. i would desire you to direct to me at home, but your hand is so well known to charles, that that would not do. therefore, take no notice of my megrums till we meet, which i most ardently long to do. an hour spent in your company would be a cordial to my drooping heart. pray write directly, and believe me, ever your affectionate friend, m. lamb. nov. l .--i have kept this by me till to-day, hoping every day to hear from you. if you found the seal a clumsy one, it is because i opened the wafer. write, i beg, by the return of the post; and as i am very anxious to hear whether you are, as i fear, dissatisfied with me, you shall, if you please, direct my letter to nurse. her direction is, mrs. grant, at mr. smith's, _maidenhead_, ram court, fleet street. i was not able, you know, to notice, when i writ to malta, your letter concerning an insult you received from a vile wretch there; and as i mostly show my letters to charles, i have never named it since. did it ever come to your brother's knowledge? charles and i were very uneasy at your account of it. i wish i could see you. yours ever, m. lamb. i do not mean to continue a secret correspondence, but you must oblige me with this one letter. in future i will always show my letters before they go, which will be a proper check upon my wayward pen. letter charles lamb to thomas manning [p.m. nov. , .] dear manning,--certainly you could not have called at all hours from two till ten, for we have been only out of an evening monday and tuesday in this week. but if you think you have, your thought shall go for the deed. we did pray for you on wednesday night. oysters unusually luscious--pearls of extraordinary magnitude found in them. i have made bracelets of them--given them in clusters to ladies. last night we went out in despite, because you were not come at your hour. this night we shall be at home, so shall we certainly both sunday, monday, tuesday, and wednesday. take your choice, mind i don't say of one, but choose which evening you will not, and come the other four. doors open at five o'clock. shells forced about nine. every gentleman smokes or not as he pleases. o! i forgot, bring the £ , for fear you should lose it. c. l. [here should come a letter from mary lamb to mrs. clarkson, dated december , , printed by mr. macdonald. it states that lamb has been latterly in indifferent health, and is unimportant.] letter charles lamb to william hazlitt thursday, th jan., . dear hazlitt,--godwin went to johnson's yesterday about your business. johnson would not come down, or give any answer, but has promised to open the manuscript, and to give you an answer in one month. godwin will punctually go again (wednesday is johnson's open day) yesterday four weeks next: i.e. in one lunar month from this time. till when johnson positively declines giving any answer. i wish you joy on ending your search. mrs. h. was naming something about a life of fawcett, to be by you undertaken: the great fawcett, as she explain'd to manning, when he ask'd, _what fawcett_? he innocently thought _fawcett the player_. but fawcett the divine is known to many people, albeit unknown to the chinese enquirer. i should think, if you liked it, and johnson declined it, that phillips is the man. he is perpetually bringing out biographies, richardson, wilkes, foot, lee lewis, without number: little trim things in two easy volumes price s. the two, made up of letters to and from, scraps, posthumous trifles, anecdotes, and about forty pages of hard biography. you might dish up a fawcetiad in months, and ask or pounds for it. i should dare say that phillips would catch at it--i wrote to you the other day in a great hurry. did you get it? this is merely a letter of business at godwin's request. lord nelson is quiet at last. his ghost only keeps a slight fluttering in odes and elegies in newspapers, and impromptus, which could not be got ready before the funeral. as for news--we have miss stoddart in our house, she has been with us a fortnight and will stay a week or so longer. she is one of the few people who are not in the way when they are with you. no tidings of coleridge. fenwick is coming to town on monday (if no kind angel intervene) to surrender himself to prison. he hopes to get the rules of the fleet. on the same, or nearly the same, day, fell, my other quondam co-friend and drinker, will go to newgate, and his wife and children, i suppose, to the parish. plenty of reflection and motives of gratitude to the wise disposer of all things in us, whose prudent conduct has hitherto ensured us a warm fire and snug roof over our heads. _nullum numen abest si sit prudentia_. alas! prudentia is in the last quarter of her tutelary shining over me. a little time and i-- but may be i may, at last, hit upon some mode of collecting some of the vast superfluities of this money-voiding town. much is to be got, and i don't want much. all i ask is time and leisure; and i am cruelly off for them. when you have the inclination, i shall be very glad to have a letter from you.--your brother and mrs. h., i am afraid, think hardly of us for not coming oftener to see them, but we are distracted beyond what they can conceive with visitors and visitings. i never have an hour for my head to work quietly its own workings; which you know is as necessary to the human system as sleep. sleep, too, i can't get for these damn'd winds of a night: and without sleep and rest what should ensue? lunacy. but i trust it won't. yours, dear h., mad or sober, c. lamb. [hazlitt's business was finding a publisher for his abridgment of search (see page ). johnson was priestley's publisher. a letter to godwin from coleridge in june, (see kegan paul's _life of godwin_, ii., ), had suggested such an abridgment, coleridge adding that a friend of his would make it, and that he would write a preface and see the proofs through the press. hence godwin's share in the matter. coleridge's part of the transaction was not carried out. hazlitt's life of joseph fawcett (? - ), the poet and dissenting preacher of walthamstow and old jewry, whom he had known intimately, was not written. the fawcett of whom manning, the chinese enquirer, was thinking was john fawcett, famous as dr. pangloss and caleb quotem. "the fleet"--the prison for debtors in farringdon street. closed in . the rules of the fleet were the limits within which prisoners for debt were under certain conditions permitted to live: the north side of ludgate hill, the old bailey up to fleet lane, fleet lane to fleet market, and then back to ludgate hill. the rules cost money: £ for the first £ of the debt and for every additional £ , £ . later, fenwick seems to have settled in america. here should come an undated letter to hazlitt, accompanied by tingry's _painter's and varnisher's guide_, . hazlitt, who was then painting, seems to have wanted prints of trees, probably for a background. lamb says that he has been hunting in shop windows for him. he adds: "to supply poetry and wildness, you may read the _american farmer_ over again." the postscript runs, "johnson shall not be forgot at his month's end."] letter charles lamb to john rickman jan. th, . dear rickman,--you do not happen to have any place at your disposal which would suit a decayed literatus? i do not much expect that you have, or that you will go much out of the way to serve the object, when you hear it is fenwick. but the case is, by a _mistaking_ of his _turn_, as they call it, he is reduced, i am afraid, to extremities, and would be extremely glad of a place in an office. now it does sometimes happen, that just as a man wants a place, a place wants him; and though this is a lottery to which none but g.b. would choose to trust his all, there is no harm just to call in at despair's office for a friend, and see if _his_ number is come up (b.'s further case i enclose by way of episode). now, if you should happen, or anybody you know, to want a _hand_, here is a young man of solid but not brilliant genius, who would turn his hand to the making out dockets, penning a manifesto, or scoring a tally, not the worse (i hope) for knowing latin and greek, and having in youth conversed with the philosophers. but from these follies i believe he is thoroughly awakened, and would bind himself by a terrible oath never to imagine himself an extraordinary genius again. yours, &., c. lamb. [mr. hazlitt's text, which i follow here, makes lamb appeal for fenwick; but other editors say fell--except talfourd, who says f. if, as lamb says in his previous letter, fell was bound for newgate and fenwick only for the fleet, probably it was fenwick. but the matter is not very important. fenwick and fell both came into lamb's life through godwin and at this point they drop out. the enclosure concerning george burnett is missing.] letter charles lamb to william wordsworth [dated at end: february st, .] dear wordsworth--i have seen the books which you ordered, booked at the white horse inn, cripplegate, by the kendal waggon this day st feb'y. ; you will not fail to see after them in time. they are directed to you at grasmere. we have made some alteration in the editions since your sister's directions. the handsome quarto spencer which she authorized mary to buy for £ . . , when she brought it home in triumph proved to be _only the fairy queen_: so we got them to take it again and i have procured instead a folio, which luckily contains, besides all the poems, the view of the state of ireland, which is difficult to meet with. the spencer, and the chaucer, being noble old books, we did not think stockdale's modern volumes would look so well beside them; added to which i don't know whether you are aware that the print is _excessive_ small, same as eleg. extracts, or smaller, not calculated for eyes in age; and shakespear is one of the last books one should like to give up, perhaps the one just before the dying service in a large prayer book. so we have used our own discretion in purchasing pope's fine quarto in six volumes, which may be read ad ultimam horam vitae. it is bound like law books (rather, half bound) and the law robe i have ever thought as comely and gentlemanly a garb as a book would wish to wear. the state of the purchase then stands thus, urry's chaucer £ . -- pope's shakespeare . -- spenser -- milton . -- packing case &c. . ____________ . --. which your brother immediately repaid us. he has the bills for all (by his desire) except the spenser, which we took no bill with (not looking to have our accounts audited): so for that and the case he took a separate receipt for / . n.b. there is writing in the shakespear: but it is only variæ lectiones which some careful gentleman, the former owner, was at the pains to insert in a very neat hand from commentators. it is no defacement. the fault of pope's edition is, that he has comically and coxcombically marked the beauties: which is vile, as if you were to chalk up the cheek and across the nose of a handsome woman in red chalk to shew where the comeliest parts lay. but i hope the noble type and library-appearance of the books will atone for that. with the books come certain books and pamphlets of g. dyer, presents or rather decoy-ducks of the poet to take in his thus-far obliged friends to buy his other works; as he takes care to inform them in m.s. notes to the title pages, "g. dyer, author of other books printed for longman &c." the books have lain at your dispatchful brother's a months, to the great staling of most of the subjects. the three letters and what is else written at the beginning of the respective _presents_ will ascertain the division of the property. if not, none of the donees, i dare say, will grudge a community of property in this case. we were constrained to pack 'em how we could, for room. also there comes w. hazlitt's book about human action, for coleridge; a little song book for sarah coleridge; a box for hartley which your brother was to have sent, but now devolved on us--i don't know from whom it came, but the things altogether were too much for mr. (i've forgot his name) to take charge of; a paraphrase on the king and queen of hearts, of which i being the author beg mr. johnny wordsworth's acceptance and opinion. _liberal criticism_, as g. dyer declares, i am always ready to attend to!--and that's all, i believe. n.b. i must remain debtor to dorothy for pens: but really miss stoddart (women are great gulfs of stationery), who is going home to salisbury and has been with us some weeks, has drained us to the very last pen: by the time s.t.c. passes thro' london i reckon i shall be in full feather. no more news has transpired of that wanderer. i suppose he has found his way to some of his german friends. a propos of spencer (you will find him mentioned a page or two before, near enough for an a propos), i was discoursing on poetry (as one's apt to deceive onesself, and when a person is willing to _talk_ of what one likes, to believe that he also likes the same: as lovers do) with a young gentleman of my office who is deep read in anacreon moore, lord strangford, and the principal modern poets, and i happen'd to mention epithalamiums and that i could shew him a very fine one of spencer's. at the mention of this, my gentleman, who is a very fine gentleman, and is brother to the miss evans who coleridge so narrowly escaped marrying, pricked up his ears and exprest great pleasure, and begged that i would give him leave to copy it: he did not care how long it was (for i objected the length), he should be very happy to see _any thing by him_. then pausing, and looking sad, he ejaculated poor spencer! i begged to know the reason of his ejaculation, thinking that time had by this time softened down any calamities which the bard might have endured--"why, poor fellow!" said he "he has lost his wife!" "lost his wife?" said i, "who are you talking of?" "why, spencer," said he. "i've read the monody he wrote on the occasion, and _a very pretty thing it is_." this led to an explanation (it could be delay'd no longer) that the sound spencer, which when poetry is talk'd of generally excites an image of an old bard in a ruff, and sometimes with it dim notions of sir p. sydney and perhaps lord burleigh, had raised in my gentleman a quite contrary image of the honourable william spencer, who has translated some things from the german very prettily, which are publish'd with lady di. beauclerk's designs. nothing like defining of terms when we talk. what blunders might i have fallen into of quite inapplicable criticism, but for this timely explanation. n.b. at the beginning of _edm._ spencer (to prevent mistakes) i have copied from my own copy, and primarily from a book of chalmers on shakspear, a sonnet of spenser's never printed among his poems. it is curious as being manly and rather miltonic, and as a sonnet of spenser's with nothing in it about love or knighthood. i have no room for remembrances; but i hope our doing your commission will prove we do not quite forget you. c. l. feb., . ["hazlitt's book about human action for coleridge"--_an essay on the principles of human action_, . "a paraphrase of the king and queen of hearts." this was a little book for children by lamb, illustrated by mulready and published by t. hodgkins (for the godwins) in . it was discovered through this passage in this letter and is reprinted in facsimile in vol. iii. of my large edition. the title ran _the king and queen of hearts, with the rogueries of the knave who stole away the queen's pies_. coleridge had left malta on september , . he went to naples, and from there to rome in january, , where he stayed until may . "a propos of spencer." this portion of the letter, owing to a mistake of talfourd's, is usually tacked on to one dated june, . "miss evans." see note to letter . "poor spencer." william robert spencer ( - ) was the author of _jeux d'esprit_ and poems. he is now known, if at all, by his ballad of "bed gellert." he married the widow of count spreti, and in published a book of elegies entitled "the year of sorrow." spencer was among the translators of bürger's "leonore," his version being illustrated by lady diana beauclerk (his great-aunt) in . lamb used this anecdote as a little article in the _reflector_, no. ii., , entitled "on the ambiguities arising from proper names" (see vol. i. of this edition). lamb, however, by always spelling the real poet with a "c," did nothing towards avoiding the ambiguity! this is the sonnet which lamb copied into wordsworth's spenser from george chalmers' _supplemental apology for the believers in the shakespeare-papers_ ( ), page :-- to the right worshipful, my singular good _friend_, mr. gabriel harvey, doctor of the laws:-- "harvey, the happy above happiest men i read: that sitting like a looker on of this world's stage, doest note with critique pen the sharp dislikes of each condition: and as one careless of suspition, ne fawnest for the favour of the great: ne fearest foolish reprehension of faulty men, which danger to thee threat. but freely doest, of what thee list, entreat, like a great lord of peerless liberty: lifting the good up to high honours seat, and the evil damning ever more to dy. for life, _and_ death is [are] in thy doomful writing: so thy renowne lives ever by endighting." dublin: this xviij of july, ; your devoted _friend_, during life, edmund spenser.] letter charles lamb to william hazlitt [dated at end: feb. , .] dear h.--godwin has just been here in his way from johnson's. johnson has had a fire in his house; this happened about five weeks ago; it was in the daytime, so it did not burn the house down, but did so much damage that the house must come down, to be repaired: his nephew that we met on hampstead hill put it out: well, this fire has put him so back, that he craves one more month before he gives you an answer. i will certainly goad godwin (if necessary) to go again this very day four weeks; but i am confident he will want no goading. three or four most capital auctions of pictures advertised. in may, welbore ellis agar's, the first private collection in england, so holcroft says. in march, sir george young's in stratford-place (where cosway lives), and a mr. hulse's at blackheath, both very capital collections, and have been announc'd for some months. also the marquis of lansdowne's pictures in march; and though inferior to mention, lastly, the tructhsessian gallery. don't your mouth water to be here? t'other night loftus called, whom we have not seen since you went before. we meditate a stroll next wednesday, fast-day. he happened to light upon mr. holcroft's wife, and daughter, their first visit at our house. your brother called last night. we keep up our intimacy. he is going to begin a large madona and child from mrs. h. and baby, i fear he goes astray after ignes fatui. he is a clever man. by the bye, i saw a miniature of his as far excelling any in his shew cupboard (that of your sister not excepted) as that shew cupboard excells the shew things you see in windows--an old woman--damn her name--but most superlative; he has it to clean--i'll ask him the name--but the best miniature i ever saw, equal to cooper and them fellows. but for oil pictures!--what has he [to] do with madonas? if the virgin mary were alive and visitable, he would not hazard himself in a covent-garden-pit-door crowd to see her. it ain't his style of beauty, is it?--but he will go on painting things he ought not to paint, and not painting things he ought to paint. manning is not gone to china, but talks of going this spring. god forbid! coleridge not heard of. i, going to leave off smoke. in mean time am so smoky with last night's pipes, that i must leave off. mary begs her kind remembrances. pray write to us-- this is no letter, but i supposed you grew anxious about johnson. n.b.--have taken a room at /- a week, to be in between & at night, to avoid my _nocturnal_ alias _knock-eternal_ visitors. the first-fruits of my retirement has been a farce which goes to manager tomorrow. _wish my ticket luck._ god bless you, and do write,--yours, _fumosissimus_, c. lamb. wednesday, feb., . [johnson was the publisher whom we have already seen considering hazlitt's abridgment of the _light of nature revealed_. lamb was always interested in sales of pictures: the on-view days gave him some of his best opportunities of seeing good painting. the truchsessian picture gallery was in new road, opposite portland place. exhibitions were held annually, the pictures being for sale. loftus was tom loftus of wisbech, a cousin of hazlitt. holcroft's wife at that time, his fourth, was louisa mercier, who afterwards married lamb's friend, james kenney, the dramatist. the daughter referred to was probably fanny holcroft, who subsequently wrote novels and translations. cooper, the miniature painter, was samuel cooper ( - ), a connection by marriage of pope's mother, and the painter of cromwell and other interesting men. lamb's _n.b._ contains his first mention of his farce "mr. h." we are not told where the s. room was situated. possibly in the temple.] letter mary lamb to sarah stoddart [? feb. , and , .] my dear sarah,--i have heard that coleridge was lately going through sicily to rome with a party, but that, being unwell, he returned back to naples. we think there is some mistake in this account, and that his intended journey to rome was in his former jaunt to naples. if you know that at that time he had any such intention, will you write instantly? for i do not know whether i ought to write to mrs. coleridge or not. i am going to make a sort of promise to myself and to you, that i will write you kind of journal-like letters of the daily what-we-do matters, as they occur. this day seems to me a kind of new era in our time. it is not a birthday, nor a new-year's day, nor a leave-off-smoking day; but it is about an hour after the time of leaving you, our poor phoenix, in the salisbury stage; and charles has just left me for the first time to go to his lodgings; and i am holding a solitary consultation with myself as to the how i shall employ myself. writing plays, novels, poems, and all manner of such-like vapouring and vapourish schemes are floating in my head, which at the same time aches with the thought of parting from you, and is perplext at the idea of i-cannot-tell-what-about notion that i have not made you half so comfortable as i ought to have done, and a melancholy sense of the dull prospect you have before you on your return home. then i think i will make my new gown; and now i consider the white petticoat will be better candle-light worth; and then i look at the fire, and think, if the irons was but down, i would iron my gowns--you having put me out of conceit of mangling. so much for an account of my own confused head; and now for yours. returning home from the inn, we took that to pieces, and ca[n]vassed you, as you know is our usual custom. we agreed we should miss you sadly, and that you had been, what you yourself discovered, _not at all in our way_; and although, if the post master should happen to open this, it would appear to him to be no great compliment, yet you, who enter so warmly into the interior of our affairs, will understand and value it, as well as what we likewise asserted, that since you have been with us you have done but one foolish thing, _vide_ pinckhorn (excuse my bad latin, if it should chance to mean exactly contrary to what i intend). we praised you for the very friendly way in which you regarded all our whimsies, and, to use a phrase of coleridge's, _understood us_. we had, in short, no drawback on our eulogy on your merit, except lamenting the want of respect you have to yourself--the want of a certain dignity of action, you know what i mean, which--though it only broke out in the acceptance of the old justice's book, and was, as it were, smothered and almost extinct, while you were here--yet is so native a feeling in your mind, that you will do whatever the present moment prompts you to do, that i wish you would take that one slight offence seriously to heart, and make it a part of your daily consideration to drive this unlucky propensity, root and branch, out of your character.--then, mercy on us, what a perfect little gentlewoman you will be!!!-- you are not yet arrived at the first stage of your journey; yet have i the sense of your absence so strong upon me, that i was really thinking what news i had to send you, and what had happened since you had left us. truly nothing, except that martin burney met us in lincoln's-inn-fields, and borrowed four-pence, of the repayment of which sum i will send you due notice. friday [feb. , ].--last night i told charles of your matrimonial overtures from mr. white, and of the cause of that business being at a _stand-still_. your generous conduct in acquainting mr. white with the vexatious affair at malta highly pleased him. he entirely approves of it. you would be quite comforted to hear what he said on the subject. he wishes you success, and, when coleridge comes, will consult with him about what is best to be done. but i charge you, be most strictly cautious how you proceed yourself. do not give mr. w. any reason to think you indiscreet; let him return of his own accord, and keep the probability of his doing so full in your mind; so, i mean, as to regulate your whole conduct by that expectation. do not allow yourself to see, or in any way renew your acquaintance with, william, nor do not do any other silly thing of that kind; for, you may depend upon it, he will be a kind of spy upon you, and, if he observes nothing that he disapproves of, you will certainly hear of him again in time. charles is gone to finish the farce, and i am to hear it read this night. i am so uneasy between my hopes and fears of how i shall like it, that i do not know what i am doing. i need not tell you so, for before i send this i shall be able to tell you all about it. if i think it will amuse you, i will send you a copy. _the bed was very cold last night._ feb. [? ]. i have received your letter, and am happy to hear that your mother has been so well in your absence, which i wish had been prolonged a little, for you have been wanted to copy out the farce, in the writing of which i made many an unlucky blunder. the said farce i carried (after many consultations of who was the most proper person to perform so important an office) to wroughton, the manager of drury lane. he was very civil to me; said it did not depend upon himself, but that he would put it into the proprietors' hands, and that we should certainly have an answer from them. i have been unable to finish this sheet before, for charles has taken a week's holidays [from his] lodging, to rest himself after his labour, and we have talked to-night of nothing but the farce night and day; but yesterday [i carri]ed it to wroughton; and since it has been out of the [way, our] minds have been a little easier. i wish you had [been with] us, to have given your opinion. i have half a mind to sc[ribble] another copy, and send it you. i like it very much, and cannot help having great hopes of its success. i would say i was very sorry for the death of mr. white's father; but not knowing the good old gentleman, i cannot help being as well satisfied that he is gone--for his son will feel rather lonely, and so perhaps he may chance to visit again winterslow. you so well describe your brother's grave lecturing letter, that you make me ashamed of part of mine. i would fain rewrite it, leaving out my '_sage advice_;' but if i begin another letter, something may fall out to prevent me from finishing it,--and, therefore, skip over it as well as you can; it shall be the last i ever send you. it is well enough, when one is talking to a friend, to hedge in an odd word by way of counsel now and then; but there is something mighty irksome in its staring upon one in a letter, where one ought only to see kind words and friendly remembrances. i have heard a vague report from the _dawes_ (the pleasant-looking young lady we called upon was miss daw), that coleridge returned back to naples: they are to make further enquiries, and let me know the particulars. we have seen little or nothing of manning since you went. your friend [george] burnett calls as usual, for charles to _point out something for him_. i miss you sadly, and but for the fidget i have been in about the farce, i should have missed you still more. i am sorry you cannot get your money. continue to tell us all your perplexities, and do not mind being called widow blackacre. say all in your mind about your _lover_, now charles knows of it; he will be as anxious to hear as me. all the time we can spare from talking of the characters and plot of the farce, we talk of you. i have got a fresh bottle of brandy to-day: if you were here, you should have a glass, _three parts brandy_--so you should. i bought a pound of bacon to-day, not so good as yours. i wish the little caps were finished. i am glad the medicines and the cordials bore the fatigue of their journey so well. i promise you i will write often, and _not mind the postage_. god bless you. charles does _not_ send his love, because he is not here. yours affectionately, m. lamb. _write as often as ever you can_. do not work too hard. [mr. hazlitt dates this letter april, thinking that mary lamb's pen slipped when she wrote february half-way through. but i think february must be right; because ( ) miss stoddart has only just left, and lamb tells hazlitt in january that she is staying a week or so longer: april would make this time three months; and ( ) lamb has told hazlitt on february that his farce is finished. coleridge left malta for rome on september , . he was probably at naples from october, , to the end of january, , when he went to rome, remaining there until may . writing to mrs. clarkson on march , , dorothy wordsworth quotes from a letter written on february by mary lamb to mrs. s.t. coleridge and containing this passage: "my brother has received a letter from stoddart dated december , in which he tells him that coleridge was then at naples. we have also heard from a mr. dawe that a friend of his had received a letter of the same date, which mentioned coleridge having been lately travelling towards rome with a party of gentlemen; but that he changed his mind and returned back to naples. stoddart says nothing more than that he was driven to naples in consequence of the french having taken possession of trieste." (see the _athenæum_, january , .) "_vide_ pinckhorn." i cannot explain this, unless a justice pinckhorn had ogled sarah stoddart and offered her a present of a book. mary lamb, by the way, some years later taught latin to william hazlitt, junior, sarah's son. martin charles burney, the son of captain burney, born in , a devoted admirer of the lambs to the end. he was now only eighteen. we shall often meet him again. mr. white was not lamb's friend james white. winterslow, in wiltshire, about six miles from salisbury, was a small property belonging to sarah stoddart. "widow blackacre." in wycherley's "plain dealer:" a busy-body and persistent litigant.] letter mary lamb to sarah stoddart [march, .] my dear sarah,--no intention of forfeiting my promise, but mere want of time, has prevented me from continuing my _journal_. you seem pleased with the long, stupid one i sent, and, therefore, i shall certainly continue to write at every opportunity. the reason why i have not had any time to spare, is because charles has given himself some holidays after the hard labour of finishing his farce, and, therefore, i have had none of the evening leisure i promised myself. next week he promises to go to work again. i wish he may happen to hit upon some new plan, to his mind, for another farce: when once begun, i do not fear his perseverance, but the holidays he has allowed himself, i fear, will unsettle him. i look forward to next week with the same kind of anxiety i did to the first entrance at the new lodging. we have had, as you know, so many teasing anxieties of late, that i have got a kind of habit of foreboding that we shall never be comfortable, and that he will never settle to work: which i know is wrong, and which i will try with all my might to overcome--for certainly, if i could but see things as they really are, our prospects are considerably improved since the memorable day of mrs. fenwick's last visit. i have heard nothing of that good lady, or of the fells, since you left us. we have been visiting a little--to norris's, to godwin's; and last night we did not come home from captain burney's till two o'clock: the _saturday night_ was changed to _friday_, because rickman could not be there to-night. we had the best _tea things_, and the litter all cleared away, and every thing as handsome as possible--mrs. rickman being of the party. mrs. rickman is much _increased in size_ since we saw her last, and the alteration in her strait shape wonderfully improves her. phillips was there, and charles had a long batch of cribbage with him: and, upon the whole, we had the most chearful evening i have known there a long time. to-morrow, we dine at holcroft's. these things rather fatigue me; but i look for a quiet week next week, and hope for better times. we have had mrs. brooks and all the martins, and we have likewise been there; so that i seem to have been in a continual bustle lately. i do not think charles cares so much for the martins as he did, which is a fact you will be glad to hear--though you must not name them when you write: always remember, when i tell you any thing about them, not to mention their names in return. we have had a letter from your brother, by the same mail as yours, i suppose; he says he does not mean to return till summer, and that is all he says about himself; his letter being entirely filled with a long story about lord nelson--but nothing more than what the newspapers have been full of, such as his last words, &c. why does he tease you with so much _good advice_? is it merely to fill up his letters as he filled ours with lord nelson's exploits? or has any new thing come out against you? has he discovered mr. curse-a-rat's correspondence? i hope you will not write to that _news-sending_ gentleman any more. i promised never more to give my _advice_, but one may be allowed to _hope_ a little; and i also hope you will have something to tell me soon about mr. w[hite]: have you seen him yet? i am sorry to hear your mother is not better, but i am in a hoping humour just now, and i cannot help hoping that we shall all see happier days. the bells are just now ringing for the taking of the _cape of good hope_. i have written to mrs. coleridge to tell her that her husband is at naples; your brother slightly named his being there, but he did not say that he had heard from him himself. charles is very busy at the office; he will be kept there to-day till seven or eight o'clock: and he came home very _smoky and drinky_ last night; so that i am afraid a hard day's work will not agree very well with him. dear! what shall i say next? why this i will say next, that i wish you was with me; i have been eating a mutton chop all alone, and i have been just looking in the pint porter pot, which i find quite empty, and yet i am still very dry. if you was with me, we would have a glass of brandy and water; but it is quite impossible to drink brandy and water by oneself; therefore, i must wait with patience till the kettle boils. i hate to drink tea alone, it is worse than dining alone, we have got a fresh cargo of biscuits from captain burney's. i have-- _march l ._--here i was interrupted; and a long, tedious interval has intervened, during which i have had neither time nor inclination to write a word. the lodging--that pride and pleasure of your heart and mine--is given up, _and here he is again_--charles, i mean--as unsettled and as undetermined as ever. when he went to the poor lodging, after the hollidays i told you he had taken, he could not endure the solitariness of them, and i had no rest for the sole of my foot till i promised to believe his solemn protestations that he could and would write as well at home as there. do you believe this? i have no power over charles: he will do--what he will do. but i ought to have some little influence over myself. and therefore i am most manfully resolving to turn over a new leaf with my own mind. your visit to us, though not a very comfortable one to yourself, has been of great use to me. i set you up in my fancy as a kind of _thing_ that takes an interest in my concerns; and i hear you talking to me, and arguing the matter very learnedly, when i give way to despondency. you shall hear a good account of me, and the progress i make in altering my fretful temper to a calm and quiet one. it is but being once thorowly convinced one is wrong, to make one resolve to do so no more; and i know my dismal faces have been almost as great a drawback upon charles's comfort, as his feverish, teazing ways have been upon mine. our love for each other has been the torment of our lives hitherto. i am most seriously intending to bend the whole force of my mind to counteract this, and i think i see some prospect of success. of charles ever bringing any work to pass at home, i am very doubtful; and of the farce succeeding, i have little or no hope; but if i could once get into the way of being chearful myself, i should see an easy remedy in leaving town and living cheaply, almost wholly alone; but till i do find we really are comfortable alone, and by ourselves, it seems a dangerous experiment. we shall certainly stay where we are till after next christmas; and in the mean time, as i told you before, all my whole thoughts shall be to _change_ myself into just such a chearful soul as you would be in a lone house, with no companion but your brother, if you had nothing to vex you--nor no means of wandering after _curse-a-rats_. do write soon: though i write all about myself, i am thinking all the while of you, and i am uneasy at the length of time it seems since i heard from you. your mother, and mr. white, is running continually in my head; and this _second winter_ makes me think how cold, damp, and forlorn your solitary house will feel to you. i would your feet were perched up again on our fender. manning is not yet gone. mrs. holcroft is brought to bed. mrs. reynolds has been confined at home with illness, but is recovering. god bless you. yours affectionately, m. lamb. ["norris's"--randal norris, sub-treasurer of the inner temple, whose wife, _née_ faint, came from widford, where she had known lamb's grandmother, mary field. captain burney's whist parties, in little james street, pimlico, were, as a rule, on saturdays. later lamb established a wednesday party. of mrs. brooks i have no knowledge; nor of him whom mary lamb called mr. curse-a-rat. "the _cape of good hope_." the cape of good hope, having been taken by the english in from the dutch, and restored to them at the peace of amiens in , had just been retaken by the english. "mrs. holcroft is brought to bed." the child was louisa, afterwards mrs. badams, one of lamb's correspondents late in life.] letter charles lamb to john rickman march, . dear rickman,--i send you some papers about a salt-water soap, for which the inventor is desirous of getting a parliamentary reward, like dr. jenner. whether such a project be feasible, i mainly doubt, taking for granted the equal utility. i should suppose the usual way of paying such projectors is by patents and contracts. the patent, you see, he has got. a contract he is about with the navy board. meantime, the projector is hungry. will you answer me two questions, and return them with the papers as soon as you can? imprimis, is there any chance of success in application to parliament for a reward? did you ever hear of the invention? you see its benefits and saving to the nation (always the first motive with a true projector) are feelingly set forth: the last paragraph but one of the estimate, in enumerating the shifts poor seamen are put to, even approaches to the pathetic. but, agreeing to all he says, is there the remotest chance of parliament giving the projector anything; and _when_ should application be made, now or after a report (if he can get it) from the navy board? secondly, let the infeasibility be as great as you will, you will oblige me by telling me the way of introducing such an application to parliament, without buying over a majority of members, which is totally out of projector's power. i vouch nothing for the soap myself; for i always wash in _fresh water_, and find it answer tolerably well for all purposes of cleanliness; nor do i know the projector; but a relation of mine has put me on writing to you, for whose parliamentary knowledge he has great veneration. p.s. the capt. and mrs. burney and phillips take their chance at cribbage here on wednesday. will you and mrs. r. join the party? mary desires her compliments to mrs. r., and joins in the invitation. yours truly, c. lamb. [rickman now held the post of private secretary to the speaker, charles abbot, afterwards lord colchester. captain burney we have already met. his wife, sarah burney, was, there is good reason to suppose, in lamb's mind when he wrote the elia essay "mrs. battle's opinions on whist." phillips was either colonel phillips, a retired officer of marines, who had sailed with burney and captain cook, had known dr. johnson, and had married burney's sister; or ned phillips (rickman's secretary).] letter charles lamb to william hazlitt march , . dear h.--i am a little surprised at no letter from you. this day week, to wit, saturday, the th of march, , i booked off by the wem coach, bull and mouth inn, directed to _you_, at the rev. mr. hazlitt's, wem, shropshire, a parcel containing, besides a book, &c., a rare print, which i take to be a titian; begging the said w.h. to acknowledge the receipt thereof; which 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 precious a parcel may not moulder away for want of looking after. what do you in shropshire when so many fine pictures are a-going, a-going every day in london? monday i visit the marquis of lansdowne's, in berkeley square. catalogue s. d. 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 sold this month; and in may, the first private collection in europe, welbore ellis agar's. and there are you, perverting 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 watering when i tell you that manning and i got into angerstein's on wednesday. _mon dieu_! such claudes! four claudes bought for more than £ , (those who talk of wilson being equal to claude are either mainly ignorant or stupid); one of these was perfectly miraculous. what colours short of _bonâ fide_ sunbeams it could be painted in, i am not earthly colourman 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 affecting it, but so sweetly disposed; all leaning separate ways, but so easy--like a flock of some divine shepherd; the colouring, like the economy of the picture, so sweet 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, fidgetty 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 and the library are shown)--when he writes a common letter, as i am doing, surrounded with twenty pictures worth £ , . what a luxury! apicius and heliogabalus, hide your diminished heads! yours, my dear painter, c. lamb. [angerstein's was the house of john julius angerstein ( - ) the financier, in pall mall. he had a magnificent collection of pictures, £ , worth of which were bought on his death by the nation, to form the nucleus of our national gallery. a portrait of angerstein by lawrence hangs there. the titian of which lamb speaks is now attributed to the school of titian. it is called "a concert." angerstein's claudes are also in the national gallery.] letter charles lamb to thomas manning may , . my dear manning--i didn't know what your going was till i shook a last fist with you, and then 'twas just like having shaken hands with a wretch on the fatal scaffold, and when you are down the ladder, you can never stretch out to him again. mary says you are dead, and there's nothing to do but to leave it to time to do for us in the end what it always does for those who mourn for people in such a case. but she'll see by your letter you are not quite dead. a little kicking and agony, and then--. martin burney _took me out_ a walking that evening, and we talked of mister manning; and then i came home and smoked for you; and at twelve o'clock came home mary and monkey louisa from the play, and there was more talk and more smoking, and they all seemed first-rate characters, because they knew a certain person. but what's the use of talking about 'em? by the time you'll have made your escape from the kalmuks, you'll have staid so long i shall never be able to bring to your mind who mary was, who will have died about a year before, nor who the holcrofts were! me perhaps you will mistake for phillips, or confound me with mr. daw, because you saw us together. mary (whom you seem to remember yet) is not quite easy that she had not a formal parting from you. i wish it had so happened. but you must bring her a token, a shawl or something, and remember a sprightly little mandarin for our mantle-piece, as a companion to the child i am going to purchase at the museum. she says you saw her writings about the other day, and she wishes you should know what they are. she is doing for godwin's bookseller twenty of shakspear's plays, to be made into children's tales. six are already done by her, to wit, 'the tempest,' 'winter's tale,' 'midsummer night,' 'much ado,' 'two gentlemen of verona,' and 'cymbeline:' 'the merchant of venice' is in forwardness. i have done 'othello' and 'macbeth,' and mean to do all the tragedies. i think it will be popular among the little people. besides money. it is to bring in guineas. mary has done them capitally, i think you'd think. these are the humble amusements we propose, while you are gone to plant the cross of christ among barbarous pagan anthropophagi. quam homo homini praestat! but then, perhaps, you'll get murder'd, and we shall die in our beds with a fair literary reputation. be sure, if you see any of those people whose heads do grow beneath their shoulders, that you make a draught of them. it will be very curious. o manning, i am serious to sinking almost, when i think that all those evenings, which you have made so pleasant, are gone perhaps for ever. four years you talk of, maybe ten, and you may come back and find such alterations! some circumstance may grow up to you or to me, that may be a bar to the return of any such intimacy. i daresay all this is hum, and that all will come back; but indeed we die many deaths before we die, and i am almost sick when i think that such a hold as i had of you is gone. i have friends, but some of 'em are changed. marriage, or some circumstance, rises up to make them not the same. but i felt sure of you. and that last token you gave me of expressing a wish to have my name joined with yours, you know not how it affected me: like a legacy. god bless you in every way you can form a wish. may he give you health, and safety, and the accomplishment of all your objects, and return you again to us, to gladden some fireside or other (i suppose we shall be moved from the temple). i will nurse the remembrance of your steadiness and quiet, which used to infuse something like itself into our nervous minds. mary called you our ventilator. farewell, and take her best wishes and mine. one thing more. when you get to canton, you will most likely see a young friend of mine, inspector of teas, named ball. he is a very good fellow and i should like to have my name talked of in china. give my kind remembrances to the same ball. good bye. c. l. i have made strict inquiries through my friend thompson as to your affairs with the comp'y. if there had been a committee yesterday an order would have been sent to the captain to draw on them for your passage money, but there was no committee. but in the secretary's orders to receive you on board, it was specified that the company would defray your passage, all the orders about you to the supercargoes are certainly in your ship. here i will manage anything you may want done. what can i add but take care of yourself. we drink tea with the holcrofts to-morrow. [addressed to "mr. manning, passenger on board the _thames_, east indiaman, portsmouth." manning sailed for china this month. he did not return to england until . his nominal purpose was to practise medicine there, not to spread christianity, as lamb suggests--probably in fun. this is manning's reply to lamb's letter:-- "dear lamb--as we are not sailed yet, and i have a few minutes, why should not i give you a line to say that i received your kind letter yesterday, and shall read it again before i have done with it. i am sorry i had not time to call on mary, but i did not even call on my own father, and he's and loves me like a father. i don't know that you can do any thing for me at the india house: if you hear any thing there about me, communicate it to mr. crabtree, , newgate street. i am not dead, nor dying--some people go into yorkshire for four [years], and i have no currant jelly aboard. tell holcroft i received his kind letter." "t. manning for ever."] letter mary lamb to sarah stoddart [mr. w.c. hazlitt dates: june , .] my dear sarah,--you say truly that i have sent you too many make-believe letters. i do not mean to serve you so again, if i can help it. i have been very ill for some days past with the toothache. yesterday, i had it drawn; and i feel myself greatly relieved, but far from easy, for my head and my jaws still ache; and, being unable to do any business, i would wish to write you a long letter, to atone for my former offences; but i feel so languid, that i am afraid wishing is all i can do. i am sorry you are so worried with business; and i am still more sorry for your sprained ancle. you ought not to walk upon it. what is the matter between you and your good-natured maid you used to boast of? and what the devil is the matter with your aunt? you say she is discontented. you must bear with them as well as you can; for, doubtless, it is you[r] poor mother's teazing that puts you all out of sorts. i pity you from my heart. we cannot come to see you this summer, nor do i think it advisable to come and incommode you, when you for the same expence could come to us. whenever you feel yourself disposed to run away from your troubles, come up to us again. i wish it was not such a long, expensive journey, then you could run backwards and forwards every month or two. i am very sorry you still hear nothing from mr. white. i am afraid that is all at an end. what do you intend to do about mr. turner? i believe mr. rickman is well again, but i have not been able to get out lately to enquire, because of my toothache. louisa martin is quite well again. william hazlitt, the brother of him you know, is in town. i believe you have heard us say we like him? he came in good time; for the loss of manning made charles very dull, and he likes hazlitt better than any body, except manning. my toothache has moped charles to death: you know how he hates to see people ill. mrs. reynolds has been this month past at deptford, so that i never know when monday comes. i am glad you have got your mother's pension. my _tales_ are to be published in separate story-books; i mean, in single stories, like the children's little shilling books. i cannot send you them in manuscript, because they are all in the godwins' hands; but one will be published very soon, and then you shall have it _all in print_. i go on very well, and have no doubt but i shall always be able to hit upon some such kind of job to keep going on. i think i shall get fifty pounds a year at the lowest calculation; but as i have not yet seen any _money_ of my own earning, for we do not expect to be paid till christmas, i do not feel the good fortune, that has so unexpectedly befallen me, half so much as i ought to do. but another year, no doubt, i shall perceive it. when i write again, you will hear tidings of the farce, for charles is to go in a few days to the managers to enquire about it. but that must now be a next-year's business too, even if it does succeed; so it's all looking forward, and no prospect of present gain. but that's better than no hopes at all, either for present or future times. charles has written macbeth, othello, king lear, and has begun hamlet; you would like to see us, as we often sit, writing on one table (but not on one cushion sitting), like hermia and helena in the midsummer's night's dream; or, rather, like an old literary darby and joan: i taking snuff, and he groaning all the while, and saying he can make nothing of it, which he always says till he has finished, and then he finds out he has made something of it. if i tell you that you widow-blackacreise, you must tell me i tale-ise, for my _tales_ seem to be all the subject matter i write about; and when you see them, you will think them poor little baby-stories to make such a talk about; but i have no news to send, nor nothing, in short, to say, that is worth paying two pence for. i wish i could get franks, then i should not care how short or stupidly i wrote. charles smokes still, and will smoke to the end of the chapter. martin [burney] has just been here. my tales (_again_) and charles's farce has made the boy mad to turn author; and he has written a farce, and he has made the winter's tale into a story; but what charles says of himself is really true of martin, for _he can make nothing at all of it_: and i have been talking very eloquently this morning, to convince him that nobody can write farces, &c., under thirty years of age. and so i suppose he will go home and new model his farce. what is mr. turner? and what is likely to come of him? and how do you like him? and what do you intend to do about it? i almost wish you to remain single till your mother dies, and then come and live with us; and we would either get you a husband, or teach you how to live comfortably without. i think i should like to have you always to the end of our lives living with us; and i do not know any reason why that should not be, except for the great fancy you seem to have for marrying, which after all is but a hazardous kind of an affair: but, however, do as you like; every man knows best what pleases himself best. i have known many single men i should have liked in my life (_if it had suited them_) for a husband: but very few husbands have i ever wished was mine, which is rather against the state in general; but one never is disposed to envy wives their good husbands. so much for marrying--but however, get married, if you can. i say we shall not come and see you, and i feel sure we shall not: but, if some sudden freak was to come into our wayward heads, could you at all manage?--your mother we should not mind, but i think still it would be so vastly inconvenient.--i am certain we shall not come, and yet _you_ may tell me, when you write, if it would be horribly inconvenient if we did; and do not tell me any lies, but say truly whether you would rather we did or not. god bless you, my dearest sarah! i wish, for your sake, i could have written a very amusing letter; but do not scold, for my head aches sadly. don't mind my headach, for before you get this it will be well, being only from the pains of my jaws and teeth. farewell. yours affectionately, m. lamb. [this letter contains the first mention to sarah stoddart of william hazlitt, who was shortly to put an end to the claims both of mr. white and mr. turner. the _tales from shakespear_, although mainly mary lamb's book, did not bear her name for many years, not until after her brother's death. her connection with it was, however, made public in more than one literary year-book of her day. originally they were to be unsigned, but godwin "cheated" lamb into putting a name to them (see letter of jan. , ). the single stories, which mrs. godwin issued at sixpence each, are now excessively rare. the ordinary first edition in two volumes is a valuable possession, much desired by collectors.] letter charles lamb to william wordsworth [p.m. june , .] dear wordsworth--we got the six pounds safe in your sister's letters--are pleased, you may be sure, with the good news of mrs. w.--hope all is well over by this time. "a fine boy!--have you any more? one more and a girl--poor copies of me" vide mr. h. a farce which the proprietors have done me the honor--but i will set down mr. wroughton's own words. n.b. the ensuing letter was sent in answer to one which i wrote begging to know if my piece had any chance, as i might make alterations, &c. i writing on the monday, there comes this letter on the wednesday. attend. (_copy of a letter from mr. r'd. wroughton_) sir, your piece of mr. h--i am desired to say, is accepted at drury lane theatre, by the proprietors, and, if agreeable to you, will be brought forwards when the proper opportunity serves--the piece shall be sent to you for your alterations in the course of a few days, as the same is not in my hands but with the proprietors. (dated) i am sir, gower st., your obedient ser't., wednesday r'd. wroughton. june , . on the following sunday mr. tobin comes. the scent of a manager's letter brought him. he would have gone further any day on such a business. i read the letter to him. he deems it authentic and peremptory. our conversation naturally fell upon pieces--different sorts of pieces--what is the best way of offering a piece--how far the caprice of managers is an obstacle in the way of a piece--how to judge of the merits of a piece--how long a piece may remain in the hands of the managers before it is acted--and my piece--and your piece--and my poor brother's piece--my poor brother was all his life endeavouring to get a piece accepted-- i am not sure that when _my poor brother_ bequeathed the care of his pieces to mr. james tobin he did not therein convey a legacy which in some measure mollified the otherwise first stupefactions of grief. it can't be expected that the present earl nelson passes all his time in watering the laurels of the admiral with right reverend tears. certainly he steals a fine day now and then to plot how to lay out the grounds and mansion at burnham most suitably to the late earl's taste, if he had lived, and how to spend the hundred thousand pound parliament has given him in erecting some little neat monument to his memory. mr. h. i wrote that in mere wantonness of triumph. have nothing more to say about it. the managers i thank my stars have decided its merits for ever. they are the best judges of pieces, and it would be insensible in me to affect a false modesty after the very flattering letter which i have received and the ample-- i think this will be as good a pattern for orders as i can think on. a little thin flowery border round, neat not gaudy, and the drury lane apollo with the harp at the top. or shall i have no apollo?--simply nothing? or perhaps the comic muse? the same form, only i think without the apollo, will serve for the pit and galleries. i think it will be best to write my name at full length; but then if i give away a great many, that will be tedious. perhaps _ch. lamb_ will do. boxes now i think on it i'll have in capitals. the rest in a neat italian hand. or better perhaps, boxes, in old english character, like madoc or thalaba? i suppose you know poor mountague has lost his wife. that has been the reason for my sending off all we have got of yours separately. i thought it a bad time to trouble him. the tea lb. in lb. papers, two sheets to each, with the chocolate which we were afraid mrs. w. would want, comes in one box and the hats in a small one. i booked them off last night by the kendal waggon. there comes with this letter (no, it comes a day or two earlier) a letter for you from the doctor at malta, about coleridge, just received. nothing of certainty, you see, only that he is not at malta. we supt with the clarksons one night--mrs. clarkson pretty well. mr. c. somewhat fidgety, but a good man. the baby has been on a visit to mrs. charlotte smith, novellist and morals-trainer, but is returned. [_a short passage omitted here._] mary is just stuck fast in all's well that ends well. she complains of having to set forth so many female characters in boy's clothes. she begins to think shakspear 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 does 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 he could not bear young girls. they drove him mad. so i took him home to my old nurse, where he recover'd perfect 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 attigit adire corinthum. the managers i thank my stars have settled that question for me. yours truly, c. lamb. [wordsworth's third child, thomas, who did not grow up, was born june , . "a fine boy!" the quotation is from mr. h.'s soliloquy after the discovery of his name:--"no son of mine shall exist, to bear my ill-fated name. no nurse come chuckling, to tell me it is a boy. no midwife, leering at me from under the lids of professional gravity. i dreamed of caudle. (_sings in a melancholy tone_) lullaby, lullaby,-- hush-a-by-baby--how like its papa it is!--(_makes motions as if he was nursing_). and then, when grown up, 'is this your son, sir?' 'yes, sir, a poor copy of me,--a sad young dog!--just what his father was at his age,--i have four more at home.' oh! oh! oh!" tobin was james tobin, whom we have already met, brother of the late dramatist, john tobin. poor mountague would be basil montagu, whose second wife had just died. he married afterwards anne skepper, whom lamb came to know well, and of whom he speaks in his _elia_ essay "oxford in the vacation." the doctor was dr. stoddart. coleridge had left malta some months before, as we have seen. he had also left rome and was in some foreign town unknown, probably not far from leghorn, whence he sailed for england in the following month, reaching portsmouth in august. the baby was mrs. godwin, and charlotte smith was the poetess (of great fame in her day, but now forgotten), who was then living at tilford, near farnham, in surrey. she died in the following october. the passage which i have, with extreme reluctance, omitted, refers to the physical development of the two ladies. lamb was writing just then less for wordsworth than antiquity. hazlitt's political pamphlet was his _free thoughts on public affairs_, .] letter mary lamb to sarah stoddart [no date. ? begun on friday, july , .] charles and hazlitt are going to sadler's wells, and i am amusing myself in their absence with reading a manuscript of hazlitt's; but have laid it down to write a few lines, to tell you how we are going on. charles has begged a month's hollidays, of which this is the first day, and they are all to be spent at home. we thank you for your kind invitations, and were half-inclined to come down to you; but after mature deliberation, and many wise consultations, such as you know we often hold, we came to the resolution of staying quietly at home: and during the hollidays we are both of us to set stoutly to work and finish the tales, six of them being yet to do. we thought, if we went anywhere and left them undone, they would lay upon our minds; and that when we returned, we should feel unsettled, and our money all spent besides: and next summer we are to be very rich, and then we can afford a long journey some where, i will not say to salisbury, because i really think it is better for you to come to us; but of that we will talk another time. the best news i have to send you is, that the farce is accepted. that is to say, the manager has written to say it shall be brought out when an opportunity serves. i hope that it may come out by next christmas: you must come and see it the first night; for if it succeeds, it will be a great pleasure to you, and if it should not, we shall want your consolation. so you must come. i shall soon have done my work, and know not what to begin next. now, will you set your brains to work and invent a story, either for a short child's story, or a long one that would make a kind of novel, or a story that would make a play. charles wants me to write a play, but i am not over anxious to set about it; but seriously will you draw me out a skeleton of a story, either from memory of any thing that you have read, or from your own invention, and i will fill it up in some way or other. the reason i have not written so long is, that i worked, and worked, in hopes to get through my task before the hollidays began; but at last i was not able, for charles was forced to get them now, or he could not have had any at all: and having picked out the best stories first, these latter ones take more time, being more perplext and unmanageable. but however i hope soon to tell you that they are quite completed. i have finished one to-day which teazed me more than all the rest put together. the[y] sometimes plague me as bad as your _lovers_ do you. how do you go on, and how many new ones have you had lately? i met mrs. fenwick at mrs. holcroft's the other day; she loo[ked very] placid and smiling, but i was so disconcerted that i hardly knew how to sit upon my chair. she invited us to come and see her, but we did not invite her in return; and nothing at all was said in an explanatory sort: so that matter rests at present. mrs. rickman continues very ill--so ill, that there are no hopes of her recovery--for which i am very sorry indeed. i am sorry you are altogether so uncomfortable; i shall be glad to hear you are settled at salisbury: that must be better than living in a lone house, companionless as you are. i wish you could afford to bring your mother up to london; but that is quite impossible. your brother wrote a letter a week ago (which passed through our hands) to wordsworth, to tell him all he knew of coleridge; but as he had not heard from c. for some time, there was nothing in the letter we did not know before. thanks for your brother's letters. i preserve them very carefully, and you shall have them (as the manager says) when opportunity serves. mrs. wordsworth is brought to bed; and i ought to write to miss wordsworth to thank her for the information, but i suppose i shall defer it till another child is coming. i do so hate writing letters. i wish all my friends would come and live in town. charles has been telling me even it is better [than] two months that he ought to write to your brother. [it is not] my dislike to writing letters that prevents my [writing] to you, but sheer want of time, i assure you, because [i know] you care not how stupidly i write, so as you do but [hear at the] time what we are about. let me hear from you soon, and do let me hear some [good news,] and don't let me hear of your walking with sprained ancles again; no business is an excuse for making yourself lame. i hope your poor mother is better, and aunty and maid jog on pretty well; remember me to them all in due form and order. charles's love, and our best wishes that all your little busy affairs may come to a prosperous conclusion. yours affectionately, m. lamb. friday evening. [_added later:_--] they (hazlitt and charles) came home from sadler's wells so dismal and dreary dull on friday, that i gave them both a good scolding--_quite a setting to rights_; and i think it has done some good, for charles has been very chearful ever since. i begin to hope the _home hollidays_ will go on very well. mrs. rickman is better. rickman we saw at captain burney's for the first time since her illness last night. write directly, for i am uneasy about your _lovers_; i wish something was settled. god bless you. once more, yours affectionately, m. lamb. _sunday morning [july , or more probably ]_.--i did not put this in the post, hoping to be able to write a less dull letter to you this morning; but i have been prevented, so it shall go as it is. i am in good spirits just at this present time, for charles has been reading over the _tale_ i told you plagued me so much, and he thinks it one of the very best: it is all's well that ends well. you must not mind the many wretchedly dull letters i have sent you; for, indeed, i cannot help it, my mind is so _dry_ always after poring over my work all day. but it will soon be over. i am cooking a shoulder of lamb (hazlitt dines with us); it will be ready at two o'clock, if you can pop in and eat a bit with us. [the programme at sadler's wells on july , , was: "aquatic theatre, sadler's wells. a new dance called grist and puff, or the highland fling. the admired comic pantomime, harlequin and the water kelpe. new melodramatic romance, the invisible ring; or, the water monstre and fire spectre." the author of both was mr. c. dibdin, jun. "real water." mary lamb's next work, after the _tales from shakespear_, was _mrs. leicester's school_. charles lamb meanwhile was preparing his _dramatic specimens_ and _adventures of ulysses_. mrs. rickman did not die then, she lived until .] letter mary lamb to dorothy wordsworth [p.m. august , .] my dear miss wordsworth--after i had put my letter in the post yesterday i was uneasy all the night because of some few expressions relative to poor coleridge--i mean, in saying i wished your brother would come to town and that i wished your brother would consult mr. southey. i am very sure your brother will take no step in consequence of any foolish advice that i can give him, so far i am easy, but the painful reflections i have had during a sleepless night has induced me to write merely to quiet myself, because i have felt ever since, that in the present situation of coleridge, returned after an absence of two years, and feeling a reluctance to return to his family, i ought not to throw in the weight of a hair in advising you or your brother, and that i ought not to have so much as named to you his reluctance to return to keswick, for so little is it in my power to calculate on his actions that perhaps in a few days he may be on his return home. you, my dear friend, will perfectly understand me that i do not mean that i might not freely say to you anything that is upon my mind--but [the] truth is, my poor mind is so weak that i never dare trust my own judgement in anything: what i think one hour a fit of low spirits makes me unthink the next. yesterday i wrote, anxiously longing for mr. wordsworth and mr. southey to endeavour to bring mrs. c. to consent to a separation, and to day i think of the letter i received from mrs. coleridge, telling me, as joyful news, that her husband is arrived, and i feel it very wrong in me even in the remotest degree to do anything to prevent her seeing that husband--she and her husband being the only people who ought to be concerned in the affair. all that i have said, or meant to say, you will perfectly understand, it being nothing more than to beg you will consider both my letter to day and yesterday as if you had not read either, they being both equally the effect of low spirits, brought on by the fatigue of coleridge's conversation and the anxious care even to misery which i have felt since he has been here, that something could be done to make such an admirable creature happy. nor has, i assure you, mrs. coleridge been without her full share in adding to my uneasiness. they say she grows fat and is very happy--and people say i grow fat and look happy-- it is foolish to teize you about my anxieties, you will feel quite enough on the subject yourself, and your little ones are all ill, and no doubt you are fatigued with nursing, but i could not help writing to day, to tell you how what i said yesterday has vext and worried me. burn both these foolish letters and do not name the subject of them, because charles will either blame me for having written something improper or he will laugh at me for my foolish fears about nothing. though i wish you not to take notice of what i have said, yet i shall rejoice to see a letter from you, and i hope, when you have half an hour's leisure, to see a line from you. we have not heard from coleridge since he went out of town, but i dare say you have heard either from him or mrs. clarkson. i remain my dear friend yours most affectionately m. lamb. friday [august ]. [for the full understanding of mary lamb's letter it is necessary to read coleridge's life and his letters. coleridge on his return from abroad reached london august , , and took up his quarters with the lambs on the following day. he once more joined stuart, then editing the _courier_, but much of his old enthusiasm had gone. in mr. dykes campbell's words:-- "almost his first words to stuart were: 'i am literally afraid, even to cowardice, to ask for any person, or of any person.' spite of the friendliest and most unquestioning welcome from all most dear to him, it was the saddest of home-comings, for the very sympathy held out with both hands induced only a bitter, hopeless feeling of remorse--a "'sense of past youth, and manhood come in vain;-- and genius given, and knowledge won in vain;--' "of broken promises,--promises to friends and promises to himself; and above all, sense of a will paralysed--dead perhaps, killed by his own hand." coleridge remained at lamb's at any rate until august , afterwards taking rooms in the _courier_ office at strand. meanwhile his reluctance to meet or communicate with his wife was causing his friends much concern, none more so than mary lamb, who wrote at least two letters filled with anxious sympathy to dorothy wordsworth on the subject, asking for the mediation of wordsworth or southey. her earlier letter is missing. to quote mr. dykes campbell again:-- "on september --just a month after his landing--he wrote his first letter to his wife, to say that he might be expected at greta hall on the th. "before this, wordsworth had informed sir george beaumont that coleridge 'dare not go home, he recoils so much from the thought of domesticating with mrs. coleridge, with whom, though on many accounts he much respects her, he is so miserable that he dare not encounter it. what a deplorable thing! i have written to him to say that if he does not come down immediately i must insist upon seeing him some-where. if he appoints london i shall go. "'i believe if anything good is to be done for him it must be done by me.'" "it was this letter of wordsworth, doubtless, which drew coleridge to the north. dorothy's letter to lady beaumont, written on receipt of the announcement of coleridge's home-coming, goes copiously and minutely into the reasons for the estrangement between the poet and his wife. miss wordsworth still had hopes of an improvement. 'poor soul!' she writes, 'he had a struggle of many years, striving to bring mrs. c. to a change of temper, and something like communion with him in his enjoyments. he is now, i trust, effectually convinced that he has no power of that sort,' and may, she thinks, if he will be 'reconciled to that one great want, want of sympathy,' live at home in peace and quiet. 'mrs. c. has many excellent properties, as you observe; she is unremitting in her attention as a nurse to her children, and, indeed, i believe she would have made an excellent wife to many persons. coleridge is as little fitted for her as she for him, and i am truly sorry for her.'" it might perhaps be stated here that the separation was agreed upon in december. at the end of that month coleridge visited the wordsworths at coleorton with hartley, and in a few days began to be "more like his old self"--in dorothy wordsworth's phrase. i append an undated letter which may belong to this period:--] letter mary lamb to s. t. coleridge dear coleridge--i have read your silly, very silly, letter, and between laughing and crying i hardly know how to answer it. you are too serious and too kind a vast deal, for we are not much used to either seriousness or kindness from our present friends, and therefore your letter has put me into a greater hurry of spirits that [? than] your pleasant segar did last night, for believe me your two odd faces amused me much more than the mighty transgression vexed me. if charles had not smoked last night his virtue would not have lasted longer than tonight, and now perhaps with a little of your good counsel he will refrain. be not too serious if he smokes all the time you are with us--a few chearful evenings spent with you serves to bear up our spirits many a long and weary year--and the very being led into the crime by your segar that you thought so harmless, will serve for our amusement many a dreary time when we can get no letter nor hear no tidings of you. you must positively must write to mrs. coleridge this day, and you must write here, that i may know you write, or you must come and dictate a letter for me to write to her. i know all that you would say in defence of not writing and i allow in full force everything that [you] can say or think, but yet a letter from me or you _shall go today_. i wanted to tell you, but feared to begin the subject, how well your children are, how pypos thrives and what a nice child sara is, and above all i hear such favourable accounts from southey, from wordsworth and hazlitt, of hartley. i have got wordsworth's letters out for you to look at, but you shall not see them or talk of them without you like--only come here as soon as you receive this, and i will not teize you about writing, but will manage a few lines, charles and i between us. but something like a letter shall go today. come directly yours affectionately, m. lamb. letter mary lamb to sarah stoddart [p.m. october , .] my dear sarah--i thank you a thousand times for the beautiful work you have sent me, i received the parcel from a strange gentleman yesterday. i like the patterns very much, you have quite set me up in finery, but you should have sent the silk handkerchief too. will you make a parcel of that and send it by the salisbury coach--i should like to have it in a few days because we have not yet been to mr. babbs and that handkerchief would suit this time of year nicely. i have received a long letter from your brother on the subject of your intended marriage. i have no doubt but you also have one on this business, therefore it is needless to repeat what he says. i am well pleased to find that upon the whole he does not seem to see it in an unfavorable light. he says that, if mr. d. is a worthy man he shall have no objection to become the brother of a farmer, and he makes an odd request to me that i shall set out to salisbury to look at and examine into the merits of the said mr. d., and speaks very confidently as if you would abide by my determination. a pretty sort of an office truly.--shall i come? the objections he starts are only such as you and i have already talked over, such as the difference in age, education, habits of life, &c. you have gone too far in this affair for any interference to be at all desirable, and if you had not, i really do not know what my wishes would be. when you bring mr. dowling at christmas i suppose it will be quite time enough for me to sit in judgement upon him, but my examination will not be a very severe one. if you fancy a very young man, and he likes an elderly gentlewoman; if he likes a learned and accomplished lady, and you like a not very learned youth, who may need a little polishing, which probably he will never acquire; it is all very well, and god bless you both together and may you be both very long in the same mind. i am to assist you too, your brother says, in drawing up the marriage settlements--another thankful office! i am not, it seems, to suffer you to keep too much money in your own power, and yet i am to take care of you in case of bankruptcy &c., and i am to recommend to you, for the better management of this point, the serious perusal of _jeremy taylor_ his opinion on the marriage state, especially his advice against _separate interests_ in that happy state, and i am also to tell you how desirable it is that the husband should have the intire direction of all money concerns, except, as your good brother adds, in the case of his own family, where the money, he observes, is very properly deposited in mrs. stoddart's hands, she being better suited to enjoy such a trust than any other woman, and therefore it is fit that the general rule should not be extended to her. we will talk over these things when you come to town, and as to settlements, which are matters of which, i never having had a penny in my own disposal, i never in my life thought of--and if i had been blessed with a good fortune, and that marvellous blessing to boot, a husband, i verily believe i should have crammed it all uncounted into his pocket--but thou hast a cooler head of thy own, and i dare say will do exactly what is expedient and proper, but your brother's opinion seems somewhat like mr. barwis's and i dare say you will take it into due consideration, yet perhaps an offer of your own money to take a farm may make _uncle_ do less for his nephew, and in that case mr. d. might be a loser by your generosity. weigh all these things well, and if you can so contrive it, let your brother _settle_ the _settlements_ himself when he returns, which will most probably be long before you want them. you are settled, it seems, in the very house which your brother most dislikes. if you find this house very inconvenient, get out of it as fast as you can, for your brother says he sent you the fifty pound to make you comfortable, and by the general tone of his letter i am sure he wishes to make you easy in money matters: therefore why straiten yourself to pay the debt you owe him, which i am well assured he never means to take? thank you for the letter and for the picture of pretty little chubby nephew john. i have been busy making waistcoats and plotting new work to succeed the tales. as yet i have not hit upon any thing to my mind. charles took an emendated copy of his farce to mr. wroughton the manager yesterday. mr. wroughton was very friendly to him, and expressed high approbation of the farce, but there are two, he tells him, to come out before it, yet he gave him hopes that it will come out this season, but i am afraid you will not see it by christmas. it will do for another jaunt for you in the spring. we are pretty well and in fresh spirits about this farce. charles has been very good lately in the matter of _smoking_. when you come bring the gown you wish to sell. mrs. coleridge will be in town then, and if she happens not to fancy it, perhaps some other person may. coleridge i believe is gone home; he left us with that design but we have not heard from him this fortnight. louisa sends her love; she has been very unwell lately. my respects to coridon, mother, and aunty. farewel, my best wishes are with you. yours affectionately, m. lamb. thursday. when i saw what a prodigious quantity of work you had put into the finery i was quite ashamed of my unreasonable request, i will never serve you so again, but i do dearly love worked muslin. [sarah stoddart now had a new lover, mr. dowling, to whom she seems actually to have become engaged. mr. barwis, i presume, was mr. dowling's uncle. coridon would, i imagine, be mr. dowling.] letter charles lamb to thomas manning th dec., . tuthill is at crabtree's who has married tuthill's sister. manning, your letter dated hottentots, august the what-was-it? came to hand. i can scarce hope that mine will have the same luck. china-- canton--bless us--how it strains the imagination and makes it ache! i write under another uncertainty, whether it can go to-morrow by a ship which i have just learned is going off direct to your part of the world, or whether the despatches may not be sealed up and this have to wait, for if it is detained here, it will grow staler in a fortnight than in a five months' voyage coming to you. it will be a point of conscience to send you none but brand-new news (the latest edition), which will but grow the better, like oranges, for a sea voyage. oh, that you should be so many hemispheres off--if i speak incorrectly you can correct me--why, the simplest death or marriage that takes place here must be important to you as news in the old bastile. there's your friend tuthill has got away from france--you remember france? and tuthill?--ten-to-one but he writes by this post, if he don't get my note in time, apprising him of the vessel sailing. know then that he has found means to obtain leave from bonaparte without making use of any _incredible romantic pretences_ as some have done, who never meant to fulfil them, to come home; and i have seen him here and at holcroft's. i have likewise seen his wife, this elegant little french woman whose hair reaches to her heels--by the same token that tom (tommy h.) took the comb out of her head, not expecting the issue, and it fell down to the ground to his utter consternation, two ells long. an't you glad about tuthill? now then be sorry for holcroft, whose new play, called "the vindictive man," was damned about a fortnight since. it died in part of its own weakness, and in part for being choked up with bad actors. the two principal parts were destined to mrs. jordan and mr. bannister, but mrs. j. has not come to terms with the managers, they have had some squabble, and bannister shot some of his fingers off by the going off of a gun. so miss duncan had her part, and mr. de camp, a vulgar brother of miss de camp, took his. he is a fellow with the make of a jockey, and the air of a lamplighter. his part, the principal comic hope of the play, was most unluckily goldfinch, taken out of the "road to ruin," not only the same character, but the identical goldfinch--the same as falstaff is in two plays of shakspeare. as the devil of ill-luck would have it, half the audience did not know that h. had written it, but were displeased at his stealing from the "road to ruin;" and those who might have borne a gentlemanly coxcomb with his "that's your sort," "go it"--such as lewis is--did not relish the intolerable vulgarity and inanity of the idea stript of his manner. de camp was hooted, more than hist, hooted and bellowed off the stage before the second act was finished, so that the remainder of his part was forced to be, with some violence to the play, omitted. in addition to this, a whore was another principal character--a most unfortunate choice in this moral day. the audience were as scandalised as if you were to introduce such a personage to their private tea-tables. besides, her action in the play was gross--wheedling an old man into marriage. but the mortal blunder of the play was that which, oddly enough, h. took pride in, and exultingly told me of the night before it came out, that there were no less than eleven principal characters in it, and i believe he meant of the men only, for the play-bill exprest as much, not reckoning one woman and one whore; and true it was, for mr. powell, mr. raymond, mr. bartlett, mr. h. siddons, mr. barrymore, &c. &c.,--to the number of eleven, had all parts equally prominent, and there was as much of them in quantity and rank as of the hero and heroine--and most of them gentlemen who seldom appear but as the hero's friend in a farce--for a minute or two--and here they all had their ten-minute speeches, and one of them gave the audience a serious account how he was now a lawyer but had been a poet, and then a long enumeration of the inconveniences of authorship, rascally booksellers, reviewers, &c.; which first set the audience a-gaping; but i have said enough. you will be so sorry, that you will not think the best of me for my detail; but news is news at canton. poor h. i fear will feel the disappointment very seriously in a pecuniary light. from what i can learn he has saved nothing. you and i were hoping one day that he had; but i fear he has nothing but his pictures and books, and a no very flourishing business, and to be obliged to part with his long-necked guido that hangs opposite as you enter, and the game-piece that hangs in the back drawing-room, and all those vandykes, &c.! god should temper the wind to the shorn connoisseur. i hope i need not say to you, that i feel for the weather-beaten author and for all his household. i assure you his fate has soured a good deal the pleasure i should have otherwise taken in my own little farce being accepted, and i hope about to be acted--it is in rehearsal actually, and i expect it to come out next week. it is kept a sort of secret, and the rehearsals have gone on privately, lest by many folks knowing it, the story should come out, which would infallibly damn it. you remember i had sent it before you went. wroughton read it, and was much pleased with it. i speedily got an answer. i took it to make alterations, and lazily kept it some months, then took courage and furbished it up in a day or two and took it. in less than a fortnight i heard the principal part was given to elliston, who liked it, and only wanted a prologue, which i have since done and sent; and i had a note the day before yesterday from the manager, wroughton (bless his fat face--he is not a bad actor in some things), to say that i should be summoned to the rehearsal after the next, which next was to be yesterday. i had no idea it was so forward. i have had no trouble, attended no reading or rehearsal, made no interest; what a contrast to the usual parade of authors! but it is peculiar to modesty to do all things without noise or pomp! i have some suspicion it will appear in public on wednesday next, for w. says in his note, it is so forward that if wanted it may come out next week, and a new melo-drama is announced for every day till then: and "a new farce is in rehearsal," is put up in the bills. now you'd like to know the subject. the title is "mr. h.," no more; how simple, how taking! a great h. sprawling over the play-bill and attracting eyes at every corner. the story is a coxcomb appearing at bath, vastly rich--all the ladies dying for him--all bursting to know who he is--but he goes by no other name than mr. h.--a curiosity like that of the dames of strasburg about the man with the great nose. but i won't tell you any more about it. yes, i will; but i can't give you an idea how i have done it. i'll just tell you that after much vehement admiration, when his true name comes out, "hogsflesh," all the women shun him, avoid him, and not one can be found to change their name for him--that's the idea--how flat it is here!--but how whimsical in the farce! and only think how hard upon me it is that the ship is despatched to-morrow, and my triumph cannot be ascertained till the wednesday after--but all china will ring of it by and by. n.b. (but this is a secret). the professor has got a tragedy coming out with the young roscius in it in january next, as we say--january last it will be with you--and though it is a profound secret now, as all his affairs are, it cannot be much of one by the time you read this. however, don't let it go any further. i understand there are dramatic exhibitions in china. one would not like to be forestalled. do you find in all this stuff i have written anything like those feelings which one should send my old adventuring friend, that is gone to wander among tartars and may never come again? i don't--but your going away, and all about you, is a threadbare topic. i have worn it out with thinking--it has come to me when i have been dull with anything, till my sadness has seemed more to have come from it than to have introduced it. i want you, you don't know how much--but if i had you here in my european garret, we should but talk over such stuff as i have written--so--. those "tales from shakespear" are near coming out, and mary has begun a new work. mr. dawe is turned author: he has been in such a way lately--dawe the painter, i mean--he sits and stands about at holcroft's and says nothing--then sighs and leans his head on his hand. i took him to be in love--but it seems he was only meditating a work,--"the life of morland,"--the young man is not used to composition. rickman and captain burney are well; they assemble at my house pretty regularly of a wednesday--a new institution. like other great men i have a public day, cribbage and pipes, with phillips and noisy martin. good heaven! what a bit only i've got left! how shall i squeeze all i know into this morsel! coleridge is come home, and is going to turn lecturer on taste at the royal institution. i shall get £ from the theatre if "mr. h." has a good run, and i hope £ for the copyright. nothing if it fails; and there never was a more ticklish thing. the whole depends on the manner in which the name is brought out, which i value myself on, as a _chef-d'oeuvre_. how the paper grows less and less! in less than two minutes i shall cease to talk to you, and you may rave to the great wall of china. n.b. is there such a wall! is it as big as old london wall by bedlam? have you met with a friend of mine, named ball, at canton?--if you are acquainted, remember me kindly to him. amongst many queer cattle i have and do meet with at the india ho. i always liked his behaviour. tell him his friend evans &c. are well. woodruff not dead yet. may-be, you'll think i have not said enough of tuthill and the holcrofts. tuthill is a noble fellow, as far as i can judge. the holcrofts bear their disappointment pretty well, but indeed they are sadly mortified. mrs. h. is cast down. it was well, if it were but on this account, that tuthill is come home. n.b. if my little thing don't succeed, i shall easily survive, having, as it were, compared to h.'s venture, but a sixteenth in the lottery. mary and i are to sit next the orchestra in the pit, next the tweedledees. she remembers you. you are more to us than five hundred farces, clappings, &c. come back one day. c. lamb. [the letter is addressed to t. manning, esq., canton. at the end lamb adds:-- "holcroft has just writ to me as follows:-- "'dear sir, miss l. has informed us you are writing to manning. will you be kind enough to inform him directly from me that i and my family are most truly anxious for his safety; that if praying could bring down blessings on him we should pray morning noon and night; that his and our good friends the tuthills are once more happily safe in england, and that i earnestly entreat not only a single letter but a correspondence with him whenever the thing [is] practicable, with such an address as may make letters from me likely to find him. in short, dear sir, if you will be kind enough to speak of me to manning, you cannot speak with greater friendship and respect than i feel. "'yours with true friendship and kindness.'" in the beginning of this letter we see the first germ of an idea afterwards developed in the letter to barren field of august , , and again, more fully, in the _elia_ essay "distant correspondents." tuthill, afterwards sir george leman tuthill ( - ), was the physician who, on a visit to paris, was included among the english _détenus_ and held a captive for several years. he was released only after his wife had made a personal appeal to napoleon on his return from hunting. the words "incredible romantic pretences" refer chaffingly to manning's application to napoleon for liberty to return to england two or three years previously. holcroft's "vindictive man" was produced at drury lane on november , . it was a complete failure. his "road to ruin," produced in at covent garden, with "gentleman" lewis as goldfinch, had been a great success and is still occasionally played. holcroft was also a very voluminous author and translator, and the partner of his brother-in-law, mercier, in a printing business, which, however, was unprofitable. tommy was holcroft's son. "the dames of strasburg"--in _tristram shandy_, vol. iv. "the professor has a tragedy." this was "faulkener," for which lamb wrote the prologue. owing to the capriciousness of master betty, the young roscius, it was not produced until december , , and then with elliston in the principal part. it was only partially successful, a result for which godwin blamed holcroft, who had revised the play. mary lamb's new work was mrs. leicester's school. "mr. dawe is turned author." the life of george morland, by george dawe, was published in . coleridge's intended series of lectures on taste was abandoned. he did not actually deliver any until january , .] letter charles lamb to william wordsworth [dated at end: december , .] 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 substantial 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 witness'd 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 astonishing--but they yielded at length to a few hisses. a hundred hisses--damn the word, i write it like kisses--how different--a hundred hisses outweigh a claps. the former come more directly from the heart--well, 'tis withdrawn and there is an end. better luck to us-- c. l. dec.--(turn over). p.s. pray when any of you write to the clarksons, give our kind loves, and say we shall not be able to come and see them at xmas--as i shall have but a day or two,--and tell them we bear our mortification pretty well. ["mr. h." was produced at drury lane on december , with elliston in the title-role. lamb's account of the evening is supplemented by hazlitt in his essay "on great and little things" and by crabb robinson, a new friend whom he had just made, in his _diary_. see vol. iv. of this edition. the curious thing is that the management of drury lane advertised the farce as a success and announced it for the next night. but lamb apparently interfered and it was not played again. some few years later "mr. h." was performed acceptably in america.] letter charles lamb to sarah stoddart december [ ]. 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 determined not to be cast down. i am going to leave off tobacco, 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 have been one of our greatest joys. as it is, we shall expect you at the time you mentioned. but whenever you come you shall be most welcome. god bless you, dear sarah, yours most truly, c. l. mary is by no means unwell, but i made her let me write. [following this should come a letter from mary lamb to mrs. thomas clarkson, dated december , . it again describes the ill success of "mr. h." "the blame rested chiefly with charles and yet it should not be called blame for it was mere ignorance of stage effect ... he seems perfectly aware why and for what cause it failed. he intends to write one more with all his dearly bought experience in his head, and should that share same fate he will then turn his mind to some other pursuit." lamb did not write another farce for many years. when he did--"the pawnbroker's daughter" (see vol. iv.)--it deservedly was not acted.] letter charles lamb to william godwin [no date. ? .] i repent. can that god whom thy votaries say that thou hast demolished expect more? i did indite a splenetic letter, but did the black hypocondria never gripe _thy_ heart, till them hast taken a friend for an enemy? the foul fiend flibbertigibbet leads me over four inched bridges, to course my own shadow for a traitor. there are certain positions of the moon, under which i counsel thee not to take anything written from this domicile as serious. _i_ rank thee with alves, latinè helvetius, or any of his cursed crew? thou art my friend, and henceforth my philosopher--thou shall teach distinction to the junior branches of my household, and deception to the greyhaired janitress at my door. what! are these atonements? can arcadians be brought upon knees, creeping and crouching? come, as macbeth's drunken porter says, knock, knock, knock, knock, knock, knock, knock--seven times in a day shall thou batter at my peace, and if i shut aught against thee, save the temple of janus, may briareus, with his hundred hands, in each a brass knocker, lead me such a life. c. lamb. [i cannot account for this letter in the absence of its predecessor and that from godwin to which it replies.] letter charles lamb to william wordsworth [dated at end: january , .] dear wordsworth-- we have book'd off from swan and two necks, lad lane, this day (per coach) the tales from shakespear. you will forgive the plates, when i tell you they were left to the direction of godwin, who left the choice of subjects to the bad baby, who from mischief (i suppose) has chosen one from damn'd beastly vulgarity (vide merch. venice) where no atom of authority was in the tale to justify it--to another has given a name which exists not in the tale, nic bottom, and which she thought would be funny, though in this i suspect _his_ hand, for i guess her reading does not reach far enough to know bottom's xtian name--and one of hamlet, and grave digging, a scene which is not hinted at in the story, and you might as well have put king canute the great reproving his courtiers-- the rest are giants and giantesses. suffice it, to save our taste and damn our folly, that we left it all to a friend w. g.--who in the first place cheated me into putting a name to them, which i did not mean, but do not repent, and then wrote a puff about their _simplicity_, &c., to go with the advertisement as in my name! enough of this egregious dupery.--i will try to abstract the load of teazing circumstances from the stories and tell you that i am answerable for lear, macbeth, timon, romeo, hamlet, othello, for occasionally a tail piece or correction of grammar, for none of the cuts and all of the spelling. the rest is my sister's.--we think pericles of hers the best, and othello of mine--but i hope all have some good. as you like it we like least. so much, only begging you to tear out the cuts and give them to johnny, as "mrs. godwin's fancy." c. l. thursday, jan., . our love to all. i had almost forgot, my part of the preface begins in the middle of a sentence, in last but one page after a colon thus :--_which if they be happily so done &c_. the former part hath a more feminine turn and does hold me up something as an instructor to young ladies: but upon my modesty's honour i wrote it not. godwin told my sister that the baby chose the subjects. a fact in taste. [lamb has run his pen lightly through "god bless me," at the beginning of the postscript. the plates to the _tales from shakespear_ will be found reproduced in facsimile in vol. iii. of my large edition. they were designed probably by mulready. an interval of nine months occurs before we come to another letter of the date of which we can be certain. of what happened in this time, we know little or nothing, but i think it probable that the following hitherto unpublished letter from charles lamb to the clarksons explains part of the long silence. the postmark gives no year, but it must be either or , and since the _dramatic specimens_ herein referred to as in preparation were published in , we may confidently assume it to be . the letter tells its own story only too clearly: the lambs had been on a visit to the clarksons at bury st. edmunds; mary lamb had again fallen ill while there; and her brother had just left her once more at her hoxton asylum.] letter charles lamb to thomas and catherine clarkson [p.m. june ( ).] dear mr. & mrs. clarkson, you will wish to know how we performed our journey. my sister was tolerably quiet until we got to chelmsford, where she began to be very bad indeed, as your friends william knight and his family can tell you when you see them. what i should have done without their kindness i don't know, but among other acts of great attention, they provided me with a waistcoat to confine her arms, by the help of which we went through the rest of our journey. but sadly tired and miserably depressed she was before we arrived at hoxton. we got there about half past eight; and now 'tis all over, i have great satisfaction that she is among people who have been used to her. in all probability a few months or even weeks will restore her (her last illness confined her ten weeks) but if she does recover i shall be very careful how i take her so far from home again. i am so fatigued, for she talked in the most wretched desponding way conceivable, particularly the last three stages, she talked all the way,--so that you won't expect me to say much, or even to express myself as i should do in thanks for your kindnesses. my sister will acknowledge them when she can.-- i shall not have heard how she is to day until too late for the post, but if any great change takes place for better or worse, i shall certainly let you know. she tells me something about having given away one of my coats to your servant. it is a new one, and perhaps may be of small use to him. if you can get it me again, i shall very willingly give him a compensation. i shall also be much obliged by your sending in a parcel all the manuscripts, books &c. she left behind. i want in particular the dramatic extracts, as my purpose is to make use of the remainder of my holydays in completing them at the british museum, which will be employment & money in the end. i am exceedingly harrassed with the journey, but that will go off in a day or two, and i will set to work. i know you will grieve for us, but i hope my sister's illness is not worse than many she has got through before. only i am afraid the fatigue of the journey may affect her general health. you shall have notice how she goes on. in the mean time, accept our kindest thanks. [_signature cut off_.] letter mary lamb to sarah stoddart [no date. endorsed oct., .] my dear sarah,--i am two letters in your debt; but it has not been so much from idleness, as a wish first to see how your comical love affair would turn out. you know, i make a pretence not to interfere; but like all old maids i feel a mighty solicitude about the event of love stories. i learn from the lover that he has not been so remiss in his duty as you supposed. his effusion, and your complaints of his inconstancy, crossed each other on the road. he tells me his was a very strange letter, and that probably it has affronted you. that it was a strange letter i can readily believe; but that you were affronted by a strange letter is not so easy for me to conceive, that not being your way of taking things. but however it be, let some answer come, either to him, or else to me, showing cause why you do not answer him. and pray, by all means, preserve the said letter, that i may one day have the pleasure of seeing how mr. hazlitt treats of love. i was at your brother's on thursday. mrs. s. tells me she has not written, because she does not like to put you to the expense of postage. they are very well. little missy thrives amazingly. mrs. stoddart conjectures she is in the family way again; and those kind of conjectures generally prove too true. your other sister-in-law, mrs. hazlitt, was brought to bed last week of a boy: so that you are likely to have plenty of nephews and nieces. yesterday evening we were at rickman's; and who should we find there but hazlitt; though, if you do not know it was his first invitation there, it will not surprise you as much as it did us. we were very much pleased, because we dearly love our friends to be respected by our friends. the most remarkable events of the evening were, that we had a very fine pine-apple; that mr. phillips, mr. lamb, and mr. hazlitt played at cribbage in the most polite and gentlemanly manner possible--and that i won two rubbers at whist. i am glad aunty left you some business to do. our compliments to her and your mother. is it as cold at winterslow as it is here? how do the lions go on? i am better, and charles is tolerably well. godwin's new tragedy will probably be damned the latter end of next week. charles has written the prologue. prologues and epilogues will be his death. if you know the extent of mrs. reynolds' poverty, you will be glad to hear mr. norris has got ten pounds a year for her from the temple society. she will be able to make out pretty well now. farewell--determine as wisely as you can in regard to hazlitt; and, if your determination is to have him, heaven send you many happy years together. if i am not mistaken, i have concluded letters on the corydon courtship with this same wish. i hope it is not ominous of change; for if i were sure you would not be quite starved to death, nor beaten to a mummy, i should like to see hazlitt and you come together, if (as charles observes) it were only for the joke sake. write instantly to me. yours most affectionately, m. lamb. saturday morning. [the reference to godwin's tragedy, "faulkener," which was produced on december , , would indicate a later date, except that that play was so frequently postponed. the lover this time is, at last, william hazlitt. miss stoddart was not his first love; some time before he had wished to marry a miss railton of liverpool; then, in the lakes, he had had passages with a farmer's daughter involving a ducking at the hands of jealous rivals; while de quincey would have us believe that hazlitt proposed to dorothy wordsworth. but it was sarah stoddart whom he was destined to marry. a specimen of hazlitt's love letters (which mary lamb wished to see) will be found in mr. w. c. hazlitt's _memoirs of william hazlitt_, vol. i., page . the marriage turned out anything but a joke. mrs. reynolds' poverty was in later years further relieved by an annuity of £ from charles lamb.] letter mary lamb to sarah stoddart dec. , . my dear sarah,--i have deferred answering your last letter, in hopes of being able to give you some intelligence that might be useful to you; for i every day expected that hazlitt or you would communicate the affair to your brother; but, as the doctor is silent upon the subject, i conclude he yet knows nothing of the matter. you desire my advice; and therefore i tell you i think you ought to tell your brother as soon as possible; for, at present, he is on very friendly visiting terms with hazlitt, and, if he is not offended by a too long concealment, will do every thing in his power to serve you. if you chuse that i should tell him, i will; but i think it would come better from you. if you can persuade hazlitt to mention it, that would be still better; for i know your brother would be unwilling to give credit to you, because you deceived yourself in regard to corydon. hazlitt, i know, is shy of speaking first; but i think it of such great importance to you to have your brother friendly in the business, that, if you can overcome his reluctance, it would be a great point gained. for you must begin the world with ready money--at least an hundred pound; for, if you once go into furnished lodgings, you will never be able to lay by money to buy furniture. if you obtain your brother's approbation, he might assist you, either by lending or otherwise. i have a great opinion of his generosity, where he thinks it would be useful. hazlitt's brother is mightily pleased with the match; but he says you must have furniture, and be clear in the world at first setting out, or you will be always behindhand. he also said he would give you what furniture he could spare. i am afraid you can bring but few things away from your house. what a pity that you have laid out so much money on your cottage!--that money would have just done. i most heartily congratulate you on having so well got over your first difficulties; and, now that it is quite settled, let us have no more fears. i now mean not only to hope and wish, but to persuade myself, that you will be very happy together. endeavour to keep your mind as easy as you can. you ought to begin the world with a good stock of health and spirits: it is quite as necessary as ready money at first setting out. do not teize yourself about coming to town. when your brother learns how things are going on, we shall consult him about meetings and so forth; but, at present, any hasty step of that kind would not answer, i know. if hazlitt were to go down to salisbury, or you were to come up here, without consulting your brother, you know it would never do. charles is just come in to dinner; he desires his love and best wishes. yours affectionately, m. lamb. monday morning. [our next letter shows that when dr. stoddart was at length told of the engagement he resented it. we now come to two curious letters from charles lamb to joseph hume, not available for this edition, which are printed by mr. w. c. hazlitt in _lamb and hazlitt_. the first, dated december , , contains the beginning of an elaborate hoax maintained by lamb and hume (who was joseph hume, a clerk in the victualling office at somerset house, and the author of a translation of tasso), in which hazlitt, although the victim, played his part. lamb asserts that hazlitt has cut his throat. he also incidentally regrets that he cannot accept an invitation to dine with hume: "cold bones of mutton and leather-roasted potatoes at pimlico at ten must carry it away from a certain turkey and contingent plumb-pudding at montpelier at four (i always spell plumb-pudding with a _b_, p-l-u-m-_b_--) i think it reads fatter and more suetty." in reply to this letter came one from hume, dated january , , referring to a humble petition and remonstrance by hazlitt, dated january , , showing that he is not dead. the petition will be found in full in _lamb and hazlitt_. it ends thus:-- "with all the sincerity of a man doubtful between life and death, the petitioner declares that he looks upon the said charles lamb as the ring-leader in this unjust conspiracy against him, and as the sole cause and author of the jeopardy he is in: but that as losers have leave to speak, he must say, that, if it were not for a poem he wrote on tobacco about two years ago, a farce called mr. h----- he brought out last winter with more wit than discretion in it, some prologues and epilogues he has since written with good success, and some lively notes he is at present writing on dead authors, he sees no reason why he should not be considered as much a dead man as himself, and the undertaker spoken to accordingly." the next letter, dated january , , carrying on the joke, consists of speculations as to hazlitt's reappearance. lamb remarks that the commonest reason for the return of the spirits of the dead is the desire to reveal hidden treasures which they had hoarded in their lifetime. he destroys this theory in the case of hazlitt in the following passage:-- "i for my part always looked upon our dear friend as a man rich rather in the gifts of his mind than in earthly treasures. he had few rents or comings in, that i was ever aware of, small (if any) landed property, and by all that i could witness he subsisted more upon the well-timed contributions of a few chosen friends who knew his worth, than upon any estate which could properly be called his own. i myself have contributed my part. god knows, i speak not this in reproach. i have never taken, nor indeed did the deceased offer, any _written acknowledgments_ of the various sums which he has had of me, by which i could make the fact manifest to the legal eye of an executor or administrator. he was not a man to affect these niceties in his transactions with his friends. he would often say, money was nothing between intimate acquaintances, that golden streams had no ebb, that a purse mouth never regorged, that god loved a chearful giver but the devil hated a free taker, that a paid loan makes angels groan, with many such like sayings: he had always free and generous notions about money. his nearest friends know this best." continuing the subject of the return of spirits, lamb decides that it must be with the wish to establish some speculative point in religion. "but whatever the cause of this re-appearance may prove to be, we may now with truth assert that our deceased friend has attained to one object of his pursuits, one hour's separate existence gives a dead man clearer notions of metaphysics than all the treatises which in his state of casual entanglement the least immersed spirit can out-spin. it is good to leave such subjects to that period when we shall have no heads to ache, no brains to distort, no faces to lengthen, no clothes to neglect."] letter mary lamb to sarah stoddart [p.m. february , .] my dear sarah,--i have sent your letter and drawing off to wm. hazlitt's father's in shropshire, where i conjecture hazlitt is. he left town on saturday afternoon, without telling us where he was going. he seemed very impatient at not hearing from you. he was very ill and i suppose is gone home to his father's to be nursed. i find hazlitt has mentioned to you an intention which we had of asking you up to town, which we were bent on doing, but having named it since to your brother, the doctor expressed a strong desire that you should not come to town to be at any other house than his own, for he said that it would have a very strange appearance. his wife's father is coming to be with them till near the end of april, after which time he shall have full room for you. and if you are to be married, he wishes that you should be married with all the proper decorums, _from his house_. now though we should be willing to run any hazards of disobliging him, if there were no other means of your and hazlitt's meeting, yet as he seems so friendly to the match, it would not be worth while to alienate him from you and ourselves too, for the slight accommodation which the difference of a few weeks would make, provided always, and be it understood, that if you, and h. make up your minds to be married before the time in which you can be at your brother's, our house stands open and most ready at a moment's notice to receive you. only we would not quarrel unnecessarily with your brother. let there be a clear necessity shewn, and we will quarrel with any body's brother. now though i have written to the above effect, i hope you will not conceive, but that both my brother & i had looked forward to your coming with unmixed pleasure, and we are really disappointed at your brother's declaration, for next to the pleasure of being married, is the pleasure of making, or helping marriages forward. we wish to hear from you, that you do not take the _seeming change_ of purpose in ill part; for it is but seeming on our part; for it was my brother's suggestion, by him first mentioned to hazlitt, and cordially approved by me; but your brother has set his face against it, and it is better to take him along with us, in our plans, if he will good-naturedly go along with us, than not. the reason i have not written lately has been that i thought it better to leave you all to the workings of your own minds in this momentous affair, in which the inclinations of a bye-stander have a right to form a wish, but not to give a vote. being, with the help of wide lines, at the end of my last page, i conclude with our kind wishes, and prayers for the best. yours affectionately, m. lamb. h.'s direction is (if he is there) at wem in shropshire. i suppose as letters must come to london first, you had better inclose them, while he is there, for my brother in london. [the drawing referred to, says mr. w.c. hazlitt, was a sketch of middleton cottage, miss stoddart's house at winterslow (see next letter).] letter charles lamb to the rev. w. hazlitt temple, th february, . 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 one or two of his shirts to a place called winterslow, in the county of hants [wilts] (not far from salisbury), where the lady lives whose cottage, pictured upon a card, if you opened my letter you have 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 cartoon 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. hazlitt, and in our kindest remembrances and wishes for the restoration of peggy's health. i am, sir, your humble serv't., ch. lamb. [the rev. william hazlitt, hazlitt's father ( - ), was a unitarian minister at wem, in shropshire, the son of an irish protestant. hazlitt's mother was grace loftus of wisbech, a farmer's daughter. sarah stoddart's letter containing the drawing referred to had been sent by the lambs to william hazlitt at wem, whereas hazlitt, instead of seeking his father's roof as arranged, had sought his betrothed's, and had himself helped in the mystification. peggy was hazlitt's only sister.] letter charles lamb to thomas manning [dated at end: february, .] dear missionary,--your letters from the farthest ends of the world have arrived safe. mary is very thankful for your remembrance of her, and with the less suspicion of mercenariness, as the silk, the _symbolum materiale_ of your friendship, has not yet appeared. i think horace says somewhere, _nox longa_. i would not impute negligence or unhandsome delays to a person whom you have honoured with your confidence; but i have not heard of the silk, or of mr. knox, save by your letter. maybe he expects the first advances! or it may be that he has not succeeded in getting the article on shore, for it is among the _res prohibitae et non nisi smuggle-ationis viá fruendae_. but so it is, in the friendships between _wicked men_, the very expressions of their good-will cannot but be sinful. _splendida vitia_ at best. stay, while i remember it--mrs. holcroft was safely delivered of a girl some day in last week. mother and child doing well. mr. holcroft has been attack'd with severe rheumatism. they have moved to clipstone street. i suppose you know my farce was damned. the noise still rings in my ears. was you ever in the pillory?--being damned is something like that. godwin keeps a shop in skinner street, snow hill, he is turned children's bookseller, and sells penny, twopenny, threepenny, and fourpenny books. sometimes he gets an order for the dearer sort of books. (mind, all that i tell you in this letter is true.) a treaty of marriage is on foot between william hazlitt and miss stoddart. something about settlements only retards it. she has somewhere about £ a year, to be £ when her mother dies. he has no settlement except what he can claim from the parish. _pauper est cinna, sed amat_. the thing is therefore in abeyance. but there is love o' both sides. little fenwick (you don't see the connexion of ideas here, how the devil should you?) is in the rules of the fleet. cruel creditors! operation of iniquitous laws! is magna charta then a mockery? why, in general (here i suppose you to ask a question) my spirits are pretty good, but i have my depressions, black as a smith's beard, vulcanic, stygian. at such times i have recourse to a pipe, which is like not being at home to a dun; he comes again with tenfold bitterness the next day.--(mind, i am not in debt, i only borrow a similitude from others; it shows imagination.) i have done two books since the failure of my farce; they will both be out this summer. the one is a juvenile book--"the adventures of ulysses," intended to be an introduction to the reading of telemachus! it is done out of the odyssey, not from the greek: i would not mislead you; nor yet from pope's odyssey, but from an older translation of one chapman. the "shakespear tales" suggested the doing it. godwin is in both those cases my bookseller. the other is done for longman, and is "specimens of english dramatic poets contemporary with shakespear." specimens are becoming fashionable. we have-- "specimens of ancient english poets," "specimens of modern english poets," "specimens of ancient english prose writers," without end. they used to be called "beauties." you have seen "beauties of shakespear?" so have many people that never saw any beauties in shakespear. longman is to print it, and be at all the expense and risk; and i am to share the profits after all deductions; _i.e._ a year or two hence i must pocket what they please to tell me is due to me. but the book is such as i am glad there should be. it is done out of old plays at the museum and out of dodsley's collection, &c. it is to have notes. so i go creeping on since i was lamed with that cursed fall from off the top of drury-lane theatre into the pit, something more than a year ago. however, i have been free of the house ever since, and the house was pretty free with me upon that occasion. damn 'em, how they hissed! it was not a hiss neither, but a sort of a frantic yell, like a congregation of mad geese, with roaring something like bears, mows and mops like apes, sometimes snakes, that hiss'd me into madness. 'twas like st. anthony's temptations. mercy on us, that god should give his favourite children, men, mouths to speak with, to discourse rationally, to promise smoothly, to flatter agreeably, to encourage warmly, to counsel wisely: to sing with, to drink with, and to kiss with: and that they should turn them into mouths of adders, bears, wolves, hyenas, and whistle like tempests, and emit breath through them like distillations of aspic poison, to asperse and vilify the innocent labours of their fellow-creatures who are desirous to please them! god be pleased to make the breath stink and the teeth rot out of them all therefore! make them a reproach, and all that pass by them to loll out their tongue at them! blind mouths! as milton somewhere calls them. do you like braham's singing? the little jew has bewitched me. i follow him like as the boys followed tom the piper. he cured me of melancholy, as david cured saul; but i don't throw stones at him, as saul did at david in payment. i was insensible to music till he gave me a new sense. o, that you could go to the new opera of "kais" to-night! 'tis all about eastern manners; it would just suit you. it describes the wild arabs, wandering egyptians, lying dervishes, and all that sort of people, to a hair. you needn't ha' gone so far to see what you see, if you saw it as i do every night at drury-lane theatre. braham's singing, when it is impassioned, is finer than mrs. siddons's or mr. kemble's acting; and when it is not impassioned, it is as good as hearing a person of fine sense talking. the brave little jew! old sergeant hill is dead. mrs. rickman is in the family way. it is thought that hazlitt will have children, if he marries miss stoddart. i made a pun the other day, and palmed it upon holcroft, who grinned like a cheshire cat. (why do cats grin in cheshire?--because it was once a county palatine and the cats cannot help laughing whenever they think of it, though i see no great joke in it.) i said that holcroft said, being asked who were the best dramatic writers of the day, "hook and i." mr. hook is author of several pieces, "tekeli," &c. you know what _hooks and eyes_ are, don't you? they are what little boys do up their breeches with. your letter had many things in it hard to be understood: the puns were ready and swift-like; but don't you begin to be melancholy in the midst of eastern customs! "the mind does not easily conform to foreign usages, even in trifles: it requires something that it has been familiar with." that begins one of dr. hawkesworth's papers in the "adventurer," and is, i think, as sensible a remark as ever fell from the doctor's mouth. do you know watford in hertfordshire? it is a pretty village. louisa goes to school there. they say the governess is a very intelligent managing person, takes care of the morals of the pupils, teaches them something beyond exteriors. poor mrs. beaumont! rickman's aunt, she might have been a governess (as both her nieces ate) if she had any ability or any education, but i never thought she was good for anything; she is dead and so is her nephew. he was shot in half at monte video, that is, not exactly in half, but as you have seen a quarter picture. stoddart is in england. white is at christ's hospital, a wit of the first magnitude, but had rather be thought a gentleman, like congreve. you know congreve's repulse which he gave to voltaire, when he came to visit him as a _literary man_, that he wished to be considered only in the light of a private gentleman. i think the impertinent frenchman was properly answered. i should just serve any member of the french institute in the same manner, that wished to be introduced to me. bonaparte has voted , livres to davy, the great young english chemist; but it has not arrived. coleridge has delivered two lectures at the royal institution; two more were attended, but he did not come. it is thought he has gone sick upon them. he a'n't well, that's certain. wordsworth is coming to see him. he sits up in a two pair of stairs room at the "courier" office, and receives visitors on his close stool. how is mr. ball? he has sent for a prospectus of the london library. does any one read at canton? lord moira is president of the westminster library. i suppose you might have interest with sir joseph banks to get to be president of any similiar institution that should be set up at canton. i think public reading-rooms the best mode of educating young men. solitary reading is apt to give the headache. besides, who knows that you _do_ read? there are ten thousand institutions similar to the royal institution, which have sprung up from it. there is the london institution, the southwark institution, the russell square rooms institution, &c.--_college quasi conlege_, a place where people read together. wordsworth, the great poet, is coming to town; he is to have apartments in the mansion house. he says he does not see much difficulty in writing like shakspeare, if he had a mind to try it. it is clear then nothing is wanting but the mind. even coleridge a little checked at this hardihood of assertion. jones of trinity, i suppose you know he is dead. dyer came to me the other evening at o'clock, when there was a large room full of company, which i usually get together on a wednesday evening (all great men have public days), to propose to me to have my face done by a miss beetham (or betham), a miniature painter, some relation to mrs. beetham the profilist or pattern mangle woman opposite to st. dunstan's, to put before my book of extracts. i declined it. well, my dear manning, talking cannot be infinite; i have said all i have to say; the rest is but remembrances, which we shall bear in our heads of you, while we have heads. here is a packet of trifles nothing worth; but it is a trifling part of the world where i live; emptiness abounds. but, in fulness of affection, we remain yours, c.l. [manning had written in april, , saying that a roll of silk was on its way to mary lamb. it was, however, another letter, not preserved, which mentioned mr. knox as the bearer. godwin sold books at skinner street under his wife's name--m.j. godwin. at first when he began, in , in hanway street, he had used the name of thomas hodgkins, his manager. "damn 'em, how they hissed." this passage has in it the germ of lamb's essay in _the reflector_ two or three years later, "on the custom of hissing at the theatres" (see vol. i.). john braham (? - ), the great tenor and the composer of "the death of nelson." lamb praised him again in his _elia_ essay "imperfect sympathies," and later wrote an amusing article on braham's recantation of hebraism (see "the religion of actors," vol. i.). "kais," composed by braham and reeve, was produced at drury lane, february , . "old sergeant hill." george hill ( - ), nicknamed serjeant labyrinth, the hero of many stories of absence-of-mind. he would have appealed to manning on account of his mathematical abilities. he died on february . "hook and i." this pun is attributed also to others; who may very easily have made it independently. theodore hook was then only nineteen, but had already written "tekeli," a melodrama, and several farces. talfourd omits the references to breeches. "dr. hawkesworth." john hawkesworth, ll.d. (? - ), the editor of swift, a director of the east india company, and the friend of johnson whom he imitated in _the adventurer_. he also made one of the translations of fénélon's _télémaque_, to which lamb's _adventures of ulysses_ was to serve as prologue. james white, lamb's friend and the author of _falstaff's letters_, was for many years a clerk in the treasurer's office at christ's hospital. later he founded an advertisement agency, which still exists. "congreve's repulse." the story is told by johnson in the _lives of the poets_. congreve "disgusted him [voltaire] by the despicable foppery of desiring to be considered not as an author but a gentleman; to which the frenchman replied, 'that, if he had been only a gentleman, he should not have come to visit him.'" "young davy." afterwards sir humphry davy, and now one of coleridge's correspondents. he had been awarded the napoleon prize of , francs "for his discoveries announced in the _philosophical transactions_ for the year ." "coleridge's lectures." coleridge delivered the first on january , , and the second on february . the third and fourth were eventually delivered some time before april . the subject was not taste but poetry. coleridge's rooms over _the courier_ office at no. strand are described by de quincey in his _works_, vol. ii. ( edition), page . it was coleridge's illness that was bringing wordsworth to town, to be followed by southey, largely by the instrumentality of charles and mary lamb. it is conjectured that coleridge was just then more than usually in the power of drugs. sir joseph banks, as president of the royal society, had written a letter to the east india company supporting manning's wish to practise as a doctor in canton. the similar institutions that sprang up in imitation of the royal institution have all vanished, except the london institution in finsbury circus. "writing like shakspeare." this passage was omitted by talfourd. he seems to have shown it to crabb robinson, just after lamb's death, as one of the things that could not be published. robinson (or robinson's editor, dr. sadler), in recording the event, substitutes a dash for wordsworth's name. miss betham was miss mary matilda betham ( - ), afterwards a correspondent of lamb. we shall soon meet her again. she had written a _biographical dictionary of the celebrated women of every age and country_, , and some poems. among her sitters were coleridge and mrs. coleridge. the profilist opposite st. dunstan's was, i take it, e. beetham, patent washing-mill maker at fleet street. i find this in the directory. the shop was close to inner temple lane. [two undated letters to miss betham follow, which may well belong to this time. mr. ernest betham allows me to take them from his book, _a house of letters_.] letter charles lamb to matilda betham [no date. ? .] dear miss b.--i send you three tickets which will serve the first course of c.'s lectures, six in number, the first begins tomorrow. excuse the cover being not _or fa_, is not that french? i have no writing paper. yours truly, c. lamb. n.b. it is my present, not c.'s, id. est he gave 'em me, i you. letter charles lamb to matilda betham dear miss betham,--i am very sorry, but i was pre-engaged for this evening when eliza communicated the contents of your letter. she herself also is gone to walworth to pass some days with miss hays-- "g-d forbid i should pass my days with miss h--ys" but that is neither here nor there. we will both atone for this accident by calling upon you as early as possible. i am setting out to engage mr. dyer to your party, but what the issue of my adventure will be, cannot be known, till the wafer has closed up this note for ever. yours truly, c. lamb. friday. [we have already met miss hayes. miss betham was a friend of dyer, as we shall see.] letter charles lamb to william godwin march , . dear godwin,--the giant's vomit was perfectly nauseous, and i am glad you pointed it out. i have removed the objection. to the other passages i can find no other objection but what you may bring to numberless passages besides, such as of scylla snatching up the six men, etc., that is to say, they are lively images of _shocking_ things. if you want a book, which is not occasionally to _shock_, you should not have thought of a tale which was so full of anthropophagi and wonders. i cannot alter these things without enervating the book, and i will not alter them if the penalty should be that you and all the london booksellers should refuse it. but speaking as author to author, i must say that i think _the terrible_ in those two passages seems to me so much to preponderate over the nauseous, as to make them rather fine than disgusting. who is to read them, i don't know: who is it that reads tales of terror and mysteries of udolpho? such things sell. i only say that i will not consent to alter such passages, which i know to be some of the best in the book. as an author i say to you an author, touch not my work. as to a bookseller i say, take the work such as it is, or refuse it. you are as free to refuse it as when we first talked of it. as to a friend i say, don't plague yourself and me with nonsensical objections. i assure you i will not alter one more word. [this letter refers to the proofs of lamb's _adventures of ulysses_, his prose paraphrase for children of chapman's translation of the _odyssey_, which mrs. godwin was publishing. godwin had written the following letter:-- "skinner st., march , . "dear lamb,--i address you with all humility, because i know you to be _tenax propositi_. hear me, i entreat you, with patience. "it is strange with what different feelings an author and a bookseller looks at the same manuscript. i know this by experience: i was an author, i am a bookseller. the author thinks what will conduce to his honour: the bookseller what will cause his commodities to sell. "_you_, or some other wise man, i have heard to say, it is children that read children's books, when they are read, but it is parents that choose them. the critical thought of the tradesman put itself therefore into the place of the parent, and what the parent will condemn. "we live in squeamish days. amid the beauties of your manuscript, of which no man can think more highly than i do, what will the squeamish say to such expressions as these,--'devoured their limbs, yet warm and trembling, lapping the blood,' p. . or to the giant's vomit, p. ; or to the minute and shocking description of the extinguishing the giant's eye in the page following. you, i daresay, have no formed plan of excluding the female sex from among your readers, and i, as a bookseller, must consider that if you have you exclude one half of the human species. "nothing is more easy than to modify these things if you please, and nothing, i think, is more indispensable. "give me, as soon as possible, your thoughts on the matter. "i should also like a preface. half our customers know not homer, or know him only as you and i know the lost authors of antiquity. what can be more proper than to mention one or two of those obvious recommendations of his works, which must lead every human creature to desire a nearer acquaintance.-- "believe me, ever faithfully yours, w. godwin." as a glance at the _adventures of ulysses_ will show (see vol. iii.), lamb did not make the alteration on pages or (pages and of vol. iii.), although the giant's vomit has disappeared. _the tales of terror_, , were by matthew gregory lewis, "monk lewis," as he was called, and the _mysteries of udolpho_, , by mrs. radcliffe.] letter charles lamb to henry crabb robinson [dated at end: march , .] dear sir,--wordsworth breakfasts with me on tuesday morning next; he goes to mrs. clarkson the next day, and will be glad to meet you before he goes. can you come to us before nine or at nine that morning? i am afraid, _w_. is so engaged with coleridge, who is ill, we cannot have him in an evening. if i do not hear from you, i will expect you to breakfast on tuesday. yours truly, c. lamb. saturday, mar., . [this is the first letter to henry crabb robinson ( - ), whom lamb was destined to know very intimately, and to whose _diary_ we are indebted for much of our information concerning the lambs. robinson, who was only a month younger than lamb, had been connected with the _times_ as foreign correspondent and foreign editor; in november, , he gave up journalism and began to keep his terms at the middle temple, rising in time to be leader of the norfolk circuit. we shall see much more of him. he knew lamb well enough to accompany him, his sister and hazlitt to "mr. h." in december, . wordsworth left on april , by which time coleridge was sufficiently recovered to give two more lectures. the series closed in june. coleridge then went to bury st. edmunds to see the clarksons, and then to grasmere, to the wordsworths. his separation from mrs. coleridge had already occurred, he and his wife remaining, however, on friendly terms.] letter mary lamb to sarah stoddart [p.m. march , .] my dear sarah,--do not be very angry that i have not written to you. i have promised your brother to be at your wedding, and that favor you must accept as an atonement for my offences--you have been in no want of correspondence lately, and i wished to leave you both to your own inventions. the border you are working for me i prize at a very high rate because i consider it as the last work you can do for me, the time so fast approaching when you must no longer work for your friends. yet my old fault of giving away presents has not left me, and i am desirous of even giving away this your last gift. i had intended to have given it away without your knowledge, but i have intrusted my secret to hazlitt, and i suppose it will not remain a secret long, so i condescend to consult you. it is to miss hazlitt, to whose superior claim i wish to give up my right to this precious worked border. her brother william is her great favorite, and she would be pleased to possess his bride's last work. are you not to give the fellow-border to one sister-in-law, and therefore has she not a just claim to it?--i never heard in the annals of weddings (since the days of nausicaa, and she only washed her old gowns for that purpose) that the brides ever furnished the apparel of their maids. besides, i can be completely clad in your work without it, for the spotted muslin will serve both for cap and hat (nota bene, my hat is the same as yours) and the gown you sprigged for me has never been made up, therefore i can wear that--or, if you like better, i will make up a new silk which manning has sent me from china. manning would like to hear i wore it for the first time at your wedding. it is a very pretty light colour, but there is an objection (besides not being your work and that is a very serious objection) and that is, mrs. hazlitt tells me that all winterslow would be in an uproar if the bridemaid was to be dressed in anything but white, and although it is a very light colour i confess we cannot call it white, being a sort of a dead-whiteish-bloom colour; then silk, perhaps, in a morning is not so proper, though the occasion, so joyful, might justify a full dress. determine for me in this perplexity between the sprig and the china-manning silk. but do not contradict my whim about miss hazlitt having the border, for i have set my heart upon the matter: if you agree with me in this i shall think you have forgiven me for giving away your pin; and that was a _mad_ trick, but i had many obligations and no money. i repent me of the deed, wishing i had it now to send to miss h. with the border, and i cannot, will not, give her the doctor's pin, for having never had any presents from gentlemen in my young days, i highly prize all they now give me, thinking my latter days are better than my former. you must send this same border in your own name to miss hazlitt, which will save me the disgrace of giving away your gift, and make it amount merely to a civil refusal. i shall have no present to give you on your marriage, nor do i expect that i shall be rich enough to give anything to baby at the first christening, but at the second, or third child's i hope to have a coral or so to spare out of my own earnings. do not ask me to be godmother, for i have an objection to that--but there is i believe, no serious duties attached to a bride's maid, therefore i come with a willing mind, bringing nothing with me but many wishes, and not a few hopes, and a very little of fears of happy years to come. i am dear sarah yours ever most affectionately m. lamb. what has charles done that nobody invites him to the wedding? [the wedding was on may , . originally it was intended to perform the ceremony at winterslow, but london was actually the place: st. andrew's, holborn. mary lamb was a bridesmaid and charles lamb was present. he told southey in a letter some years after: "i was at hazlitt's marriage, and had like to have been turned out several times during the ceremony. anything awful makes me laugh." the episode of nausicaa, to which mary lamb refers, had just been rewritten by charles lamb in the _adventures of ulysses_.] letter charles lamb to george dyer from my desk in leadenhall street, decr , . dear dyer,--coleridge is not so bad as your fears have represented him; it is true that he is bury'd, altho' he is not dead; to understand this quibble you must know that he is at bury st. edmunds, relaxing, after the fatigues of lecturing and londonizing. the little rickmaness, whom you enquire after so kindly, thrives and grows apace; she is already a prattler, and 'tis thought that on some future day she may be a speaker. [this was mrs. lefroy.] we hold our weekly meetings still at no. , where altho' we are not so high as the top of malvern, we are involved in almost as much mist. miss b[etham]'s merit "in every point of view," i am not disposed to question, altho' i have not been indulged with any view of that lady, back, side, or front--_fie!_ dyer, to praise a female in such common market phrases--you who are held so courtly and so attentive. my book is not yet out, that is not my "extracts," my "ulysses" is, and waits your acceptance. when you shall come to town, i hope to present you both together--never think of buying the "extracts"--half guinea books were never calculated for my friends. those poets have started up since your departure; william hazlitt, your friend and mine, is putting to press a collection of verses, chiefly amatory, some of them pretty enough. how these painters encroach on our province! there's hoppner, shee, westall, and i don't know who besides, and tresham. it seems on confession, that they are not at the top of their own art, when they seek to eke out their fame with the assistance of another's; no large tea-dealer sells cheese; no great silversmith sells razorstrops; it is only your petty dealers who mix commodities. if nero had been a great emperor, he would never have played the violoncello! who ever caught you, dyer, designing a landscape, or taking a likeness? i have no more to add, who am the friend of virtue, poetry, painting, therefore in an especial manner, unalterably thine c. lamb. letter mary lamb to sarah hazlitt (late stoddart) december th, . my dear sarah,--i hear of you from your brother; but you do not write yourself, nor does hazlitt. i beg 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, i 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 quarter whatsoever. hazlitt was most brilliant, most ornamental, as a wednesday-man; but he was a more useful one on common days, when he dropt in after a quarrel or a fit of the glooms. the skeffington is quite out now, my brother having got drunk 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 invitation and proposal from t.s., that c.l. should write some scenes in a speaking pantomime, the other parts of which tom now, and his father formerly, have manufactured between them. so, in the christmas holydays, 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 refusing 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 writing letters, he said. i wanted him to tell your husband about a great work which godwin is going to publish, to enlighten the world once more, and i shall not be able to make out what it is. he (godwin) took his usual walk one evening, a fortnight since, to the end of hatton garden and back again. during that walk, a thought came into his mind, which he instantly set 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 qualifications. 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 was, in case of an insurrection among the people, or any other cause by which a city or country may be destroyed, to be carefully preserved; and then, when things got again into their usual order, the white-cross-wooden-slab-makers were to go to work again, and set them 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, which is followed by very fine writing on the benefits he conjectures would follow if it were done. very excellent thoughts on death, and on our feelings concerning dead friends, and the advantages an old country has over a new one, even in the slender memorials we 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 on: tell us how you go on, and how you like winterslow and winter evenings. noales [knowles] has not got back again, but he is in better spirits. john hazlitt was here on wednesday, very sober. our love to hazlitt. yours affectionately, m. lamb. letter charles lamb to mrs. hazlitt (_added to same letter_) saturday. there came this morning a printed prospectus from s.t. coleridge, grasmere, of a weekly paper, to be called the friend--a flaming prospectus--i have no time to give the heads of it--to commence first saturday in january. there came also a notice of a turkey from mr. clarkson, which i am more sanguine in expecting the accomplishment of than i am of coleridge's prophecy. c. lamb. ["the skeffington." referring probably to some dramatic scheme in which sir lumley skeffington, an amateur playwright, had tried to engage lamb's pen. lamb's share of the speaking pantomime for the sheridans has vanished. we do not even know if it were ever accepted. the late mr. charles kent, in his centenary edition of lamb's works, printed a comic opera, said, on the authority of p.g. patmore, to be lamb's, and identified it with the experiment mentioned by mary lamb. but an examination of the manuscript, which is in the british museum, convinces me that the writing is not lamb's, while the matter has nothing characteristic in it. tom sheridan, by the way, was just a month younger than lamb. noales was probably james sheridan knowles ( - ), the dramatist, a protégé of hazlitt's father. we shall meet him again in the correspondence. after serving as a soldier and practising medicine he had gone on the stage. several years later he became one of lamb's friends. _the friend_, which probably had been in coleridge's thoughts for some time, was announced to begin on the first saturday in january. lamb's scepticism was justified; the first number came out on june .] letter mary lamb to mrs. thomas clarkson [p.m. dec. ( ), .] my dear mrs. clarkson--i feel myself greatly indebted to mr. clarkson for his care about our direction, since it has procured us the pleasure of a line from you. why are we all, my dear friend, so unwilling to sit down and write a letter when we all so well know the great satisfaction it is to hear of the welfare of an absent friend? i began to think that you and all i connect in my mind with you were gone from us for ever--coleridge in a manner gave us up when he was in town, and we have now lost all traces of him. at the time he was in town i received two letters from miss wordsworth, which i never answered because i would not complain to her of our old friend. as this has never been explained to her it must seem very strange, more particularly so, as miss hutchinson & mrs. wordsworth were in an ill state of health at the time. will you some day soon write a few words just to tell me how they all are and all you know concerning them? do not imagine that i am now _complaining_ to you of coleridge. perhaps we are both in fault, we expect _too much_, and he gives _too little_. we ought many years ago to have understood each other better. nor is it quite all over with us yet, for he will some day or other come in with the same old face, and receive (after a few spiteful words from me) the same warm welcome as ever. but we could not submit to sit as hearers at his lectures and not be permitted to see our old friend when _school-hours_ were over. i beg you will not let what i have said give you a moment's thought, nor pray do not mention it to the wordsworths nor to coleridge, for i know he thinks i am apt to speak unkindly of him. i am not good tempered, and i have two or three times given him proofs that i am not. you say you are all in your "better way," which is a very chearful hearing, for i trust you mean to include that your health is _bettering_ too. i look forward with great pleasure to the near approach of christmas and mr. clarkson. and now the turkey you are so kind as to promise us comes into my head & tells me it is so very near that if writing before then should happen to be the least irksome to you, i will be content to wait for intelligence of our old friends till i have the pleasure of seeing mr. clarkson in town. i ought to say this because i know at times how dreadfully irksome writing a letter is to me, even when i have no reason in the world to give why it is so, and i remember i have heard you express something of the same kind of feelings. i try to remember something to enquire after at bury--the lady we visited, the cherry tree tom and i robbed, tom my partner in the robbery (mr. thomas c--- i suppose now), and your cook maid that was so kind to me, are all at present i can recollect. of all the places i ever saw bury has made the liveliest impression on my memory. i have a very indistinct recollection of the lakes. charles joins with me in affectionate remembrances to you all, and he is more warm in his expressions of gratitude for the turkey because he is fonder of good eating than i am, though i am not amiss in that way. god bless you my kind friends i remain yours affectionately m. lamb. excuse this slovenly letter, if i were to write it over again i should abridge it one half. saturday morning no. mitre court buildings inner temple. letter charles lamb to mrs. clarkson (_added to same letter_) we have this moment received a very chearful letter from coleridge, who is now at grasmere. it contains a prospectus for a new weekly publication to be called _the friend_. he says they are well there, and in good spirits & that he has not been so well for a long time. the prospectus is of a weekly paper of a miscellaneous nature to be call'd the friend & to come out, the first number, the first saturday in january. those who remember _the watchman_ will not be very sanguine in expecting a regular fulfillment of this prophecy. but c. writes in delightful spirits, & _if ever_, he may _now_ do this thing. i suppose he will send you a prospectus. i had some thought of inclosing mine. but i want to shew it about. my kindest remembrance to mr. c. & thanks for the turkey. c. lamb. [coleridge, after delivering his lectures, had gone to bury on a visit to the clarksons. he then passed on to grasmere, to wordsworth's new house, allan bank, and settled down to project _the friend_. tom clarkson, with whom mary lamb robbed a cherry tree, became a metropolitan magistrate. he died in . here should come a letter from lamb to robert lloyd, dated february , . it tells lloyd where to look for lamb when he reached town--at mitre court buildings, which he is leaving at lady day, or at or inner temple lane. "drury lane theatre is burnt to the ground." robert lloyd spent a short while in london in the spring of and saw the lambs, godwin, captain burney, james white and other persons. his letters to his wife describing these experiences, printed in _charles lamb and the lloyds_, are amusingly fresh and enthusiastic.] letter charles lamb to thomas manning th march, . dear manning,--i sent you a long letter by the ships which sailed the beginning of last month, accompanied with books, &c. since i last wrote, holcroft is dead. he died on thursday last and is not yet buried. he has been opened by carlisle and his heart was found completely ossified. he has had a long and severe illness. he seemed very willing to live, and to the last acted on his favorite principle of the power of the will to overcome disease. i believe his strong faith in that power kept him alive long after another person would have given him up, and the physicians all concurred in positively saying he would not live a week, many weeks before he died. the family are as well as can be expected. i told you something about mrs. holcroft's plans. since her death there has been a meeting of his friends and a subscription has been mentioned. i have no doubt that she will be set agoing, and that she will be fully competent to the scheme which she proposes. fanny bears it much better than i could have supposed. so there is one of your friends whom you will never see again! perhaps the next fleet may bring you a letter from martin burney, to say that he writes by desire of miss lamb, who is not well enough to write herself, to inform you that her brother died on thursday last, th june, &c. but i hope _not_. i should be sorry to give occasion to open a correspondence between martin and you. this letter must be short, for i have driven it off to the very moment of doing up the packets; and besides, that which i refer to above is a very long one; and if you have received my books, you will have enough to do to read them. while i think on it, let me tell you we are moved. don't come any more to mitre court buildings. we are at , southampton buildings, chancery lane, and shall be here till about the end of may: then we remove to no. , inner temple lane, where i mean to live and die; for i have such horror of moving, that i would not take a benefice from the king, if i was not indulged with non-residence. what a dislocation of comfort is comprised in that word moving! such a heap of little nasty things, after you think all is got into the cart: old dredging-boxes, worn-out brushes, gallipots, vials, things that it is impossible the most necessitous person can ever want, but which the women, who preside on these occasions, will not leave behind if it was to save your soul; they'd keep the cart ten minutes to stow in dirty pipes and broken matches, to show their economy. then you can find nothing you want for many days after you get into your new lodgings. you must comb your hair with your fingers, wash your hands without soap, go about in dirty gaiters. was i diogenes, i would not move out of a kilderkin into a hogshead, though the first had had nothing but small beer in it, and the second reeked claret. our place of final destination,--i don't mean the grave, but no. [ ] inner temple lane,--looks out upon a gloomy churchyard-like court, called hare court, with three trees and a pump in it. do you know it? i was born near it, and used to drink at that pump when i was a rechabite of six years old. if you see newspapers you will read about mrs. clarke. the sensation in london about this nonsensical business is marvellous. i remember nothing in my life like it. thousands of ballads, caricatures, lives, of mrs. clarke, in every blind alley. yet in the midst of this stir, a sublime abstracted dancing-master, who attends a family we know in kensington, being asked a question about the progress of the examination in the house, inquired who mrs. clarke was? he had heard nothing of it. he had evaded this omnipresence by utter insignificancy! the duke should make that man his confidential valet. i proposed locking him up, barring him the use of his fiddle and red pumps, until he had minutely perused and committed to memory the whole body of the examinations, which employed the house of commons a fortnight, to teach him to be more attentive to what concerns the public. i think i told you of godwin's little book, and of coleridge's prospectus, in my last; if i did not, remind me of it, and i will send you them, or an account of them, next fleet. i have no conveniency of doing it by this. mrs.---- grows every day in disfavour with god and man. i will be buried with this inscription over me:--"here lies c. l., the woman-hater"--i mean that hated one woman: for the rest, god bless them, and when he makes any more, make 'em prettier. how do you like the mandarinesses? are you on some little footing with any of them? this is wednesday. on wednesdays is my levee. the captain, martin, phillips, (not the sheriff,) rickman, and some more, are constant attendants, besides stray visitors. we play at whist, eat cold meat and hot potatoes, and any gentleman that chooses smokes. why do you never drop in? you'll come some day, won't you? c. lamb, &c. [thomas holcroft died on march , , aged sixty-three. mitre court buildings, southampton buildings and inner temple lane (lamb's homes) have all been rebuilt since lamb's day. "that word 'moving.'" lamb later elaborated and condensed this passage, in the _elia_ essay "new year's eve": "any alteration, on this earth of mine, in diet or in lodging, puzzles and discomposes me. my household-gods plant a terrible fixed foot, and are not rooted up without blood." "mrs. clarke." mary anne clarke ( - ), mistress of the duke of york, commander-in-chief, whose reception of money from officers as a return for procuring them preferment or promising to, by her influence with the duke, had just been exposed in parliament, and was causing immense excitement. "godwin's little book." probably the _essay on sepulchres_. but godwin's lives of edward and john phillips, milton's nephews, appeared also at this time. "mrs. ----." most probably mrs. godwin once more. "not the sheriff." alluding to sir richard phillips, the publisher, who was elected sheriff of london in , and was knighted in . on the same day lamb and his sister wrote a very charming joint letter to louisa martin, which has not yet been published. see the preface to this volume, p. viii.] letter charles lamb to henry crabb robinson [dated by h. c. r.: may, .] dear sir,--would you be so kind as, when you go to the times office, to see about an advertisement which my landlady's daughter left for insertion about ten days since and has not appeared, for a governesses place? the references are to thorpe & graves lower holborn, and to m. b. oxford st. though not anxious about attitudes, she pines for a situation. i got home tolerably well, as i hear, the other evening. it may be a warning to any one in future to ask me to a dinner party. i always disgrace myself. i floated up stairs on the coachman's back, like ariel; "on a bat's back i do fly, after sunset merrily." in sobriety i am yours truly c. lamb. [lamb used the simile of ariel at least twice afterwards: at the close of the _elia_ essay "rejoicings on the new year's coming-of-age," and in a letter to j. v. asbury of enfield, the lambs' doctor.] letter mary lamb to sarah hazlitt [june , .] you may write to hazlitt, that i will _certainly_ go to winterslough, as my father has agreed to give me l. to bear my expences, and has given leave that i may stop till that is spent, leaving enough to defray my carriage on the th july. so far martin has written, and further than that i can give you no intelligence, for i do not yet know phillips's intentions; nor can i tell you the exact time when we can come; nor can i positively say we shall come at all; for we have scruples of conscience about there being so many of us. martin says, if you can borrow a blanket or two, he can sleep on the floor, without either bed or mattress, which would save his expences at the hut; for, if phillips breakfasts there, he must do so too, which would swallow up all his money. and he and i have calculated that, if he has no inn expences, he may as well spare that money to give you for a part of his roast beef. we can spare you also just five pounds. you are not to say this to hazlitt, lest his delicacy should be alarmed; but i tell you what martin and i have planned, that, if you happen to be empty pursed at this time, you may think it as well to make him up a bed in the best kitchen. i think it very probable that phillips will come; and, if you do not like such a croud of us, for they both talk of staying a whole month, tell me so, and we will put off our visit till next summer. the th july is the day martin has fixed for _coming_. i should have written before, if i could have got a positive answer from them. thank you very much for the good work you have done for me. mrs. stoddart also thanks you for the gloves. how often must i tell you never to do any needle work for any body but me? martin burney has been very ill, and still is very weak and pale. mrs. holcroft and all her children, and all her scholars, have had the measles. your old friend, mrs. fenwick, is in town. we are going to see mrs. martin and her daughter, mrs. fulton (sarah martin), and i expect to see there the future husband of louisa. it will be a charming evening, doubtless. i cannot write any more, for we have got a noble life of lord nelson lent us for a short time by my poor relation the book binder, and i want to read as much of it as i can. yours affectionately, m. lamb. on reading martin's note over again, we guess the captain means him to stay only a fortnight. it is most likely we shall come the beginning of july. saturday [?june ]. [the lambs were proposing to spend their holidays with the hazlitts, in july, and to take colonel phillips and his nephew martin burney with them. (or possibly it was the other phillips.) as it happened, however, mary lamb was taken ill almost immediately after writing this letter, and the visit had to be postponed until september and october. the hut was the winterslow inn. "my poor relation the book binder." see the letter to barron field, oct. , .] letter charles lamb to s.t. coleridge june th, . dear coleridge,--i congratulate you on the appearance of "the friend." your first number promises well, and i have no doubt the succeeding numbers will fulfil the promise. i had a kind letter from you some time since, which i have left unanswered. i am also obliged to you, i believe, for a review in the "annual," am i not? the "monthly review" sneers at me, and asks "if 'comus' is not _good enough_ for mr. lamb?" because i have said no good serious dramas have been written since the death of charles the first, except "samson 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! o coleridge, do kill those reviews, or they will 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. , 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 £ 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 are delicious, and the best look backwards into hare court, where there is a pump always going. just now it is dry. hare 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 mansion. they are in their infancy to me; i do not feel them yet; no hearth has blazed to them yet. how i hate and dread new places! 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 week or two, two volumes of juvenile poetry, done by mary and me within the last six months, and that tale in prose which wordsworth 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. o money, money, how blindly thou hast been worshipped, and how stupidly abused! thou art health, and liberty, and strength; and he that has thee may rattle his pockets at the foul fiend! nevertheless, do not understand by this that i have not quite enough for my occasions for a year or two 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 devil," "green's tu quoque," and the "honest whore,"--perhaps the most valuable volume of them all--_that_ i could not find. pray, if you can, remember what you did with it, or where you took it out with you a walking perhaps; send me word; for, to use the old plea, it spoils a set. i found two other volumes (you had three), the "arcadia," and "daniel," enriched with manuscript notes. i wish every book i have were so noted. they have thoroughly converted me to relish daniel, or to say i relish him, for, after all, i believe i did relish him. you well 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 missionaries, which is most masterly. i only grudge it being there. it is quite beautiful. do remember my dodsley; and pray do write; 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 were 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 weeks; yet literally it is one of the very poorest sort of common novels, with the draw-back of dull religion in it. had the religion been high and flavoured, 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 brandy-and-water." i don't expect you can find time from your "friend" to write to me much, but write something, for there has been a long silence. you know holcroft is dead. godwin is well. he has written 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 t. browne. this letter is all about books; but my head aches, and i hardly 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 you?--by what conveyance?--by longman, short-man, or how? give my kindest remembrances to wordsworth. tell him he must give me a book. my kind love to mrs. w. and to dorothy separately and conjointly. i wish you could all come and see me in my new rooms. god bless you all. c. l. [the first number of _the friend_ was dated june , . lamb's _dramatic specimens_ had been reviewed in the _annual review_ for , with discrimination and approval (see vol. iv. of my large edition), but whether or not by coleridge i do not know. wordsworth's book was his pamphlet on the "convention of cintra." the juvenile poetry was _poetry for children. entirely original_. by the author of _mrs. leicester's school_. in two volumes, . _mrs. leicester's school_, , had been published a little before. wordsworth's favourite tale was arabella hardy's "the sea voyage." i know nothing of the annotated copy of sidney's _arcadia_. daniel's _poetical works_, mo, , two volumes, with marginalia by lamb and coleridge, is still preserved. the copy of hannah more's _coelebs in search of a wife_, , with lamb's verses, is not, i think, now known. southey's missionary article was in the first number of the _quarterly_, february, . hervey wrote _meditations among the tombs_; sir thomas browne, _urn burial_. here should come four letters from lamb to charles lloyd, senior. they are all printed in _charles lamb and the lloyds_. the first, dated june , , contains an interesting criticism of a translation of the twenty-fourth book of the _iliad_, which charles lloyd, the father of robert lloyd, had made. lamb says that what he misses, and misses also in pope, is a savage-like plainness of speaking. "the heroes in homer are not half civilized--they utter all the cruel, all the selfish, all the _mean thoughts_ even of their nature, which it is the fashion of our great men to keep in." mr. lloyd had translated [greek: aoidous] (line ) "minstrels." lamb says "minstrels i suspect to be a word bringing merely english or english ballad feelings to the mind. it expresses the thing and something more, as to say sarpedon was a gentleman, or as somebody translated paul's address, 'ye men of athens,' 'gentlemen of athens.'" the second letter, dated june , , continues the subject. lamb writes: "i am glad to see you venture _made_ and _maid_ for rhymes. 'tis true their sound is the same. but the mind occupied in revolving the different meaning of two words so literally the same, is diverted from the objection which the mere ear would make, and to the mind it is rhyme enough." in the third letter, dated july , , lamb remarks of translators of homer, that cowper delays one as much, walking over a bowling green, as milton does, travelling over steep alpine heights. the fourth letter, undated, accompanies criticisms of mr. lloyd's translation of the _odyssey_, books and , mr. lloyd had translated [greek: bous helioio] (book i, line ) "bullocks of the sun." lamb wrote: "oxen of the sun, i conjure. bullocks is too smithfield and sublunary a word. oxen of the sun, or of apollo, but in any case not bullocks." with a letter to robert lloyd, belonging to this year, lamb sends _poetry for children_, and states that the poem "the beggar man" is by his brother, john lamb.] letter charles lamb to s. t. coleridge monday, oct. th, . dear coleridge,--i have but this moment received your letter, dated the th 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 service 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 hogarth room--i have made several acquisitions since you saw them,--and found nos. , , 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 to say should be silenced for want of £ . this custom-and-duty age would have made the preacher on the mount take out a licence, and st. paul's epistles would not have been missible without a stamp. oh, 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. 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 power 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 nothing but reviews and new books. i gather myself 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 new, has more aptitudes 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 parlour. when shall i ever see you in them? c. l. [hazlitt has given some account of the lambs' visit to winterslow, but the passage belongs probably to the year following. in his essay "on the conversation of authors" he likens lamb in the country to "the most capricious poet ovid among the goths." "the country people thought him an oddity, and did not understand his jokes. it would be strange if they had, for he did not make any, while he stayed. but when he crossed the country to oxford, then he spoke a little. he and the old colleges were hail-fellow well met; and in the quadrangles he 'walked gowned.'" again, in "a farewell to essay-writing," hazlitt says: "i used to walk out at this time with mr. and miss lamb of an evening, to look at the claude lorraine skies over our heads melting from azure into purple and gold, and to gather mushrooms, that sprang up at our feet, to throw into our hashed mutton." lamb's hogarths were framed in black. it must have been about this time that he began his essay "on the genius of hogarth," which was printed in _the reflector_ in (see vol. i.). _the friend_ lasted until no. xxvii., march , . the account of luther was in no. viii., october , . coleridge had not been supported financially as he had hoped, and had already begun to think of stopping the paper. sir george howland beaumont ( - ), of coleorton, the friend and patron of men of genius, had helped, with sotheby, in the establishment of _the friend_, and was instrumental subsequently in procuring a pension for coleridge. william sotheby ( - ), the translator and author, had received subscriptions for coleridge's lectures. "the rich auditors in albemarle street"--those who had listened to coleridge's lectures at the royal institution. "the pamphlet." presumably wordsworth's "convention of cintra." "you never saw a book-case." leigh hunt wrote of lamb's books in the essay "my books," in _the literary examiner_:-- "it looks like what it is, a selection made at precious intervals from the book-stalls;--now a chaucer at nine and two-pence; now a montaigne or a sir thomas browne at two shillings; now a jeremy taylor, a spinoza; an old english dramatist, prior, and sir philip sidney; and the books are 'neat as imported.' the very perusal of the backs is a 'discipline of humanity.' there mr. southey takes his place again with an old radical friend: there jeremy collier is at peace with dryden: there the lion, martin luther, lies down with the quaker lamb, sewel: there guzman d'alfarache thinks himself fit company for sir charles grandison, and has his claims admitted. even the 'high fantastical' duchess of newcastle, with her laurel on her head, is received with grave honours, and not the less for declining to trouble herself with the constitutions of her maids."] letter mary lamb to sarah hazlitt november th, . my dear sarah--the dear, quiet, lazy, delicious month we spent with you is remembered by me with such regret, that i feel quite discontent & winterslow-sick. i assure you, i never passed such a pleasant time in the country in my life, both in the house & out of it, the card playing quarrels, and a few gaspings for breath after your swift footsteps up the high hills excepted, and those drawbacks 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 unaccompanied; but, sorry am i to add, it is soon followed by the pipe and the gin bottle. we smoked the very first night of our arrival. great news! i have just been interrupted by mr. daw, who comes to tell me he was yesterday elected a royal academician. he said none of his own friends voted for him; he got it by strangers, who were pleased with 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 sweat, 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 window, and my died manning silk cut out. yesterday was an eventful day: for yesterday too martin burney was to be examined by lord eldon, previous to his being admitted as an attorney; but he has not yet been here to announce his success. i carried the baby-caps to mrs. [john] hazlitt; she was much pleased, and vastly thankful. mr. [john] h. got fifty-four guineas at rochester, and has now several pictures in hand. i am going to tell you a secret, for ---- says she would be sorry to have it talked of. one night ---- came home from the ale-house, bringing with him a great, rough, ill-looking fellow, whom he introduced to ---- as mr. brown, a gentleman he had hired as a mad keeper, to take care of him, at forty pounds a year, being ten pounds under the usual price for keepers, which sum mr. brown had agreed to remit out of pure friendship. it was with great difficulty, and by threatening to call in the aid of watchmen and constables, that ---- could prevail on mr. brown to leave the house. we had a good chearful meeting on wednesday: much talk of winterslow, its woods & its nice sun flowers. i did not so much like phillips at winterslow, as i now like him for having been with us at winterslow. we roasted the last of his 'beach, 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] like 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 well, & return you very sincere thanks for my good health and improved looks, which have almost made mrs. godwin 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 your suppers, when you come to town again. she, jane, broke two of the hogarth glasses while we were away--whereat i made a great noise. farewel. love to william, and charles's love and good wishes for the speedy arrival of the life of holcroft, & the bearer thereof. yours most affectionately, m. lamb. tuesday. charles told mrs. godwin, hazlitt had found a well in his garden, which, water being scarce in your country, 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 his &c. are quite well. [george dawe had just been elected not royal academician but associate. he became full r.a. in . mrs. white was the wife of anthony white, the surgeon, who had been apprenticed to sir anthony carlisle. northcote was james northcote, r.a., whose _conversations_ hazlitt recorded some years later. martin burney never made a successful lawyer. his life was destined to be unhappy and unprofitable, as we shall see later. "i am going to tell you a secret." in the absence of the original these blanks cannot be filled in, nor are they important. "lottery puffs." see note on page . "the spiteful elder sister." this story is in grimm, i think. "the _life of holcroft_." the _memoirs of thomas holcroft_, begun by holcroft and finished by hazlitt, although completed in , was not published until . here should come a letter from lamb to robert lloyd, dated january , , thanking him for a turkey. lamb mentions that his holiday had been spent in wiltshire, where he saw salisbury cathedral and stonehenge. he adds that coleridge's _friend_ is occasionally sublime. this was the last letter of the correspondence. robert lloyd died on october , . lamb wrote in the _gentleman's magazine_ a memoir of him, which will be found in vol. i. of this edition.] letter charles lamb to thomas manning jan. nd, . mary sends her love. dear manning,--when i last wrote to you, i was in lodgings. i am now in chambers, no. , inner temple lane, where i should be happy to see you any evening. bring any of your friends, the mandarins, with you. i have two sitting-rooms: i call them so _par excellence_, for you may stand, or loll, or lean, or try any posture in them; but they are best for sitting; not squatting down japanese fashion, but the more decorous use of the post----s which european usage has consecrated. i have two of these rooms on the third floor, and five sleeping, cooking, &c., rooms, on the fourth floor. in my best room is a choice collection of the works of hogarth, an english painter of some humour. in my next best are shelves containing a small but well-chosen library. my best room commands a court, in which there are trees and a pump, the water of which is excellent--cold with brandy, and not very insipid without. here i hope to set up my rest, and not quit till mr. powell, the undertaker, gives me notice that i may have possession of my last lodging. he lets lodgings for single gentlemen. i sent you a parcel of books by my last, to give you some idea of the state of european literature. there comes with this two volumes, done up as letters, of minor poetry, a sequel to "mrs. leicester;" the best you may suppose mine; the next best are my coadjutor's; you may amuse yourself in guessing them out; but i must tell you mine are but one-third in quantity of the whole. so much for a very delicate subject. it is hard to speak of one's self, &c. holcroft had finished his life when i wrote to you, and hazlitt has since finished his life--i do not mean his own life, but he has finished a life of holcroft, which is going to press. tuthill is dr. tuthill. i continue mr. lamb. i have published a little book for children on titles of honour: and to give them some idea of the difference of rank and gradual rising, i have made a little scale, supposing myself to receive the following various accessions of dignity from the king, who is the fountain of honour--as at first, , mr. c. lamb; , c. lamb, esq.; , sir c. lamb, bart.; , baron lamb of stamford;[ ] , viscount lamb; , earl lamb; , marquis lamb; , duke lamb. it would look like quibbling to carry it on further, and especially as it is not necessary for children to go beyond the ordinary titles of sub-regal dignity in our own country, otherwise i have sometimes in my dreams imagined myself still advancing, as th, king lamb; th, emperor lamb; th, pope innocent, higher than which is nothing but the lamb of god. puns i have not made many (nor punch much), since the date of my last; one i cannot help relating. a constable in salisbury cathedral was telling me that eight people dined at the top of the spire of the cathedral; upon which i remarked, that they must be very sharp-set. but in general i cultivate the reasoning part of my mind more than the imaginative. do you know kate *********. i am stuffed out so with eating turkey for dinner, and another turkey for supper yesterday (turkey in europe and turkey in asia), that i can't jog on. it is new-year here. that is, it was new-year half a-year back, when i was writing this. nothing puzzles me more than time and space, and yet nothing puzzles me less, for i never think about them. miss knap is turned midwife. never having had a child herself, she can't draw any wrong analogies from her own case. dr. stoddart has had twins. there was five shillings to pay the nurse. mrs. godwin was impannelled on a jury of matrons last sessions. she saved a criminal's life by giving it as her opinion that ----. the judge listened to her with the greatest deference. the persian ambassador is the principal thing talked of now. i sent some people to see him worship the sun on primrose hill at half past six in the morning, th november; but he did not come, which makes me think the old fire-worshippers are a sect almost extinct in persia. have you trampled on the cross yet? the persian ambassador's name is shaw ali mirza. the common people call him shaw nonsense. while i think of it, i have put three letters besides my own three into the india post for you, from your brother, sister, and some gentleman whose name i forget. will they, have they, did they, come safe? the distance you are at, cuts up tenses by the root. i think you said you did not know kate *********, i express her by nine stars, though she is but one, but if ever one star differed from another in glory--. you must have seen her at her father's. try and remember her. coleridge is bringing out a paper in weekly numbers, called the "friend," which i would send, if i could; but the difficulty i had in getting the packets of books out to you before deters me; and you'll want something new to read when you come home. it is chiefly intended to puff off wordsworth's poetry; but there are some noble things in it by the by. except kate, i have had no vision of excellence this year, and she passed by like the queen on her coronation day; you don't know whether you saw her or not. kate is fifteen: i go about moping, and sing the old pathetic ballad i used to like in my youth-- "she's sweet fifteen, i'm _one year more_." mrs. bland sung it in boy's clothes the first time i heard it. i sometimes think the lower notes in my voice are like mrs. eland's. that glorious singer braham, one of my lights, is fled. he was for a season. he was a rare composition of the jew, the gentleman, and the angel, yet all these elements mixed up so kindly in him, that you could not tell which predominated; but he is gone, and one phillips is engaged instead. kate is vanished, but miss b ****** is always to be met with! "queens drop away, while blue-legg'd maukin thrives; and courtly mildred dies while country madge survives." that is not my poetry, but quarles's; but haven't you observed that the rarest things are the least obvious? don't show anybody the names in this letter. i write confidentially, and wish this letter to be considered as _private_. hazlitt has written a _grammar_ for godwin; godwin sells it bound up with a treatise of his own on language, but the _grey mare is the better horse_. i don't allude to mrs. godwin, but to the word _grammar_, which comes near to _grey mare_, if you observe, in sound. that figure is called paranomasia in greek. i am sometimes happy in it. an old woman begged of me for charity. "ah! sir," said she, "i have seen better days;" "so have i, good woman," i replied; but i meant literally, days not so rainy and overcast as that on which she begged: she meant more prosperous days. mr. dawe is made associate of the royal academy. by what law of association i can't guess. mrs. holcroft, miss holcroft, mr. and mrs. godwin, mr. and mrs. hazlitt, mrs. martin and louisa, mrs. lum, capt. burney, mrs. burney, martin burney, mr. rickman, mrs. rickman, dr. stoddart, william dollin, mr. thompson, mr. and mrs. norris, mr. fenwick, mrs. fenwick, miss fenwick, a man that saw you at our house one day, and a lady that heard me speak of you; mrs. buffam that heard hazlitt mention you, dr. tuthill, mrs. tuthill, colonel harwood, mrs. harwood, mr. collier, mrs. collier, mr. sutton, nurse, mr. fell, mrs. fell, mr. marshall, are very well, and occasionally inquire after you. [_rest cut away_.] [footnote : where my family come from. i have chosen that if ever i should have my choice.] ["i have published a little book." this was, of course, an invention. in the _elia_ essay on "poor relations" lamb says that his father's boyhood was spent at lincoln, and in susan yates' story in _mrs. leicester's school_ we see the lincolnshire fens, but of the history of the family we know nothing, i fancy stamford is a true touch. "the persian ambassador." a portrait of this splendid person is preserved at the india office. leigh hunt says that dyer was among the pilgrims to primrose hill. "kate *********." i have not identified this young lady. "the old pathetic ballad." i have not found this. "mrs. bland." maria theresa bland ( - ), a jewess, and a mezzo-soprano famous in simple ballads, who was connected with drury lane for many years. "braham is fled." braham did not sing in london in , but joined mrs. billington in a long provincial tour. phillips was thomas philipps ( - ), singer and composer. "miss b ******." miss burrell. see note to letter of feb. , . "not my poetry, but quarles's." in "an elegie," stanza . lamb does not quote quite correctly. "hazlitt's grammar." _a new and improved grammar of the english tongue ... by william hazlitt, to which is added a new guide to the english tongue by e[dward] baldwin_ (william godwin). published by m. j. godwin. . "a woman begged of me." lamb told this story at the end of his _elia_ essay "a complaint of the decay of beggars," in the _london magazine_, june, , but the passage was not reprinted in book form. see vol. ii. of this edition. george dawe was made a.r.a. in , not r.a. until . of the friends on lamb's list we have already met several. mr. and mrs. norris were the randal norrises. dr. stoddart having left malta was now practising in doctors commons. mr. and mrs. collier were the john dyer colliers, the parents of john payne collier, who introduced lamb to henry crabb robinson. both colliers were journalists. thompson may be marmaduke thompson of christ's hospital. we meet some buffams later, in the moxon correspondence. mr. marshall was godwin's friend. of mrs. lum, mr. dollin, colonel and mrs. harwood, and mr. sutton, i know nothing.] letter charles lamb to henry crabb robinson [dated by h. c. r. feb. , .] dr r.--my brother whom you have met at my rooms (a plump good looking man of seven and forty!) has written a book about humanity, which i transmit to you herewith. wilson the publisher has put it in his head that you can get it reviewed for him. i dare say it is not in the scope of your review--but if you could put it in any likely train, he would rejoyce. for alas! our boasted humanity partakes of vanity. as it is, he teazes me to death with chusing to suppose that i could get it into all the reviews at a moment's notice--i!! who have been set up as a mark for them to throw at, and would willingly consign them all to hell flames and megaera's snaky locks. but here's the book--and don't shew it mrs. collier, for i remember she makes excellent eel soup, and the leading points of the book are directed against that very process. yours truly c. lamb. at home to-night--wednesday [february ]. [addressed to "henry robinson, esq., hatton garden, 'with a treatise on cruelty to animals.'" lamb's brother, john lamb, who was born in , was now accountant of the south-sea house. his character is described by lamb in the _elia_ essay "my relations," where he figures as james elia. robinson's _diary_ later frequently expresses robinson's dislike of his dogmatic ways. the pamphlet has been identified by mr. l.s. livingston as _a letter to the right hon. william windham, on his opposition to lord erskine's bill for the prevention of cruelty to animals_. it was published by maxwell & wilson at skinner street in . no author's name is given. one copy only is known, and that is in america, and the owner declines to permit it to be reprinted. the particular passage referring to eel pie runs thus:-- "if an eel had the wisdom of solomon, he could not help himself in the ill-usage that befalls him; but if he had, and were told, that it was necessary for our subsistence that he should be eaten, that he must be skinned first, and then broiled; if ignorant of man's usual practice, he would conclude that the cook would so far use her reason as to cut off his head first, which is not fit for food, as then he might be skinned and broiled without harm; for however the other parts of his body might be convulsed during the culinary operations, there could be no feeling of consciousness therein, the communication with the brain being cut off; but if the woman were immediately to stick a fork into his eye, skin him alive, coil him up in a skewer, head and all, so that in the extremest agony he could not move, and forthwith broil him to death: then were the same almighty power that formed man from the dust, and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life, to call the eel into a new existence, with a knowledge of the treatment he had undergone, and he found that the instinctive disposition which man has in common with other carnivorous animals, which inclines him to cruelty, was not the sole cause of his torments; but that men did not attend to consider whether the sufferings of such insignificant creatures could be lessened: that eels were not the only sufferers; that lobsters and other shell fish were put into cold water and boiled to death by slow degrees in many parts of the sea coast; that these, and many other such wanton atrocities, were the consequence of carelessness occasioned by the pride of mankind despising their low estate, and of the general opinion that there is no punishable sin in the ill-treatment of animals designed for our use; that, therefore, the woman did not bestow so much thought on him as to cut his head off first, and that she would have laughed at any considerate person who should have desired such a thing; with what fearful indignation might he inveigh against the unfeeling metaphysician that, like a cruel spirit alarmed at the appearance of a dawning of mercy upon animals, could not rest satisfied with opposing the cruelty prevention bill by the plea of possible inconvenience to mankind, highly magnified and emblazoned, but had set forth to the vulgar and unthinking of all ranks, in the jargon of proud learning, that man's obligations of morality towards the creatures subjected to his use are imperfect obligations!" robinson's review was, i imagine, _the london review_, founded by richard cumberland in february, , which, however, no longer existed, having run its brief course by november, . "megæra's snaky locks." from _paradise lost_, x., :-- and up the trees climbing, sat thicker than the snaky locks that curl'd megæra. here should come another letter from lamb to charles lloyd, senior, dated march , . it refers to mr. lloyd's translation of the first seven books of the _odyssey_ and is accompanied by a number of criticisms. lamb advises mr. lloyd to complete the _odyssey_, adding that he would prize it for its homeric plainness and truths above the confederate jumble of pope, broom and fenton which goes under pope's name and is far inferior to his _iliad_. among the criticisms is one on mr. lloyd's use of the word "patriotic," in which lamb says that it strikes his ears as being too modern; adding that in english few words of more than three syllables chime well into a verse. the word "sentiment" calls from him the remark that he would root it out of a translation of homer. "it came in with sterne, and was a child he had by affectation."] letter charles lamb to john mathew gutch [april th, .] dear gutch,--i did not see your brother, who brought me wither; but he understood, he said, you were daily expecting to come to town: this has prevented my writing. the books have pleased me excessively: i should think you could not have made a better selection. i never saw "philaretè" before--judge of my pleasure. i could not forbear scribbling certain critiques in pencil on the blank leaves. shall i send them, or may i expect to see you in town? some of them are remarks on the character of wither and of his writings. do you mean to have anything of that kind? what i have said on "philaretè" is poor, but i think some of the rest not so bad: perhaps i have exceeded my commission in scrawling over the copies; but my delight therein must excuse me, and pencil-marks will rub out. where is the life? write, for i am quite in the dark. yours, with many thanks, c. lamb. perhaps i could digest the few critiques prefixed to the satires, shepherds hunting, &c., into a short abstract of wither's character and works, at the end of his life. but, may be, you don't want any thing, and have said all you wish in the life. [john mathew gutch ( - ), whom we have met before, was at this time living at bristol, where he owned, edited and printed _felix farley's bristol journal_. he had been printing for his own pleasure an edition of george wither's poems, which he had sent to lamb for his opinion, intending ultimately to edit wither fully. lamb returned the volumes with a number of comments, many of which he afterwards incorporated in his essay "on the poetry of george wither," printed in his _works_ in . gutch subsequently handed the volumes to his friend dr. john nott of the hot wells, bristol, who had views of his own upon wither, and who commented in his turn on the poet and on lamb's criticism of the poet. in course of time the volumes fell into lamb's hands again, when nott's comments on wither and on lamb received treatment. they were ultimately given by lamb to his friend brook pulham of the india house (who made the caricature etching of "Ælia") and are now in the possession of mr. a.c. swinburne, who told the story of the book in the _nineteenth century_ for january, , reprinted in his _miscellanies_, . some passages from that article will be found in the notes to lamb's essay on wither in vol. i. of the present edition. the last word was with nott, for when gutch printed a three- or four-volume edition of wither in , under nott's editorship, many of lamb's best things were included as nott's.] letter charles lamb to basil montagu mr. hazlitt's: winterslow, near sarum, th july, . dear [montagu],--i have turned and twisted the mss. in my head, and can make nothing of them. i knew when i took them that i could not; but i do not like to do an act of ungracious necessity at once; so i am ever committing myself by half engagements and total failures. i cannot make any body understand why i can't do such things. it is a defect in my occiput. i cannot put other people's thoughts together; i forget every paragraph as fast as i read it; and my head has received such a shock by an all-night journey on the top of the coach, that i shall have enough to do to nurse it into its natural pace before i go home. i must devote myself to imbecility. i must be gloriously useless while i stay here. how is mrs. [m.]? will she pardon my inefficiency? the city of salisbury is full of weeping and wailing. the bank has stopt payment; and every body in the town kept money at it, or has got some of its notes. some have lost all they had in the world. it is the next thing to seeing a city with a plague within its walls. the wilton people are all undone. all the manufacturers there kept cash at the salisbury bank; and i do suppose it to be the unhappiest county in england this, where i am making holiday. we purpose setting out for oxford tuesday fortnight, and coming thereby home. but no more night travelling. my head is sore (understand it of the inside) with that deduction of my natural rest which i suffered coming down. neither mary nor i can spare a morsel of our rest. it is incumbent on us to be misers of it. travelling is not good for us--we travel so seldom. if the sun be hell, it is not for the fire, but for the sempiternal motion of that miserable body of light. how much more dignified leisure hath a mussel glued to his unpassable rocky limit, two inch square! he hears the tide roll over him, backwards and forwards twice a-day (as the d----d salisbury long coach goes and returns in eight and forty hours), but knows better than to take an outside night-place a top on't. he is the owl of the sea. minerva's fish. the fish of wisdom. our kindest remembrances to mrs. [m.]. yours truly, c. lamb. [if the date is correct we must suppose that the lambs had made a second visit to the hazlitts and were intending to return by way of oxford (see next letter). basil montagu was a barrister and humanitarian, a friend of wordsworth and coleridge, and afterwards step-father-in-law of procter. he was born in and lived until . lamb probably addressed to him many other letters, also to his third wife, carlyle's "noble lady." but the correspondence was destroyed by mrs. procter. the mss. referred to cannot now be identified.] letter charles lamb to william hazlitt august th, . dear h.,--epistemon is not well. our pleasant excursion has ended sadly for one of us. you will guess i mean my sister. she got home very well (i was 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 just got her letter. h. robinson has been to blenheim. he says you will be sorry to hear that we should have asked for the titian 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 ledas, 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. well, i shall never see it. i have lost all wish for sights. god bless you. i shall be glad to see you in london. yours truly, c. lamb. thursday. [hazlitt subsequently saw the blenheim titians and wrote of them with gusto in his description of the picture galleries of england. next should come a letter from lamb to mrs. thomas clarkson, dated september , , not available for this edition; relating to the illness of mary lamb and stating that she is "quite restored and will be with me in little more than a week."] letter charles lamb to william wordsworth friday, oct., . _e.i.ho_. dr w.--i forwarded the letter which you sent to me, without opening it, to your sister at binfield. she has returned it to me, and begs me to tell you that she intends returning from b. on monday or tuesday next, when priscilla leaves it, and that it was her earnest wish to spend another week with us in london, but she awaits another letter from home to determine her. i can only say that she appeared so much pleased with london, and that she is so little likely to see it again for a long time, that if you can spare her, it will be almost a pity not. but doubtless she will have heard again from you, before i can get a reply to this letter & what she next hears she says will be decisive. if wanted, she will set out immediately from london. 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 continuation of the essay on epitaphs. it is the only sensible thing which has been written on that subject & it goes to the bottom. in particular i was pleased with your translation of that turgid epitaph into the plain feeling under it. it is perfectly a test. but what is the reason we have so few good epitaphs after all? a very striking instance of your position might be found in the church yard 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 not well know which, has dignified every grave stone for the last few years with bran new verses, all different, and all ingenious, with the author's name at the bottom of each. the sweet swan of thames has artfully diversified his strains & 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 thought should recur. it is long since i saw and read these inscriptions, but i remember the impression 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 & conjunct with other words, till he had learned to skill 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 with a tongue that dangles from a scull that never reached in thought and thorough imagination two inches, or further than from his hand to his mouth, or from the vestry to the sounding board. [but the] epitaphs were trim and sprag & patent, & pleased the survivors of thames ditton above the old mumpsimus of afflictions sore. to do justice though, it must be owned that even the excellent feeling which dictated this dirge when new, must have suffered something in passing thro' so many thousand applications, many of them no doubt quite misplaced, as i have seen in islington churchy'd (i think) an epitaph to an infant who died Ætatis months, with this seasonable inscription appended, honor thy fath'r. and moth'r. that thy days may be long in the land &c.--sincerely wishing your children better [_words cut out with signature_]. [binfield, near windsor, was the home of dorothy wordsworth's uncle, dr. cookson, canon of windsor. priscilla, _nèe_ lloyd, a sister of charles lloyd, had married christopher wordsworth, afterwards master of trinity, in . wordsworth's "essay on epitaphs" was printed in part in _the friend_, february , . for the remainder see wordsworth's _works_, part ii. began with a reference to _rosamund gray_. i quote the passage containing the turgid example. let us return to an instance of common life. i quote it with reluctance, not so much for its absurdity as that the expression in one place will strike at first sight as little less than impious; and it is indeed, though unintentionally so, most irreverent. but i know no other example that will so forcibly illustrate the important truth i wish to establish. the following epitaph is to be found in a church-yard in westmoreland; which the present writer has reason to think of with interest as it contains the remains of some of his ancestors and kindred. the date is . "under this stone, reader, inter'd doth lye, beauty and virtue's true epitomy. at her appearance the noone-son blush'd and shrunk in 'cause quite outdon. in her concentered did all graces dwell: god pluck'd my rose that he might take a smel. i'll say no more: but weeping wish i may soone with thy dear chaste ashes com to lay. sic efflevit maritus." can anything go beyond this in extravagance? yet, if the fundamental thoughts be translated into a natural style, they will be found reasonable and affecting--"the woman who lies here interred, was in my eyes a perfect image of beauty and virtue; she was to me a brighter object than the sun in heaven: god took her, who was my delight, from this earth to bring her nearer to himself. nothing further is worthy to be said than that weeping i wish soon to lie by thy dear chaste ashes. thus did the husband pour out his tears." wordsworth wrote an epitaph on lamb, but it was too long to be used. a few lines are now on the tablet in edmonton church. lamb had begun his criticisms of churchyard epitaphs very early: talfourd tells that, when quite a little boy, after reading a number of flattering inscriptions, he asked mary lamb where all the bad people were buried.] letter mary lamb to miss wordsworth [p.m. november , .] my dear friend--my brother's letter, which i did not see, i am sure has distressed you sadly. i was then so ill as to alarm him exceedingly, and he thought me quite incapable of any kind of business. it is a great mortification to me to be such an useless creature, and i feel myself greatly indebted to you for the very kind manner in which you take this ungracious matter: but i will say no more on this unpleasant subject. i am at present under the care of dr. tuthill. i think i have derived great benefit from his medicines. he has also made a water drinker of me, which, contrary to my expectations, seems to agree with me very well. i very much regret that you were so untimely snatched away; the lively recollection you seem to retain of london scenes will i hope induce you to return, in happier times, for i must still hope for better days. we have had many pleasant hours with coleridge,--if i had not known how ill he is i should have had no idea of it, for he has been very chearful. but yet i have no good news to send you of him, for two days ago, when i saw him last, he had not begun his course of medicine & regimen under carlisle. i have had a very chearful letter from mrs. clarkson. she complained a little of your friend tom, but she says she means to devote the winter to the task of new molding him, i am afraid she will find it no easy task. mrs. montague was very sorry to find you gone. i have not seen much of her, for i have kept very much at home since her return. i mean to stay at home and keep early hours all this winter. i have a new maid coming this evening. betty, that you left here, went from me last week, and i took a girl lately from the country, who was fetched away in a few days by her sister, who took it into her head that the temple was an improper place for a girl to live in. i wish the one that is coming may suit me. she is seven & twenty, with a very plain person, therefore i may hope she will be in little danger here. henry robinson, and many other friends that you made here, enquire continually after you. the spanish lady is gone, and now poor robinson is left quite forlorn. the streets remind me so much of you that i wish for you every showy shop i pass by. i hope we had many pleasant fireside hours together, but i almost fear the stupid dispirited state i was in made me seem a very flat companion; but i know i listened with great pleasure to many interesting conversations. i thank you for what you have done for phillips, his fate will be decided in about a week. he has lately breakfasted with sir joseph banks, who received him with great civility but made him no promise of support. sir joseph told him a new candidate had started up who it was expected would be favoured by the council. i am afraid phillips stands a very poor chance. i am doing nothing, i wish i was, for if i were once more busily employed at work, i should be more satisfied with myself. i should not feel so helpless, & so useless. i hope you will write soon, your letters give me great pleasure; you have made me so well acquainted with all your household, that i must hope for frequent accounts how you are all going on. remember us affectionately to your brother & sister. i hope the little katherine continues mending. god bless you all & every one. your affectionate friend m. lamb. nov'r. , . letter charles lamb to miss wordsworth (_added to same letter_) mary has left a little space for me to fill up with nonsense, as the geographers used to cram monsters in the voids of their maps & call it terra incognita. she has told you how she has taken to water, like a hungry otter. i too limp after her in lame imitation, but it goes against me a little _at first_. i have been _aquavorous_ now for full four days, and it seems a moon. i am full of cramps & rheumatisms, and cold internally so that fire won't warm me, yet i bear all for virtues sake. must i then leave you, gin, rum, brandy, aqua vitae--pleasant jolly fellows--damn temperance and them that first invented it, some anti noahite. coleridge has powdered his head, and looks like bacchus, bacchus ever sleek and young. he is going to turn sober, but his clock has not struck yet, meantime he pours down goblet after goblet, the d to see where the st is gone, the d to see no harm happens to the second, a fourth to say there's another coming, and a th to say he's not sure he's the last. william henshaw is dead. he died yesterday, aged . it was but a twelvemonth or so back that his father, an ancient gunsmith & my godfather, sounded me as to my willingness to be guardian to this william in case of his (the old man's) death. william had three times broke in business, twice in england, once in t'other hemisphere. he returned from america a sot & hath liquidated all debts. what a hopeful ward i am rid of. Ætatis . i must have taken care of his morals, seen that he did not form imprudent connections, given my consent before he could have married &c. from all which the stroke of death hath relieved me. mrs. reynolds is the name of the lady to whom i will remember you to-morrow. farewell. wish me strength to continue. i've been eating jugg'd hare. the toast & water makes me quite sick. c. lamb. [after the preceding letter mary lamb had been taken ill--but not, i think, mentally--and dorothy wordsworth's visit was put off. coleridge, _the friend_ having ceased, had come to london with the montagus on october to stay with them indefinitely at frith street, soho. but a few days after his arrival montagu had inadvisedly repeated what he unjustifiably called a warning phrase of wordsworth's concerning coleridge's difficult habits as a guest--the word "nuisance" being mentioned--and this had so plunged coleridge in grief that he left soho for hammersmith, where his friends the morgans were living. montagu's indiscretion led to a quarrel between coleridge and wordsworth which was long of healing. this is no place in which to tell the story, which has small part in lamb's life; but it led to one of the few letters from coleridge to lamb that have been preserved (see mr. e.h. coleridge's edition of coleridge's _letters_, page ). carlisle was sir anthony carlisle ( - ), the surgeon and a friend of lamb. "the spanish lady"--madam lavaggi. see robinson's _diary_, , vol. i., page . "phillips." this would be ned phillips, i presume, not the colonel. i have not discovered for what post he was trying. "the little katherine." catherine wordsworth, born september , , lived only until june , . "i have been _aquavorous_." writing to dorothy wordsworth on december crabb robinson says that lamb has abstained from alcohol and tobacco since lord mayor's day (november ). "william henshaw." i know nothing more of this unfortunate man.] letter mary lamb to miss wordsworth [p.m. nov. , .] my dear friend, miss monkhouse left town yesterday, but i think i am able to answer all your enquiries. i saw her on sunday evening at mrs. montagu's. she looked very well & said her health was greatly improved. she promised to call on me before she left town but the weather having been very bad i suppose has prevented her. she received the letter which came through my brother's hands and i have learned from mrs. montagu that all your commissions are executed. it was carlisle that she consulted, and she is to continue taking his prescriptions in the country. mr. monkhouse & mr. addison drank tea with us one evening last week. miss monkhouse is a very pleasing girl, she reminds me, a little, of miss hutchinson. i have not seen henry robinson for some days past, but i remember he told me he had received a letter from you, and he talked of spanish papers which he should send to mr. southey. i wonder he does not write, for i have always understood him to be a very regular correspondent, and he seemed very proud of your letter. i am tolerably well, but i still affect the invalid--take medicines, and keep at home as much as i possibly can. water-drinking, though i confess it to be a flat thing, is become very easy to me. charles perseveres in it most manfully. coleridge is just in the same state as when i wrote last--i have not seen him since sunday, he was then at mr. morgan's but talked of taking a lodging. phillips feels a certainty that he shall lose his election, for the new candidate is himself a fellow of the royal society, and [it] is thought sir joseph banks will favour him. it will now be soon decided. my new maid is now sick in bed. am i not unlucky? she would have suited me very well if she had been healthy, but i must send her away if she is not better tomorrow. charles promised to add a few lines, i will therefore leave him plenty of room, for he may perhaps think of something to entertain you. i am sure i cannot. i hope you will not return to grasmere till all fear of the scarlet fever is over, i rejoice to hear so good an account of the children and hope you will write often. when i write next i will endeavour to get a frank. this i cannot do but when the parliament is sitting, and as you seemed anxious about miss monkhouse i would not defer sending this, though otherwise it is not worth paying one penny for. god bless you all. yours affectionately m. lamb. letter charles lamb to miss wordsworth (_added to same letter_) we are in a pickle. mary from her affectation of physiognomy has hired a stupid big country wench who looked honest, as she thought, and has been doing her work some days but without eating--eats no butter nor meat, but prefers cheese with her tea for breakfast--and now it comes out that she was ill when she came with lifting her mother about (who is now with god) when she was dying, and with riding up from norfolk days and nights in the waggon. she got advice yesterday and took something which has made her bring up a quart of blood, and she now lies, a dead weight upon our humanity, in her bed, incapable of getting up, refusing to go into an hospital, having no body in town but a poor asthmatic dying uncle, whose son lately married a drab who fills his house, and there is no where she can go, and she seems to have made up her mind to take her flight to heaven from our bed.--o god! o god!--for the little wheelbarrow which trundled the hunchback from door to door to try the various charities of different professions of mankind! here's her uncle just crawled up, he is far liker death than he. o the parish, the parish, the hospital, the infirmary, the charnel house, these are places meet for such guests, not our quiet mansion where nothing but affluent plenty and literary ease should abound.--howard's house, howard's house, or where the parylitic descended thro' the sky-light (what a god's gift) to get at our savior. in this perplexity such topics as spanish papers and monkhouses sink into comparative insignificance. what shall we do?--if she died, it were something: gladly would i pay the coffin maker and the bellman and searchers--o christ. c. l. [miss monkhouse was the daughter of the wordsworths' and lambs' friend, thomas monkhouse. "mr. addison." i have not traced this gentleman. miss hutchinson was sarah hutchinson, sister of mrs. wordsworth. "the hunchback." in the _arabian nights_. "howard's house." this would be cold-bath fields prison, erected in upon some humane suggestions of howard the philanthropist.] letter charles lamb to william hazlitt wednesday, november , . dear hazlitt--i sent you on saturday a cobbett, containing your reply to the _edinburgh review_, which i thought you would be glad to receive as an example of attention on the part of mr. cobbett to insert it so speedily. did you get it? we have received your pig, and return you thanks; it will be dressed in due form, with appropriate sauce, this day. mary has been very ill indeed since you saw her; that is, as ill as she can be to remain at home. but she is a good deal better now, owing to a very careful regimen. she drinks nothing but water, and never goes out; she does not even go to the captain's. her indisposition has been ever since that night you left town; the night miss w[ordsworth] came. her coming, and that d----d mrs. godwin coming and staying so late that night, so overset her that she lay broad awake all that night, and it was by a miracle that she escaped a very bad illness, which i thoroughly expected. i have made up my mind that she shall never have any one in the house again with her, and that no one shall sleep with her, not even for a night; for it is a very serious thing to be always living with a kind of fever upon her; and therefore i am sure you will take it in good part if i say that if mrs. hazlitt comes to town at any time, however glad we shall be to see her in the daytime, i cannot ask her to spend a night under our roof. some decision we must come to, for the harassing fever that we have both been in, owing to miss wordsworth's coming, is not to be borne; and i would rather be dead than so alive. however, at present, owing to a regimen and medicines which tuthill has given her, who very kindly volunteer'd the care of her, she is a great deal quieter, though too much harassed by company, who cannot or will not see how late hours and society teaze her. poor phillips had the cup dash'd out of his lips as it were. he had every prospect of the situation, when about ten days since one of the council of the r. society started for the place himself, being a rich merchant who lately failed, and he will certainly be elected on friday next. p. is very sore and miserable about it. coleridge is in town, or at least at hammersmith. he is writing or going to write in the _courier_ against cobbett, and in favour of paper money. no news. remember me kindly to sarah. i write from the office. yours ever, c. lamb. i just open'd it to say the pig, upon proof, hath turned out as good as i predicted. my fauces yet retain the sweet porcine odour. i find you have received the cobbett. i think your paper complete. mrs. reynolds, who is a sage woman, approves of the pig. ["a cobbett." this was cobbett's _political register_ for november , , containing hazlitt's letter upon "mr. malthus and the edinburgh reviewers," signed "the author of a reply to the _essay on population_." hazlitt's reply had been criticised in the _edinburgh_ for august, probably only just published. the postscript contains lamb's first passage in praise of roast pig. i place next the following undated letter to godwin from mr. kegan paul's _william godwin: his friends and contemporaries_, as it seems to be connected with the decision concerning visitors expressed in the letter to hazlitt.] letter charles lamb to william godwin dear godwin,--i have found it for several reasons indispensable to my comfort, and to my sister's, to have no visitors in the forenoon. if i cannot accomplish this i am determined to leave town. i am extremely sorry to do anything in the slightest degree that may seem offensive to you or to mrs. godwin, but when a general rule is fixed on, you know how odious in a case of this sort it is to make exceptions; i assure you i have given up more than one friendship in stickling for this point. it would be unfair to those from whom i have parted with regret to make exceptions, which i would not do for them. let me request you not to be offended, and to request mrs. g. not to be offended, if i beg both your compliances with this wish. your friendship is as dear to me as that of any person on earth, and if it were not for the necessity of keeping tranquillity at home, i would not seem so unreasonable. if you were to see the agitation that my sister is in, between the fear of offending you and mrs. g. and the difficulty of maintaining a system which she feels we must do to live without wretchedness, you would excuse this seeming strange request, which i send you with a trembling anxiety as to its reception with you, whom i would never offend. i rely on your goodness. c. lamb. letter mary lamb to sarah hazlitt [? end of or early .] my dear sarah,--i have taken a large sheet of paper, as if i were going to write a long letter; but that is by no means my intention, for i only have time to write three lines to notify what i ought to have done the moment i received your welcome letter. namely, that i shall be very much joyed to see you. every morning lately i have been expecting to see you drop in, even before your letter came; and i have been setting my wits to work to think how to make you as comfortable as the nature of our inhospitable habits will admit. i must work while you are here; and i have been slaving very hard to get through with something before you come, that i may be quite in the way of it, and not teize you with complaints all day that i do not know what to do. i am very sorry to hear of your mischance. mrs. rickman has just buried her youngest child. i am glad i am an old maid; for, you see, there is nothing but misfortunes in the marriage state. charles was drunk last night, and drunk the night before; which night before was at godwin's, where we went, at a short summons from mr. g., to play a solitary rubber, which was interrupted by the entrance of mr. and little mrs. liston; and after them came henry robinson, who is now domesticated at mr. godwin's fireside, and likely to become a formidable rival to tommy turner. we finished there at twelve o'clock (charles and liston brim-full of gin and water and snuff): after which henry robinson spent a long evening by our fireside at home; and there was much gin and water drunk, albeit only one of the party partook of it. and h.r. professed himself highly indebted to charles for the useful information he gave him on sundry matters of taste and imagination, even after charles could not speak plain for tipsiness. but still he swallowed the flattery and the spirits as savourily as robinson did his cold water. last night was to be a night, but it was not. there was a certain son of one of martin's employers, one young mr. blake; to do whom honour, mrs. burney brought forth, first rum, then a single bottle of champaine, long kept in her secret hoard; then two bottles of her best currant wine, which she keeps for mrs. rickman, came out; and charles partook liberally of all these beverages, while mr. young blake and mr. ireton talked of high matters, such as the merits of the whip club, and the merits of red and white champaine. do i spell that last word right? rickman was not there, so ireton had it all his own way. the alternating wednesdays will chop off one day in the week from your jolly days, and i do not know how we shall make it up to you; but i will contrive the best i can. phillips comes again pretty regularly, to the great joy of mrs. reynolds. once more she hears the well-loved sounds of, 'how do you do, mrs. reynolds? how does miss chambers do?' i have spun out my three lines amazingly. now for family news. your brother's little twins are not dead, but mrs. john hazlitt and her baby may be, for any thing i know to the contrary, for i have not been there for a prodigious long time. mrs. holcroft still goes about from nicholson to tuthil, and from tuthil to godwin, and from godwin to tuthil, and from tuthil to godwin, and from godwin to tuthil, and from tuthil to nicholson, to consult on the publication, or no publication, of the life of the good man, her husband. it is called the life everlasting. how does that same life go on in your parts? good bye, god bless you. i shall be glad to see you when you come this way. yours most affectionately, m. lamb. i am going in great haste to see mrs. clarkson, for i must get back to dinner, which i have hardly time to do. i wish that dear, good, amiable woman would go out of town. i thought she was clean gone; and yesterday there was a consultation of physicians held at her house, to see if they could keep her among them here a few weeks longer. [this letter is dated by mr. hazlitt november , , but i doubt if that can be right. see extract from crabb robinson above, testifying to lamb's sobriety between november and december . liston was john liston ( ?- ), the actor, whose mock biography lamb wrote some years later (see vol. i. of this edition). his wife was a diminutive comedienne, famous as queen dollalolla in "tom thumb." lamb may have known liston through the burneys, for he is said to have been an usher in dr. burney's school--dr. charles burney, captain burney's brother. "henry robinson." crabb robinson's _diary_ shows us that his domestication by godwin's fireside was not of long duration. i do not know who tommy turner was. mr. ireton was probably william ayrton, the musical critic, a friend and neighbour of the burneys, and later a friend of the lambs, as we shall see. "the alternating wednesdays." the lambs seem to have given up their weekly wednesday evening, which now became fortnightly. later it was: changed to thursday and made monthly. mrs. reynolds had been a miss chambers.] letter mary lamb to matilda betham [no date. feb., .] my dear matilda,--coleridge has given me a very chearful promise that he will wait on lady jerningham any day you will be pleased to appoint; he offered to write to you; but i found it was to be done _tomorrow_, and as i am pretty well acquainted with his tomorrows, i thought good to let you know his determination _today_. he is in town today, but as he is often going to hammersmith for a night or two, you had better perhaps send the invitation through me, and i will manage it for you as well as i can. you had better let him have four or five days' previous notice, and you had better send the invitation as soon as you can; for he seems tolerably well just now. i mention all these betters, because i wish to do the best i can for you, perceiving, as i do, it is a thing you have set your heart upon. he dined one [d]ay in company with catilana (is that the way you spell her italian name?--i am reading sallust, and had like to have written catiline). how i should have liked, and how you would have liked, to have seen coleridge and catilana together! you have been very good of late to let me come and see you so seldom, and you are a little goodish to come so seldom here, because you stay away from a kind motive. but if you stay away always, as i fear you mean to do, i would not give one pin for your good intentions. in plain words, come and see me very soon; for though i be not sensitive as some people, i begin to feel strange qualms for having driven you from me. yours affectionately, m. lamb. wednesday. alas! wednesday shines no more to me now. miss duncan played famously in the new comedy, which went off as famously. by the way, she put in a spiteful piece of wit, i verily believe of her own head; and methought she stared me full in the face. the words were "as silent as an author in company." her hair and herself looked remarkably well. [angelica catalani ( - ) was the great singer. i find no record of coleridge's meeting with her. "miss duncan." praise of this lady in miss hardcastle and other parts will be found in leigh hunt's _critical essays on the performers of the london theatres_, . at this time she was playing with the drury lane company at the lyceum. they produced several new plays.] letter (fragment) charles lamb to john morgan [dated at end: march , .] there--don't read any further, because the letter is not intended for you but for coleridge, who might perhaps not have opened it directed to him suo nomine. it is to invite c. to lady jerningham's on sunday. her address is to be found within. we come to hammersmith notwithstanding on sunday, and hope mrs. m. will not think of getting us green peas or any such expensive luxuries. a plate of plain turtle, another of turbot, with good roast beef in the rear, and, as alderman curtis says, whoever can't make a dinner of that ought to be damn'd. c. lamb. friday night, mar., . [this is lamb's only existing letter to coleridge's friend, john morgan. coleridge had not found a lodging and was still with the morgans at portland place, hammersmith. alderman sir william curtis, m.p., afterwards lord mayor of london, was the subject of much ridicule by the whigs and radicals, and the hero of peter pindar's satire "the fat knight and the petition." it was he who first gave the toast of the three r.'s--"reading, riting and rithmetic."] letter mary lamb to sarah hazlitt oct., . temple. my dear sarah,--i have been a long time anxiously expecting the happy news that i have just received. i address you because, as the letter has been lying some days at the india house, i hope you are able to sit up and read my congratulations on the little live boy you have been so many years wishing for. as we old women say, 'may he live to be a great comfort to you!' i never knew an event of the kind that gave me so much pleasure as the little long-looked-for-come-at-last's arrival; and i rejoiced to hear his honour has begun to suck--the word was not distinctly written and i was a long time making out the solemn fact. i hope to hear from you soon, for i am desirous to know if your nursing labours are attended with any difficulties. i wish you a happy _getting-up_, and a merry christening. charles sends his love, perhaps though he will write a scrap to hazlitt at the end. he is now looking over me, he is always in my way, for he has had a month's holydays at home, but i am happy to say they end on monday--when mine begin, for i am going to pass a week at richmond with mrs. burney. she has been dying, but she went to the isle of wight and recovered once more, and she is finishing her recovery at richmond. when there i intend to read novels and play at piquet all day long. yours truly, m. lamb. letter charles lamb to william hazlitt (_added to same letter_) dear hazlitt, i cannot help accompanying my sister's congratulations to sarah with some of my own to you on this happy occasion of a man child being born-- delighted fancy already sees him some future rich alderman or opulent merchant; painting perhaps a little in his leisure hours for amusement like the late h. bunbury, esq. pray, are the winterslow estates entailed? i am afraid lest the young dog when he grows up should cut down the woods, and leave no groves for widows to take their lonesome solace in. the wem estate of course can only devolve on him, in case of your brother leaving no male issue. well, my blessing and heaven's be upon him, and make him like his father, with something a better temper and a smoother head of hair, and then all the men and women must love him. martin and the card-boys join in congratulations. love to sarah. sorry we are not within caudle-shot. c. lamb. if the widow be assistant on this notable occasion, give our due respects and kind remembrances to her. [william hazlitt's son, william hazlitt, afterwards the registrar, was born on september , , he had been preceded by another boy, in , who lived, however, only a few months. "h. bunbury." henry william bunbury, the caricaturist and painter, and the husband of goldsmith's friend, catherine horneck, the "jessamy bride." he died in . the card-boys would be lamb's wednesday visitors. here should come a letter from lamb to charles lloyd, senior, dated september , . it is printed in _charles lamb and the lloyds_: a letter of criticism of mr. lloyd's translation of the _epistles_ of horace. a letter from lamb to charles lloyd, junior, belonging to this period, is now no more, in common with all but two of his letters, the remainder of which were destroyed by lloyd's son, charles grosvenor lloyd. writing to daniel stuart on october , , wordsworth says. "lamb writes to lloyd that c.'s play [coleridge's "remorse"] is accepted." we now come to a period of three years in lamb's life which is represented in the correspondence by only two or three letters. not until august , , does he return to his old manner. during this time lamb is known to have written his first essay on christ's hospital, his "confessions of a drunkard," the little but excellent series of table-talk in _the examiner_ and some verses in the same paper. possibly he wrote many letters too, but they have disappeared. we know from crabb robinson's _diary_ that it was a social period with the lambs; the india house work also becoming more exacting than before.] letter charles lamb to john dyer collier [no date. probably .] dear sir--mrs. collier has been kind enough to say that you would endeavour to procure a reporter's situation for w. hazlitt. i went to consult him upon it last night, and he acceded very eagerly to the proposal, and requests me to say how very much obliged he feels to your kindness, and how glad he should be for its success. he is, indeed, at his wits' end for a livelihood; and, i should think, especially qualified for such an employment, from his singular facility in retaining all conversations at which he has been ever present. i think you may recommend him with confidence. i am sure i shall _myself_ be obliged to you for your exertions, having a great regard for him. yours truly, c. lamb. sunday morning. [john payne collier, who prints this in his _old man's diary_, adds: "the result was that my father procured for hazlitt the situation of a parliamentary reporter on the _morning chronicle_; but he did not retain it long, and as his talents were undoubted, mr. perry transferred to him the office of theatrical critic, a position which was subsequently held for several years by a person of much inferior talents." crabb robinson mentions in his _diary_ under the date december , , that hazlitt is in high spirits from his engagement with perry as parliamentary reporter at four guineas a week. i place here, not having any definite date, a letter on a kindred subject from mary lamb:--] letter mary lamb to mrs. john dyer collier [no date.] dear mrs. c.--this note will be given to you by a young friend of mine, whom i wish you would employ: she has commenced business as a mantua-maker, and, if you and my girls would try her, i think she could fit you all three, and it will be doing her an essential service. she is, i think, very deserving, and if you procure work for her among your friends and acquaintances, so much the better. my best love to you and my girls. we are both well. yours affectionately, mary lamb. [john payne collier remarks: "southey and coleridge, as is well known, married two sisters of the name of fricker. i never saw either of them, but a third sister settled as a mantua-maker in london, and for some years she worked for my mother and her daughters. she was an intelligent woman, but by no means above her business, though she was fond of talking of her two poet-married relations. she was introduced to my mother by the following note from mary lamb, who always spoke of my sisters as _her_ girls." mary lamb had herself worked as a mantua-maker for some years previous to the autumn of .] letter charles lamb to john scott [p.m. (? feb.), .] sir--your explanation is perfectly pleasant to me, and i accede to your proposal most willingly. as i began with the beginning of this month, i will if you please call upon you for _your part of the engagement_ (supposing i shall have performed mine) on the st of march next, and thence forward if it suit you quarterly.--you will occasionally wink at briskets & veiny pieces. your hble. svt. c. lamb. saturday. [john scott ( - ) we shall meet later, in , in connection with the _london magazine_, which he edited until the fatal termination of his quarrel with _blackwood's_. scott had just become editor of _the champion_. lamb's only contribution to _the champion_ under scott, which can be identified, is the essay "on the melancholy of tailors," but there is little doubt that he supplied many of the extracts from old authors which were printed from time to time, and possibly one or two comic letters also. see the letter of dec. , .] letter charles lamb to william wordsworth [dated at end: august , .] dear wordsworth, i cannot tell you how pleased i was at the receit 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 accomplishd that pleasure a second time before i wrote to thank you, but m. burney 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 on my memory (a bad term for the remains of an impression 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 antipathies 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 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 we saw on salisbury plain five years ago, that drew phillips from the card table where he had sat from rise of that luminary to its unequall'd set, but neither he nor i had gifted eyes to see those symbols of common things glorified such as the prophets saw them, in that sunset--the wheel--the potter's clay--the wash pot--the wine press--the almond tree rod--the baskets of figs--the fourfold visaged head, the throne and him that sat thereon. one feeling i was particularly struck with as what i recognised so very lately at harrow church on entering in it after a hot and secular day's pleasure,--the instantaneous coolness and calming, almost transforming, properties of a country church 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 i cannot. 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 washd marble, to be seen by vantage of its high scite 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 deal of noble matter about mountain scenery, yet not so much as to overpower and discountenance a poor londoner or south country man entirely, though mary seems to have felt it occasionally a little too powerfully, for it was her remark 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 countryfy'd in the parks is all but obliterated. the very colour of green is vanishd, the whole surface of hyde park is dry crumbling sand (arabia arenosa), not a vestige or hint of grass ever having grown there, booths and drinking places go all round it for a mile and half i am confident--i might say two miles in circuit--the stench of liquors, _bad_ tobacco, dirty people and provisions, conquers the air and we are stifled and suffocated in hyde park. order after order has been issued by l'd. sidmouth in the name of the regent (acting in behalf of his royal father) for the dispersion of the varlets, but in vain. the vis unita of all the publicans in london, westm'r., marybone, and miles round is too powerful a force to put down. the regent has rais'd a phantom which he cannot lay. there they'll stay probably for ever. the whole beauty of the place is gone--that lake--look of the serpentine--it has got foolish ships upon it--but something whispers to have confidence in nature and its revival-- at the coming of the _milder day_ these monuments shall all be overgrown. meantime i confess to have smoked one delicious pipe in one of the cleanliest and goodliest of the booths--a tent rather, "o call it not a booth!"--erected by the public spirit of watson, who keeps the adam and eve at pancras (the ale houses have all emigrated with their train of bottles, mugs, corkscrews, waiters, into hyde park--whole ale houses with all their ale!) in company with some of the guards that had been in france and a fine french girl (habited like a princess of banditti) which one of the dogs had transported from the garonne to the serpentine. the unusual scene, in h. park, by candlelight in open air, good tobacco, bottled stout, made it look like an interval in a campaign, a repose after battle, i almost fancied scars smarting and was ready to club a story with my comrades of some of my lying deeds. after all, the fireworks were splendent--the rockets in clusters, in trees and all shapes, spreading about like young stars in the making, floundering about in space (like unbroke horses) till some of newton's calculations should fix them, but then they went out. any one who could see 'em and the still finer showers of gloomy rain fire that fell sulkily and angrily from 'em, and could go to bed without dreaming of the last day, must be as hardened an atheist as * * * * * *. again let me thank you for your present and assure you that fireworks and triumphs have not distracted me from receiving a calm and noble enjoyment from it (which i trust i shall often), and i sincerely congratulate you on its appearance. with kindest remembrances to you & household, we remain--yours sincerely c. lamb and sister. aug., . [with this letter lamb's second epistolary period may be said to begin. wordsworth had sent lamb a copy of _the excursion_, which had been published in july, . in connection with this letter lamb's review of the poem in the _quarterly_ (see vol. i. of this edition) should be read. the tales of the churchyard are in books vi. and vii. the story of margaret had been written in . the "sunset scene" (see letter of september , ) is at the end of book ii. lamb refers to his visit to hazlitt at winterslow, near salisbury, in , with mary lamb, colonel phillips and martin burney. wordsworth was not with them. this is the passage:-- so was he lifted gently from the ground, and with their freight homeward the shepherds moved through the dull mist, i following--when a step, a single step, that freed me from the skirts of the blind vapour, opened to my view glory beyond all glory ever seen by waking sense or by the dreaming soul! the appearance, instantaneously disclosed, was of a mighty city--boldly say a wilderness of building, sinking far and self-withdrawn into a boundless depth, far sinking into splendour--without end! fabric it seemed of diamond and of gold, with alabaster domes, and silver spires, and blazing terrace upon terrace, high uplifted; here, serene pavilions bright, in avenues disposed; there, towers begirt with battlements that on their restless fronts bore stars--illumination of all gems! by earthly nature had the effect been wrought upon the dark materials of the storm now pacified; on them, and on the coves and mountain-steeps and summits, whereunto the vapours had receded, taking there their station under a cerulean sky. oh, 'twas an unimaginable sight! clouds, mists, streams, watery rocks and emerald turf, clouds of all tincture, rocks and sapphire sky, confused, commingled, mutually inflamed, molten together, and composing thus, each lost in each, that marvellous array of temple, palace, citadel, and huge fantastic pomp of structure without name, in fleecy folds voluminous, enwrapped. right in the midst, where interspace appeared of open court, an object like a throne under a shining canopy of state stood fixed; and fixed resemblances were seen to implements of ordinary use, but vast in size, in substance glorified; such as by hebrew prophets were beheld in vision--forms uncouth of mightiest power for admiration and mysterious awe. in august, , london was in a state of jubilation over the declaration of peace between england and france. lord sidmouth, late mr. addington, the home secretary, known as "the doctor," was one of lamb's butts in his political epigrams. "* * * * * *." i assume these stars to stand for godwin.] letter charles lamb to s. t. coleridge august, . dear resuscitate,--there comes to you by the vehicle from lad lane this day a volume of german; what it is i cannot justly say, the characters of those northern nations having been always singularly harsh and unpleasant to me. it is a contribution of dr. southey towards your wants, and you would have had it sooner but for an odd accident. i wrote for it three days ago, and the dr., as he thought, sent it me. a book of like exterior he did send, but being disclosed, how far unlike. it was the _well-bred scholar_,--a book with which it seems the dr. laudably fills up those hours which he can steal from his medical avocations. chesterfield, blair, beattie, portions from "the life of savage," make up a prettyish system of morality and the belles lettres, which mr. mylne, a schoolmaster, has properly brought together, and calls the collection by the denomination above mentioned. the doctor had no sooner discovered his error than he despatched man and horse to rectify the mistake, and with a pretty kind of ingenuous modesty in his note seemeth to deny any knowledge of the _well-bred scholar_; false modesty surely and a blush misplaced; for, what more pleasing than the consideration of professional austerity thus relaxing, thus improving; but so, when a child i remember blushing, being caught on my knees to my maker, or doing otherwise some pious and praiseworthy action; _now_ i rather love such things to be seen. henry crabb robinson is out upon his circuit, and his books are inaccessible without his leave and key. he is attending the midland circuit,--a short term, but to him, as to many young lawyers, a long vacation sufficiently dreary. i thought i could do no better than transmit to him, not extracts, but your very letter itself, than which i think i never read any thing more moving, more pathetic, or more conducive to the purpose of persuasion. the crab is a sour crab if it does not sweeten him. i think it would draw another third volume of dodsley out of me; but you say you don't want any english books? perhaps, after all, that's as well; one's romantic credulity is for ever misleading one into misplaced acts of foolery. crab might have answered by this time: his juices take a long time supplying, but they'll run at last,--i know they will,--pure golden pippin. his address is at t. robinson's, bury, and if on circuit, to be forwarded immediately--such my peremptory superscription. a fearful rumour has since reached me that the crab is on the eve of setting out for france. if he is in england, your letter will reach him, and i flatter myself a touch of the persuasive of my own, which accompanies it, will not be thrown away; if it be, he is a sloe, and no true-hearted crab, and there's an end. for that life of the german conjuror which you speak of, "colerus de vitâ doctoris vix-intelligibilis," i perfectly remember the last evening we spent with mrs. morgan and miss brent, in london-street,--(by that token we had raw rabbits for supper, and miss brent prevailed upon me to take a glass of brandy and water after supper, which is not my habit,)--i perfectly remember reading portions of that life in their parlour, and i think it must be among their packages. it was the very last evening we were at that house. what is gone of that frank-hearted circle, morgan and his cos-lettuces? he ate walnuts better than any man i ever knew. friendships in these parts stagnate. one piece of news i know will give you pleasure--rickman is made a clerk to the house of commons, £ a year with greater expectat'us--but that is not the news--but it is that poor card-playing phillips, that has felt himself for so many years the outcast of fortune, which feeling pervaded his very intellect, till it made the destiny it feared, withering his hopes in the great and little games of life--by favor of the single star that ever shone upon him since his birth, has strangely stept into rickman's secretaryship--sword, bag, house and all--from a hopeless £ a year eaten up beforehand with desperate debts, to a clear £ or £ --it almost reconciles me to the belief of a moral government of the world--the man stares and gapes and seems to be always wondering at what has befaln him--he tries to be eager at cribbage, but alas! the source of that interest is dried up for ever, he no longer plays for his next day's meal, or to determine whether he shall have a half dinner or a whole dinner, whether he shall buy a pair of black silk stockings, or wax his old ones a week or two longer, the poor man's relish of a trump, the four honors, is gone--and i do not know whether if we could get at the bottom of things whether poor star-doomed phillips with his hair staring with despair was not a happier being than the sleek well combed oily-pated secretary that has succeeded. the gift is, however, clogged with one stipulation, that the secretary is to remain a single man. here i smell rickman. thus are gone at once all phillips' matrimonial dreams. those verses which he wrote himself, and those which a superior pen (with modesty let me speak as i name no names) endited for him to elisa, amelia &c.--for phillips was a wife-hunting, probably from the circumstance of his having formed an extreme rash connection in early life which paved the way to all his after misfortunes, but there is an obstinacy in human nature which such accidents only serve to whet on to try again. pleasure thus at two entrances quite shut out--i hardly know how to determine of phillips's result of happiness. he appears satisfyd, but never those bursts of gaiety, those moment-rules from the cave of despondency, that used to make his face shine and shew the lines which care had marked in it. i would bet an even wager he marries secretly, the speaker finds it out, and he is reverted to his old liberty and a hundred pounds a year--these are but speculations--i can think of no other news. i am going to eat turbot, turtle, venison, marrow pudding--cold punch, claret, madeira,-- at our annual feast at half-past four this day. mary has ordered the bolt to my bedroom door inside to be taken off, and a practicable latch to be put on, that i may not bar myself in and be suffocated by my neckcloth, so we have taken all precautions, three watchmen are engaged to carry the body up-stairs--pray for me. they keep bothering me, (i'm at office,) and my ideas are confused. let me know if i can be of any service as to books. god forbid the architectonicon should be sacrificed to a foolish scruple of some book-proprietor, as if books did not belong with the highest propriety to those that understand 'em best. c. lamb. [since lamb's last letter to him (october , ) coleridge had done very little. _the friend_ had been given up; he had made his london home with the morgans; had delivered the pictures on shakespeare and contributed to _the courier_; "remorse" had been produced with lamb's prologue, january , ; the quarrel with wordsworth had been to some extent healed; he had sold his german books; and the opium-habit was growing on him. he was now at bristol, living with joseph wade, and meditating a great work on christianity which cottle was to print, and which ultimately became the _biographia literaria_. the term "resuscitate" may refer to one of coleridge's frequent threats of dying. dr. henry herbert southey ( - ) was brother of the poet. he had just settled in london. "mylne" was william milns, author of the _well-bred scholar_, . crabb robinson does not mention coleridge's letter, nor make any reference to it, in his _diary_. he went to france in august after circuit. it was at this time (august ) that coleridge wrote to john murray concerning a translation of goethe's _faust_, which murray contemplated (see _letters_, e. h. coleridge, page ). the suggestion that coleridge should translate _faust_ for murray came _viâ_ crabb robinson _viâ_ lamb. the "life of the german conjuror." there were several colerus'. john colerus of amsterdam wrote a life of spinoza. lamb may have meant this, john colerus of berlin invented a perpetual calendar and john jacob colerus examined platonic doctrine. there are still others. the morgans had moved to ashley, near box. miss brent was mrs. morgan's sister. "our annual feast"--the annual dinner of the india house clerks. "the architectonicon." lamb refers possibly to some great projected work of coleridge's. the term is applied to metaphysicians. possibly goethe is referred to.] letter charles lamb to s. t. coleridge th august, . let the hungry soul rejoice: there is corn in egypt. whatever thou hast been told to the contrary by designing friends, who perhaps inquired carelessly, or did not inquire at all, in hope of saving their money, there is a stock of "remorse" on hand, enough, as pople conjectures, for seven years' consumption; judging from experience of the last two years. methinks it makes for the benefit of sound literature, that the best books do not always go off best. inquire in seven years' time for the "rokebys" and the "laras," and where shall they be found?--fluttering fragmentally in some thread-paper--whereas thy "wallenstein" and thy "remorse" are safe on longman's or pople's shelves, as in some bodleian; there they shall remain; no need of a chain to hold them fast--perhaps for ages--tall copies--and people shan't run about hunting for them as in old ezra's shrievalty they did for a bible, almost without effect till the great-great-grand-niece (by the mother's side) of jeremiah or ezekiel (which was it?) remembered something of a book, with odd reading in it, that used to lie in the green closet in her aunt judith's bedchamber. thy caterer price was at hamburgh when last pople heard of him, laying up for thee, like some miserly old father for his generous-hearted son to squander. mr. charles aders, whose books also pant for that free circulation which thy custody is sure to give them, is to be heard of at his kinsmen, messrs. jameson and aders, no. , laurence-pountney-lane, london, according to the information which crabius with his parting breath left me. crabius is gone to paris. i prophesy he and the parisians will part with mutual contempt. his head has a twist alemagne, like thine, dear mystic. i have been reading madame stael on germany. an impudent clever woman. but if "faust" be no better than in her abstract of it, i counsel thee to let it alone. how canst thou translate the language of cat-monkeys? fie on such fantasies! but i will not forget to look for proclus. it is a kind of book which when one meets with it one shuts the lid faster than one opened it. yet i have some bastard kind of recollection that somewhere, some time ago, upon some stall or other, i saw it. it was either that or plotinus, - a.d., neoplatonist, or saint augustine's "city of god." so little do some folks value, what to others, _sc_. to you, "well used," had been the "pledge of immortality." bishop bruno i never touched upon. stuffing too good for the brains of such "a hare" as thou describest. may it burst his pericranium, as the gobbets of fat and turpentine (a nasty thought of the seer) did that old dragon in the apocrypha! may he go mad in trying to understand his author! may he lend the third volume of him before he has quite translated the second, to a friend who shall lose it, and so spoil the publication; and may his friend find it and send it him just as thou or some such less dilatory spirit shall have announced the whole for the press; lastly, may he be hunted by reviewers, and the devil jug him! so i think i have answered all the questions except about morgan's cos-lettuces. the first personal peculiarity i ever observed of him (all worthy souls are subject to 'em) was a particular kind of rabbit-like delight in munching salads with oil without vinegar after dinner--a steady contemplative browsing on them--didst never take note of it? canst think of any other queries in the solution of which i can give thee satisfaction? do you want any books that i can procure for you? old jimmy boyer is dead at last. trollope has got his living, worth £ a-year net. see, thou sluggard, thou heretic-sluggard, what mightest thou not have arrived at! lay thy animosity against jimmy in the grave. do not _entail_ it on thy posterity. charles lamb. [coleridge's play "remorse" had been published by pople in . a copy of the first edition now brings about thirty shillings; but this is largely owing to the presence in the volume of lamb's prologue. but _rokeby_ and _lara_ bring their pounds too. "thy caterer price." i do not identify. charles aders we shall meet. crabius was, of course, crabb robinson. "such 'a hare.'" julius charles hare ( - ), who afterwards knew coleridge, was then at cambridge, after living at weimar. i find no record of his translating bruno; but this possibly was he. "jimmy boyer." the rev. james boyer, headmaster of christ's hospital in lamb and coleridge's day, died in . his living, the richest in the hospital's gift, was that of colne engaine, which passed to the rev. arthur william trollope, headmaster of christ's hospital until . boyer had been a spartan, and coleridge and he had had passages, but in the main coleridge's testimony to him is favourable and kindly (see lamb's christ's hospital essay, vol. ii. of this edition).] letter charles lamb to william wordsworth [p.m. illegible. sept. , .] my dear w. i have scarce time or quiet to explain my present situation, how unquiet and distracted it is.... owing to the absence of some of my compeers, and to the deficient state of payments at e. i. h. owing 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 this 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 hazlit has uncivilly kept, only days ago, and have made shift to read it again with shatterd brain. it does not lose--rather some parts have come out with a prominence i did not perceive before--but such was my aching head yesterday (sunday) that the book was like a mount'n. landscape to one that should walk on the edge of a precipice. i perceived beauty dizzily. now what i would say is, that i see no prospect of a quiet half day or hour even till this week and the next are past. i then hope to get weeks absence, and if _then_ is time enough to begin i will most gladly do what you require, tho' i feel my inability, for my brain is always desultory and snatches off hints from things, but can seldom follow a "work" methodically. but that shall be no excuse. what i beg you to do is to let me know from southey, if that will be time enough for the "quarterly," i.e. suppose it done in weeks from this date ( sept.): if not it is my bounden duty to express my regret, and decline it. mary thanks you and feels highly grateful for your patent of nobility, and acknowleges the author of 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 to whom it could have been renderd explicit! the unlucky reason of the detention of excursion was, hazlit and we having a misunderstanding. he blowed us up about months ago, since which the union hath snapt, but m. burney borrowd it for him 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 primeval nature, and about a lichen_, but i forget the passage, but the whole wore a slovenly air of dispatch and disrespect. that objection which m. burney had imbibed from him about voltaire, i explaind to m. b. (or tried) exactly on your principle of its being a characteristic speech. that it was no settled comparative estimate of voltaire with any of his own tribe of buffoons--no injustice, even _you_ spoke it, for i dared say you never could relish candide. i know i tried to get thro' it about a twelvemonth since, and couldn't for the dullness. now, i think i have a wider range in buffoonery than you. too much toleration perhaps. i finish this after a raw ill bakd dinner, fast gobbled up, to set me off to office again after working there till near four. o christ! how i wish i were a rich man, even tho' i were squeezed camel-fashion at getting thro' that needles eye that is spoken of in the _written word_. apropos, are you a xtian? or is it the pedlar and the priest that are? i find i miscalld that celestial splendor of the mist going off, a _sunset_. that only shews my inaccuracy of head. do pray indulge me by writing an answer to the point of time mentioned above, or _let southey_. i am asham'd to go bargaining in this way, but indeed i have no time i can reckon on till the st week in octo'r. god send i may not be disappointed in that! coleridge swore in letter to me he would review exc'n. in the quarterly. therefore, tho' _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 faggd & disjointed i am with damnd india house work, i scarce know what i do. my left arm reposes on "excursion." i feel what it would be in quiet. it is now a sealed book. o happy paris, seat of idleness and pleasure! from some return'd 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 office. farewell, in haste, from a head that is ill to methodize, a stomach to digest, and all out of tune. better harmonies await you. c. lamb. [wordsworth had been appointed in distributor of stamps for the county of westmoreland. lamb is writing again about _the excursion_, which at the instigation of southey, to whom wordsworth had made the suggestion, he is to review for the _quarterly_. "hazlitt and we having a misunderstanding." the precise cause of the trouble we do not know, but in crabb robinson's _diary_, in , it is said that a slight coolness had begun between the two men on account of money which lamb did not feel justified in lending to hazlitt. between and , however, they were friendly again. it was hazlitt's hostile attitude to wordsworth that brought about robinson's split with him, although that also was mended: literary men are short haters. hazlitt reviewed _the excursion_--from lamb's copy, which in itself was a cause of grievance--in _the examiner_, in three numbers, august , and october . wordsworth had described _candide_, in book ii., as the "dull product of a scoffer's pen." hazlitt wrote thus:-- ... we cannot however agree with mr. wordsworth that _candide_ is _dull_. it is, if our author pleases, "the production of a scoffer's pen," or it is any thing, but dull. _rasselas_ indeed is dull; but then it is privileged dulness. it may not be proper in a grave, discreet, orthodox, promising young divine, who studies his opinions in the contraction or distension of his patron's brow, to allow any merit to a work like _candide_; but we conceive that it would have been more in character, that is, more manly, in mr. wordsworth, nor do we think it would have hurt the cause he espouses, if he had blotted out the epithet, after it had peevishly escaped him. whatsoever savours of a little, narrow, inquisitorial spirit, does not sit well on a poet and a man of genius. the prejudices of a philosopher are not natural.... lamb himself made the same criticism, three years later, at haydon's dinner party. hazlitt had also said of _the excursion_ that-- such is the severe simplicity of mr. wordsworth's taste, that we doubt whether he would not reject a druidical temple, or time-hallowed ruin, as too modern and artificial for his purpose. he only familiarises himself or his readers with a stone, covered with lichens, which has slept in the same spot of ground from the creation of the world, or with the rocky fissure between two mountains, caused by thunder, or with a cavern scooped out by the sea. his mind is, as it were, coeval with the primary forms of things, holds immediately from nature; and his imagination "owes no allegiance" but "to the elements." "are you a xtian?"--referring to the sentiments of wanderer and the pastor--two characters of _the excursion_. "a _sunset_." see preceding letter to wordsworth. here should come a letter from lamb to southey, dated october , , stating that lamb has deposited with mr. grosvenor bedford, southey's friend and correspondent, his review of _the excursion_. "who can cram into a strait coop of a review any serious idea of such a vast and magnificent poem?"] letter mary lamb to barbara betham (aged ) nov'r. , . it is very long since i have met with such an agreeable surprise as the sight of your letter, my kind young friend, afforded me. such a nice letter as it is too. and what a pretty hand you write. i congratulate you on this attainment with great pleasure, because i have so often felt the disadvantage of my own wretched handwriting. you wish for london news. i rely upon your sister ann for gratifying you in this respect, yet i have been endeavouring to recollect whom you might have seen here, and what may have happened to them since, and this effort has only brought the image of little barbara betham, unconnected with any other person, so strongly before my eyes that i seem as if i had no other subject to write upon. now i think i see you with your feet propped upon the fender, your two hands spread out upon your knees--an attitude you always chose when we were in familiar confidential conversation together--telling me long stories of your own home, where now you say you are "moping on with the same thing every day," and which then presented nothing but pleasant recollections to your mind. how well i remember your quiet steady face bent over your book. one day, conscience struck at having wasted so much of your precious time in reading, and feeling yourself, as you prettily said, "quite useless to me," you went to my drawers and hunted out some unhemmed pocket-handkerchiefs, and by no means could i prevail upon you to resume your story books till you had hemmed them all. i remember, too, your teaching my little maid to read--your sitting with her a whole evening to console her for the death of her sister; and that she in her turn endeavoured to become a comforter to you, the next evening, when you wept at the sight of mrs. holcroft, from whose school you had recently eloped because you were not partial to sitting in the stocks. those tears, and a few you once dropped when my brother teased you about your supposed fondness for an apple dumpling, were the only interruptions to the calm contentedness of your unclouded brow. we still remain the same as you left us, neither taller nor wiser, or perceptibly older, but three years must have made a great alteration in you. how very much, dear barbara, i should like to see you! we still live in temple lane, but i am now sitting in a room you never saw. soon after you left us we we[re] distressed by the cries of a cat, which seemed to proceed from the garrets adjoining to ours, and only separated from ours by a locked door on the farther side of my brother's bedroom, which you know was the little room at the top of the kitchen stairs. we had the lock forced and let poor puss out from behind a pannel of the wainscot, and she lived with us from that time, for we were in gratitude bound to keep her, as she had introduced us to four untenanted, unowned rooms, and by degrees we have taken possession of these unclaimed apartments--first putting up lines to dry our clothes, then moving my brother's bed into one of these, more commodious than his own room. and last winter, my brother being unable to pursue a work he had begun, owing to the kind interruptions of friends who were more at leisure than himself, i persuaded him that he might write at his ease in one of these rooms, as he could not then hear the door knock, or hear himself denied to be at home, which was sure to make him call out and convict the poor maid in a fib. here, i said, he might be almost really not at home. so i put in an old grate, and made him a fire in the largest of these garrets, and carried in one table, and one chair, and bid him write away, and consider himself as much alone as if he were in a new lodging in the midst of salisbury plain, or any other wide unfrequented place where he could expect few visitors to break in upon his solitude. i left him quite delighted with his new acquisition, but in a few hours he came down again with a sadly dismal face. he could do nothing, he said, with those bare whitewashed walls before his eyes. he could not write in that dull unfurnished prison. the next day, before he came home from his office, i had gathered up various bits of old carpetting to cover the floor; and, to a little break the blank look of the bare walls, i hung up a few old prints that used to ornament the kitchen, and after dinner, with great boast of what an improvement i had made, i took charles once more into his new study. a week of busy labours followed, in which i think you would not have disliked to have been our assistant. my brother and i almost covered the wall with prints, for which purpose he cut out every print from every book in his old library, coming in every now and then to ask my leave to strip a fresh poor author--which he might not do, you know, without my permission, as i am elder sister. there was such pasting, such consultation where their portraits, and where the series of pictures from ovid, milton, and shakespear would show to most advantage, and in what obscure corner authors of humbler note might be allowed to tell their stories. all the books gave up their stores but one, a translation from ariosto, a delicious set of four and twenty prints, and for which i had marked out a conspicuous place; when lo! we found at the moment the scissars were going to work that a part of the poem was printed at the back of every picture. what a cruel disappointment! to conclude this long story about nothing, the poor despised garret is now called the print room, and is become our most favorite sitting room. your sister ann will tell you that your friend louisa is going to france. miss skepper is out of town, mrs. reynolds desires to be remembered to you, and so does my neighbour mrs. norris, who was your doctress when you were unwell, her three little children are grown three big children. the lions still live in exeter change. returning home through the strand, i often hear them roar about twelve oclock at night. i never hear them without thinking of you, because you seemed so pleased with the sight of them, and said your young companions would stare when you told them you had seen a lion. and now my dear barbara fare well, i have not written such a long letter a long time, but i am very sorry i had nothing amusing to write about. wishing you may pass happily through the rest of your school days, and every future day of your life. i remain, your affectionate friend, m. lamb. my brother sends his love to you, with the kind remembrance your letter shewed you have of us as i was. he joins with me in respects to your good father and mother, and to your brother john, who, if i do not mistake his name, is your tall young brother who was in search of a fair lady with a large fortune. ask him if he has found her yet. you say you are not so tall as louisa--you must be, you cannot so degenerate from the rest of your family. now you have begun, i shall hope to have the pleasure of hearing from [you] again. i shall always receive a letter from you with very great delight. [this charming letter is to a younger sister of matilda betham. what the work was which in drove lamb into an empty room i do not know. it may have been something which came to nought. beyond the essay on tailors (see vol. i.) and a few brief scraps for _the champion_ he did practically nothing that has survived until some verses in , a few criticisms in , and in the first of the _elia_ essays for the _london magazine_. louisa was louisa holcroft, about to go to france with her mother and stepfather, james kenney. miss skepper was basil montagu's stepdaughter, afterwards the wife of b. w. procter (barry cornwall). exeter change, where there was a menagerie, was in the strand (see note above). there is a further reference to the tallness of john betham in lamb's letter to landor in .] letter charles lamb to john scott [dated at end: dec. , .] sir, i am sorry to seem to go off my agreement, but very particular circumstances have happened to hinder my fulfillment of it at present. if any single essays ever occur to me in future, you shall have the refusal of them. meantime i beg you to consider the thing as at an end. yours, with thanks & acknowlg'nt c. lamb. monday ev: dec., . [_see letter to scott above._] letter charles lamb to william wordsworth [p.m. dec. , .] dear w. your experience about tailors seems to be in point blank opposition to burton, as much as the author of the excursion does toto coelo differ in his notion of a country life from the picture which w.h. has exhibited 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 enjoym't of the rest mankind. a flying tailor, i venture to say, is no more in rerum naturâ than a flying horse or a gryphon. his wheeling his airy flight from the precipice you mention had a parallel in the melancholy jew who toppled from the monument. were his limbs ever found? then, the man who cures diseases by words is evidently an inspired tailor. burton never affirmed that the act of sewing disqualified the practiser of it from being a fit organ for supernatural revelation. he never enters into such subjects. 'tis the common uninspired tailor which he speaks of. again the person who makes his smiles to be _heard_, is evidently a man under possession; a demoniac taylor. 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 headedness for light heartedness by a trick, or not to know the difference. i confess, a grinning tailor would shock me.--enough of tailors.-- the "'scapes" of the great god pan who appeared 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 pulling for him. he would have been another hylas. w. hylas. in a mad letter which capel loft wrote to m.m. phillips (now s'r. rich'd.) i remember his noticing a metaphysical article by pan, signed h. and adding "i take your correspondent to be the same with hylas." hylas has [? had] put forth a pastoral just before. how near the unfounded conjecture of the certainly inspired loft (unfounded as we thought it) was to being realized! i can conceive him being "good to all that wander in that perilous flood." one j. scott (i know no more) is edit'r of _champ_. where is coleridge? that review you speak of, i am only sorry it did not appear last month. the circumstances of haste and peculiar 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 resolution to sit at writing an hour together. i am a poor creature, 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 panegyrick; 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 persons and things. i do but act the stranger in the review. then, i was puzzled about extracts and determined upon not giving one that had been in the examiner, for extracts repeated give an idea that there is a meagre allow'ce, of good things. by this way, i deprived myself of sr. w. irthing and the reflections that conclude his story, which are the flower of the poem. h. had given the reflections before me. _then_ it is the first review i ever did, and i did not know how long i might make it. but it must speak for itself, if giffard and his crew do not put words in its mouth, which i expect. farewell. love to all. mary keeps very bad. c. lamb. [lamb seems to have sent wordsworth a copy of _the champion_ containing his essay, signed burton, junior, "on the melancholy of tailors." wordsworth's letter of reply, containing the examples of other tailors, is no longer in existence. "a greater hell" is a pun: the receptacle into which tailors throw scraps is called a hell. see lamb's "satan in search of a wife" and notes (vol. iv.) for more on this topic. "w. h."--hazlitt: referring again to his review of _the excursion_ in _the examiner_. "the melancholy jew"--mr. lyon levy, a diamond merchant, who jumped off the monument commemorating the fire of london, on january , . "the ''scapes' of the great god pan." a reference to hazlitt's flirtation with a farmer's daughter in the lake country, ending almost in immersion (see above). hylas, seeking for water with a pitcher, so enraptured the nymphs of the river with his beauty that they drew him in. capell lofft ( - ) was a lawyer and philanthropist of independent means who threw himself into many popular discussions and knew many literary men. he was the patron of robert bloomfield. lamb was amused by him, but annoyed that his initials were also c. l. "m. m. phillips"--for _monthly magazine_, which phillips published. "one j. scott." see note above. "where is coleridge?" coleridge was now at calne, in wiltshire, with the morgans. he was being treated for the drug habit by a dr. page. "that review." lamb's review of _the excursion_, which, although the _quarterly_ that contains it is dated october, , must have been delayed until the end of the year. the episode of sir w. irthing (really sir alfred irthing) is in book vii. lamb's foreboding as to clifford's action was only too well justified, as we shall see. "mary keeps very bad." mary lamb, we learn from crabb robinson's _diary_, had been taken ill some time between december and december , having tired herself by writing an article on needlework for the _british lady's magazine_ (see vol. i. of this edition). she did not recover until february, .] letter charles lamb to william wordsworth [p.m. illegible. ?early jan., .] 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 gifford has palm'd upon it for mine. i never felt more vexd 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 sufferd me to be called a lunatic in his thing. the _language_ he has alterd throughout. whatever inadequateness it had to its subject, it was in point of composition the prettiest piece of prose i ever writ, and so my sister (to whom 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 utter 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 excurs'n "walks thro' common forests as thro' some dodona or enchanted wood, and every casual bird that flits upon the boughs, like that miraculous one in tasso, but in language more piercing than any articulate sounds, reveals to him far higher lovelays." 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 damnd shoemaker phraseology (for he was a shoemaker) in stead 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, naturally, not obtruding them as specimens. of this part a little is left, but so as without conjuration no man could tell what i was driving it [? at]. a proof of it you may see (tho' not judge of the whole of the injustice) by these words: i had spoken something about "natural methodism--" and after follows "and therefore the tale of margaret sh'd have been postponed" (i forget my words, or his words): now the reasons for postponing it are as deducible from what goes before, as they are from the th psalm. the passage whence i deduced it has vanished, but clapping a colon before a _therefore_ is always reason enough for mr. baviad gifford to allow to a reviewer that is not himself. i assure you my complaints are founded. i know how sore a word alterd 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 with it, because i have been feeding my fancy for some months with the notion of pleasing you. its imperfection or inadequateness in size and method i knew, but for the _writing part_ of it, i was fully satisfied. i hoped it would make more than atonement. ten or twelve distinct 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 pulld 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 ashamd to say so much about a short piece. how are _you_ served! and the labors of years turn'd into contempt by scoundrels. but i could not but protest against your taking that thing as mine. every _pretty_ expression, (i know there were many) every warm expression, there was nothing else, is vulgarised and frozen--but if they catch me in their camps again let them spitchcock me. they had a right to do it, as no name appears to it, and mr. shoemaker gifford i suppose never wa[i]ved a right he had since he commencd author. god confound him and all caitiffs. c. l. [for the full understanding of this letter it is necessary to read lamb's review (see vol. i. of this edition). william gifford ( - ), editor of the _quarterly_, had been a shoemaker's apprentice. lamb calls him mr. baviad gifford on account of his satires, _the moeviad_ and _the baviad_, against the delia cruscan school of poetry, of which robert merry had been the principal member. some of lamb's grudge against gifford, which was of old standing (see notes to lamb's review, vol. i.), was repaid in his sonnet "st. crispin to mr. gifford" (see vol. iv. of this edition). gifford's connection with canning, in the _anti-jacobin_, could not have improved his position with lamb. "i have read 'it won't do.'" a reference to the review of _the excursion_ in the _edinburgh_ for november, by jeffrey, beginning "this will never do."] letter charles lamb to mr. sargus [dated at end: feb. , .] dr sargus--this is to give you notice that i have parted with the cottage to mr. grig jun'r. to whom you will pay rent from michaelmas last. the rent that was due at michaelmas i do not wish you to pay me. i forgive it you as you may have been at some expences in repairs. yours ch. lamb. inner temple lane, london, feb., . [in lamb inherited, through his godfather, francis fielde, who is mentioned in the _elia_ essay "my first play," a property called button snap, near puckeridge, in hertfordshire, consisting of a small cottage and about an acre of ground. in he sold it for £ , and the foregoing letter is an intimation of the transaction to his tenant. the purchaser, however, was not a mr. grig, but a mr. greg (see notes to "my first play" in vol. ii. of this edition). in my large edition i give a picture of the cottage. i append here an undated letter to joseph hume which belongs to a time posterior to the sale of the cottage. it refers to tuthill's candidature for the post of physician to st. luke's hospital. the letter is printed in mr. kegan paul's _william godwin: his friends and acquaintances_, as though it were written to godwin, and all lamb's editors follow in assuming the philosopher to be the recipient, but internal evidence practically proves that hume was addressed; for there is the reference to mrs. hume and her daughters, and godwin lived not in kensington but in skinner street.] letter charles lamb to joseph hume "bis dat qui dat cito." [no date.] i hate the pedantry of expressing that in another language which we have sufficient terms for in our own. so in plain english i very much wish you to give your vote to-morrow at clerkenwell, instead of saturday. it would clear up the brows of my favourite candidate, and stagger the hands of the opposite party. it commences at nine. how easy, as you come from kensington (_à propos_, how is your excellent family?) to turn down bloomsbury, through leather lane (avoiding lay stall st. for the disagreeableness of the name). why, it brings you in four minutes and a half to the spot renowned on northern milestones, "where hicks' hall formerly stood." there will be good cheer ready for every independent freeholder; where you see a green flag hang out go boldly in, call for ham, or beef, or what you please, and a mug of meux's best. how much more gentleman-like to come in the front of the battle, openly avowing one's sentiments, than to lag in on the last day, when the adversary is dejected, spiritless, laid low. have the first cut at them. by saturday you'll cut into the mutton. i'd go cheerfully myself, but i am no freeholder (fuimus troes, fuit ilium), but i sold it for £ . if they'd accept a copy-holder, we clerks are naturally _copy_-holders. by the way, get mrs. hume, or that agreeable amelia or caroline, to stick a bit of green in your hat. nothing daunts the adversary more than to wear the colours of your party. stick it in cockade-like. it has a martial, and by no means disagreeable effect. go, my dear freeholder, and if any chance calls you out of this transitory scene earlier than expected, the coroner shall sit lightly on your corpse. he shall not too anxiously enquire into the circumstances of blood found upon your razor. that might happen to any gentleman in shaving. nor into your having been heard to express a contempt of life, or for scolding louisa for what julia did, and other trifling incoherencies. yours sincerely, c. lamb. ["lay stall st." this street, which is still found in clerkenwell, was of course named from one of the laystalls or public middens which were a feature of london when sanitation was in its infancy. "where hicks' hall formerly stood." hicks' hall, the old sessions house of the county of middlesex, stood in st. john street, clerkenwell, until its demolition in , when the justices removed to the new sessions house on clerkenwell green. the milestones on the great north road, which had long been measured from hicks' hall, were reinscribed "---- miles from the spot where hicks' hall formerly stood." thus hicks' hall remained a household word long after it had ceased to exist. the adventures of jedediah jones in search of "the spot where hicks' hall formerly stood" are amusingly set forth in knight's _london_, vol. i., pages - . we meet hume's daughters again in letter . i append a letter with no date, which may come here:--] letter charles lamb to [mrs. hume?] [no date.] dear mrs. h.: sally who brings this with herself back has given every possible satisfaction in doing her work, etc., but the fact is the poor girl is oppressed with a ladylike melancholy, and cannot bear to be so much alone, as she necessarily must be in our kitchen, which to say the truth is damn'd solitary, where she can see nothing and converse with nothing and not even look out of window. the consequence is she has been caught shedding tears all day long, and her own comfort has made it indispensable to send her home. your cheerful noisy children-crowded house has made her feel the change so much the more. our late servant always complained of the _want of children_, which she had been used to in her last place. one man's meat is another man's poison, as they say. however, we are eternally obliged to you, as much as if sally could have staid. we have got an old woman coming, who is too stupid to know when she is alone and when she is not. yours truly, c. lamb, for self and sister. have you heard from ...... [i take it that mrs. h. is mrs. hume, because hume had a large family. it was of him, in his paternal light, that lamb said, "one fool makes many."] letter charles lamb to william wordsworth [p.m. partly illegible. april , .] the conclusion of this epistle getting gloomy, i have chosen this part to desire our kindest loves to mrs. wordsworth and to _dorothea_. will none of you ever be in london again? dear wordsw'th, you have made me very proud with your successive book presents. i have been carefully through the two volumes to see that nothing was omitted which used to be there. i think i miss nothing but a character in antithet. 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 in stead 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 scoundrels. i would not have had you offer up the poorest rag that lingered upon the stript shoulders of little alice fell, to have atoned all their malice. i would not have given 'em a red cloak to save their souls. i am afraid lest that substitution 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 nothing could fairly be said against it. you say you made the alteration for the "friendly reader," but the malicious will take it to himself. damn 'em; if you give 'em an inch &c. the preface is noble and such as you 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 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 which i had no previous knowlege, 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 youthful 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. you have nothing like it. i should have 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 without naming it, mention that my brother, who is a picture collector, 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 many years. its age is ascertainable from the state of the canvas, 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 way which comes not every day. the latin poems of v. bourne, which were quite new to me. what a heart that man had, all laid out upon town scenes, a proper counterpoise to _some people's_ rural extravaganzas. why i mention him is that your power of music reminded me of his poem of the balad singer in the seven dials. do you remember his epigram on the old woman who taught newton the a. b. c., which after all, he says, he hesitates not to call newton's _principia_. i was lately fatiguing myself with going thro' a volume of fine words by _l'd. thurlow_--excellent words, and if the heart could live by words alone, it could desire no better regale--but what an aching vacuum of matter; i don't stick at the madness of it, for that is only a consequence of shutting his eyes and thinking he is in the age of the old elisabeth poets; from thence i turned to v. bourne--what a sweet unpretending pretty-mannered _matter-ful_ creature, sucking from every flower, making a flower of every thing, his diction all latin and his thoughts all english. bless him, latin wasn't good enough for him, why wasn't he content with the language which gay and prior wrote in. i am almost sorry that you printed extracts from those first poems, or that you did not print them at length. they do not read to me as they do all together. 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. the one of 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 delightful 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 in the morning (two hours dinner except) to at night, last night till . my business and office business in general has increased so. i don't mean i am there every night, but i must expect a great deal of it. i never leave till --and do not keep a holyday now once in ten times, where i used to keep all red letter days, and some fine days besides which i used to dub nature's holydays. i have had my day. i had formerly little to do. so of the little that is left of life i may reckon two thirds as dead, for time that a man may call his own is his life, and hard work and thinking about it taints even the leisure hours, stains sunday with workday contemplations--this is sunday, and the headache i have is part late hours at work the preceding nights and part later hours over a consoling pipe afterw'ds. 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 had its glittering star and every sabbath day its golden sun-- to such straits am i driven for the life of life, time--o that from that superfluity of holyday leisure my youth wasted "age might but take some hours youth wanted not.--" n.b. i have left off spirituous liquors for or more months, with a moral certainty of its lasting. farewell, dear wordsworth. [wordsworth had just brought out, with longmans, his _poems_ ... _including lyrical ballads and the miscellaneous pieces of the author_, , in two volumes. the "character in the antithetical manner" was omitted from all editions of wordsworth's poems between and . in the version of "rural architecture" there had been these last lines, expunged in the editions of and , but restored with a slight alteration in later editions:-- --some little i've seen of blind boisterous works in paris and london, 'mong christians or turks, spirits busy to do and undo: at remembrance whereof my blood sometimes will flag, --then, light-hearted boys, to the top of the crag; and i'll build up a giant with you. in the original form of the "lines left upon a seat in a yew tree" there had been these lines:-- his only visitants a straggling sheep, the stone-chat, or the glancing sand-piper. wordsworth had altered them to:-- his only visitants a straggling sheep, the stone-chat, or the sand-lark, restless bird, piping along the margin of the lake. in the edition wordsworth put back the original form. "those scoundrels." principally the critic of the _edinburgh_, jeffrey, but wordsworth's assailants generally. "that substitution of a shell." in the original draft of "the blind highland boy" the adventurous voyage was made in a household tub, like one of those which women use to wash their clothes. in the new version the vessel was a turtle's shell. "the preface." wordsworth quotes from lamb's essay in _the reflector_ on the genius of hogarth, referring to the passage as "the language of one of my most esteemed friends." it is lamb's description of imagination as that which "draws all things to one, which makes things animate or inanimate, beings with their attributes, subjects with their accessories, take one colour and serve to one effect." "the four yew trees." the poem is called "yew trees." this is the passage in question:-- but worthier still of note are those fraternal four of borrowdale, joined in one solemn and capacious grove; huge trunks! and each particular trunk a growth of intertwisted fibres serpentine up-coiling, and inveterately convolved; nor uninformed with phantasy, and looks that threaten the profane;--a pillared shade, upon whose grassless floor of red-brown hue, by sheddings from the pining umbrage tinged perennially--beneath whose sable roof of boughs, as if for festal purpose, decked with unrejoicing berries--ghostly shapes may meet at noontide; fear and trembling hope, silence and foresight; death the skeleton and time the shadow; there to celebrate, as in a natural temple scattered o'er with altars undisturbed of mossy stone, united worship; or in mute repose to lie, and listen to the mountain flood murmuring from giaramara's inmost caves. "picture of milton." this portrait, a reproduction of which i give in my large edition, is now in america, the property of the new york public library. "v. bourne." lamb afterwards translated some of bourne's _poemata_ and wrote critically of them in the _englishman's magazine_ in (see vols. i. and iv.). "lord thurlow." but see letter to bernard barton of december , , and note. "extracts from those first poems." wordsworth included extracts from juvenile pieces, which had been first published in his _descriptive sketches_, . "a female friend"--dorothy wordsworth. the three poems were "address to a child" (beginning, "what way does the wind come from?"), "the mother's return" and "the cottager to her infant." "to them each evening had its glittering star ... "--_the excursion_, book v. "age might but take some hours ..." from wordsworth's "small celandine":-- age might but take the things youth needed not.] letter charles lamb to william wordsworth [p.m. april , .] excuse this maddish letter: i am too tired to write in formal-- dear wordsw'th. the more i read of your two last volumes, the more i feel it necessary to make my acknowledgm'ts 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 which 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 resolved 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 _less romantic_ about it. the farmer of tilsbury vale is a charming counter part to poor susan, with the addition of that delicacy towards aberrations from the strict path which is so fine in the old thief and the boy by his side, which always brings water into my eyes. perhaps it is the worse for being a repetition. susan stood for the representative of poor rus in urbe. there was quite enough to stamp the moral of the thing never to be forgotten. "fast volumes of vapour" &c. the last verse of susan was 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 thro' 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 was not what you meant to express. robin goodfellow supports himself without that _stick_ of a moral which you have thrown away,--but how i can be brought in felo de omittendo 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 with you." it comes naturally with a warm holyday and the freshness of the blood. it is a perfect summer amulet that i tye round my legs to quicken their motion when i go out a maying. (n.b.) i don't often go out a maying.--_must_ is the tense with me now. do you take the pun? young romilly is divine, the reasons of his mother's grief being remediless. i never saw parental love carried up so high, towering above the other loves. shakspeare 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 bean?" 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 d 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 of the wood. i was thinking whether taking your own glorious lines-- and for the love was in her soul for the youthful romilly-- which, by the love i bear my own soul, i think have no parallel in any of the best old balads, and just altering it to-- and from the great respect she felt for sir samuel romilly-- would not have explained the boundaries of prose expression and poetic feeling nearly as well. excuse my levity on such an occasion. i never felt deeply in my life, if that poem did not make me, both lately and when i read it in ms. no alderman ever longed after a haunch of buck 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 tome in ms.--to compare magna parvis, i cannot endure my 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 will help me to like some things in poetry better, which is a little humiliating in me to confess. 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 reason to value himself upon one thing more than another it was in knowing what good verse was. who lookd over your proof sheets, and left _ordebo_ in that line of virgil? my brothers picture of milton is very finely painted, that is, it might have been done by a hand next to vandyke's. it is the genuine milton, and an object of quiet gaze for the half hour at a time. _yet_ tho' i am confident there is no better one of him, the face does not quite answer to milton. there is a tinge of petit (or petite, how do you spell it) querulousness about. yet hang it, now i remember better, there is not--it is calm, melancholy, and poetical. _one_ of the copies you sent had precisely the same pleasant blending of a sheet of d vol. with a sheet of st. i think it was page ; but i sent it and had it rectifyd. it gave me in the first impetus of cutting the leaves just such a cold squelch as going down a plausible turning and suddenly reading "no thoroughfare." robinson's is entire; he is gone to bury his father. i wish you would write more criticism, about spenser &c. i think i could say something about him myself--but lord bless 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 myself 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 traffick, exchange of commodities, intercourse between nations, all the consequent civilization and wealth and amity and link of society, and getting rid of prejudices, and knowlege of the face of the globe--and rot the very firs of the forest that look so romantic alive, and die into desks. vale. yours dear w. and all yours'. c. lamb. [_added at foot of the first page:_] n.b. don't read that q. review--i will never look into another. [lamb continues his criticism of the edition of wordsworth's _poems_. the "night piece" begins-- the sky is overcast. the stanza from "yarrow visited" is quoted on page . the poem followed "yarrow unvisited" in the volume. the one exquisite verse in "yarrow unvisited" first ran:-- your cottage seems a bower of bliss, it promises protection to studious ease and generous cares and every chaste affection. wordsworth altered to-- a covert for protection of tender thoughts that nestle there, the brood of chaste affection. "poor susan" had in the version ended thus:-- poor outcast! return--to receive thee once more the house of thy father will open its door, and thou once again, in thy plain russet gown, may'st hear the thrush sing from a tree of its own. wordsworth expunged this stanza in the edition. "fast volumes of vapour" should be "bright volumes of vapour." for the old thief see "the two thieves." "_felo de omittendo._" see the preceding letter, where lamb remonstrated with wordsworth for omitting the last lines from "rural architecture." wordsworth seems to have charged lamb with the criticism that decided their removal. "the pun." canon ainger pointed out that hood, in his "ode to melancholy," makes the same pun very happily:-- even as the blossoms of the may, whose fragrance ends in must. "young romilly." in "the force of prayer," which opens with the question-- what is good for a bootless bene? later mary lamb made another joke, when at munden's farewell performance she said, "sic transit gloria munden!" the stanzas from which lamb quotes run:-- "what is good for a bootless bene?" the falconer to the lady said; and she made answer "endless sorrow!" in that she knew that her son was dead. she knew it by the falconer's words, and from the look of the falconer's eye; and from the love which was in her soul for her youthful romilly. sir samuel romilly ( - ), the lawyer and law reformer, was the great opponent of capital punishment for small offences. in the preface to the edition of _lyrical ballads_, etc., wordsworth had quoted dr. johnson's prosaic lines:-- i put my hat upon my head and walked into the strand, and there i met another man whose hat was in his hand. --contrasting them with these lines from the "babes in the wood":-- these pretty babes with hand in hand went wandering up and down; but never more they saw the man approaching from the town. "peter pindar." john wolcot ( - ), whom lamb had met at henry rogers', brother of the poet.] letter charles lamb to robert southey london, may th, . dear southey,--i have received from longman a copy of "roderick," with the author's compliments, for which i much thank you. i don't know where i shall put all the noble presents i have lately received in that way; the "excursion," wordsworth's two last vols., and now "roderick," have come pouring in upon me like some irruption from helicon. the story of the brave maccabee was already, you may be sure, familiar to me in all its parts. i have, since the receipt of your present, read it quite through again, and with no diminished pleasure. i don't know whether i ought to say that it has given me more pleasure than any of your long poems. "kehama" is doubtless more powerful, but i don't feel that firm footing in it that i do in "roderick;" my imagination goes sinking and floundering in the vast spaces of unopened-before systems and faiths; i am put out of the pale of my old sympathies; my moral sense is almost outraged; i can't believe, or with horror am made to believe, such desperate chances against omnipotences, such disturbances of faith to the centre. the more potent the more painful the spell. jove and his brotherhood of gods, tottering with the giant assailings, i can bear, for the soul's hopes are not struck at in such contests; but your oriental almighties are too much types of the intangible prototype to be meddled with without shuddering. one never connects what are called the attributes with jupiter. i mention only what diminishes my delight at the wonder-workings of "kehama," not what impeaches its power, which i confess with trembling. but "roderick" is a comfortable poem. it reminds me of the delight i took in the first reading of the "joan of arc." it is maturer and better than _that_, though not better to me now than that was then. it suits me better than "madoc." i am at home in spain and christendom. i have a timid imagination, i am afraid. i do not willingly admit of strange beliefs or out-of-the-way creeds or places. i never read books of travel, at least not farther than paris or rome. i can just endure moors, because of their connection as foes with christians; but abyssinians, ethiops, esquimaux, dervises, and all that tribe, i hate. i believe i fear them in some manner. a mahometan turban on the stage, though enveloping some well known face (mr. cook or mr. maddox, whom i see another day good christian and english waiters, innkeepers, &c.), does not give me pleasure unalloyed. i am a christian, englishman, londoner, _templar_. god help me when i come to put off these snug relations, and to get abroad into the world to come! i shall be like _the crow on the sand_, as wordsworth has it; but i won't think on it--no need, i hope, yet. the parts i have been most pleased with, both on st and nd readings, perhaps, are florinda's palliation of roderick's crime, confessed to him in his disguise--the retreat of palayo's family first discovered,--his being made king--"for acclamation one form must serve, _more solemn for the breach of old observances_." roderick's vow is extremely fine, and his blessing on the vow of alphonso: "towards the troop he spread his arms, as if the expanded soul diffused itself, and carried to all spirits _with the act_ its affluent inspiration." it struck me forcibly that the feeling of these last lines might have been suggested to you by the cartoon of paul at athens. certain it is that a better motto or guide to that famous attitude can no where be found. i shall adopt it as explanatory of that violent, but dignified motion. i must read again landor's "julian." i have not read it some time. i think he must have failed in roderick, for i remember nothing of him, nor of any distinct character as a character--only fine-sounding passages. i remember thinking also he had chosen a point of time after the event, as it were, for roderick survives to no use; but my memory is weak, and i will not wrong a fine poem by trusting to it. the notes to your poem i have not read again; but it will be a take-downable book on my shelf, and they will serve sometimes at breakfast, or times too light for the text to be duly appreciated. though some of 'em, one of the serpent penance, is serious enough, now i think on't. of coleridge i hear nothing, nor of the morgans. i hope to have him like a re-appearing star, standing up before me some time when least expected in london, as has been the case whylear. i am _doing_ nothing (as the phrase is) but reading presents, and walk away what of the day-hours i can get from hard occupation. pray accept once more my hearty thanks, and expression of pleasure for your remembrance of me. my sister desires her kind respects to mrs. s. and to all at keswick. yours truly, c. lamb. the next present i look for is the "white doe." have you seen mat. betham's "lay of marie?" i think it very delicately pretty as to sentiment, &c. [southey's _roderick, the last of the goths_, was published in . driven from his throne by the moors, roderick had disguised himself as a monk under the name of father maccabee. _the curse of kehama_ had been published in ; madoc in ; _joan of arc_ (see letter , &c.) in . southey was now poet laureate. "i never read books of travels." writing to dilke, of _the athenaeum_, for books, some years later, lamb makes a point of "no natural history or useful learning" being sent--such as giraffes, pyramids and adventures in central africa. none the less, as a boy, he tells us, he had read bruce and applied his abyssinian methods to the new river (see the _elia_ essay on newspapers). "the crow on the sand." in "the farmer of tilsbury vale":-- as lonely he stood as a crow on the sands. verse xii., line florinda's palliation of roderick's crime is in book x.; the retreat of pelayo's family discovered, in book xvi.; pelayo made king, in book xviii. landor's _count julian_, published in , dealt with the same story, florinda, whom roderick violated, having been the daughter of the count, a spanish goth. julian devoted himself to roderick's ruin, even turning traitor for the purpose. southey's notes are tremendous-- sometimes filling all but a line or two of the page. "the _white doe_." wordsworth's poem _the white doe of rylstone_, to be published this year, . "matilda betham's _lay of marie_." we shall come to this shortly. the poem was still in ms.] letter charles lamb to robert southey aug. th, . dear southey,--robinson is not on the circuit, as i erroneously stated in a letter to w. w., which travels with this, but is gone to brussels, ostend, ghent, etc. but his friends the colliers, whom i consulted respecting your friend's fate, remember to have heard him say, that father pardo had effected his escape (the cunning greasy rogue), and to the best of their belief is at present in paris. to my thinking, it is a small matter whether there be one fat friar more or less in the world. i have rather a taste for clerical executions, imbibed from early recollections of the fate of the excellent dodd. i hear buonaparte has sued his habeas corpus, and the twelve judges are now sitting upon it at the rolls. your boute-feu (bonfire) must be excellent of its kind. poet settle presided at the last great thing of the kind in london, when the pope was burnt in form. do you provide any verses on this occasion? your fear for hartley's intellectuals is just and rational. could not the chancellor be petitioned to remove him? his lordship took mr. betty from under the paternal wing. i think at least he should go through a course of matter-of-fact with some sober man after the mysteries. could not he spend a week at poole's before he goes back to oxford? tobin is dead. but there is a man in my office, a mr. hedges, who proses it away from morning to night, and never gets beyond corporal and material verities. he'd get these crack-brain metaphysics out of the young gentleman's head as soon as any one i know. when i can't sleep o' nights, i imagine a dialogue with mr. h. upon any given subject, and go prosing on in fancy with him, till i either laugh or fall asleep. i have literally found it answer. i am going to stand godfather; i don't like the business; i cannot muster up decorum for these occasions; i shall certainly disgrace the font. i was at hazlitt's marriage, and had like to have been turned out several times during the ceremony. any thing awful makes me laugh. i misbehaved once at a funeral. yet i can read about these ceremonies with pious and proper feelings. the realities of life only seem the mockeries. i fear i must get cured along with hartley, if not too inveterate. don't you think louis the desirable is in a sort of quandary? after all, bonaparte is a fine fellow, as my barber says, and i should not mind standing bareheaded at his table to do him service in his fall. they should have given him hampton court or kensington, with a tether extending forty miles round london. qu. would not the people have ejected the brunswicks some day in his favour? well, we shall see. c. lamb. ["father pardo." i have not traced this fat friar. "the excellent dodd." the rev. william dodd ( - ), compiler of _the beauties of shakespeare_, was hanged for forgery in , when lamb was two years old. the case caused immense public interest. "buonaparte." waterloo had been fought on june . "your boute-feu." the bonfire in honour of waterloo flamed on skiddaw on august . see southey's description in his letter to his brother, august , (_life and correspondence_, vol. iv., page ). "poet settle." elkanah settle ( - ) was chief organiser of the procession on the anniversary of queen elizabeth's birthday in , when the pope was burned in effigy. hartley coleridge, now almost nineteen, after having been to school at ambleside, had been sent to oxford through the instrumentality of his uncle, southey. at the time of lamb's letter he was staying at calne with his father. mr. betty was the young roscius, whom we have already seen, who, after retiring from the phenomenon stage of his career in , had since been to school and to cambridge upon his earnings, and had now become an adult actor. poole was thomas poole of nether stowey, whom we have seen: coleridge's old and very sensible friend. tobin would probably be james webbe tobin, the brother of the dramatist. he had died in . "i am going to stand godfather." to what child i do not know. "louis the desirable"--louis xviii., styled by the royalists "_le desiré_."] letter charles lamb to william wordsworth [p.m. august , .] th aug. . dear wordsworth, we acknowlege with pride the receit of both your hand writings, and desire to be ever had in kindly remembrance by you both and by dorothy. miss hutchinson has just transmitted us a letter containing, among other chearful matter, the annunciation of a child born. nothing of consequence has turned up in our parts since your departure. mary and i felt quite queer after your taking leave (you w. w.) of us in st. giles's. we wishd we had seen more of you, but felt we had scarce been sufficiently acknowleging for the share we had enjoyed of your company. we felt as if we had been not enough _expressive_ of our pleasure. but our manners _both_ are a little too much on this side of too-much-cordiality. we want presence of mind and presence of heart. what we feel comes too late, like an after thought impromptu. but perhaps you observed nothing of that which we have been painfully conscious of, and are, every day, in our intercourse with those we stand affected to through all the degrees of love. robinson is on the circuit. our panegyrist i thought had forgotten one of the objects of his youthful admiration, but i was agreeably removed from that scruple by the laundress knocking at my door this morning almost before i was up, with a present of fruit from my young friend, &c.--there is something inexpressibly pleasant to me in these _presents_. be it fruit, or fowl, or brawn, or _what not_. _books_ are a legitimate cause of acceptance. if presents be not the soul of friendship, undoubtedly they are the most spiritual part of the body of that intercourse. there is too much narrowness of thinking in this point. the punctilio of acceptance methinks is too confined and straitlaced. i could be content to receive money, or clothes, or a joint of meat from a friend; why should he not send me a dinner as well as a dessert? i would taste him in the beasts of the field, and thro' all creation. therefore did the basket of fruit of the juvenile talfourd not displease me. not that i have any thoughts of bartering or reciprocating these things. to send him any thing in return would be to reflect suspicion of mercenariness upon what i know he meant a freewill offering. let him overcome me in bounty. in this strife a generous nature loves to be overcome. alsager (whom you call alsinger--and indeed he is rather _singer_ than _sager_, no reflection upon his naturals neither) is well and in harmony with himself and the world. i don't know how he and those of his constitution keep their nerves so nicely balanced as they do. or have they any? or are they made of packthread? he is proof against weather, ingratitude, meat under done, 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-happinessed friend is picking his crackers, 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 it, expect to be picked (luxurious steeds!) and rubbed down. i don't think he could be robbed, or could have his house set on fire, or ever want money. i have heard him express a similar opinion of his own impassibility. i keep acting here heautontimorumenos. m. burney has been to calais and has come home a travelld monsieur. he speaks nothing but the gallic idiom. field is on circuit. so now i believe i have given account of most that you saw at our cabin. have you seen a curious letter in morn. chron., by c. ll., the genius of absurdity, respecting bonaparte's suing out his habeas corpus. that man is his own moon. he has no need of ascending into that gentle planet for mild influences. you wish me some of your leisure. i have a glimmering aspect, a chink-light of liberty before me, which i pray god may prove not fallacious. my remonstrances have stirred up others to remonstrate, and altogether, there is a plan for separating certain parts of business from our department, which if it take place will produce me more time, i.e. my evenings free. it may be a means of placing me in a more conspicuous situation which will knock at my nerves another way, but i wait the issue in submission. if i can but begin my own day at o clock in the afternoon, i shall think myself to have eden days of peace and liberty to what i have had. as you say, how a man can fill volumes up with an essay on the drama is wonderful. i am sure a very few sheets would hold all i had to say on the subject, and yet i dare say ---- as von slagel. did you ever read charron on wisdom? or patrick's pilgrim? if neither, you have two great pleasures to come. i mean some day to attack caryl on job, six folios. what any man can write, surely i may read. if i do but get rid of auditing warehousekeepers acc'ts. and get no worse-harassing task in the place of it, what a lord of liberty i shall be. i shall dance and skip and make mouths at the invisible event, and pick the thorns out of my pillow and throw 'em at rich men's night caps, and talk blank verse, hoity toity, and sing "a clerk i was in london gay," ban, ban, cacaliban, like the emancipated monster, and go where i like, up this street or down that ally. adieu, and pray that it may be my luck. good be to you all. c. lamb. ["a child born." this was george hutchinson, mrs. wordsworth's nephew. "our panegyrist"--thomas noon talfourd. this is lamb's first mention of his future biographer. talfourd was then just twenty, had published some poems, and was reading law with chitty, the special pleader. he had met lamb at the beginning of through william evans, owner of _the pamphleteer_, had scoured london for a copy of _rosamund gray_, and had written of lamb in _the pamphleteer_ as one of the chief of living poets. he then became an ardent supporter of wordsworth, his principal criticism of whom was written later for the _new monthly magazine_. "if presents be not the soul of friendship." lamb's "thoughts on presents of game," written many years later for _the athenaeum_, carries on this theme (see vol. i.). "alsager." thomas massa alsager, a friend of crabb robinson, and through him of lamb, was a strange blend of the financial and the musical critic. he controlled the departments of money and music for _the times_ for many years. "field"--barron field (see note later). "c. ll."--capell lofft (see note on page ). he wrote to the morning chronicle for august and , , as lamb says. the gist of his argument was in this sentence:-- [ th para.] bonaparte with the concurrence of the _admiralty_, is _within_ the limits of british _local_ allegiance. he is a _temporary_, considered as private, though not a natural born _subject_, and as _such_ within the limits of car. ii. the _habeas corpus_ act, [etc.]. on august he wrote again, quoting the lines from "the tempest":-- the nobler action is, in virtue than in vengeance:--he being here the sole drift of our purpose, wrath here ends; not a frown further. "an essay on the drama." this cryptic passage refers, i imagine, to a translation by john black, afterwards the editor of the _morning chronicle_, of august von schlegel's _lectures on dramatic art and literature_, vols., . does lamb mean "and yet, i dare say, _i know as much_ as von slagel _did_"? "charron on wisdom" and "patrick's pilgrim." pierre charron's _de la sagesse_, and bishop patrick's _parable of the pilgrim_, , a curious independent anticipation of bunyan. lamb had written of both these books in a little essay contributed in to _the examiner_, entitled "books with one idea in them" (see vol. i.). "a clerk i was in london gay." a song sung in colman's "inkle and yarico," which lamb actually did use as a motto for his _elia_ essay "the superannuated man," dealing with his emancipation, ten years later.] letter mary lamb to sarah hutchinson [dated at end: august , .] my dear friend, it is less fatigue to me to write upon lines, and i want to fill up as much of my paper as i can in gratitude for the pleasure your very kind letter has given me. i began to think i should not hear from you; knowing you were not fond of letter-writing i quite forgave you, but i was very sorry. do not make a point of conscience of it, but if ever you feel an inclination you cannot think how much a few lines would delight me. i am happy to hear so good an account of your sister and child, and sincerely wish her a perfect recovery. i am glad you did not arrive sooner, you escaped much anxiety. i have just received a very chearful letter from mrs. morgan--the following i have picked out as i think it will interest you. "hartley coleridge has been with us for two months. morgan invited him to pass the long vacation here in the hope that his father would be of great service to him in his studies: he seems to be extremely amiable. i believe he is to spend the next vacation at lady beaumont's. your old friend coleridge is very hard at work at the preface to a new edition which he is just going to publish in the same form as mr. wordsworth's--at first the preface was not to exceed five or six pages, it has however grown into a work of great importance. i believe morgan has already written nearly two hundred pages. the title of it is '_autobiographia literaria_' to which are added '_sybilline leaves_,' a collection of poems by the same author. calne has lately been much enlivened by an excellent company of players--last week they performed the 'remorse' to a very crowded and brilliant audience; two of the characters were admirably well supported; at the request of the actors morgan was behind the scenes all the time and assisted in the music &c." thanks to your kind interference we have had a very nice letter from mr. wordsworth. of them and of you we think and talk quite with a painful regret that we did not see more of you, and that it may be so long before we meet again. i am going to do a queer thing--i have wearied myself with writing a long letter to mrs. morgan, a part of which is an incoherent rambling account of a jaunt we have just been taking. i want to tell you all about it, for we so seldom do such things that it runs strangely in my head, and i feel too tired to give you other than the mere copy of the nonsense i have just been writing. "last saturday was the grand feast day of the india house clerks. i think you must have heard charles talk of his yearly turtle feast. he has been lately much wearied with work, and, glad to get rid of all connected with it, he _used_ saturday, the feast day being a holiday, _borrowed_ the monday following, and we set off on the outside of the cambridge coach from fetter lane at eight o'clock, and were driven into cambridge in great triumph by hell fire dick five minutes before three. richard is in high reputation, he is private tutor to the whip club. journeys used to be tedious torments to me, but seated out in the open air i enjoyed every mile of the way--the first twenty miles was particularly pleasing to me, having been accustomed to go so far on that road in the ware stage coach to visit my grandmother in the days of other times. "in my life i never spent so many pleasant hours together as i did at cambridge. we were walking the whole time--out of one college into another. if you ask me which i like best i must make the children's traditionary unoffending reply to all curious enquirers--'_both_.' i liked them all best. the little gloomy ones, because they were little gloomy ones. i felt as if i could live and die in them and never wish to speak again. and the fine grand trinity college, oh how fine it was! and king's college chapel, what a place! i heard the cathedral service there, and having been no great church goer of late years, _that_ and the painted windows and the general effect of the whole thing affected me wonderfully. "i certainly like st. john's college best. i had seen least of it, having only been over it once, so, on the morning we returned, i got up at six o'clock and wandered into it by myself--by myself indeed, for there was nothing alive to be seen but one cat, who followed me about like a dog. then i went over trinity, but nothing hailed me there, not even a cat. "on the sunday we met with a pleasant thing. we had been congratulating each other that we had come alone to enjoy, as the miser his feast, all our sights greedily to ourselves, but having seen all we began to grow flat and wish for this and tother body with us, when we were accosted by a young gownsman whose face we knew, but where or how we had seen him we could not tell, and were obliged to ask his name. he proved to be a young man we had seen twice at alsager's. he turned out a very pleasant fellow--shewed us the insides of places--we took him to our inn to dinner, and drank tea with him in such a delicious college room, and then again he supped with us. we made our meals as short as possible, to lose no time, and walked our young conductor almost off his legs. even when the fried eels were ready for supper and coming up, having a message from a man who we had bribed for the purpose, that then we might see oliver cromwell, who was not at home when we called to see him, we sallied out again and made him a visit by candlelight--and so ended our sights. when we were setting out in the morning our new friend came to bid us good bye, and rode with us as far as trompington. i never saw a creature so happy as he was the whole time he was with us, he said we had put him in such good spirits that [he] should certainly pass an examination well that he is to go through in six weeks in order to qualify himself to obtain a fellowship. "returning home down old fetter lane i could hardly keep from crying to think it was all over. with what pleasure [charles] shewed me jesus college where coleridge was--the barbe[r's shop] where manning was--the house where lloyd lived--franklin's rooms, a young schoolfellow with whom charles was the first time he went to cambridge: i peeped in at his window, the room looked quite deserted--old chairs standing about in disorder that seemed to have stood there ever since they had sate in them. i write sad nonsense about these things, but i wish you had heard charles talk his nonsense over and over again about his visit to franklin, and how he then first felt himself commencing gentleman and had eggs for his breakfast." charles lamb commencing gentleman! a lady who is sitting by me seeing what i am doing says i remind her of her husband, who acknowledged that the first love letter he wrote to her was a copy of one he had made use of on a former occasion. this is no letter, but if you give me any encouragement to write again you shall have one entirely to yourself: a little encouragement will do, a few lines to say you are well and remember us. i will keep this tomorrow, maybe charles will put a few lines to it--i always send off a humdrum letter of mine with great satisfaction if i can get him to freshen it up a little at the end. let me beg my love to your sister johanna with many thanks. i have much pleasure in looking forward to her nice bacon, the maker of which i long have had a great desire to see. god bless you, my dear miss hutchinson, i remain ever your affectionate friend m. lamb. aug'st. . letter charles lamb to miss hutchinson (_added to same letter_) dear miss hutchinson, i subscribe most willingly to all my sister says of her enjoyment at cambridge. she was in silent raptures all the while _there_ and came home riding thro' the air (her st long outside journey) triumphing as if she had been _graduated_. i remember one foolish-pretty expression she made use of, "bless the little churches how pretty they are," as those symbols of civilized life opened upon her view one after the other on this side cambridge. you cannot proceed a mile without starting a steeple, with its little patch of villagery round it, enverduring the waste. i don't know how you will pardon part of her letter being a transcript, but writing to another lady first (probably as the _easiest task_ *) it was unnatural not to give you an acco't of what had so freshly delighted her, and would have been a piece of transcendant rhetorick (above her modesty) to have given two different accounts of a simple and univocal pleasure. bless me how learned i write! but i always forget myself when i write to ladies. one cannot tame one's erudition down to their merely english apprehensions. but this and all other faults you will excuse from yours truly c. lamb. our kindest loves to joanna, if she will accept it from us who are merely nominal to her, and to the child and child's parent. yours again c. l. [_mary lamb adds this footnote:_--] * "_easiest task_." not the true reason, but charles had so connected coleridge & cambridge in my mind, by talking so much of him there, and a letter coming so fresh from _him_, in a manner _that was the reason_ i wrote to them first. i make this apology perhaps quite unnecessarily, but i am of a very jealous temper myself, and more than once recollect having been offended at seeing kind expressions which had particularly pleased me in a friend's letter repeated word for word to another--farewell once more. [i have no idea why this charming letter was held back when talfourd copied the lamb-wordsworth correspondence. the name of the young man who showed the lambs such courtesy is not known. coleridge's literary plans were destined to change. the _biographia literaria_ was published alone in , and _sibylline leaves_ alone later in the same year.--"remorse" had been acted at calne in june for the second time, a previous visit having been paid in . coleridge gave the manager a "flaming testimonial."--lady beaumont was the wife of sir george beaumont. "oliver cromwell." the portrait by cooper at sidney sussex college. f.w. franklin was with lamb at christ's hospital. afterwards he became master of the blue coat school at hertford. he is mentioned in the _elia_ essay on christ's hospital.] letter mary lamb to matilda betham [no date. ? late summer, .] my dear miss betham,--my brother and myself return you a thousand thanks for your kind communication. we have read your poem many times over with increased interest, and very much wish to see you to tell you how highly we have been pleased with it. may we beg one favour?--i keep the manuscript in the hope that you will grant it. it is that, either now or when the whole poem is completed, you will read it over with us. when i say with _us_, of course i mean charles. i know that you have many judicious friends, but i have so often known my brother spy out errors in a manuscript which has passed through many judicious hands, that i shall not be easy if you do not permit him to look yours carefully through with you; and also you _must_ allow him to correct the press for you. if i knew where to find you i would call upon you. should you feel nervous at the idea of meeting charles in the capacity of a _severe censor_, give me a line, and i will come to you any where, and convince you in five minutes that he is even timid, stammers, and can scarcely speak for modesty and fear of giving pain when he finds himself placed in that kind of office. shall i appoint a time to see you here when he is from home? i will send him out any time you will name; indeed, i am always naturally alone till four o'clock. if you are nervous about coming, remember i am equally so about the liberty i have taken, and shall be till we meet and laugh off our mutual fears. yours most affectionately m. lamb. letter charles lamb to matilda betham [no date. ]. dear miss betham,--that accursed word trill has vexed me excessively. i have referred to the ms. and certainly the printer is exonerated, it is much more like a _tr_ than a _k_. but what shall i say of myself? if you can trust me hereafter, i will be more careful. i will go thro' the poem, unless you should feel more safe by doing it yourself. in fact a second person looking over a proof is liable to let pass anything that sounds plausible. the act of looking it over seeming to require only an attention to the words that they have the proper component letters, one scarce thinks then (or but half) of the sense.--you will find one line i have ventured to alter in 'd sheet. you had made hope & yoke rhime, which is intolerable. every body can see & carp at a bad rhime or no rhime. it strikes as slovenly, like bad spelling. i found out another _sung_ but i could not alter it, & i would not delay the time by writing to you. besides it is not at all conspicuous--it comes in by the bye 'the strains i sung.' the other obnoxious word was in an eminent place, at the beginning of her lay, when all ears are upon her. i must conclude hastily, dear m. b. yours c. l. [these letters refer to _the lay of marie_. in mr. ernest betham's _a house of letters_ will be found six other letters (see pp. , , , , ) all bearing upon matilda betham's poem.] letter charles lamb to matilda betham dr miss betham,--all this while i have been tormenting myself with the thought of having been ungracious to you, and you have been all the while accusing yourself. let us absolve one another & be quits. my head is in such a state from incapacity for business that i certainly know it to be my duty not to undertake the veriest trifle in addition. i hardly know how i can go on. i have tried to get some redress by explaining my health, but with no great success. no one can tell how ill i am, because it does not come out to the exterior of my face, but lies in my scull deep & invisible. i wish i was leprous & black jaundiced skin-over, and [? or] that all was as well within as my cursed looks. you must not think me worse than i am. i am determined not to be overset, but to give up business rather and get 'em to allow me a trifle for services past. o that i had been a shoe-maker or a baker, or a man of large independ't fortune. o darling laziness! heaven of epicurus! saints everlasting rest! that i could drink vast potations of thee thro' unmeasured eternity. otium _cum_ vel _sine_ dignitate. scandalous, dishonorable, any-kind-of-_repose_. i stand not upon the _dignified_ sort. accursed damned desks, trade, commerce, business--inventions of that old original busybody brainworking satan, sabbathless restless satan-- a curse relieves. do you ever try it? a strange letter this to write to a lady, but mere honey'd sentences will not distill. i dare not ask who revises in my stead. i have drawn you into a scrape. i am ashamed, but i know no remedy. my unwellness must be my apology. god bless you (tho' he curse the india house & fire it to the ground) and may no unkind error creep into marie, may all its readers like it as well as i do & everybody about you like its kind author no worse. why the devil am i never to have a chance of scribbling my own free thoughts, verse or prose, again? why must i write of tea & drugs & price goods & bales of indigo--farewell. c. lamb. [_written at head of letter on margin the following_:--] mary goes to her place on sunday--i mean your maid, foolish mary. she wants a very little brains only to be an excellent serv. she is excellently calculated for the country, where nobody has brains. [mr. ernest betham, in _a house of letters_, dates the foregoing june , ; but i place it here none the less. in the passage concerning work and leisure we see another hint of the sonnet on "work" which lamb was to write a little later. here should come two notes to william ayrton, printed by mr. macdonald, referring to the musical use of the word "air."] letter charles lamb to sarah hutchinson thursday oct. . my brother is gone to paris. dear miss h.--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 frightfully soon this time, with scarce a six month's 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 we shall have to live together. i don't know but the recurrence 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 we may be making our meal together, or sitting in the 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 assailable, 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' misfortunes. but i feel all i can, and all the kindness i can towards you all. god bless you. i hear nothing from coleridge. yours truly c. lamb. [mary lamb had recovered from her preceding attack in february. she did not recover from the present illness until december. "the wind is tempered to the shorn lambs." "'but god tempers the wind,' said maria, 'to the shorn lamb'" (sterne's _sentimental journey_). also in henri estienne ( ). "poor c. lloyd, and poor priscilla." priscilla wordsworth (_neé_ lloyd) died this month, aged thirty-three. charles lloyd having just completed his translation of the tragedies of alfieri, published in , had been prostrated by the most serious visitation of his malady that he had yet suffered.] letter charles lamb to thomas manning dec. th, . dear old friend and absentee,--this is christmas-day with us; what it may be with you i don't know, the th of june next year perhaps; and if it should be the consecrated season with you, i don't see how you can keep it. you have no turkeys; you would not desecrate the festival by offering up a withered chinese bantam, instead of the savoury grand norfolcian holocaust, that smokes all around my nostrils at this moment from a thousand firesides. then what puddings have you? where will you get holly to stick in your churches, or churches to stick your dried tea-leaves (that must be the substitute) in? what memorials you can have of the holy time, i see not. a chopped missionary or two may keep up the thin idea of lent and the wilderness; but what standing evidence have you of the nativity?--'tis our rosy-cheeked, homestalled divines, whose faces shine to the tune of _unto us a child_; faces fragrant with the mince-pies of half a century, that alone can authenticate the cheerful mystery--i feel. i feel my bowels refreshed with the holy tide--my zeal is great against the unedified heathen. down with the pagodas--down with the idols-- ching-chong-fo--and his foolish priesthood! come out of babylon, o my friend! for her time is come, and the child that is native, and the proselyte of her gates, shall kindle and smoke together! and in sober sense what makes you so long from among us, manning? you must not expect to see the same england again which you left. empires have been overturned, crowns trodden into dust, the face of the western world quite changed: your friends have all got old--those you left blooming--myself (who am one of the few that remember you) those golden hairs which you recollect my taking a pride in, turned to silvery and grey. mary has been dead and buried many years--she desired to be buried in the silk gown you sent her. rickman, that you remember active and strong, now walks out supported by a servant-maid and a stick. martin burney is a very old man. the other day an aged woman knocked at my door, and pretended to my acquaintance; it was long before i had the most distant cognition of her; but at last together we made her out to be louisa, the daughter of mrs. topham, formerly mrs. morton, who had been mrs. reynolds, formerly mrs. kenney, whose first husband was holcroft, the dramatic writer of the last century. st. paul's church is a heap of ruins; the monument isn't half so high as you knew it, divers parts being successively taken down which the ravages of time had rendered dangerous; the horse at charing cross is gone, no one knows whither,--and all this has taken place while you have been settling whether ho-hing-tong should be spelt with a ---- or a ----. for aught i see you had almost as well remain where you are, and not come like a struldbug into a world where few were born when you went away. scarce here and there one will be able to make out your face; all your opinions will be out of date, your jokes obsolete, your puns rejected with fastidiousness as wit of the last age. your way of mathematics has already given way to a new method, which after all is i believe the old doctrine of maclaurin, new-vamped up with what he borrowed of the negative quantity of fluxions from euler. poor godwin! i was passing his tomb the other day in cripplegate churchyard. there are some verses upon it written by miss hayes, which if i thought good enough i would send you. he was one of those who would have hailed your return, not with boisterous shouts and clamours, but with the complacent gratulations of a philosopher anxious to promote knowledge as leading to happiness--but his systems and his theories are ten feet deep in cripplegate mould. coleridge is just dead, having lived just long enough to close the eyes of wordsworth, who paid the debt to nature but a week or two before. poor col., but two days before he died he wrote to a bookseller proposing an epic poem on the "wanderings of cain," in twenty-four books. it is said he has left behind him more than forty thousand treatises in criticism and metaphysics, but few of them in a state of completion. they are now destined, perhaps, to wrap up spices. you see what mutations the busy hand of time has produced, while you have consumed in foolish voluntary exile that time which might have gladdened your friends--benefited your country; but reproaches are useless. gather up the wretched reliques, my friend, as fast as you can, and come to your old home. i will rub my eyes and try to recognise you. we will shake withered hands together, and talk of old things--of st. mary's church and the barber's opposite, where the young students in mathematics used to assemble. poor crisp, that kept it afterwards, set up a fruiterer's shop in trumpington-street, and for aught i know, resides there still, for i saw the name up in the last journey i took there with my sister just before she died. i suppose you heard that i had left the india house, and gone into the fishmongers' almshouses over the bridge. i have a little cabin there, small and homely; but you shall be welcome to it. you like oysters, and to open them yourself; i'll get you some if you come in oyster time. marshall, godwin's old friend, is still alive, and talks of the faces you used to make. come as soon as you can. c. lamb. [since lamb's last letter manning had entered lhassa, the sacred city of thibet, being the first englishman to do so. he remained there until april, , when he returned to calcutta. then he took up his abode once more in canton, and, in , moved to peking as interpreter to lord amherst's embassy, returning to england the following year. "norfolcian." manning was a norfolk man. "maclaurin." here lamb surprises the reader by a reasonable remark. colin maclaurin, the mathematician, was the author of _a treatise of fluxions_. coleridge actually had begun many years before an epic on the subject of the "wanderings of cain."] letter charles lamb to thomas manning dec. th, . dear manning,--following your brother's example, i have just ventured one letter to canton, and am now hazarding another (not exactly a duplicate) to st. helena. the first was full of unprobable romantic fictions, fitting the remoteness of the mission it goes upon; in the present i mean to confine myself nearer to truth as you come nearer home. a correspondence with the uttermost parts of the earth necessarily involves in it some heat of fancy; it sets the brain agoing; but i can think on the half-way house tranquilly. your friends, then, are not all dead or grown forgetful of you through old age, as that lying letter asserted, anticipating rather what must happen if you kept tarrying on for ever on the skirts of creation, as there seemed a danger of your doing--but they are all tolerably well and in full and perfect comprehension of what is meant by manning's coming home again. mrs. kenney (ci-devant holcroft) never let her tongue run riot more than in remembrances of you. fanny expends herself in phrases that can only be justified by her romantic nature. mary reserves a portion of your silk, not to be buried in (as the false nuncio asserts), but to make up spick and span into a new bran gown to wear when you come. i am the same as when you knew me, almost to a surfeiting identity. this very night i am going to _leave off tobacco_! surely there must be some other world in which this unconquerable purpose shall be realised. the soul hath not her generous aspirings implanted in her in vain. one that you knew, and i think the only one of those friends we knew much of in common, has died in earnest. poor priscilla, wife of kit wordsworth! her brother robert is also dead, and several of the grown-up brothers and sisters, in the compass of a very few years. death has not otherwise meddled much in families that i know. not but he has his damn'd eye upon us, and is w[h]etting his infernal feathered dart every instant, as you see him truly pictured in that impressive moral picture, "the good man at the hour of death." i have in trust to put in the post four letters from diss, and one from lynn, to st. helena, which i hope will accompany this safe, and one from lynn, and the one before spoken of from me, to canton. but we all hope that these latter may be waste paper. i don't know why i have forborne writing so long. but it is such a forlorn hope to send a scrap of paper straggling over wide oceans. and yet i know when you come home, i shall have you sitting before me at our fireside just as if you had never been away. in such an instant does the return of a person dissipate all the weight of imaginary perplexity from distance of time and space! i'll promise you good oysters. cory is dead, that kept the shop opposite st. dunstan's, but the tougher materials of the shop survive the perishing frame of its keeper. oysters continue to flourish there under as good auspices. poor cory! but if you will absent yourself twenty years together, you must not expect numerically the same population to congratulate your return which wetted the sea-beach with their tears when you went away. have you recovered the breathless stone-staring astonishment into which you must have been thrown upon learning at landing that an emperor of france was living in st. helena? what an event in the solitude of the seas! like finding a fish's bone at the top of plinlimmon; but these things are nothing in our western world. novelties cease to affect. come and try what your presence can. god bless you.--your old friend, c. lamb. [robert lloyd had died in , and within a few days one of his brothers and one of his sisters. "the good man at the hour of death." i have not found the picture to which lamb refers. probably a popular print of the day, or he may have been incorrectly remembering blake's "death of the good old man" in blair's _grave_. manning, by changing his plans, did not reach st. helena when he expected to; not, indeed, until july, , when he met napoleon.] letter charles lamb to william wordsworth [dated at end: april , .] 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 the poems yet. i wait till people have done borrowing them. i think i shall get a chain, and chain them to my shelves more 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 justice to say that there is nothing of this caprice or wantonness 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 cov. card. manager has declined accepting his tragedy, tho' (having read it) i see no reason upon earth why it might not have run a very fair chance, tho' 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 printing together at bristol, both finished as far as the composition 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 chemist's laboratory in norfolk street. she might as well have sent a helluo librorum for cure to the vatican. god keep him inviolate among the traps and pitfalls. 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 while 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 [_here lamb makes an illegible scribble_]. i should not wonder if the constant making out of such paragraphs is the cause of that weakness in mrs. w.'s eyes as she is tenderly pleased to express it. dorothy i hear has mounted spectacles; so you have deoculated two of your dearest relations in life. well, god bless you and continue to give you power to write with a finger of power upon our hearts what you fail to impress in corresponding lucidness upon our outward eyesight. mary's love to all, she is quite well. i am call'd off to do the deposits on cotton wool--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.--_my_ judgment of _your_ new books &c. &c.--i am scarce quiet enough while he stays. yours again c. l. tuesday apr. . [wordsworth had sent lamb, presumably in proof (see next letter), _thanksgiving ode_, _jan_. , _with other short pieces chiefly referring to recent events_, --the subject of the ode being the peace that had come upon europe with the downfall of napoleon. it follows in the collected works the sonnets to liberty. "more bodleiano." according to macray's _annals of the bodleian library_ (second edition, , page ), books seem to have been chained in the bodleian library up to . the process of removing the chains seems to have begun in . in as many as , books were unchained at a cost of a ½d. a piece. a dozen years later discarded chains were sold at the rate of d. for a long chain, ½d. for a short one, and if one hankered after a hundred-weight of them, the wish could be gratified on payment of s. many loose chains are still preserved in the library as relics. "for of those who borrow." lamb's _elia_ essay, "the two races of men," may have had its germ in this passage. coleridge came to london from calne in march bringing with him the manuscript of "zapolya." he had already had correspondence with lord byron concerning a tragedy for drury lane, on whose committee byron had a seat, but he had done nothing towards writing it. "zapolya" was never acted. it was published in . coleridge's lodgings were at norfolk street, strand. see next letter for further news of coleridge at this time.] letter charles lamb to william wordsworth [april , .] sir, please to state the weights and amounts of the following lots of sold sale, for your obedient servant, chas. lamb. _accountant's office_, apr. 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 blunder i saw and shuddered at. the hallucinating rascal had printed _battered_ for _battened_, this last not conveying any distinct sense to his gaping soul. the reader (as they call 'em) had discovered it and given it the marginal brand, but the substitutory _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." [_batter is written batten and corrected to batter in the margin_.] with regard to the works, the letter i read with unabated satisfaction. such a thing was wanted, called for. the parallel of cotton with burns i heartily approve; iz. walton hallows any page in which his reverend name appears. "duty archly bending 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 people will do that when they come out, you'll say.) as if i were to luxuriate to-morrow at some picture gallery i was never at before, and going by to day by chance, found the door open, had but minutes to look about me, peeped in, just such a _chastised_ peep i took with my mind at the lines my luxuriating eye was coursing over unrestrained,-- not to anticipate another day's fuller satisfaction. coleridge is printing xtabel, by l'd 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 elysian bowers into my parlour 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 redacting to letters, no better than nonsense or no sense. when i was young i used to chant with extacy _mild arcadians ever blooming_, till somebody told me it was meant to be nonsense. even yet i have a lingering attachment to it, and think it better than windsor forest, dying xtian's address &c.--c. has sent his tragedy to d.l.t.--it cannot be acted this season, and by their manner of receiving it, i hope he will be able to alter it to make them accept it for next. he is at present under the medical care of a mr. gilman (killman?) a highgate apothecary, where he plays at leaving off laud----m. i think his essentials not touched: he is very bad, but then he wonderfully picks up another day, and his face when he repeats his verses hath its ancient glory, an archangel a little damaged. will miss h. 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 miles, and the neighborhood of such a man is as exciting as the presence of ordinary persons. 'tis enough to be within the whiff and wind of his genius, for us not to possess our souls in quiet. if i lived with him or the _author of the excursion_, i should in a very little time lose my own identity, 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 of the people here as there is in the first page 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. interruptions, if i try to write a letter even, i have dreadful. just now within lines i was call'd off for ten minutes to consult dusty old books for the settlement of obsolete errors. i hold you a guinea you don't find the chasm where i left off, so excellently the wounded sense closed again and was healed. n.b. nothing said above to the contrary but that i 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 akes and you have had enough. god bless you. c. lamb. [lamb had been correcting the proofs of wordsworth's _letter to a friend of burns_ and his _thanksgiving ode, with other short pieces_, both published in . in the _letter to a friend of robert burns_, which was called forth by the intended republication of burns' life by dr. currie, wordsworth incidentally compares burns and cotton. the phrase which lamb commends is in the description of "tam o' shanter" (page )--"this reprobate sits down to his cups, while the storm is roaring, and heaven and earth are in confusion;--the night is driven on by song and tumultuous noise--laughter and jest thicken as the beverage improves upon the palate--conjugal fidelity archly bends to the service of general benevolence--selfishness is not absent, but wearing the mask of social cordiality...." coleridge's _christabel_ (with _kubla khan_ and _the pains of sleep_) was published by murray in . it ran into a second edition quickly, but was not too well received. the _edinburgh_ indeed described it as destitute of one ray of genius. in a letter from fanny godwin to mary shelley, july , , in dowden's _life of shelley_, we read that "lamb says _christabel_ ought never to have been published; and that no one understood it, and _kubla khan_ is nonsense." but this was probably idle gossip. lamb had admired _christabel_ to the full, but he may have thought its publication in an incomplete state an error. coleridge was introduced to mr. james gillman of the grove, highgate, by dr. adams of hatton garden, to whom he had applied for medical aid. adams suggested that gillman should take coleridge into his house. gillman arranged on april that adams should bring coleridge on the following day. coleridge went alone and conquered. he promised to begin domestication on the next day, and "i looked with impatience," wrote gillman in his _life of coleridge_, "for the morrow ... i felt indeed almost spellbound, without the desire of release." coleridge did not come on the morrow, but two days later. he remained with the gillmans for the rest of his life. _the pleasures of hope_, by thomas campbell; _the beggar's petition_--"pity the sorrows of a poor old man"--by thomas moss ( - ), a ditty in all the recitation books. lamb alluded to it in the _london magazine_ version of his _elia_ essay, "a complaint of the decay of beggars." here should come a brief note from lamb to leigh hunt, dated may , , accompanying _falstaff's letters_, etc., and a gift of "john woodvil." this is lamb's first letter to james henry leigh hunt ( - ) that has been preserved. he had known hunt (an old christ's hospitaller, but later than lamb's day) for some years. to his _reflector_ he contributed a number of essays and humorous letters in - ; and he had written also for _the examiner_ in and during hunt's imprisonment in - . the lambs visited him regularly at the surrey jail. one of lamb's most charming poems is inscribed "to t. l. h."--thornton leigh hunt, whom he called his "favourite child."] letter charles lamb to matilda betham [dated at end: june , .] dear miss betham,--i have sent your _very pretty lines_ to southey in a frank as you requested. poor s. what a grievous loss he must have had! mary and i rejoice in the prospect of seeing you soon in town. let _us_ be among the very first persons you come to see. believe me that you can have no friends who respect and love you more than ourselves. pray present our kind remembrances to barbara, and to all to whom you may think they will be acceptable. yours very sincerely, c. lamb. have you seen _christabel_ since its publication? e. i. h. june . [southey's eldest son, herbert, had died in april of this year. here should come a letter from lamb to h. dodwell, of the india house, dated august, , not available for this edition. lamb writes from calne, in wiltshire, where he and his sister were making holiday, staying with the morgans. he states that he has lost all sense of time, and recollected that he must return to work some day only through the accident of playing _commerce_ instead of whist.] letter charles lamb to william wordsworth [p.m. september , .] my dear wordsworth, it seems an age since we have corresponded, but indeed the interim has been stuffd out with more variety than usually checquers my same-seeming existence.--mercy on me, what a traveller have i been since i wrote you last! what foreign wonders have been explored! i have seen bath, king bladud's ancient well, fair bristol, seed-plot of suicidal chatterton, marlbro', chippenham, calne, famous for nothing in particular that i know of--but such a vertigo of locomotion has not seized us for years. we spent a month with the morgans at the last named borough--august--and such a change has the change wrought in us that we could not stomach wholesome temple air, but are absolutely rusticating (o the gentility of it) at dalston, about one mischievous boy's stone's throw off kingsland turnpike, one mile from shoreditch church,--thence we emanate in various directions to hackney, clapton, totnam, and such like romantic country. that my lungs should ever prove so dainty as to fancy they perceive differences of air! but so it is, tho' i am almost ashamed of it, like milton's devil (turn'd truant to his old brimstone) i am purging off the foul air of my once darling tobacco in this eden, absolutely snuffing up pure gales, like old worn out sin playing at being innocent, which never comes again, for in spite of good books and good thoughts there is something in a pipe that virtue cannot give tho' she give her unendowed person for a dowry. have you read the review of coleridge's character, person, physiognomy &c. in the examiner--his features even to his _nose_--o horrible license beyond the old comedy. he is himself gone to the sea side with his favorite apothecary, having left for publication as i hear a prodigious mass of composition for a sermon to the middling ranks of people to persuade them they are not so distressed as is commonly supposed. methinks he should recite it to a congregation of bilston colliers,--the fate of cinna the poet would instantaneously be his. god bless him, but certain that rogue examiner has beset him in most unmannerly strains. yet there is a kind of respect shines thro' the disrespect that to those who know the rare compound (that is the subject of it) almost balances the reproof, but then those who know him but partially or at a distance are so extremely apt to drop the qualifying part thro' their fingers. the "after all, mr. wordsworth is a man of great talents, if he did not abuse them" comes so dim upon the eyes of an edinbro' review reader, that have been gloating-open chuckle-wide upon the preceding detail of abuses, it scarce strikes the pupil with any consciousness of the letters being there, like letters writ in lemon. there was a cut at me a few months back by the same hand, but my agnomen or agni-nomen not being calculated to strike the popular ear, it dropt anonymous, but it was a pretty compendium of observation, which the author has collected in my disparagement, from some hundreds of social evenings which we had spent together,--however in spite of all, there is something tough in my attachment to h---- which these violent strainings cannot quite dislocate or sever asunder. i get no conversation in london that is absolutely worth attending to but his. there is monstrous little sense in the world, or i am monstrous clever, or squeamish or something, but there is nobody to talk to--to talk _with_ i should say--and to go talking to one's self all day long is too much of a good thing, besides subjecting one to the imputation of being out of one's senses, which does no good to one's temporal interest at all. by the way, i have seen coler'ge but once this or months. he is an odd person, when he first comes to town he is quite hot upon visiting, and then he turns off and absolutely never comes at all, but seems to forget there are any such people in the world. i made one attempt to visit him (a morning call) at highgate, but there was something in him or his apothecary which i found so unattractively-repulsing-from any temptation to call again, that i stay away as naturally as a lover visits. the rogue gives you love powders, and then a strong horse drench to bring 'em off your stomach that they mayn't hurt you. i was very sorry the printing of your letter was not quite to your mind, but i surely did not think but you had arranged the manner of breaking the paragraphs from some principle known to your own mind, and for some of the errors, i am confident that note of admiration in the middle of two words did not stand so when i had it, it must have dropt out and been replaced wrong, so odious a blotch could not have escaped me. gifford (whom god curse) has persuaded squinting murray (whom may god not bless) not to accede to an offer field made for me to print vols. of essays, to include the one on hog'rth and or more, but most of the matter to be new, but i dare say i should never have found time to make them; m. would have had 'em, but shewed specimens from the reflector to g---, as he acknowleged to field, and crispin did for me. "not on his soal but on his soul, damn'd jew" may the malediction of my eternal antipathy light--we desire much to hear from you, and of you all, including miss hutchinson, for not writing to whom mary feels a weekly (and did for a long time feel a daily) pang. how is southey?--i hope his pen will continue to move many years smoothly and continuously for all the rubs of the rogue examiner. a pertinacious foul-mouthed villain it is! this is written for a rarity at the seat of business: it is but little time i can generally command from secular calligraphy--the pen seems to know as much and makes letters like figures--an obstinate clerkish thing. it shall make a couplet in spite of its nib before i have done with it, "and so i end commending me to your love, my dearest friend." from leaden hall, septem'r something, c. lamb. [the lambs had taken summer lodgings--at kingsland row, dalston--which they retained for some years. hazlitt's article on coleridge was in _the examiner_ for september . among other things hazlitt said: "mr. shandy would have settled the question at once: 'you have little or no nose, sir.'" one passage in the article gives colour to the theory that hazlitt occasionally borrowed from lamb's conversation. in lamb's letter to wordsworth of april , , he has the celebrated description of coleridge, "an archangel a little damaged." hazlitt in this article writes: "if he had had but common moral principle, that is, sincerity, he would have been a great man; nor hardly, as it is, appears to us-- "'less than arch-angel ruined, and the excess of glory obscur'd.'" hazlitt may have heard lamb's epithet, backed probably by the same passage from_ paradise lost_. crabb robinson tells us, in his _diary_, that coleridge was less hurt by the article than he anticipated. "he denies h., however, originality, and ascribes to l. [lamb] the best ideas in h.'s articles. he was not displeased to hear of his being knocked down by john lamb lately." coleridge's new work was _the statesman's manual; or, the bible the best guide to political skill and foresight: a lay sermon_, . it had been first announced as "a lay sermon on the distresses of the country, addressed to the middle and higher orders," and hazlitt's article had been in the nature of an anticipatory review. i do not find anywhere the "cut" at lamb from hazlitt's hand, or indeed any one's hand, to which lamb refers. hazlitt at this time was living at no. york street, westminster, in milton's old house. "agni-nomen." from _agnus_, a lamb. "after all, mr. wordsworth ..."--the _edinburgh review_ article on _the excursion_, in november, , beginning, "this will never do," had at least two lapses into fairness: "but the truth is, that mr. wordsworth, with all his perversities, is a person of great powers"; and "nobody can be more disposed to do justice to the great powers of mr. wordsworth than we are." "the printing of your letter." _the letter to a friend of burns_ (see above). " vols. of essays." these were printed with poems as _the works of charles lamb_ by the olliers in (see later). "crispin"--gifford (see note to the letter to wordsworth, early january, ). "southey." hazlitt's attacks on the laureate were continuous.] letter mary lamb to sarah hutchinson [no date. middle of november, .] inner temple. my dear friend, i have procured a frank for this day, and having been hindered all the morning have no time left to frame excuses for my long and inexcusable silence, and can only thank you for the very kind way in which you overlook it. i should certainly have written on the receipt of yours but i had not a frank, and also i wished to date my letter from my own home where you expressed so cordial a wish to hear we had arrived. we have passed ten, i may call them very good weeks, at dalston, for they completely answered the purpose for which we went. reckoning our happy month at calne, we have had quite a rural summer, and have obtained a very clear idea of the great benefit of quiet--of early hours and time intirely at one's own disposal, and no small advantages these things are; but the return to old friends--the sight of old familiar faces round me has almost reconciled me to occasional headachs and fits of peevish weariness--even london streets, which i sometimes used to think it hard to be eternally doomed to walk through before i could see a green field, seem quite delightful. charles smoked but one pipe while we were at dalston and he has not transgressed much since his return. i hope he will only smoke now with his fellow-smokers, which will give him five or six clear days in the week. shame on me, i did not even write to thank you for the bacon, upon which, and some excellent eggs your sister added to her kind present, we had so many nice feasts. i have seen henry robinson, who speaks in raptures of the days he passed with you. he says he never saw a man so happy in _three wives_ as mr. wordsworth is. i long to join you and make a fourth, and we cannot help talking of the possibility in some future fortunate summer of venturing to come so far, but we generally end in thinking the possibility impossible, for i dare not come but by post chaises, and the expence would be enormous, yet it was very pleasing to read mrs. wordsworth's kind invitation and to feel a kind of latent hope of what might one day happen. you ask how coleridge maintains himself. i know no more than you do. strange to say, i have seen him but once since he has been at highgate, and then i met him in the street. i have just been reading your kind letter over again and find you had some doubt whether we had left the temple entirely. it was merely a lodging we took to recruit our health and spirits. from the time we left calne charles drooped sadly, company became quite irksome, and his anxious desire to leave off smoking, and his utter inability to perform his daily resolutions against it, became quite a torment to him, so i prevailed with him to try the experiment of change of scene, and set out in one of the short stage coaches from bishopsgate street, miss brent and i, and we looked over all the little places within three miles and fixed on one quite countrified and not two miles from shoreditch church, and entered upon it the next day. i thought if we stayed but a week it would be a little rest and respite from our troubles, and we made a ten weeks stay, and very comfortable we were, so much so that if ever charles is superannuated on a small pension, which is the great object of his ambition, and we felt our income straitened, i do think i could live in the country entirely--at least i thought so while i was there but since i have been at home i wish to live and die in the temple where i was born. we left the trees so green it looked like early autumn, and can see but one leaf "the last of its clan" on our poor old hare court trees. what a rainy summer!--and yet i have been so much out of town and have made so much use of every fine day that i can hardly help thinking it has been a fine summer. we calculated we walked three hundred and fifty miles while we were in our country lodging. one thing i must tell you, charles came round every morning to a shop near the temple to get shaved. last sunday we had such a pleasant day, i must tell you of it. we went to kew and saw the old palace where the king was brought up, it was the pleasantest sight i ever saw, i can scarcely tell you why, but a charming old woman shewed it to us. she had lived twenty six years there and spoke with such a hearty love of our good old king, whom all the world seems to have forgotten, that it did me good to hear her. she was as proud in pointing out the plain furniture (and i am sure you are now sitting in a larger and better furnished room) of a small room in which the king always dined, nay more proud of the simplicity of her royal master's taste, than any shower of carlton house can be in showing the fine things there, and so she was when she made us remark the smallness of one of the princesses' bedrooms, and said she slept and also dressed in that little room. there are a great many good pictures but i was most pleased with one of the king when he was about two years old, such a pretty little white-headed boy. i cannot express how much pleasure a letter from you gives us. if i could promise my self i should be always as well as i am now, i would say i will be a better correspondent in future. if charles has time to add a line i shall be less ashamed to send this hasty scrawl. love to all and every one. how much i should like once more to see miss wordsworth's handwriting, if she would but write a postscript to your next, which i look to receive in a few days. yours affectionately m. lamb. [_charles lamb adds at the head:_--] mary has barely left me room to say how d'ye. i have received back the examiner containing the delicate enquiry into certain infirm parts of s. t. c.'s character. what is the general opinion of it? farewell. my love to all. c. lamb. ["miss brent." mrs. morgan's sister. crabb robinson had been in the lake country in september and october. "to a shop near the temple." possibly to mr. a---- of flower-de-luce court, mentioned by lamb in the footnote to his essay "on the melancholy of tailors" (see vol. i.). "our good old king"--george iii., then in retirement. carlton house was the home of the regent, whom lamb (and probably his sister) detested--as his "triumph of the whale" and other squibs (see vol. iv.) show. here should come a letter to rickman, dated december , . the chief news in it is that george dyer has been made one of lord stanhope's ten residuary legatees. this, says lamb, will settle dyer's fate: he will have to throw his dirty glove at some one and marry.] letter mary lamb to sarah hutchinson [no date. ? late .] my dear miss hutchinson, i had intended to write you a long letter, but as my frank is dated i must send it off with a bare acknowledgment of the receipt of your kind letter. one question i must hastily ask you. do you think mr. wordsworth would have any reluctance to write (strongly recommending to their patronage) to any of his rich friends in london to solicit employment for miss betham as a miniature painter? if you give me hopes that he will not be averse to do this, i will write to you more fully stating the infinite good he would do by performing so irksome a task as i know asking favours to be. in brief, she has contracted debts for printing her beautiful poem of "marie," which like all things of original excellence does not sell at all. these debts have led to little accidents unbecoming a woman and a poetess to suffer. retirement with such should be voluntary. [_charles lamb adds:_--] the bell rings. i just snatch the pen out of my sister's hand to finish rapidly. wordsw'th. may tell de q that miss b's price for a virgin and child is three guineas. yours (all of you) ever c. l. ["de q"--thomas de quincey ( - ), the "opium-eater," then living at grasmere. lamb and de quincey had first met in ; but it was not until that they became really intimate, when lamb introduced him to the _london magazine_. miss betham painted miniature portraits, among others, of mrs. s. t. coleridge and sara coleridge. here should come a note to william ayrton dated april , , thanking him for much pleasure at "don giovanni" (see note to next letter). somewhen in should come a letter from lamb to leigh hunt on the publication of _the story of rimini_, mentioned in _leigh hunt's correspondence_, of which this is the only sentence that is preserved: "the third canto is in particular my favourite: we congratulate you most sincerely on the trait [? taste] of your prison fruit."] letter charles lamb to william ayrton epistle to will'm. ayrton esq're. temple, may , . my dear friend, before i end,-- have you any more orders for don giovanni to give him that doth live your faithful zany? without raillery i mean gallery ones: for i am a person that shuns all ostentation and being at the top of the fashion; and seldom go to operas but in formâ pauperis. i go to the play in a very economical sort of a way, rather to see than be seen. though i'm no ill sight neither, by candle-light, and in some kinds of weather. you might pit me for height against kean; but in a grand tragic scene i'm nothing:-- it would create a kind of loathing to see me act hamlet; there'd be many a damn let fly at my presumption if i should try, being a fellow of no gumption. by the way, tell me candidly how you relish this, which they call the lapidary style? opinions vary. the late mr. mellish could never abide it. he thought it vile, and coxcombical. my friend the poet laureat, who is a great lawyer at anything comical, was the first who tried it; but mellish could never abide it. but it signifies very little what mellish said, because he is dead. for who can confute a body that's mute?-- or who would fight with a senseless sprite?-- or think of troubling an impenetrable old goblin that's dead and gone, and stiff as stone, to convince him with arguments pro and con, as if some live logician, bred up at merton, or mr. hazlitt, the metaphysician-- hey, mr. ayrton! with all your rare tone. for tell me how should an apparition list to your call, though you talk'd for ever,-- ever so clever, when his ear itself, by which he must hear, or not hear at all, is laid on the shelf? or put the case (for more grace) it were a female spectre-- now could you expect her to take much gust in long speeches, with her tongue as dry as dust, in a sandy place, where no peaches, nor lemons, nor limes, nor oranges hang, to drop on the drought of an arid harangue, or quench, with their sweet drench, the fiery pangs which the worms inflict, with their endless nibblings, like quibblings, which the corpse may dislike, but can ne'er contradict-- hey, mr. ayrton? with all your rare tone-- i am. c. lamb. [the text is from ayrton's transcript in a private volume lately in the possession of mr. edward ayrton, lettered _lamb's works_, vol. iii., uniform with the edition. william ayrton ( - ), a friend and neighbour of the burneys, and a member of lamb's whist-playing set, was a musical critic, and at this time director of the king's theatre in the haymarket, where he had just produced mozart's "don giovanni." his wife was marianne arnold, sister of samuel james arnold, manager of the lyceum theatre. "you might pit me for height against kean." this was so. edmund kean was small in stature, though not so "immaterially" built as lamb is said to have been. "mr. mellish." possibly the joseph charles mellish who translated schiller. the laureate, southey, had first tried the lapidary style in "gooseberry pie"; later, without rhymes, in "thalaba." some time in the intervening three months before the next letter the lambs went to brighton for their holiday.] letter charles lamb to barron field aug. st, . my dear barren,--the bearer of this letter so far across the seas is mr. lawrey, who comes out to you as a missionary, and whom i have been strongly importuned to recommend to you as a most worthy creature by mr. fenwick, a very old, honest friend of mine, of whom, if my memory does not deceive me, you have had some knowledge heretofore as editor of the "statesman"--a man of talent, and patriotic. if you can show him any facilities in his arduous undertaking, you will oblige us much. well, and how does the land of thieves use you? and how do you pass your time in your extra-judicial intervals? going about the streets with a lantern, like diogenes, looking for an honest man? you may look long enough, i fancy. do give me some notion of the manners of the inhabitants where you are. they don't thieve all day long, do they? no human property could stand such continuous battery. and what do they do when they an't stealing? have you got a theatre? what pieces are performed? shakespear's, i suppose--not so much for the poetry, as for his having once been in danger of leaving his country on account of certain "small deer." have you poets among you? cursed plagiarists, i fancy, if you have any. i would not trust an idea or a pocket-handkerchief of mine among 'em. you are almost competent to answer lord bacon's problem, whether a nation of atheists can subsist together. you are practically in one:-- "so thievish 'tis, that the eighth commandment itself scarce seemeth there to be." our old honest world goes on with little perceptible variation. of course you have heard of poor mitchell's death, and that g. dyer is one of lord stanhope's residuaries. i am afraid he has not touched much of the residue yet. he is positively as lean as cassius. barnes is going to demerara or essequibo, i am not quite certain which. a[lsager] is turned actor. he came out in genteel comedy at cheltenham this season, and has hopes of a london engagement. for my own history, i am just in the same spot, doing the same thing (videlicet, little or nothing,) as when you left me; only i have positive hopes that i shall be able to conquer that inveterate habit of smoking which you may remember i indulged in. i think of making a beginning this evening, viz., sunday st august, , not wednesday, nd feb., , as it will be perhaps when you read this for the first time. there is the difficulty of writing from one end of the globe (hemispheres i call 'em) to another! why, half the truths i have sent you in this letter will become lies before they reach you, and some of the lies (which i have mixed for variety's sake, and to exercise your judgment in the finding of them out) may be turned into sad realities before you shall be called upon to detect them. such are the defects of going by different chronologies. your now is not my now; and again, your then is not my then; but my now may be your then, and _vice versá_. whose head is competent to these things? how does mrs. field get on in her geography? does she know where she is by this time? i am not sure sometimes you are not in another planet; but then i don't like to ask capt. burney, or any of those that know anything about it, for fear of exposing my ignorance. our kindest remembrances, however, to mrs. f., if she will accept of reminiscences from another planet, or at least another hemisphere. c. l. [this is lamb's first letter that has been preserved to barron field. barron field ( - ) was a lawyer, a son of henry field, apothecary to christ's hospital, and brother of a fellow-clerk of lamb's in the india house. he had also been a contributor to leigh hunt's _reflector_ in - . field was appointed judge of the supreme court of new south wales, whither he sailed in , reaching sydney in february, . his wife was a miss jane carncroft. this letter forms the groundwork of lamb's _elia_ essay on "distant correspondents" (see vol. ii.), which may be read with it as an example of the difference in richness between lamb's epistolary and finished literary style. "so thievish 'tis ..." a perversion of coleridge's lines, in _the ancient mariner:_-- so lonely 'twas, that god himself scarce seemed there to be. "poor mitchell's death." this may have been one of the lies referred to a little lower. if so, thomas mitchell ( - ) was probably intended, as he had been at christ's hospital, and was a friend of leigh hunt's, and might thus have known lamb and field. he translated aristophanes. the only mitchell of any importance who died in was colonel mitchell, who commanded a brigade at waterloo; but lamb would hardly know anything of him. george dyer, who had been tutor in the family of the third earl of stanhope (citizen stanhope), was one of the ten executors to whom that peer's estate was left, after paying a few legacies. among them was another of lamb's acquaintances, joseph jekyll, mentioned in the _elia_ essay on the old benchers. dyer repudiated the office, but the heir persuaded him to accept an annuity. thomas barnes ( - ), another old christ's hospitaller, and a contributor to _the reflector_, became editor of _the times_ in . his projected journey was one of the "lies"; nor did alsager, another _times_ man, whom we have already met, turn actor.] letter charles lamb to james and louisa kenney londres, october, [ ]. dear friends,--it is with infinite regret i inform you that the pleasing privilege of receiving letters, by which i have for these twenty years gratified my friends and abused the liberality of the company trading to the orient, is now at an end. a cruel edict of the directors has swept it away altogether. the devil sweep away their patronage also. rascals who think nothing of sponging upon their employers for their venison and turtle and burgundy five days in a week, to the tune of five thousand pounds in a year, now find out that the profits of trade will not allow the innocent communication of thought between their underlings and their friends in distant provinces to proceed untaxed, thus withering up the heart of friendship and making the news of a friend's good health worse than indifferent, as tidings to be deprecated as bringing with it ungracious expenses. adieu, gentle correspondence, kindly conveyance of soul, interchange of love, of opinions, of puns and what not! henceforth a friend that does not stand in visible or palpable distance to me, is nothing to me. they have not left to the bosom of friendship even that cheap intercourse of sentiment the twopenny medium. the upshot is, you must not direct any more letters through me. to me you may annually, or biennially, transmit a brief account of your goings on [on] a single sheet, from which after i have deducted as much as the postage comes to, the remainder will be pure pleasure. but no more of those pretty commission and counter commissions, orders and revoking of orders, obscure messages and obscurer explanations, by which the intellects of marshall and fanny used to be kept in a pleasing perplexity, at the moderate rate of six or seven shillings a week. in short, you must use me no longer as a go-between. henceforth i write up no thoroughfare. well, and how far is saint valery from paris; and do you get wine and walnuts tolerable; and the vintage, does it suffer from the wet? i take it, the wine of this season will be all wine and water; and have you any plays and green rooms, and fanny kellies to chat with of an evening; and is the air purer than the old gravel pits, and the bread so much whiter, as they say? lord, what things you see that travel! i dare say the people are all french wherever you go. what an overwhelming effect that must have! i have stood one of 'em at a time, but two i generally found overpowering, i used to cut and run; but, then, in their own vineyards may be they are endurable enough. they say marmosets in senegambia are so pleasant as the day's long, jumping and chattering in the orange twigs; but transport 'em, one by one, over here into england, they turn into monkeys, some with tails, some without, and are obliged to be kept in cages. i suppose you know we've left the temple _pro tempore_. by the way, this conduct has caused strange surmises in a good lady of our acquaintance. she lately sent for a young gentleman of the india house, who lives opposite her, at monroe's, the flute shop in skinner street, snow hill,--i mention no name, you shall never get out of me what lady i mean,--on purpose to ask all he knew about us. i had previously introduced him to her whist-table. her inquiries embraced every possible thing that could be known of me, how i stood in the india house, what was the amount of my salary, what it was likely to be hereafter, whether i was thought to be clever in business, why i had taken country lodgings, why at kingsland in particular, had i friends in that road, was anybody expected to visit me, did i wish for visitors, would an unexpected call be gratifying or not, would it be better if she sent beforehand, did anybody come to see me, wasn't there a gentleman of the name of morgan, did he know him, didn't he come to see me, did he know how mr. morgan lived, she never could make out how they were maintained, was it true that he lived out of the profits of a linendraper's shop in bishopsgate street (there she was a little right, and a little wrong--m. is a gentleman tobacconist); in short, she multiplied demands upon him till my friend, who is neither over-modest nor nervous, declared he quite shuddered. after laying as bare to her curiosity as an anatomy he trembled to think what she would ask next. my pursuits, inclinations, aversions, attachments (some, my dear friends, of a most delicate nature), she lugged 'em out of him, or would, had he been privy to them, as you pluck a horse-bean from its iron stem, not as such tender rosebuds should be pulled. the fact is i am come to kingsland, and that is the real truth of the matter, and nobody but yourselves should have extorted such a confession from me. i suppose you have seen by the papers that manning is arrived in england. he expressed some mortifications at not finding mrs. kenney in england. he looks a good deal sunburnt, and is got a little reserved, but i hope it will wear off. you will see by the papers also that dawe is knighted. he has been painting the princess of coborg and her husband. this is all the news i could think of. write _to_ us, but not _by_ us, for i have near ten correspondents of this latter description, and one or other comes pouring in every day, till my purse strings and heart strings crack. bad habits are not broken at once. i am sure you will excuse the apparent indelicacy of mentioning this, but dear is my shirt, but dearer is my skin, and it's too late when the steed is stole, to shut the door.--well, and does louisa grow a fine girl, is she likely to have her mother's complexion, and does tom polish in french air--henry i mean--and kenney is not so fidgety, and you sit down sometimes for a quiet half-hour or so, and all is comfortable, no bills (that you call writs) nor anything else (that you are equally sure to miscall) to annoy you? vive la gaite de coeur et la bell pastime, vive la beau france et revive ma cher empreur. c. lamb. [james kenney and his wife were now living at st. valery. marshall was godwin's old friend, whom we have already seen, and fanny was fanny holcroft. lamb's friend fanny kelly is first mentioned by lamb in this letter. frances maria kelly ( - ), to give her her full name, was then playing at the lyceum. we shall soon see much of her. "we've left the temple _pro tempore_"--referring to the dalston lodgings. "what lady i mean." mrs. godwin lived in skinner street. manning, on his return from china, was wrecked near sunda on february , . the passengers were taken to st. helena, and he did not reach england until the summer. this must give us the date of the present letter, previously attributed to october, . george dawe was not knighted. probably it was rumoured that he was to be. his portrait of princess charlotte of saxe-coburg (who died in so soon after her marriage) was very popular. louisa would be louisa holcroft. in tom holcroft, lamb later took some interest.] letter mary lamb to dorothy wordsworth [p.m. november , .] my dear miss wordsworth, your kind letter has given us very great pleasure,--the sight of your hand writing was a most welcome surprize 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 will 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 inconveniences 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. , in russell street, covent garden, a place all alive with noise and bustle, drury lane theatre in sight from our front and covent garden 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 carriages and the squabbles of the coachmen and linkboys. 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 chearful place or i should have many misgivings about leaving the temple. i look forward with great pleasure to the prospect of seeing my good friend miss hutchinson. i wish rydal mount with all its inhabitants enclosed were to be transplanted with her and to remain stationary in the midst of covent garden. i passed through the street lately where mr. and mrs. wordsworth lodged; several fine new houses, which were then just rising out of the ground, are quite finished and a noble entrance made that way into portland place. i am very sorry for mr. de quincey--what a blunder the poor man made when he took up his dwelling among the mountains. i long to see my friend py pos. coleridge is still at little hampton with mrs. gillman, he has been so ill as to be confined to his room almost the whole time he has been there. charles has had all his hogarths bound in a book, they were sent home yesterday, and now that i have them all together 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 new chairs and carpets, for we have got new chairs, and carpets covering all over our two sitting rooms, i missed my old friends and could not be comforted--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 off from the sea, not even to look in a book. i had not seen the sea for sixteen years. mrs. morgan, who was with us, kept her liking, and continued her seat in the window till the very last, while charles and i played truant 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 dreamed of--for like as is the case in the neighbourhood of london, after the first two or three miles we were sure to find ourselves in a perfect solitude. i hope we shall meet before the walking faculties of either of us fail. you say 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. morgan could accomplish. god bless you and yours. love to all and each one. i am ever yours most affectionately m. lamb. letter charles lamb to dorothy wordsworth (_same letter._) dear miss wordsworth, here we are, transplanted from our native soil. i thought we never could have been torn up from the temple. indeed it was an ugly wrench, but like a tooth, now 'tis out and i am easy. we never can strike root so deep in any other ground. this, where we are, is a light bit of gardener's mold, and if they take us up from it, it will cost no blood and groans like mandrakes pull'd up. we are in the individual spot i like best in all this great city. the theatres with all [_a few words cut away: talfourd has "their noises. convent garden"_] dearer to me than any gardens of alcinous, where we are morally sure of the earliest peas and 'sparagus. bow street, where the thieves are examined, within a few yards of us. mary had not been here four and twenty hours before she saw a thief. she sits at the window working, and casually throwing out her eyes, she sees a concourse of people coming this way, with a constable to conduct the solemnity. these little incidents agreeably diversify a female life. it is a delicate subject, but is mr. * * * really married? and has he found a gargle to his mind? o how funny he did talk to me about her, in terms of such mild quiet whispering speculative profligacy. but did the animalcule and she crawl over the rubric together, or did they not? mary has brought her part of this letter to an orthodox and loving conclusion, which is very well, for i have no room for pansies and remembrances. what a nice holyday i got on wednesday by favor of a princess dying. [_a line and signature cut away_.] [the lambs' house in russell street is now ( ) a fruiterer's: it has been rebuilt. russell street, covent garden, in those days was divided into great russell street (from the market to brydges street, now catherine street) and little russell street, (from brydges street to drury lane). the brazier, or ironmonger, was mr. owen, nos. and . the wordsworths had moved to rydal mount in . "i am very sorry for mr. de quincey." probably a reference to one of the opium-eater's illnesses. it was at littlehampton that coleridge met henry francis cary, the translator of dante, afterwards one of lamb's friends. "spot i like best in all this great city." see vol. i. of this edition, for a little essay by lamb on places of residence in london. "mr. * * *." one can but conjecture as to these asterisks. de quincey, who was very small, married at the close of . "a princess dying"--princess charlotte of saxe-coburg. she was buried, amid national lamentation, on november , . here should come a letter from lamb to ayrton dated november , , which lamb holds is peculiarly neatly worded.] letter charles lamb to john payne collier the garden of england, december , . dear j. p. c.,--i know how zealously you feel for our friend s. t. coleridge; and i know that you and your family attended his lectures four or five years ago. he is in bad health and worse mind: and unless something is done to lighten his mind he will soon be reduced to his extremities; and even these are not in the best condition. i am sure that you will do for him what you can; but at present he seems in a mood to do for himself. he projects a new course, not of physic, nor of metaphysic, nor a new course of life, but a new course of lectures on shakspear and poetry. there is no man better qualified (always excepting number one); but i am pre-engaged for a series of dissertations on india and india-pendence, to be completed at the expense of the company, in i know not (yet) how many volumes foolscap folio. i am busy getting up my hindoo mythology; and for the purpose i am once more enduring southey's curse. to be serious, coleridge's state and affairs make me so; and there are particular reasons just now, and have been any time for the last twenty years, why he should succeed. he will do so with a little encouragement. i have not seen him lately; and he does not know that i am writing. yours (for coleridge's sake) in haste, c. lamb. [the "garden of england" of the address stands, of course, for covent garden. this is the first letter to collier that has been preserved. john payne collier ( - ), known as a shakespearian critic and editor of old plays and poems, was then a reporter on _the times_. he had recently married. wordsworth also wrote to collier on this subject, coleridge's lectures were delivered in , beginning on january , in flower-de-luce court. their preservation we owe to collier's shorthand notes. "my hindoo mythology ... southey's curse"--_the curse of kehama_.] letter charles lamb to benjamin robert haydon december [ ], . my dear haydon,--i will come with pleasure to , lisson grove north, at rossi's, half-way up, right-hand side--if i can find it. yours, c. lamb. , russell court, covent garden east, half-way up, next the corner, left hand side. [the first letter that has been preserved to haydon, the painter. benjamin robert haydon ( - ) was then principally known by his "judgment of solomon": he was at this time at work upon his most famous picture, "christ's entry into jerusalem." lamb's note is in acceptance of the invitation to the famous dinner which haydon gave on december , , to wordsworth, keats, monkhouse and others, with the comptroller of stamps thrown in. haydon's _diary_ describes the evening with much humour. see appendix.] letter charles lamb to mrs. william wordsworth feb. . east india house. (mary shall send you all the _news_, which i find i have left out.) my dear mrs. wordsworth, i have repeatedly taken pen in hand to answer your kind letter. my sister should more properly have done it, but she having failed, i consider myself answerable for her debts. i am now trying to do it in the midst of commercial noises, and with a quill which seems more ready to glide into arithmetical figures and names of goods, cassia, cardemoms, aloes, ginger, tea, than into kindly responses and friendly recollections. the reason why i cannot write letters at home is, that i am never alone. plato's (i write to _w. w._ now) plato's double animal parted never longed [? more] to be reciprocally reunited in the system of its first creation, than i sometimes do to be but for a moment single and separate. except my morning's walk to the office, which is like treading on sands of gold for that reason, i am never so. i cannot walk home from office but some officious friend offers his damn'd unwelcome courtesies to accompany me. all the morning i am pestered. i could sit and gravely cast up sums in great books, or compare sum with sum, and write paid against this and unp'd against t'other, and yet reserve in some "corner of my mind" some darling thoughts all my own--faint memory of some passage in a book--or the tone of an absent friend's voice--a snatch of miss burrell's singing--a gleam of fanny kelly's divine plain face--the two operations might be going on at the same time without thwarting, as the sun's two motions (earth's i mean), or as i sometimes turn round till i am giddy, in my back parlour, while my sister is walking longitudinally in the front--or as the shoulder of veal twists round with the spit, while the smoke wreathes up the chimney--but there are a set of amateurs of the belle lettres--the gay science--who come to me as a sort of rendezvous, putting questions of criticism, of british institutions, lalla rooks &c., what coleridge said at the lecture last night--who have the form of reading men, but, for any possible use reading can be to them but to talk of, might as well have been ante-cadmeans born, or have lain sucking out the sense of an egypt'n. hieroglyph as long as the pyramids will last before they should find it. these pests worrit me at business and in all its intervals, perplexing my accounts, poisoning my little salutary warming-time at the fire, puzzling my paragraphs if i take a newspaper, cramming in between my own free thoughts and a column of figures which had come to an amicable compromise but for them. their noise ended, one of them, as i said, accompanys me home lest i should be solitary for a moment; he at length takes his welcome leave at the door, up i go, mutton on table, hungry as hunter, hope to forget my cares and bury them in the agreeable abstraction of mastication, knock at the door, in comes mrs. hazlitt, or m. burney, or morgan, or demogorgon, or my brother, or somebody, to prevent my eating alone, a process absolutely necessary to my poor wretched digestion. o the pleasure of eating alone!--eating my dinner alone! let me think of it. but in they come, and make it absolutely necessary that i should open a bottle of orange--for my meat turns into stone when any one dines with me, if i have not wine--wine can mollify stones. then _that_ wine turns into acidity, acerbity, misanthropy, a hatred of my interrupters (god bless 'em! i love some of 'em dearly), and with the hatred a still greater aversion to their going away. bad is the dead sea they bring upon me, choaking and death-doing, but worse is the deader dry sand they leave me on if they go before bed time. come never, i would say to these spoilers of my dinner, but if you come, never go. the fact is, this interruption does not happen very often, but every time it comes by surprise that present bane of my life, orange wine, with all its dreary stifling consequences, follows. evening company i should always like had i any mornings, but i am saturated with human faces (_divine_ forsooth) and voices all the golden morning, and five evenings in a week would be as much as i should covet to be in company, but i assure you that is a wonderful week in which i can get two, or one, to myself. i am never c. l. but always c. l. and co. he, who thought it not good for man to be alone, preserve me from the more prodigious monstrosity of being never by myself. i forget bed time, but even there these sociable frogs clamber up to annoy me. once a week, generally some singular evening that, being alone, i go to bed at the hour i ought always to be abed, just close to my bedroom window, is the club room of a public house, where a set of singers, i take them to be chorus-singers of the two theatres (it must be _both of them_), begin their orgies. they are a set of fellows (as i conceive) who being limited by their talents to the burthen of the song at the play houses, in revenge have got the common popular airs by bishop or some cheap composer arranged for choruses, that is, to be sung all in chorus. at least i never can catch any of the text of the plain song, nothing but the babylonish choral howl at the tail on't. "that fury being quenchd"--the howl i mean--a curseder burden succeeds, of shouts and clapping and knocking of the table. at length over tasked nature drops under it and escapes for a few hours into the society of the sweet silent creatures of dreams, which go away with mocks and mows at cockcrow. and then i think of the words christobel's father used (bless me, i have dipt in the wrong ink) to say every morning by way of variety when he awoke--"every knell, the baron saith, wakes us up to a world of death," or something like it. all i mean by this senseless interrupted tale is, that by my central situation i am a little over companied. not that i have any animosity against the good creatures that are so anxious to drive away the harpy solitude from me. i like 'em, and cards, and a chearful glass, but i mean merely to give you an idea between office confinement and after office society, how little time i can call my own. i mean only to draw a picture, not to make an inference. i would not that i know of have it otherwise. i only wish sometimes i could exchange some of my faces and voices for the faces and voices which a late visitation brought most welcome and carried away leaving regret, but more pleasure, even a kind of gratitude, at being so often favored with that kind northern visitation. my london faces and noises don't hear me--i mean no disrespect--or i should explain myself that instead of their return times a year and the return of w. w. &c. times in weeks, some more equal distribution might be found. i have scarce room to put in mary's kind love and my poor name. ch. lamb. this to be read last. w. h. goes on lecturing against w. w. and making copious use of quotations from said w. w. to give a zest to said lectures. s. t. c. is lecturing with success. i have not heard either him or h. but i dined with s. t. c. at gilman's a sunday or since and he was well and in good spirits. i mean to hear some of the course, but lectures are not much to my taste, whatever the lecturer may be. if _read_, they are dismal flat, and you can't think why you are brought together to hear a man read his works which you could read so much better at leisure yourself; if delivered extempore, i am always in pain lest the gift of utterance should suddenly fail the orator in the middle, as it did me at the dinner given in honor of me at the london tavern. "gentlemen" said i, and there i stoppt,--the rest my feelings were under the necessity of supplying. mrs. wordsworth _will_ go on, kindly haunting us with visions of seeing the lakes once more which never can be realized. between us there is a great gulf--not of inexplicable moral antipathies and distances, i hope (as there seemd to be between me and that gentleman concern'd in the stamp office that i so strangely coiled up from at haydons). i think i had an instinct that he was the head of an office. i hate all such people--accountants, deputy accountants. the dear abstract notion of the east india company, as long as she is unseen, is pretty, rather poetical; but as she makes herself manifest by the persons of such beasts, i loathe and detest her as the scarlet what-do-you-call-her of babylon. i thought, after abridging us of all our red letter days, they had done their worst, but i was deceived in the length to which heads of offices, those true liberty haters, can go. they are the tyrants, not ferdinand, nor nero--by a decree past this week, they have abridged us of the immemorially observed custom of going at one o'clock of a saturday, the little shadow of a holiday left us. blast them. i speak it soberly. dear w. w., be thankful for your liberty. we have spent two very pleasant evenings lately with mr. monkhouse. [mary lamb's letter of news either was not written or has not been preserved. lamb returned to the subject of this essay for his popular fallacy "that home is home" in (see vol. ii. of this edition). a little previously to that essay he had written an article in the _new times_ on unwelcome callers (see vol. i.). "miss burrell"--fanny burrell, afterwards mrs. gould. lamb wrote in praise of her performance in "don giovanni in london" (see vol. i. of this edition). "fanny kelly's divine plain face." only seventeen months later lamb proposed to miss kelly. "what coleridge said." coleridge was still lecturing on shakespeare and poetry in flower-de-luce court. "the two theatres"--drury lane and covent garden. "bishop"--sir henry rowley bishop ( - ), composer of "home, sweet home." "christabel's father." each matin bell, the baron saith, knells us back to a world of death. part ii., lines and . "w. h. goes on lecturing." hazlitt was delivering a course of lectures on the english poets at the surrey institution. "'gentleman' said i." on another occasion lamb, asked to give a toast, gave the best he knew--woodcock on toast. see also his toasts at haydon's dinner. i do not know when or why the dinner was given to him; perhaps after the failure of "mr. h." "gentleman concern'd in the stamp office." see note to the preceding letter. "our red letter days." lamb repeats the complaint in his _elia_ essay "oxford in the vacation." in , i see from the directory, the accountant's office, where lamb had his desk, kept sacred only five red-letter days, where, ten years earlier, it had observed many. "mr. monkhouse," thomas monkhouse, a friend of the wordsworths and of lamb. he was at haydon's dinner. here should come a note from lamb to charles and james ollier, dated may , , which apparently accompanied final proofs of lamb's _works_. lamb remarks, "there is a sonnet to come in by way of dedication." this would be that to martin burney at the beginning of vol. ii. the _works_ were published in two volumes with a beautiful dedication to coleridge (see vol. iv. of the present edition). charles ollier ( - ) was a friend of leigh hunt's, for whom he published, as well as for shelley. he also brought out keats' first volume. the olliers' address was the library, vere street, oxford street.] letter charles lamb to charles and james ollier [p.m. june , .] dear sir (whichever opens it) i am going off to birmingh'm. i find my books, whatever faculty of selling they may have (i wish they had more for {_your/my_} sake), are admirably adapted for giving away. you have been bounteous. six more and i shall have satisfied all just claims. am i taking too great a liberty in begging you to send as follows, and reserve for me when i come home? that will make . thirty-one times is shillings, eighteen pounds twelve shillings!!!--but here are my friends, to whom, if you _could_ transmit them, as i shall be away a month, you will greatly oblige the obliged c. lamb. mr. ayrton, james street, buckingham gate mr. alsager, suffolk street east, southwark, by horsemonger lane and in one parcel directed to r. southey, esq., keswick, cumberland one for r. s.; and one for w'm. wordsworth, esq'r. if you will be kind enough simply to write "from the author" in all --you will still further etc.-- either longman or murray is in the frequent habit of sending books to southey and will take charge of the parcel. it will be as well to write in at the beginning thus r. southey esq. from the author. w. wordsworth esq. from the author. then, if i can find the remaining , left for me at russell st when i return, rather than encroach any more on the heap, i will engage to make no more new friends ad infinitum, yourselves being the last. yours truly c. l. i think southey will give us a lift in that damn'd quarterly. i meditate an attack upon that cobler gifford, which shall appear immediately after any favourable mention which s. may make in the quarterly. it can't in decent _gratitude_ appear _before_. [we know nothing of lamb's visit to birmingham. he is hardly likely to have stayed with any of the lloyd family. the attack on gifford was probably the following sonnet, printed in _the examiner_ for october and , :-- st. crispin to mr. gifford all unadvised, and in an evil hour, lured by aspiring thoughts, my son, you daft the lowly labours of the gentle craft for learned toils, which blood and spirits sour. all things, dear pledge, are not in all men's power; the wiser sort of shrub affects the ground; and sweet content of mind is oftener found in cobbler's parlour, than in critic's bower. the sorest work is what doth cross the grain; and better to this hour you had been plying the obsequious awl with well-waxed finger flying, than ceaseless thus to till a thankless vein; still teazing muses, which are still denying; making a stretching-leather of your brain.] letter charles lamb to robert southey monday, oct. th, . dear southey,--i am pleased with your friendly remembrances of my little things. i do not know whether i have done a silly thing or a wise one; but it is of no great consequence. i run no risk, and care for no censures. my bread and cheese is stable as the foundations of leadenhall street, and if it hold out as long as the "foundations of our empire in the east," i shall do pretty well. you and w.w. should have had your presentation copies more ceremoniously sent; but i had no copies when i was leaving town for my holidays, and rather than delay, commissioned my bookseller to send them thus nakedly. by not hearing from w.w. or you, i began to be afraid murray had not sent them. i do not see s.t.c. so often as i could wish. he never comes to me; and though his host and hostess are very friendly, it puts me out of my way to go see one person at another person's house. it was the same when he resided at morgan's. not but they also were more than civil; but after all one feels so welcome at one's own house. have you seen poor miss betham's "vignettes"? some of them, the second particularly, "to lucy," are sweet and good as herself, while she was herself. she is in some measure abroad again. i am _better than i deserve_ to be. the hot weather has been such a treat! mary joins in this little corner in kindest remembrances to you all. c.l. [the letter treats of lamb's _works_, just published. matilda betham followed up _the lay of marie_ with a volume entitled _vignettes_. "i am _better than i deserve_." why lamb underlined these words i do not know, but it may have been a quotation from coleridge. carlyle in his account of his visit to coleridge at highgate (in the _life of john sterling_) puts it into coleridge's mouth in connection with a lukewarm cup of tea. although lukewarm it was better, he said, than he deserved. that was later, but it may have been a saying of which coleridge was fond.] letter charles lamb to s. t. coleridge dec. th, . my dear coleridge,--i have been in a state of incessant hurry ever since the receipt of your ticket. it found me incapable of attending you, it being the night of kenney's new comedy[ ] ... you know my local aptitudes at such a time; i have been a thorough rendezvous for all consultations. my head begins to clear up a little; but it has had bells in it. thank you kindly for your ticket, though the mournful prognostic which accompanies it certainly renders its permanent pretensions less marketable; but i trust to hear many a course yet. you excepted christmas week, by which i understood _next week_; i thought christmas week was that which christmas sunday ushered in. we are sorry it never lies in your way to come to us; but, dear mahomet, we will come to you. will it be convenient to all the good people at highgate, if we take a stage up, _not next sunday_, but the following, viz., rd january, --shall we be too late to catch a skirt of the old out-goer;--how the years crumble from under us! we shall hope to see you before then; but, if not, let us know if _then_ will be convenient. can we secure a coach home? believe me ever yours, c. lamb. i have but one holiday, which is christmas-day itself nakedly: no pretty garnish and fringes of st. john's day, holy innocents &c., that used to bestud it all around in the calendar. _improbe labor!_ i write six hours every day in this candle-light fog-den at leadheall. [footnote : canon ainger supplies the four missing words: "which has utterly failed."] [the ticket was for a new course of lectures, either on the history of philosophy, or six plays of shakespeare, both of which began in december, , and continued into . kenney's new farce was "a word for the ladies," produced at covent garden on december . "to catch a skirt of the old out-goer." a reference to coleridge's line-- i saw the skirts of the departing year. somewhere at this point should come a delightful letter from lamb to john chambers. john chambers was the brother of charles chambers. he was a colleague of lamb's at the india house (see the _elia_ essay "the superannuated man"), and survived until . it was to john chambers that lamb made the remark that he (lamb) was probably the only man in england who had never worn boots and never ridden a horse. the letter, which is concerned with the peculiarities of india house clerks, is famous for the remark on tommy bye, a fellow-clerk at the india house, that "his sonnets are most like petrarch of any foreign poet, or what we may suppose petrarch would have written if petrarch had been born a fool." we meet bye again in the next letter but one to wordsworth. i can find no trace of his sonnets in book form. possibly they were never published.] letter charles lamb to william wordsworth [_this letter is written in black and red ink, changing with each line._] [p.m. april , .] dear wordsworth, i received a copy of peter bell a week ago, and i hope the author will not be offended if i say i do not much relish it. the humour, if it is meant for humour, is forced, and then the price. sixpence would have been dear for it. mind, i do not mean _your_ peter bell, but _a_ peter bell which preceded 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 supplementary preface to the lyrical balads. is there no law against these rascals? i would have this lambert simnel whipt at the cart's tail. then there is rogers! he has been re-writing your poem of the stride, and publishing it at the end of his "human life." tie him up to the cart, hangman, while you are about it. who started the spurious p.b. i have not heard. i should guess, one of the sneering brothers--the vile smiths--but i have heard no name mentioned. peter bell (not the mock one) is excellent. for its matter, i mean. i cannot say that 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. heartleap well 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 not _not have it_ for a good deal of money. c---- is very foolish to scribble about books. neither his tongue nor fingers are very retentive. but i shall not say any thing to him about it. he 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 we 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 _some_thing diverting in it, i reach'd 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 of your last edition, of course, i mean. and in the morning i awoke determining to take down the excursion. 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 _his_ 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. damn '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 any bodie's, and god bless him, any bodie'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 excided 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 presentation 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 own performances, and i confess i never had any scruple in taking _my own_ again wherever i found it, shaking the adherencies 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. stoddart, who little thought whose leavings he was taking when he made me that graceful bow. by the way, 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 mottley. suppose mrs. w. adopts it, the next time she holds the pen for you. [_the ink differs with every word of the following paragraph_:--] my dinner waits. i have no time to indulge any longer in these laborious curiosities. god bless you and cause to thrive and to burgeon whatsoever you write, and fear no inks of miserable poetasters. yours truly charles lamb. mary's love. [the _peter bell_ to which lamb refers was written by john hamilton reynolds ( - ), the friend of keats, and later hood's brother-in-law. the parody is a travesty of wordsworth generally rather than of _peter bell_, which had not then been published. james and horace smith, of the _rejected addresses_, which contained a parody of wordsworth under the title "the baby's debut," had nothing to do with it. lamb's indignation was shared by coleridge, who wrote as follows to taylor and hessey, the publishers, on april , , on the announcement of reynolds' work:-- dear sirs, i hope, nay i feel confident, that you will interpret this note in th' real sense--namely, as a proof of the esteem and respect which i entertain toward you both. looking in the times this morning i was startled by an advertisement of peter bell--a lyrical ballad--with a very significant motto from one of our comedies of charles the iind's reign, tho' what it signifies i wish to ascertain. peter bell is a poem of mr. wordsworth's--and i have not heard, that it has been published by him.--if it have, and with his name (i have reason to believe, that he never published anonymously) and this now advertised be a ridicule on it--i have nothing to say--but if it have not, i have ventured to pledge myself for you, that you would not wittingly give the high respectability of your names to an attack on a _manuscript_ work, which no man could assail but by a base breach of trust. it is stated in the article on reynolds in the _dictionary of national biography_ that coleridge asserted positively that lamb was the objectionable parodist; but this letter suggests that that was not so. "_peter bell_ (not the mock one)." crabb robinson's _diary_, in the original ms., for june , , contains this passage:-- with c. lamb. lent him peter bell. to my surprise he finds nothing in it good. he complains of the slowness of the narrative, as if that were not the _art_ of the poet. w. he says has great thoughts, but here are none of them. he has no interest in the ass. these are to me inconceivable judgments from c. l. whose taste in general i acquiesce in and who is certainly an enthusiast for w. again, on may , , after the poem was published, robinson says:-- l. spoke of peter bell which he considers as one of the worst of wordsworth's works. the lyric narrative l. has no taste for. he is disgusted by the introduction, which he deems puerile and the story he thinks ill told, though he allows the idea to be good. "rogers." at the end of samuel rogers' poem, _human life_, , is a ballad, entitled "the boy of egremond," which has for subject the same incident as that in wordsworth's "force of prayer"--beginning what is good for a bootless bene? --the death of the young romilly as he leapt across the strid. in wordsworth the answer to the question is "endless sorrow." rogers' poem begins:-- "say what remains when hope is fled?" she answered "endless weeping." wordsworth's _peter bell_ was published a week after the mock one. to _the waggoner_ we shall come shortly. the significance of the allusion to coleridge is not perfectly clear; but i imagine it to refer to the elaborate examination of wordsworth's poetry in the _biographia literaria_. "these obtuse literary bells." peter bell, in the poem, sounds the river with his staff, and draws forth the dead body of the ass's master. lamb passes, in his curse, to a reference to st. peter. "taking my own again." this, if, as one may suppose, adapted from molière's "je reprendre mon bien partout où je le trouve," is an indication that lamb knew the frenchman's comedies. here should come a business note to john rickman dated may , , given in the boston bibliophile edition.] letter charles lamb to thomas manning may , . my dear m.,--i want to know how your brother is, if you have heard lately. i want to know about you. i wish you were nearer. how are my cousins, the gladmans of wheathamstead, and farmer bruton? mrs. bruton is a glorious woman. hail, mackeray end-- this is a fragment of a blank verse poem which i once meditated, but got no further. the e.i.h. has been thrown into a quandary by the strange phenomenon of poor tommy bye, whom i have known man and mad-man twenty-seven years, he being elder here than myself by nine years and more. he was always a pleasant, gossiping, half-headed, muzzy, dozing, dreaming, walk-about, inoffensive chap; a little too fond of the creature--who isn't at times? but tommy had not brains to work off an over-night's surfeit by ten o'clock next morning, and unfortunately, in he wandered the other morning drunk with last night, and with a superfoetation of drink taken in since he set out from bed. he came staggering under his double burthen, like trees in java, bearing at once blossom, fruit, and falling fruit, as i have heard you or some other traveller tell, with his face literally as blue as the bluest firmament; some wretched calico that he had mopped his poor oozy front with had rendered up its native dye, and the devil a bit would he consent to wash it, but swore it was characteristic, for he was going to the sale of indigo, and set up a laugh which i did not think the lungs of mortal man were competent to. it was like a thousand people laughing, or the goblin page. he imagined afterwards that the whole office had been laughing at him, so strange did his own sounds strike upon his _non_sensorium. but tommy has laughed his last laugh, and awoke the next day to find himself reduced from an abused income of £ per annum to one-sixth of the sum, after thirty-six years' tolerably good service. the quality of mercy was not strained in his behalf; the gentle dews dropt not on him from heaven. it just came across me that i was writing to canton. how is ball? "mr. b. is a p----." will you drop in to-morrow night? fanny kelly is coming, if she does not cheat us. mrs. _gold_ is well, but proves "uncoined," as the lovers about wheathampstead would say. o hard hearted burrell with teeth like a squirrel-- i have not had such a quiet half hour to sit down to a quiet letter for many years. i have not been interrupted above four times. i wrote a letter the other day in alternate lines, black ink and red, and you cannot think how it chilled the flow of ideas. next monday is whit-monday. what a reflection! twelve years ago, and i should have kept that and the following holiday in the fields a-maying. all of those pretty pastoral delights are over. this dead, everlasting dead desk--how it weighs the spirit of a gentleman down! this dead wood of the desk instead of your living trees! but then, again, i hate the joskins, _a name for hertfordshire bumpkins_. each state of life has its inconvenience; but then, again, mine has more than one. not that i repine, or grudge, or murmur at my destiny. i have meat and drink, and decent apparel; i shall, at least, when i get a new hat. a red-haired man has just interrupted me. he has broke the current of my thoughts. i haven't a word to add. i don't know why i send this letter, but i have had a hankering to hear about you some days. perhaps it will go off, before your reply comes. if it don't, i assure you no letter was ever welcomer from you, from paris or macao. c. lamb. [at the beginning of this letter is an unprinted passage saying that charles lloyd and his wife are in london and that such proximity is not too comfortable. "would you like to see him?" or "isn't it better to lean over a stile in a sort of careless easy half astronomical position eyeing the blue expanse?" manning, who had now settled in england, but in retirement, was living in hertfordshire, at totteridge. the gladmans and brutons are mentioned in the _elia_ essay "mackery end in hertfordshire":-- "the oldest thing i remember is mackery end; or mackarel end, as it is spelt, perhaps more properly, in some old maps of hertfordshire; a farm-house,--delightfully situated within a gentle walk from wheathampstead. i can just remember having been there, on a visit to a great-aunt, when i was a child, under the care of bridget; who, as i have said, is older than myself by some ten years. i wish that i could throw into a heap the remainder of our joint existences, that we might share them in equal division. but that is impossible. the house was at that time in the occupation of a substantial yeoman, who had married my grandmother's sister. his name was gladman. my grandmother was a bruton, married to a field. the gladmans and the brutons are still flourishing in that part of the country, but the fields are almost extinct." the goblin page is in scott's _lay of the last minstrel_. "mrs. _gold_ is well"--_née_ fanny burrell. "this dead wood of the desk." lamb used this figure more than once, in his letters and elsewhere. in the _elia_ essay "the superannuated man" he says: "i had grown to my desk, as it were; and the wood had entered into my soul."] letter charles lamb to william wordsworth [p.m. june , .] my dear wordsworth, you cannot imagine how proud we are here of the dedication. we read it twice for once that we do the poem--i mean all through--yet benjamin is no common favorite--there is a spirit of beautiful tolerance in it--it is as good as it was in --and will be as good in if our dim eyes shall be awake to peruse it. methinks there is a kind of shadowing affinity between the subject of the narrative and the subject of the dedication--but i will not enter into personal themes--else, substituting ******* **** for ben, and the honble united company of merch'ts trading to the east indies for the master of the misused team, it might seem by no far fetched analogy to point its dim warnings hitherward--but i reject the omen--especially as its import seems to have been diverted to another victim. poor tommy bye, whom i have known (as i express'd it in a letter to manning), man and mad man years--he was my gossip in leadenhall st.--but too much addicted to turn in at a red lattice--came wandering into his and my common scene of business--you have seen the orderly place--reeling drunk at nine o clock-with his face of a deep blue, contracted by a filthy dowlas muckinger which had given up its dye to his poor oozy visnomy--and short to tell, after playing various pranks, laughing loud laughters three mad explosions they were--in the following morning the "tear stood in his eye"--for he found his abused income of clear £ inexorably reduced to £ --he was my dear gossip--alas! benjamin!... i will never write another letter with alternate inks. you cannot imagine how it cramps the flow of the style. i can conceive pindar (i do not mean to compare myself [to] _him_) by the command of hiero, the sicilian tyrant (was not he the tyrant of some place? fie on my neglect of history--) conceive him by command of hiero, or perillus, set down to pen an a isthmian or nemean panegyre in lines alternate red and black. i maintain he couldn't have done it--it would have been a strait laced torture to his muse, he would have call'd for the bull for a relief. neither could lycidas, or the chorics (how do you like the word?) of samson agonistes, have been written with two inks. your couplets with points, epilogues to mr. h.'s, &c. might be even benefited by the twyfount. where one line (the second) is for point, and the first for rhime, i think the alternation would assist, like a mould. i maintain it, you could not have written your stanzas on pre existence with inks. try another, and rogers the banker, with his silver standish having one ink only, i will bet my ode on tobacco, against the pleasures of memory--and hope too--shall put more fervor of enthusiasm into the same subject than you can with your two--he shall do it stans pede in uno as it were. the waggoner is very ill put up in boards, at least it seems to me always to open at the dedication--but that is a mechanical fault. i re-read the white doe of rylston--the title should be always written at length--as mary sabilla novello, a very nice woman of our acquaintance, always signs hers at the bottom of the shortest note. mary told her, if her name had been mary ann, she would have signed m.a. novello, or m. only, dropping the a--which makes me think, with some other triflings, that she understands something of human nature. my pen goes galloping on most rhapsodically, glad to have escaped the bondage of two inks. manning had just sent it home and it came as fresh to me as the immortal creature it speaks of. m. sent it home with a note, having this passage in it, "i cannot help writing to you while i am reading wordsw'ths poem. i am got into the rd canto, and say that it raises my opinion of him very much indeed.[*] 'tis broad; noble; poetical; with a masterly scanning of human actions, absolutely above common readers. what a manly (implied) interpretation of (bad) party-actions, as trampling the bible, &c."--and so he goes on. [footnote *: n.b. m---- from his peregrinations is or years _behind_ in his knowledge of who has or has not written good verse of late.] i do not know which i like best, the prologue (the latter part specially) to p. bell, or the epilogue to benjamin. yes, i tell stories, i do know. i like the last best, and the waggoner altogether as a pleasanter remembrance to me than the itinerant. if it were not, the page before the first page would and ought to make it so. the sonnets are not all new to me. of what are, the th i like best. thank you for that to walton. i take it as a favor done to me, that, being so old a darling of mine, you should bear testimony to his worth in a book containing a dedi---- i cannot write the vain word at full length any longer. if as you say, the waggoner in some sort came at my call, o for a potent voice to call forth the recluse from his profound dormitory, where he sleeps forgetful of his foolish charge the world. had i three inks i would invoke him! talfourd has written a most kind review of j. woodvil, &c., in the champion. he is your most zealous admirer, in solitude and in crowds. h. crabbe robinson gives me any dear prints that i happen to admire, and i love him for it and for other things. alsager shall have his copy, but at present i have lent it _for a day only_, not chusing to part with my own. mary's love. how do you all do, amanuenses both--marital and sororal? c. lamb. [wordsworth had just put forth _the waggoner_, which was dedicated to lamb in the following terms:-- my dear friend--when i sent you, a few weeks ago, "the tale of peter bell," you asked "why 'the waggoner' was not added?" to say the truth, from the higher tone of imagination, and the deeper touches of passion aimed at in the former, i apprehended this little piece could not accompany it without disadvantage. in the year , if i am not mistaken, "the waggoner" was read to you in manuscript, and as you have remembered it for so long a time, i am the more encouraged to hope that, since the localities on which the poem partly depends did not prevent its being interesting to you, it may prove acceptable to others. being, therefore, in some measure the cause of its present appearance, you must allow me the gratification of inscribing it to you, in acknowledgment of the pleasure i have derived from your writings, and of the high esteem with which i am very truly yours, william wordsworth. the poem, which had been written many years before, tells the story of benjamin, a waggoner in the lake county, who one stormy night, succumbing to the temptations of the cherry tree inn, fell from good estate. lamb's asterisks stand, of course, for charles lamb. "your stanzas on pre existence"--the "ode on intimations of immortality." _the pleasures of hope_ was campbell's poem. mary sabilla novello was the wife of vincent novello, the organist, and lamb's friend. _the white doe of rylstone_ had been published in . the th sonnet. certain sonnets had been published with _the waggoner_. the th was that beginning:-- grief, thou hast lost an ever ready friend. wordsworth's sonnet upon walton begins:-- while flowing rivers yield a blameless sport. _the recluse_ was not published until , and then only book i. _the champion_, in which talfourd reviewed lamb's _works_, had now become the property of john thelwall.] letter charles lamb to fanny kelly july, . dear miss kelly,--we had the pleasure, _pain_ i might better call it, of seeing you last night in the new play. it was a most consummate piece of acting, but what a task for you to undergo! at a time when your heart is sore from real sorrow! it has given rise to a train of thinking, which i cannot suppress. would to god you were released from this way of life; that you could bring your mind to consent to take your lot with us, and throw off for ever the whole burden of your profession. i neither expect or wish you to take notice of this which i am writing, in your present over occupied & hurried state.--but to think of it at your leisure. i have quite income enough, if that were all, to justify for me making such a proposal, with what i may call even a handsome provision for my survivor. what you possess of your own would naturally be appropriated to those, for whose sakes chiefly you have made so many hard sacrifices. i am not so foolish as not to know that i am a most unworthy match for such a one as you, but you have for years been a principal object in my mind. in many a sweet assumed character i have learned to love you, but simply as f.m. kelly i love you better than them all. can you quit these shadows of existence, & come & be a reality to us? can you leave off harassing yourself to please a thankless multitude, who know nothing of you, & begin at last to live to yourself & your friends? as plainly & frankly as i have seen you give or refuse assent in some feigned scene, so frankly do me the justice to answer me. it is impossible i should feel injured or aggrieved by your telling me at once, that the proposal does not suit you. it is impossible that i should ever think of molesting you with idle importunity and persecution after your mind [was] once firmly spoken--but happier, far happier, could i have leave to hope a time might come, when our friends might be your friends; our interests yours; our book-knowledge, if in that inconsiderable particular we have any little advantage, might impart something to you, which you would every day have it in your power ten thousand fold to repay by the added cheerfulness and joy which you could not fail to bring as a dowry into whatever family should have the honor and happiness of receiving _you_, the most welcome accession that could be made to it. in haste, but with entire respect & deepest affection, i subscribe myself c. lamb. [it was known, on the authority of the late mr. charles kent, that fanny kelly, the actress, had received an offer of marriage from lamb; but my own impression was that it was made much later in life than this letter, first printed in by mr. john hollingshead, indicates. miss kelly, who at this time was engaged at the lyceum, would be twenty-nine on october ; lamb was forty-four in february. his salary was now £ a year. lamb had long admired miss kelly as an actress. in his _works_, published in , was this sonnet:-- to miss kelly you are not, kelly, of the common strain, that stoop their pride and female honour down to please that many-headed beast _the town_, and vend their lavish smiles and tricks for gain; by fortune thrown amid the actors' train, you keep your native dignity of thought; the plaudits that attend you come unsought, as tributes due unto your natural vein. your tears have passion in them, and a grace of genuine freshness, which our hearts avow; your smiles are winds whose ways we cannot trace, that vanish and return we know not how-- and please the better from a pensive face, and thoughtful eye, and a reflecting brow. that lamb had been pondering his offer for some little time is suggested, mr. macdonald remarks, by a passage in one of his articles on miss kelly in _the examiner_ earlier in this month, where he says of her as rachel, in "the jovial crew," probably with full knowledge that it would meet her eye and be understood (a truly elian method of love-lettering), "'what a lass that were,' said a stranger who sate beside us ... 'to go a gipseying through the world with.'" this was miss kelly's reply:-- henrietta street, july th, . an early & deeply rooted attachment has fixed my heart on one from whom no worldly prospect can well induce me to withdraw it, but while i thus _frankly_ & decidedly decline your proposal, believe me, i am not insensible to the high honour which the preference of such a mind as yours confers upon me--let me, however, hope that all thought upon this subject will end with this letter, & that you will henceforth encourage no other sentiment towards me than esteem in my private character and a continuance of that approbation of my humble talents which you have already expressed so much & so often to my advantage and gratification. believe me i feel proud to acknowledge myself your obliged friend f. m. kelly. lamb at once wrote again as follows:--] letter charles lamb to fanny kelly july th, . dear miss kelly,--_your injunctions shall be obeyed to a tittle_. i feel myself in a lackadaisacal no-how-ish kind of a humour. i believe it is the rain, or something. i had thought to have written seriously, but i fancy i succeed best in epistles of mere fun; puns & _that_ nonsense. you will be good friends with us, will you not? let what has past "break no bones" between us. you will not refuse us them next time we send for them? yours very truly, c. l. do you observe the delicacy of not signing my full name? n.b. do not paste that last letter of mine into your book. [writing again of miss kelly, in the "hypocrite," in _the examiner_ of august and , lamb says: "she is in truth not framed to tease or torment even in jest, but to utter a hearty _yes_ or _no_; to yield or refuse assent with a noble sincerity. we have not the pleasure of being acquainted with her, but we have been told that she carries the same cordial manners into private life." miss kelly died unmarried at the age of ninety-two. "break no bones." here lamb makes one of his puns. by "bones" he meant also the little ivory discs which were given to friends of the management, entitling them to free entry to the theatre. with this explanation the next sentence of the letter becomes clear.] letter charles lamb to thomas noon talefourd(?) [august, .] dear t. we are at mr. bays's, hatter, trumpington street, cambridge. can you come down? you will be with us, all but bed, which you can get at an inn. we shall be most glad to see you. be so good as send me hazlit's volume, just published at hone's, directed as above. or, much better, bring it. yours, hic et ubique, c. lamb. [the little note printed above (by permission of the master of magdalene) proves that lamb was in cambridge in . the evidence is that the only book by hazlitt which hone published was _political essays, with sketches by public characters_, printed for william hone, ludgate hill, . if then hazlitt's book determines the year, we may take the testimony of the sonnet "written at cambridge, august , " as to the month, especially as lamb at that time always took his holidays in the summer; and this gives us august: a peculiarly satisfactory conclusion for cambridge men, because it shows that it was to cambridge that he went for comfort and solace after miss kelly's refusal. the letter has still further value in adding another lamb domicile to the list, mr. bays's house being still in existence although no longer in trumpington street, but king's parade. "t." may easily have been talfourd, who had just been writing an enthusiastic review of lamb's _john woodvil_ in _the champion_ and was only too happy to serve his hero in any way. but it might be tom holcroft.] letter charles lamb to s. t. coleridge [no date. ? summer, .] dr c. your sonnet is capital. the paper ingenious, only that it split into parts (besides a side splinter) in the carriage. i have transferred it to the common english paper, _manufactured of rags_, for better preservation. i never knew before how the iliad and odyssey were written. tis strikingly corroborated by observations 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. on sunday week we kiss your hands (if they are clean). this next sunday i have been engaged for some time. with remembces to your good host and hostess yours ever c. lamb. [the sonnet was coleridge's "fancy in nubibus; or, the poet in the clouds," printed in _blackwood_, november, , but now sent to lamb in manuscript, apparently on some curious kind of paper. this is the sonnet:-- o! it is pleasant, with a heart at ease, just after sunset, or by moonlight skies, to make the shifting clouds be what you please, or let the easily persuaded eyes own each quaint likeness issuing from the mould of a friend's fancy; or with head bent low and cheek aslant see rivers flow of gold 'twixt crimson banks; and then, a traveller, go from mount to mount through cloudland, gorgeous land! or, list'ning to the tide, with closed sight, be that blind bard, who on the chian strand by those deep sounds possessed with inward light, beheld the iliad and the odyssee rise to the swelling of the voiceful sea. see next letter to coleridge. possibly it is to this summer that an undated note to crabb robinson belongs (in the dr. williams' library) in which lamb says they are setting out to see lord braybrooke's house at audley end.] letter charles lamb to thomas holcroft, jr. [no date. autumn, .] dear tom, do not come to us on thursday, for we are moved into country lodgings, tho' i am still at the india house in the mornings. see marshall and captain betham _as soon as ever you can_. i fear leave cannot be obtained at the india house for your going to india. if you go it must be as captain's clerk, if such a thing could be obtain'd. for god's sake keep your present place and do not give it up, or neglect it; as you perhaps will not be able to go to india, and you see how difficult of attainment situations are. yours truly c. lamb. [thomas holcroft was the son of lamb's friend, the dramatist. apparently he did not take lamb's advice, for he lost his place, which was some small parliamentary post under john rickman, in november, . crabb robinson, anthony robinson and lamb took up the matter and subscribed money, and holcroft went out to india.] letter charles lamb to joseph cottle [dated at end: nov. , .] dear sir--it is so long since i have seen or heard from you, that i fear that you will consider a request i have to make as impertinent. about three years since, when i was one day at bristol, i made an effort to see you, but you were from home. the request i have to make is, that you would very much oblige me, if you have any small portrait of yourself, by allowing me to have it copied, to accompany a selection of "likenesses of living bards" which a most particular friend of mine is making. if you have no objections, and could oblige me by transmitting such portrait to me at no. russell street, covent garden, i will answer for taking the greatest care of it, and returning it safely the instant the copier has done with it. i hope you will pardon the liberty from an old friend and well-wisher, charles lamb. london th nov. . [lamb's visit to bristol was made probably when he was staying at calne with the morgans in . the present letter refers to an extra illustrated copy of byron's _english bards and scotch reviewers_, which was being made by william evans, of _the pamphleteer_, and which is now in the british museum. owing to cottle's hostility to byron, and byron's scorn of cottle, lamb could hardly explain the nature of the book more fully. see note to the following letter.] letter charles lamb to joseph cottle [not dated. ? late .] dear sir--my friend whom you have obliged by the loan of your picture, having had it very exactly copied (and a very spirited drawing it is, as every one thinks that has seen it--the copy is not much inferior, done by a daughter of josephs, r.a.)--he purposes sending you back the original, which i must accompany with my warm thanks, both for that, and your better favor, the "messiah," which, i assure you, i have read thro' with great pleasure; the verses have great sweetness and a new testament-plainness about them which affected me very much. i could just wish that in page you had omitted the lines and ' , and had ended the period with "the willowy brook was there, but that sweet sound-- _when_ to be heard again on earthly ground?"-- two very sweet lines, and the sense perfect. and in page , line , "i come _ordained a world to save_,"--these words are hardly borne out by the story, and seem scarce accordant with the modesty with which our lord came to take his common portion among the baptismal candidates. they also anticipate the beauty of john's recognition of the messiah, and the subsequent confirmation from the voice and dove. you will excuse the remarks of an old brother bard, whose career, though long since pretty well stopt, was coeval in its beginning with your own, and who is sorry his lot has been always to be so distant from you. it is not likely that c.l. will ever see bristol again; but, if j.c. should ever visit london, he will be a most welcome visitor to c.l. my sister joins in cordial remembrances and i request the favor of knowing, at your earliest opportunity, whether the portrait arrives safe, the glass unbroken &c. your glass broke in its coming. morgan is a little better--can read a little, &c.; but cannot join mrs. m. till the insolvent act (or whatever it is called) takes place. then, i hope, he will stand clear of all debts. meantime, he has a most exemplary nurse and kind companion in miss brent. once more, dear sir, yours truly c. lamb. [cottle sent lamb a miniature of himself by branwhite, which had been copied in monochrome for mr. evans' book. g.j. joseph, a.r.a., made a coloured drawing of lamb for the same work. it serves as frontispiece to vol. i. of the present edition. byron's lines refer as a matter of fact not to joseph but to amos cottle:-- o, amos cottle!--phoebus! what a name. and so forth. mr. evans, however, dispensed with amos. another grangerised edition of the same satire, also in the british museum, compiled by w.m. tartt, has an engraving of amos cottle and two portraits of lamb--the hancock drawing, and the brook pulham caricature. byron's lines touching lamb ran thus:-- yet let them not to vulgar wordsworth stoop, the meanest object of the lowly group, whose verse, of all but childish prattle void, seems blessed harmony to lambe and lloyd. a footnote states that lamb and lloyd are the most ignoble followers of southey & co. cottle's _messiah_, of which the earlier portion had been published long since, was completed in . canon ainger says that lines and in lamb's copy (not that of ), following upon the couplet quoted, were:-- (while sorrow gave th' involuntary tear) had ceased to vibrate on our listening ear. coleridge's friend morgan had just come upon evil times. subsequently lamb and southey united in helping him to the extent of £ a year each.] letter charles lamb to dorothy wordsworth [p.m. nov., .] dear miss wordsworth, you will think me negligent, but i wanted to see more of willy, before i ventured to express a prediction. till yesterday i had barely seen him--virgilium tantum vidi--but yesterday he gave us his small company to a bullock's heart--and i can pronounce him a lad of promise. he is no pedant nor bookworm, so far i can answer. perhaps he has hitherto paid too little attention to other men's inventions, preferring, like lord foppington, the "natural sprouts of his own." but he has observation, and seems thoroughly awake. i am ill at remembering other people's bon mots, but the following are a few. being taken over waterloo bridge, he remarked that if we had no mountains, we had a fine river at least, which was a touch of the comparative, but then he added, in a strain which augured less for his future abilities as a political economist, that he supposed they must take at least a pound a week toll. like a curious naturalist he inquired if the tide did not come up a little salty. this being satisfactorily answered, he put another question as to the flux and reflux, which being rather cunningly evaded than artfully solved by that she-aristotle mary, who muttered something about its getting up an hour sooner and sooner every day, he sagely replied, "then it must come to the same thing at last" which was a speech worthy of an infant halley! the lion in the 'change by no means came up to his ideal standard. so impossible it is for nature in any of her works to come up to the standard of a child's imagination. the whelps (lionets) he was sorry to find were dead, and on particular enquiry his old friend the ouran outang had gone the way of all flesh also. the grand tiger was also sick, and expected in no short time to exchange this transitory world for another--or none. but again, there was a golden eagle (i do not mean that of charing) which did much arride and console him. william's genius, i take it, leans a little to the figurative, for being at play at tricktrack (a kind of minor billiard-table which we keep for smaller wights, and sometimes refresh our own mature fatigues with taking a hand at), not being able to hit a ball he had iterate aimed at, he cried out, "i cannot hit that beast." now the balls are usually called men, but he felicitously hit upon a middle term, a term of approximation and imaginative reconciliation, a something where the two ends, of the brute matter (ivory) and their human and rather violent personification into _men_, might meet, as i take it, illustrative of that excellent remark in a certain preface about imagination, explaining "like a sea-beast that had crawled forth to sun himself." not that i accuse william minor of hereditary plagiary, or conceive the image to have come ex traduce. rather he seemeth to keep aloof from any source of imitation, and purposely to remain ignorant of what mighty poets have done in this kind before him. for being asked if his father had ever been on westminster bridge, he answer'd that he did not know. it is hard to discern the oak in the acorn, or a temple like st. paul's in the first stone which is laid, nor can i quite prefigure what destination the genius of william minor hath to take. some few hints i have set down, to guide my future observations. he hath the power of calculation in no ordinary degree for a chit. he combineth figures, after the first boggle, rapidly. as in the tricktrack board, where the hits are figured, at first he did not perceive that and made , but by a little use he could combine with --and again with , which approacheth something in kind (far let me be from flattering him by saying in degree) to that of the famous american boy. i am sometimes inclined to think i perceive the future satirist in him, for he hath a sub-sardonic smile which bursteth out upon occasion, as when he was asked if london were as big as ambleside, and indeed no other answer was given, or proper to be given, to so ensnaring and provoking a question. in the contour of scull certainly i discern something paternal. but whether in all respects the future man shall transcend his father's fame, time the trier of geniuses must decide. be it pronounced peremptorily at present, that willy is a well-mannerd child, and though no great student, hath yet a lively eye for things that lie before him. given in haste from my desk at leadenhall. your's and yours' most sincerely c. lamb. [this letter, which refers to a visit paid to the lambs in great russell street by wordsworth's son, william, then nine years old, is remarkable, apart from its charm and humour, for containing more of the absolute method of certain of lamb's _elia_ passages than anything he had yet written. "lord foppington"--in vanbrugh's "relapse." lamb used this speech as the motto of his _elia_ essay "detached thoughts on books and reading." "like a sea-beast." lamb alludes to the preface to the edition of of wordsworth's poems, where he quotes illustratively from his "resolution and independence":-- like a sea-beast crawled forth, that on a shelf of rock or sand reposeth, there to sun itself. "if his father had ever been on westminster bridge." an allusion to wordsworth's sonnet "composed on westminster bridge":-- earth has not anything to show more fair. "the american boy." this was zerah colburn, the mathematical prodigy, born in vermont state in and exhibited in america and europe by his father.] letter charles lamb to s. t. coleridge jan. th, . 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. damn 'em! my brain, guts, skin, flesh, bone, carcase, soul, time, is all theirs. the royal exchange, gresham's folly, hath me body and spirit. i admire some of lloyd's lines on you, and i admire your postponing reading them. he is a sad tattler, but this is under the rose. twenty years ago he estranged one friend from me quite, whom i have been regretting, 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 coolness betwixt me and (not a friend exactly, but) [an] intimate acquaintance. i suspect, also, he saps manning's faith in 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 præprandial 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 procter'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 and about browne into "blackwood"? i did not. so no more, till we meet. ever yours, c. l. [charles lloyd, returned to health, had written _desultory thoughts in london_, in which both coleridge and lamb appeared, coleridge as *** and lamb as **. the poem was published in . lloyd probably had sent it in manuscript or proof to lamb and coleridge. some of lloyd's lines on coleridge run thus:-- how shall i fitly speak on such a theme? he is a treasure by the world neglected, because he hath not, with a prescience dim, like those whose every aim is self-reflected, pil'd up some fastuous trophy, that of him might tell, what mighty powers the age rejected, but taught his lips the office of a _pen_-- by fools he's deem'd a being lost to men. * * * * * no! with magnanimous self-sacrifice, and lofty inadvertency of fame, he felt there is a bliss in _being_ wise, quite independent of the wise man's _name_. who now can say how many a soul may rise to a nobility of moral aim it ne'er had known, but for that spirit brave, which, being freely gifted, freely gave? sometimes i think that i'm a blossom blighted; but this i ken, that should it not prove so, if i am not inexorably spited of all that dignifies mankind below; by him i speak of, i was so excited, while reason's scale was poising to and fro, "to the better cause;" that him i have to bless for that which it is comfort to possess. * * * * * no! those who most have seen me, since the hour when thou and i, in former happier days, frank converse held, though many an adverse power have sought the memory of those times to raze, can vouch that more it stirs me (thus a tower, sole remnant of vast castle, still betrays haply its former splendour) to have prov'd thy love, than by fresh friends to have been lov'd. the story of one of lloyd's former indiscretions is told in the earlier letters of this collection. i cannot say what friend he quite alienated, unless it was james white. the nature of the later offence of which lamb accuses lloyd is now unknown. "that manchester sonnet." a sonnet entitled "manchester," referring to the luddites, and signed c. l., by capel lofft. procter's "c.l." sonnet was upon macready. the marine sonnet was "fancy in nubibus" (see page ). "about browne" refers to a note by coleridge on sir thomas browne in the same number, signed g.j.--possibly james gillman's initials reversed. we learn from a letter from coleridge to j. h. green (january , ) that the visit to highgate which lamb mentions was a new year visit of annual occurrence. lamb's reference to praeprandial avocations touches upon coleridge's habit of coming down to see his guests only when dinner was ready.] letter mary lamb to mrs. vincent novello newington, monday. [spring of .] my dear friend,--since we heard of your sad sorrow, you have been perpetually in our thoughts; therefore, you may well imagine how welcome your kind remembrance of it must be. i know not how enough to thank you for it. you bid me write a long letter; but my mind is so possessed with the idea that you must be occupied with one only thought, that all trivial matters seem impertinent. i have just been reading again mr. hunt's delicious essay; which i am sure must have come so home to your hearts, i shall always love him for it. i feel that it is all that one can think, but which none but he could have done so prettily. may he lose the memory of his own babies in seeing them all grow old around him! together with the recollection of your dear baby, the image of a little sister i once had comes as fresh into my mind as if i had seen her as lately. a little cap with white satin ribbon, grown yellow with long keeping, and a lock of light hair, were the only relics left of her. the sight of them always brought her pretty, fair face to my view, that to this day i seem to have a perfect recollection of her features. i long to see you, and i hope to do so on tuesday or wednesday in next week. percy street! i love to write the word; what comfortable ideas it brings with it! we have been pleasing ourselves ever since we heard this piece of unexpected good news with the anticipation of frequent drop-in visits, and all the social comfort of what seems almost next-door neighbourhood. our solitary confinement has answered its purpose even better than i expected. it is so many years since i have been out of town in the spring, that i scarcely knew of the existence of such a season. i see every day some new flower peeping out of the ground, and watch its growth; so that i have a sort of an intimate friendship with each. i know the effect of every change of weather upon them--have learned all their names, the duration of their lives, and the whole progress of their domestic economy. my landlady, a nice, active old soul that wants but one year of eighty, and her daughter, a rather aged young gentlewoman, are the only labourers in a pretty large garden; for it is a double house, and two long strips of ground are laid into one, well stored with fruit-trees, which will be in full blossom the week after i am gone, and flowers, as many as can be crammed in, of all sorts and kinds. but flowers are flowers still; and i must confess i would rather live in russell street all my life, and never set my foot but on the london pavement, than be doomed always to enjoy the silent pleasures i now do. we go to bed at ten o'clock. late hours are life-shortening things; but i would rather run all risks, and sit every night--at some places i could name--wishing in vain at eleven o'clock for the entrance of the supper tray, than be always up and alive at eight o'clock breakfast, as i am here. we have a scheme to reconcile these things. we have an offer of a very low-rented lodging a mile nearer town than this. our notion is, to divide our time, in alternate weeks, between quiet rest and dear london weariness. we give an answer to-morrow; but what that will be, at this present writing, i am unable to say. in the present state of our undecided opinion, a very heavy rain that is now falling may turn the scale. "dear rain, do go away," and let us have a fine cheerful sunset to argue the matter fairly in. my brother walked seventeen miles yesterday before dinner. and notwithstanding his long walk to and from the office, we walk every evening; but i by no means perform in this way so well as i used to do. a twelve-mile walk one hot sunday morning made my feet blister, and they are hardly well now. charles is not yet come home; but he bid me, with many thanks, to present his _love_ to you and all yours, to all whom and to each individually, and to mr. novello in particular, i beg to add mine. with the sincerest wishes for the health and happiness of all, believe me, ever, dear mary sabilla, your most affectionate friend, mary ann lamb. [leigh hunt's essay "deaths of little children" appeared in _the indicator_ for april , ; it was suggested by the same loss as that which prompted mary lamb's letter. the lambs at this time were staying at mrs. bedford's, church street, stoke newington, as we know from an unpublished letter from mary lamb to miss kelly, dated march , . to this letter i have referred in the preface. it states that mary lamb, who was teaching miss kelly latin at the time, has herself taken to french in the evenings.] letter charles lamb to joseph cottle london, india house, [? may th, .] my dear sir,--i am quite ashamed of not having acknowledged your kind present earlier, but that unknown something, which was never yet discovered, though so often speculated upon, which stands in the way of lazy folks answering letters, has presented its usual obstacle. it is not forgetfulness, nor disrespect, nor incivility, but terribly like all these bad things. i have been in my time a great epistolary scribbler; but the passion, and with it the facility, at length wears out; and it must be pumped up again by the heavy machinery of duty or gratitude, when it should run free. i have read your "fall of cambria" with as much pleasure as i did your "messiah." your cambrian poem i shall be tempted to repeat oftenest, as human poems take me in a mood more frequently congenial than divine. the character of llewellyn pleases me more than any thing else, perhaps; and then some of the lyrical pieces are fine varieties. it was quite a mistake that i could dislike anything you should write against lord byron, for i have a thorough aversion to his character and a very moderate admiration of his genius; he is great in so little a way. to be a poet is to be the man--not a petty portion of occasional low passion worked up into a permanent form of humanity. shakespear has thrust such rubbishy feelings into a corner-the dark, dusky heart of don john, in the _much ado about nothing_. the fact is, i have not seen your "expostulatory epistle" to him. i was not aware, till your question, that it was out. i shall inquire, and get it forthwith. southey is in town, whom i have seen slightly; wordsworth expected, whom i hope to see much of. i write with accelerated motion; for i have two or three bothering clerks and brokers about me, who always press in proportion as you seem to be doing something that is not business. i could exclaim a little profanely, but i think you do not like swearing. i conclude, begging you to consider that i feel myself much obliged by your kindness, and shall be most happy at any and at all times to hear from you. charles lamb dear sir, yours truly, [joseph cottle, the bristol publisher, had apparently just sent lamb a copy of his _fall of cambria_, although it had been published some years before. perhaps lamb had sent him his _works_, and it was a return gift. cottle's very serious _expostulatory epistle to lord byron_ (who had cast ridicule upon him and his brother in _english bards and scotch reviewers_) was issued in , after the publication of _don juan_ had begun. southey arrived in london on may day, . wordsworth followed early in june.] letter charles lamb to dorothy wordsworth (_incomplete_) [may , .] dear miss w.--there can be none to whom the last volume of w. w. has come more welcome than to me. i have traced the duddon in thought and with repetition along the banks (alas!) of the lea--(unpoetical name); it is always flowing and murmuring and dashing in my ears. the story of _dion_ is divine--the genius of plato falling on him like moonlight--the finest thing ever expressed. then there is _elidure_ and _kirkstone pass_--the last not new to me--and let me add one of the sweetest of them all to me, _the longest day_. loving all these as much as i can love poetry new to me, what could i wish or desire more or extravagantly in a new volume? that i did not write to w. w. was simply that he was to come so soon, and that flattens letters.... yours, c. l. [i print from professor knight's text, in his _life of wordsworth_. canon ainger supplies omissions--a reference to martin burney's black eye. the wordsworths were in town this summer, to attend the wedding of thomas monkhouse and miss horrocks. we know from crabb robinson's _diary_ that they were at lamb's on june : "not much was said about his [w. w.'s] new volume of poems. but he himself spoke of the 'brownie's cell' as his favourite." the new volume was _the river duddon, a series of sonnets_, ... . "the longest day" begins:-- let us quit the leafy arbour. between this letter and the next lamb wrote and sent off his first contribution to the _london magazine_ over the signature elia--"the south-sea house," which was printed in the number for august, .] letter charles lamb to thomas allsop [p.m. july , .] dear sir, i do not know whose fault it is we have not met so long. we are almost always out of town. you must come and beat up our quarters there, when we return from cambridge. it is not in our power to accept your invitation. to-day we dine out; and set out for cambridge on saturday morning. friday of course will be past in packing, &c., moreover we go from dalston. we return from cam. in weeks, and will contrive an early meeting. meantime believe us, sincerely yours, c. l., &c. _thursday_, [it was during this visit to cambridge that lamb wrote his _elia_ essay on "oxford in the vacation."] letter charles and mary lamb to samuel james arnold [no date. ? .] dear sir, we beg to convey our kindest acknowledgements to mr. arnold for the very pleasant privilege he has favoured us with. my yearly holidays end with next week, during which we shall be mostly in the country, and afterwards avail ourselves fully of the privilege. sincerely wishing you crowded houses, etc., we remain, yours truly, ch. & m. lamb. [arnold, brother-in-law of ayrton, was the lessee of the lyceum, where miss kelly was acting when lamb proposed to her in .] letter charles lamb to barron field london, aug., . dear field,--captain ogilvie, who conveys this note to you, and is now paying for the first time a visit to your remote shores, is the brother of a gentleman intimately connected with the family of the _whites_, i mean of bishopsgate street--and you will much oblige them and myself by any service or civilities you can shew him. i do not mean this for an answer to your warm-hearted epistle, which demands and shall have a much fuller return. we receiped your australian first fruits, of which i shall say nothing here, but refer you to **** of the _examiner_, who speaks our mind on all public subjects. i can only assure you that both coleridge and wordsworth, and also c. lloyd, who has lately reappeared in the poetical horizon, were hugely taken with your kangaroo. when do you come back full of riches and renown, with the regret of all the honest, and all the other part of the colony? mary swears she shall live to see it. pray are you king's or queen's men in sidney? or have thieves no politics? man, don't let this lie about your room for your bed sweeper or major domo to see, he mayn't like the last paragraph. this is a dull and lifeless scroll. you shall have soon a tissue of truth and fiction impossible to be extricated, the interleavings shall be so delicate, the partitions perfectly invisible, it shall puzzle you till you return, & [then] i will not explain it. till then a ... adieu, with kind rem'brces of me both to you & ... [_signature and a few words torn off_.] [barron field, who was still in new south wales, had published his poems under the title _first-fruits of australian poetry_, and lamb had reviewed them in _the examiner_ for january , , over his usual signature in that paper, * * * *. "the kangaroo" is quoted in that review (see vol. i. of the present edition). captain ogilvie was the brother of a clerk at the india house, who gave mr. joseph h. twichell some reminiscences of lamb, which were printed in _scribner's magazine_. "king's or queen's men"--supporters of george iv. or caroline of brunswick. lamb was very strongly in favour of the queen, as his _champion_ epigrams show (see vol. iv.). "you shall soon see." lamb's first reference to the _elia_ essays, alluding here to "the south-sea house." here should come a letter from lamb to hazlitt. lamb says that his sister is ill again and that the last thing she read was hazlitt's "thursday nights" which gave her unmixed delight--the reference being to the second part of the essay "on the conversation of authors," which was printed in the _london magazine_ for september, , describing lamb's evenings. stoddart, hazlitt's brother-in-law, lamb adds, says it is better than hogarth's "modern midnight conversation." here should come a business note to john scott, editor of the _london magazine_, dated august , , given in the boston bibliophile edition.] letter a charles lamb to s. t. coleridge [no date. ? autumn, .] dear c.,--why will you make your visits, which should give pleasure, matter of regret to your friends? you never come but you take away some folio that is part of my existence. with a great deal of difficulty i was made to comprehend the extent of my loss. my maid becky brought me a dirty bit of paper, which contained her description of some book which mr. coleridge had taken away. it was "luster's tables," which, for some time, i could not make out. "what! has he carried away any of the _tables_, becky?" "no, it wasn't any tables, but it was a book that he called luster's tables." i was obliged to search personally among my shelves, and a huge fissure suddenly disclosed to me the true nature of the damage i had sustained. that book, c., you should not have taken away, for it is not mine; it is the property of a friend, who does not know its value, nor indeed have i been very sedulous in explaining to him the estimate of it; but was rather contented in giving a sort of corroboration to a hint that he let fall, as to its being suspected to be not genuine, so that in all probability it would have fallen to me as a deodand; not but i am as sure it is luther's as i am sure that jack bunyan wrote the "pilgrim's progress;" but it was not for me to pronounce upon the validity of testimony that had been disputed by learneder clerks than i. so i quietly let it occupy the place it had usurped upon my shelves, and should never have thought of issuing an ejectment against it; for why should i be so bigoted as to allow rites of hospitality to none but my own books, children, &c.?--a species of egotism i abhor from my heart. no; let 'em all snug together, hebrews and proselytes of the gate; no selfish partiality of mine shall make distinction between them; i charge no warehouse-room for my friends' commodities; they are welcome to come and stay as long as they like, without paying rent. i have several such strangers that i treat with more than arabian courtesy; there's a copy of more's fine poem, which is none of mine; but i cherish it as my own; i am none of those churlish landlords that advertise the goods to be taken away in ten days' time, or then to be sold to pay expenses. so you see i had no right to lend you that book; i may lend you my own books, because it is at my own hazard, but it is not honest to hazard a friend's property; i always make that distinction. i hope you will bring it with you, or send it by hartley; or he can bring that, and you the "polemical discourses," and come and eat some atoning mutton with us one of these days shortly. we are engaged two or three sundays deep, but always dine at home on week-days at half-past four. so come all four--men and books i mean--my third shelf (northern compartment) from the top has two devilish gaps, where you have knocked out its two eye-teeth. your wronged friend, c. lamb. [this letter is usually dated , but i think it was written earlier. for one reason, hartley coleridge was not in london in that year, and for another, there are several phrases in the _elia_ essay "two races of men" (printed in the _london magazine_, december, ) that are so similar to some in this letter that i imagine the letter to have suggested the subject of the essay, the composition of which immediately followed it. thus, in the essay we read:-- "that foul gap in the bottom shelf facing you, like a great eye-tooth knocked out--(you are now with me in my little back study in bloomsbury, reader!)--with the huge switzer-like tomes on each side (like the guildhall giants, in their reformed posture, guardant of nothing) once held the tallest of my folios, _opera bonaventurae_, choice and massy divinity, to which its two supporters (school divinity also, but of a lesser calibre,--bellarmine, and holy thomas), showed but as dwarfs,-- itself an ascapart!--_that_ comberbatch abstracted upon the faith of a theory he holds, which is more easy, i confess, for me to surfer by than to refute, namely, that 'the title to property in a book (my bonaventure, for instance) is in exact ratio to the claimant's powers of understanding and appreciating the same.' should he go on acting upon this theory, which of our shelves is safe?" "luster's tables"--luther's _table talk_. "more's fine poem." the _psychozoia platonica_, , of henry more, the platonist. lamb seems to have returned the book, for it was not among his books that he left. luther's _table talk_ seems also to have been given up.] appendix consisting of the longer passages from books referred to by lamb in his letters coleridge's "ode on the departing year" text of the quarto, (_see letter , page _) strophe i _spirit_, who sweepest the wild harp of time, it is most hard with an untroubled ear thy dark inwoven harmonies to hear! yet, mine eye fixt on heaven's unchanged clime, long had i listen'd, free from mortal fear, with inward stillness and a bowed mind: when lo! far onwards waving on the wind i saw the skirts of the departing year! starting from my silent sadness then with no unholy madness, ere yet the entered cloud forbade my sight, i rais'd th' impetuous song, and solemnized his flight. strophe ii hither from the recent tomb; from the prison's direr gloom; from poverty's heart-wasting languish: from distemper's midnight anguish; or where his two bright torches blending love illumines manhood's maze; or where o'er cradled infants bending hope has fix'd her wishful gaze: hither, in perplexed dance, ye woes, and young-eyed joys, advance! by time's wild harp, and by the hand whose indefatigable sweep forbids its fateful strings to sleep, i bid you haste, a mixt tumultuous band! from every private bower, and each domestic hearth, haste for one solemn hour; and with a loud and yet a louder voice o'er the sore travail of the common earth weep and rejoice! seiz'd in sore travail and portentous birth (her eye-balls flashing a pernicious glare) sick nature struggles! hark--her pangs increase! her groans are horrible! but o! most fair the promis'd twins, she bears--equality and peace! epode i mark'd ambition in his war-array: i heard the mailed monarch's troublous cry-- "ah! whither [wherefore] does the northern conqueress stay? groans not her chariot o'er its onward way?" fly, mailed monarch, fly! stunn'd by death's "twice mortal" mace no more on murder's lurid face th' insatiate hag shall glote with drunken eye! manes of th' unnumbered slain! ye that gasp'd on warsaw's plain! ye that erst at ismail's tower, when human ruin chok'd the streams, fell in conquest's glutted hour mid women's shrieks, and infants' screams; whose shrieks, whose screams were vain to stir loud-laughing, red-eyed massacre! spirits of th' uncoffin'd slain, sudden blasts of triumph swelling oft at night, in misty train rush around her narrow dwelling! th' exterminating fiend is fled-- (foul her life and dark her doom!) mighty army of the dead, dance, like death-fires, round her tomb! then with prophetic song relate each some scepter'd murderer's fate! when shall scepter'd slaughter cease? awhile he crouch'd, o victor france! beneath the light'ning of thy lance, with treacherous dalliance wooing peace. but soon up-springing from his dastard trance the boastful, bloody son of pride betray'd his hatred of the blest and blessing maid. one cloud, o freedom! cross'd thy orb of light and sure, he deem'd, that orb was quench'd in night: for still does madness roam on guilt's bleak dizzy height! antistrophe i departing year! 'twas on no earthly shore my soul beheld thy vision. where, alone, voiceless and stern, before the cloudy throne aye memory sits; there, garmented with gore, with many an unimaginable groan thou storiedst thy sad hours! silence ensued: deep silence o'er th' etherial multitude, whose purple locks with snow-white glories shone. then, his eye wild ardors glancing, from the choired gods advancing, the spirit of the earth made reverence meet and stood up beautiful before the cloudy seat! antistrophe ii on every harp, on every tongue while the mute enchantment hung; like midnight from a thundercloud, spake the sudden spirit loud-- "thou in stormy blackness throning "love and uncreated light, "by the earth's unsolac'd groaning "seize thy terrors, arm of might! "by belgium's corse-impeded flood! "by vendee steaming brother's blood! "by peace with proffer'd insult scar'd, "masked hate, and envying scorn! "by tears of havoc yet unborn; "and hunger's bosom to the frost-winds bar'd! "but chief by afric's wrongs "strange, horrible, and foul! "by what deep guilt belongs "to the deaf synod, 'full of gifts and lies!' "by wealth's insensate laugh! by torture's howl! "avenger, rise! "for ever shall the bloody island scowl? "for aye unbroken, shall her cruel bow "shoot famine's arrows o'er thy ravag'd world? "hark! how wide nature joins her groans below-- "rise, god of nature, rise! why sleep thy bolts unhurl'd?" epode ii the voice had ceas'd, the phantoms fled, yet still i gasp'd and reel'd with dread. and even when the dream of night renews the vision to my sight, cold sweat-damps gather on my limbs, my ears throb hot, my eye-balls start, my brain with horrid tumult swims, wild is the tempest of my heart; and my thick and struggling breath imitates the toil of death! no uglier agony confounds the soldier on the war-field spread, when all foredone with toil and wounds death-like he dozes among heaps of dead! (the strife is o'er, the day-light fled, and the night-wind clamours hoarse; see! the startful wretch's head lies pillow'd on a brother's corse!) o doom'd to fall, enslav'd and vile, o albion! o my mother isle! thy valleys, fair as eden's bowers, glitter green with sunny showers; thy grassy upland's gentle swells echo to the bleat of flocks; (those grassy hills, those glitt'ring dells proudly ramparted with rocks) and ocean 'mid his uproar wild speaks safely to his island-child. hence for many a fearless age has social quiet lov'd thy shore; nor ever sworded foeman's rage or sack'd thy towers, or stain'd thy fields with gore. disclaim'd of heaven! mad av'rice at thy side, at coward distance, yet with kindling pride-- safe 'mid thy herds and corn-fields thou hast stood, and join'd the yell of famine and of blood. all nations curse thee: and with eager wond'ring shall hear destruction like a vulture, scream! strange-eyed destruction, who with many a dream of central flames thro' nether seas upthund'ring soothes her fierce solitude, yet (as she lies stretch'd on the marge of some fire-flashing fount in the black chamber of a sulphur'd mount,) if ever to her lidless dragon eyes, o albion! thy predestin'd ruins rise, the fiend-hag on her perilous couch doth leap, mutt'ring distemper'd triumph in her charmed sleep. away, my soul, away! in vain, in vain, the birds of warning sing-- and hark! i hear the famin'd brood of prey flap their lank pennons on the groaning wind! away, my soul, away! i unpartaking of the evil thing, with daily prayer, and daily toil soliciting my scant and blameless soil, have wail'd my country with a loud lament. now i recenter my immortal mind in the long sabbath of high self-content; cleans'd from the fleshly passions that bedim god's image, sister of the seraphim. wither's "_supersedeas_ to all them, whose custome it is, without any deserving, to importune _authors_ to give unto them their _bookes_" from a collection op emblems, (see _letter_ , _page_ ) it merits not your anger, nor my blame, that, thus i have inscrib'd this _epigram_: for, they who know me, know, that, _bookes_ thus large, and, fraught with _emblems_, do augment the charge too much above my _fortunes_, to afford a _gift_ so costly, for an _aierie-word_: and, i have prov'd, your _begging-qualitie_, so forward, to oppresse my _modestie_; that, for my future ease, it seemeth fit, to take some order, for preventing it. and, peradventure, other authors may, find cause to thanke me for't, another day. these many years, it hath your _custom_ bin, that, when in my possession, you have seene a _volume_, of mine owne, you did no more, but, _aske_ and _take_; as if you thought my store encreast, without my cost; and, that, by _giving_, (both _paines_ and charges too) i got my living; or, that, i find the _paper_ and the _printing_, as easie to me, as the _bookes_ inventing. if, of my _studies_, no esteeme you have, you, then abuse the _courtesies_ you crave; and, are _unthankfull_. if you prize them ought, why should my _labour_, not enough be thought, unlesse, i adde _expences_ to my paines? the _stationer_, affoords for little gaines, the _bookes_ you crave: and, he, as well as i might give away, what you repine to buy: for, what hee _gives_, doth onely _mony_ cost, in mine, both _mony_, _time_, and _wit_ is lost. what i shall give, and what i have bestow'd on friends, to whom, i _love_, or _service_ ow'd, i grudge not; and, i thinke it is from them, sufficient, that such _gifts_ they do esteeme: yea, and, it is a _favour_ too, when they will take these _trifles_, my large _dues_ to pay; (or, aske them at my hands, when i forget, that, i am to their _love_, so much in debt.) but, this inferres not, that, i should bestow the like on all men, who my _name_ do know; or, have the face to aske: for, then, i might, of _wit_ and _mony_, soone be begger'd, quite. so much, already, hath beene _beg'd_ away, (for which, i neither had, nor looke for pay) as being valu'd at the common rate, had rais'd, _five hundred crownes_, in my estate. which, (if i may confesse it) signifies, that, i was farre more _liberall_, than _wise_. but, for the time to come, resolv'd i am, that, till without denyall (or just blame) i may of those, who _cloth_ and _clothes_ do make, (as oft as i shall need them) _aske_, and _take_; you shall no more befoole me. therfore, _pray_ _be answer'd_; and, henceforward, keepe away. passage from george dyer's "poetic sympathies" from _poems_, (_see letter_ , _page_ ) yet, muse of shakspeare[ ], whither wouldst thou fly, with hurried step, and dove-like trembling eye? thou, as from heav'n, that couldst each grace dispense, fancy's rich stream, and all the stores of sense; give to each virtue face and form divine, make dulness feel, and vulgar souls refine, wake all the passions into restless life, now calm to softness, and now rouze to strife? sick of misjudging, that no sense can hit, scar'd by the jargon of unmeaning wit, the senseless splendour of the tawdry stage[ ], the loud long plaudits of a trifling age, where dost thou wander? exil'd in disgrace, find'st thou in foreign realms some happier place[ ]? or dost thou still though banish'd from the town, in britain love to linger, though unknown? light hymen's torch through ev'ry blooming grove,[ ] and tinge each flow'ret with the blush of love? sing winter, summer-sweets, the vernal air, or the soft sofa, to delight the fair[ ]? laugh, e'en at kings, and mock each prudish rule, the merry motley priest of ridicule[ ]? with modest pencil paint the vernal scene, the rustic lovers, and the village green? bid mem'ry, magic child, resume his toy, and hope's fond vot'ry seize the distant joy[ ]? or dost thou soar, in youthful ardour strong, and bid some female hero live in song[ ]? teach fancy how through nature's walks to stray, and wake, to simpler theme, the lyric lay[ ]? or steal from beauty's lip th' ambrosial kiss, paint the domestic grief, or social bliss[ ]? with patient step now tread o'er rock and hill, gaze on rough ocean, track the babbling rill[ ], then rapt in thought, with strong poetic eye, read the great movement of the mighty sky? or wilt thou spread the light of leo's age, and smooth, as woman's guide, tansillo's page[ ]? till pleas'd, you make in fair translated song, odin descend, and rouse the fairy throng[ ]? recall, employment sweet, thy youthful day, then wake, at mithra's call, the mystic lay[ ]? unfold the paradise of ancient lore[ ], or mark the shipwreck from the sounding shore? now love to linger in the daisied vale, then rise sublime in legendary tale[ ]? or, faithful still to nature's sober joy, smile on the labours of some farmer's boy[ ]? or e'en regardless of the poet's praise, deck the fair magazine with blooming lays[ ]? oh! sweetest muse, oh, haste thy wish'd return, see genius droop, and bright-ey'd fancy mourn, recall to nature's charms an english stage, the guard and glory of a nobler age. [footnote : it is not meant to say, that even shakspeare followed invariably a correct and chastized taste, or that he never purchased public applause by offering incense at the shrine of public taste. voltaire, in his essays on dramatic poetry, has carried the matter too far; but in many respects his reflections are unquestionably just. in delineating human characters and passions, and in the display of the sublimer excellencies of poetry, shakspeare was unrivalled. there he our fancy of itself bereaving, did make us marble with too much conceiving. milton's sonnet to shakspeare.] [footnote : pomp and splendour a poor substitute for genius.] [footnote : the dramatic muse seems of late years to have taken her residence in germany. schiller, kotzebue, and goethé, possess great merit both for passion and sentiment, and the english nation have done them justice. one or two principles which the french and english critics had too implicitly followed from aristotle, are indeed not adopted, but have been, i hope, successfully, counteracted by these writers; yet are these dramatists characterised by a wildness bordering on extravagance, attendant on a state of half-civilization. schiller and kotzebue, amid some faults, possess great excellencies. with respect to england, it has long been noticed by very intelligent observers, that the dramatic taste of the present age is vitiated. pope, who directed very powerful satire against the stage in his time, makes dulness say in general terms, contending theatres our empire raise, alike their censure, and alike their praise. it would be the highest arrogance in me to make such an assertion, with my slender knowledge in these matters; ready too, as i am, to admire some excellent pieces that have fallen in my way; and to affirm, that there is by no means a deficiency of poetic talent in england. aristotle observes, that all the parts of the epic poet are to be found in tragedy, and, consequently, that this species of writing is, of all others, most interesting to men of talents. [greek: peri ooiaetikaes] and baron kotzebue thinks the theatre the best school of instruction, both in morals and taste, even for children; and that better effects are produced by a play, than by a sermon. see his life, written by himself, just translated by anne plumptre. how much then is it to be wished, that so admirable a mean of amusement and instruction might be advanced to its true point of excellence! but the principles laid down by bishop hurd, though calculated to advance the love of splendour, will not, i suspect, advance the true province of the drama.] [footnote : loves of the plants, by dr. darwin.] [footnote : the task, by cowper; written at the request of a lady. the introductory poem is entitled, the sofa.] [footnote : dr. walcot [wolcot: peter pindar], whose poetry is of a farcical and humorous character.] [footnote : the _pleasures of memory_, by rogers; and the _pleasures of hope_, by campbell.] [footnote : joan of arc, by southey;--a volume of poems with an introductory sonnet to mary wolstonecraft, and a poem, on the praise of woman, breathes the same spirit.] [footnote : alludes to the character of a volume of poems, entitled lyrical ballads. under this head also should be mentioned smythe's english lyrics.] [footnote : characteristic of a volume of poems, the joint production of coleridge, lloyd, and lamb.] [footnote : descriptive poems, such as leusden hill, by thomas crowe; and the malvern hills, by joseph cottle.] [footnote : roscoe's reign of leo de medici is interspersed with poetry. roscoe has also translated, the nurse, a poem, from the italian of luigi tansillo.] [footnote : icelandic poetry, or the edda of sæmund, translated by amos cottle; and the oberon of wieland, by sotheby.] [footnote : thomas maurice, the author of the indian antiquities, is republishing his poems; the song to mithra is in the third volume of indian antiquities.] [footnote : the paradise of taste, and pictures of poetry, by alexander thomson.] [footnote : there is a tale of this character by dr. aikin, and the hermit of warkworth, by bishop percy. it will please the friends of taste to hear, that cartwright's armine and elvira, which has been long out of print, is now republishing.] [footnote : the farmer's boy, a poem just published, on the seasons, by robert bloomfield.] [footnote : many of the anonymous poetical pieces thrown into magazines, possess poetical merit. those of a young lady in the monthly magazine, will, i hope, in time be more generally known. those of rushton, of liverpool, will also, i hope, be published by some judicious friend:--this worthy man is a bookseller, who has been afflicted with blindness from his youth.] haydon's party from the _life of benjamin robert haydon_, by tom taylor (_see letter_ , _page_ ) on december th the immortal dinner came off in my painting-room, with jerusalem towering up behind us as a background. wordsworth was in fine cue, and we had a glorious set-to,--on homer, shakespeare, milton and virgil. lamb got exceedingly merry and exquisitely witty; and his fun in the midst of wordsworth's solemn intonations of oratory was like the sarcasm and wit of the fool in the intervals of lear's passion. he made a speech and voted me absent, and made them drink my health. "now," said lamb, "you old lake poet, you rascally poet, why do you call voltaire dull?" we all defended wordsworth, and affirmed there was a state of mind when voltaire would be dull. "well," said lamb, "here's voltaire--the messiah of the french nation, and a very proper one too." he then, in a strain of humour beyond description, abused me for putting newton's head into my picture,--"a fellow," said he, "who believed nothing unless it was as clear as the three sides of a triangle." and then he and keats agreed he had destroyed all the poetry of the rainbow by reducing it to the prismatic colours. it was impossible to resist him, and we all drank "newton's health, and confusion to mathematics." it was delightful to see the good-humour of wordsworth in giving in to all our frolics without affectation and laughing as heartily as the best of us. by this time other friends joined, amongst them poor ritchie who was going to penetrate by fezzan to timbuctoo. i introduced him to all as "a gentleman going to africa." lamb seemed to take no notice; but all of a sudden he roared out, "which is the gentleman we are going to lose?" we than drank the victim's health, in which ritchie joined. in the morning of this delightful day, a gentleman, a perfect stranger, had called on me. he said he knew my friends, had an enthusiasm for wordsworth and begged i would procure him the happiness of an introduction. he told me he was a comptroller of stamps, and often had correspondence with the poet. i thought it a liberty; but still, as he seemed a gentleman, i told him he might come. when we retired to tea we found the comptroller. in introducing him to wordsworth i forgot to say who he was. after a little time the comptroller looked down, looked up and said to wordsworth, "don't you think, sir, milton was a great genius?" keats looked at me, wordsworth looked at the comptroller. lamb who was dozing by the fire turned round and said, "pray, sir, did you say milton was a great genius?" "no, sir; i asked mr. wordsworth if he were not." "oh," said lamb, "then you are a silly fellow." "charles! my dear charles!" said wordsworth; but lamb, perfectly innocent of the confusion he had created, was off again by the fire. after an awful pause the comptroller said, "don't you think newton a great genius?" i could not stand it any longer. keats put his head into my books. ritchie squeezed in a laugh. wordsworth seemed asking himself, "who is this?" lamb got up, and taking a candle, said, "sir, will you allow me to look at your phrenological development?" he then turned his back on the poor man, and at every question of the comptroller he chaunted-- "diddle diddle dumpling, my son john went to bed with his breeches on." the man in office, finding wordsworth did not know who he was, said in a spasmodic and half-chuckling anticipation of assured victory, "i have had the honour of some correspondence with you, mr. wordsworth." "with me, sir?" said wordsworth, "not that i remember." "don't you, sir? i am a comptroller of stamps." there was a dead silence;--the comptroller evidently thinking that was enough. while we were waiting for wordsworth's reply, lamb sung out "hey diddle diddle, the cat and the fiddle." "my dear charles!" said wordsworth,-- "diddle diddle dumpling, my son john," chaunted lamb, and then rising, exclaimed, "do let me have another look at that gentleman's organs." keats and i hurried lamb into the painting-room, shut the door and gave way to inextinguishable laughter. monkhouse followed and tried to get lamb away. we went back, but the comptroller was irreconcilable. we soothed and smiled and asked him to supper. he stayed though his dignity was sorely affected. however, being a good-natured man, we parted all in good-humour, and no ill effects followed. all the while, until monkhouse succeeded, we could hear lamb struggling in the painting-room and calling at intervals, "who is that fellow? allow me to see his organs once more." it was indeed an immortal evening. wordsworth's fine intonation as he quoted milton and virgil, keats' eager inspired look, lamb's quaint sparkle of lambent humour, so speeded the stream of conversation, that in my life i never passed a more delightful time. all our fun was within bounds. not a word passed that an apostle might not have listened to. it was a night worthy of the elizabethan age, and my solemn jerusalem flashing up by the flame of the fire, with christ hanging over us like a vision, all made up a picture which will long glow upon-- "that inward eye which is the bliss of solitude." keats made ritchie promise he would carry his endymion to the great desert of sahara and fling it in the midst. poor ritchie went to africa, and died, as lamb foresaw, in . keats died in , at rome. c. lamb is gone, joking to the last. monkhouse is dead, and wordsworth and i are the only two now living ( ) of that glorious party. proofreading team. the works of charles and mary lamb vi. letters - the letters of charles and mary lamb - edited by e.v. lucas with a frontispiece contents of volume vi letter charles lamb to dorothy wordsworth jan. from mr. gordon wordsworth's original. charles lamb to thomas allsop no date from _harper's magazine_. charles lamb to thomas allsop no date from _harper's magazine_. charles lamb to mrs. william ayrton jan. from the original. charles lamb to miss humphreys jan. from the original at rowfant. charles lamb to mrs. william ayrton. march from the original. charles lamb to thomas allsop march from _harper's magazine_. charles lamb to leigh hunt april from leigh hunt's _correspondence_. charles lamb to s.t. coleridge may from the _life of charles mathews_. charles lamb to james gillman may from the _life of charles mathews_. charles lamb to john payne collier may mr. hazlitt's text (bohn). charles lamb to b.w. procter ?summer from facsimile in mrs. field's _a shelf of old authors_. charles lamb to john taylor june mr. hazlitt's text (bohn). charles lamb to john taylor july mr. hazlitt's text (_the lambs_). charles lamb to c.a. elton aug. from the original in the possession of sir edmund elton. charles lamb to charles cowden clarke summer from _recollections of writers_. mary lamb to mrs. william ayrton no date from the original in the possession of mr. a.m.s. methuen. charles lamb to thomas allsop oct. from the american owner. charles lamb to william ayrton oct. from the original. . charles lamb to s.t. coleridge march mr. hazlitt's text (bohn). charles lamb to william wordsworth march from mr. gordon wordsworth's original. charles lamb to w. harrison ainsworth may mr. hazlitt's text (_the lambs_). charles lamb to william godwin may mr. kegan paul's text (_william godwin: his friends_, etc.). charles lamb to mrs. john lamb may from the original in the bodleian. charles lamb to mary lamb (_fragment_) aug. from crabb robinson's _diary_. charles lamb to john clare aug. from the original (british museum). charles lamb to bernard barton sept. from the original (british museum). charles lamb to barren field sept. from the original in the possession of mr. b.b. macgeorge. charles lamb to john howard payne autumn from the _century magazine_. charles lamb to bernard barton oct. from the original (british museum). charles lamb to b.r. haydon oct. from _haydon's correspondence and table talk_. charles lamb to john howard payne oct. from the _century magazine_. charles lamb to b.r. haydon oct. from _haydon's correspondence and table talk_. charles lamb to sir walter scott oct. from scott's _familiar letters_. charles lamb to thomas robinson nov. from the original (dr. williams' library). charles lamb to john howard payne nov. from the _century magazine_. mary lamb to mrs. james kenney ?early dec. mr. hazlitt's text (_the lambs_). charles lamb to john taylor dec. from _elia_ (bell's edition). charles lamb to walter wilson dec. from the original (bodleian). charles lamb to bernard barton dec. from the original (british museum). . charles lamb to john howard payne jan. from the _century magazine_. charles lamb to william wordsworth jan. from mr. gordon wordsworth's original. charles lamb to mr. and mrs. j.d. collier jan. from the original in the possession of mr. r.b. adam. charles lamb to charles aders jan. from the original (mr. j. dunlop). charles lamb to bernard barton jan. from the original (british museum). charles lamb to john howard payne jan. from the _century magazine_. charles lamb to john howard payne feb. from the _century magazine_. charles lamb to bernard barton feb. from the original (british museum). charles lamb to walter wilson feb. from mr. hazlitt's text. charles lamb to bernard barton march from the original (british museum). charles lamb to bernard barton april from the original (british museum). charles lamb to b.w. procter april mr. hazlitt's text (bohn) with alterations. charles lamb to sarah hutchinson april from mr. gordon wordsworth's original. charles lamb to miss hutchinson (?) (_fragment_) no date from _notes and queries_. charles lamb to john bates dibdin no date from the original in the possession of mr. r.w. dibdin. charles lamb to bernard barton may from the original (british museum). charles lamb to john bates dibdin may from the original in the possession of mr. r.w. dibdin. mary lamb to mrs. randal norris june mr. hazlitt's text (_the lambs_). charles lamb to bernard barton july from the original (british museum). charles lamb to thomas allsop july from _harper's magazine_. charles lamb to bernard barton sept. from the original (british museum). charles lamb to thomas allsop sept. from _harper's magazine_. charles lamb to thomas allsop sept. from _harper's magazine_. charles lamb to thomas allsop sept. from _harper's magazine_. charles lamb to thomas allsop sept. from _harper's magazine_. charles lamb to bernard barton sept. from the original (british museum). charles lamb to charles lloyd (_fragment_) autumn from _letters and poems of bernard barton_. charles lamb to h.f. cary oct. from _memoir of h.f. cary_. charles lamb to thomas allsop ?oct. from _harper's magazine_. charles lamb to john bates dibdin oct. from the original in the possession of mr. r.w. dibdin. charles lamb to sarah hazlitt early nov. mr. hazlitt's text (bohn). charles lamb to robert southey nov. mr. hazlitt's text (bohn). charles lamb to bernard barton nov. from the original (british museum). charles lamb to w. harrison ainsworth dec. from the original. charles lamb to w. harrison ainsworth dec. from the original. . charles lamb to bernard barton jan. from the original (british museum). charles lamb to bernard barton jan. from the original (british museum). charles lamb to bernard barton feb. from the original (british museum). charles lamb to bernard barton march from the original (british museum). charles lamb to bernard barton early spring from the original (british museum). charles lamb to mrs. thomas allsop april from _harper's magazine_. charles lamb to william hone april from the original in the possession of mr. r.a. potts. charles lamb to bernard barton may from the original in the possession of mr. b.b. macgeorge. charles lamb to bernard barton july mr. hazlitt's text (bohn). charles lamb to w. marter. july mr. hazlitt's text (_the lambs_). charles lamb to john bates dibdin july from the original in the possession of mr. r.w. dibdin. charles lamb to thomas hood (?_fragment_) aug. from the original. charles lamb to bernard barton aug. from the original (british museum). charles lamb to bernard barton sept. from the original (british museum). charles lamb to mrs. john dyer collier nov. from the original (south kensington museum). charles lamb to b.w. procter nov. from barry cornwall's _charles lamb_ with alterations. charles lamb to crabb robinson nov. from the original (dr. williams' library). charles lamb to sarah hutchinson nov. from mr. gordon wordsworth's original. charles lamb to leigh hunt ?nov. from leigh hunt's _correspondence_ with alterations. charles lamb to bernard barton dec. charles lamb to lucy barton from the original (british museum). . charles lamb to john bates dibdin jan. from the original in the possession of mr. r.w. dibdin. charles lamb to thomas allsop jan. from _harper's magazine_. charles lamb to sarah hutchinson jan. from mr. gordon wordsworth's original. charles lamb to vincent novello jan. from the original (british museum). charles lamb to bernard barton feb. from the original (british museum). charles lamb to thomas manning ?feb. mr. hazlitt's text (bohn). charles lamb to sarah hutchinson. march from mr. gordon wordsworth's original. charles lamb to bernard barton march from the original (british museum). charles lamb to crabb robinson march from the original (dr. williams' library). charles lamb to william wordsworth april from mr. gordon wordsworth's original. charles lamb to bernard barton april from the original (british museum). charles lamb to sarah hutchinson april from mr. gordon wordsworth's original. (last paragraph from original scrap at welbeck abbey.) charles lamb to william hone may from the original at rowfant. charles lamb to william wordsworth may from mr. gordon wordsworth's original. charles lamb to charles chambers ?may mr. hazlitt's text (_the lambs_). charles lamb to s.t. coleridge ?june mr. hazlitt's text (bohn). charles lamb to henry colburn (?) june from the original (south kensington). charles lamb to s.t. coleridge july from the original (morrison collection). charles lamb to bernard barton july from the original (british museum). charles lamb to john aitken july charles lamb to bernard barton aug. from the original (british museum). charles lamb to robert southey aug. mr. hazlitt's text (bohn). charles lamb to thomas allsop sept. from _harper's magazine_. charles lamb to thomas allsop sept. from _harper's magazine_. charles lamb to william hone oct. from the original at rowfant. charles lamb to thomas allsop dec. from _harper's magazine_. charles lamb to charles oilier ?dec. from the original (south kensington). . charles lamb to charles oilier early in year mr. hazlitt's text (bohn). charles lamb to charles oilier jan. mr. hazlitt's text (bohn). charles lamb to bernard barton feb. from the original (british museum). charles lamb to charles oilier march from the original in the possession of mr. r.a. potts. charles lamb to bernard barton march from the original (british museum). charles lamb to s.t. coleridge march mr. hazlitt's text (bohn). charles lamb to h.f. gary april mr. hazlitt's text. charles lamb to vincent novello may from the original (british museum). charles lamb to bernard barton may from the original (british museum). charles lamb to s.t. coleridge june mr. hazlitt's text (bohn). charles lamb to john bates dibdin june from the original in the possession of mr. r.w. dibdin. charles lamb to thomas hill no year from the original (british museum). charles lamb to john bates dibdin july from the original in the possession of mr. r.w. dibdin. charles lamb to william wordsworth sept. from mr. gordon wordsworth's original. charles lamb to edward moxon (fragment). no date charles lamb to john bates dibdin sept. from the original in the possession of mr. r.w. dibdin. charles lamb to bernard barton sept. from the original (british museum). charles lamb to edward moxon ?sept. from the original in the possession of mr. henry poulton. charles lamb to bernard barton no date from the original (british museum). . charles lamb to crabb robinson jan. mr. hazlitt's text (bohn). charles lamb to crabb robinson jan. from the original (dr. williams' library). charles lamb to crabb robinson jan. from the original (dr. williams' library). charles lamb to crabb robinson jan. from the original (dr. williams' library). charles lamb to b.r. haydon march from taylor's _life of haydon_. charles lamb to william hone april from the original at rowfant. charles lamb to thomas hood may mr. hazlitt's text (_the lambs_). charles lamb to bernard barton no date from the original (british museum). charles lamb to william hone may from the original at rowfant. charles lamb to william hone june from the original at rowfant. charles lamb to bernard barton june from the original (british museum). charles lamb to crabb robinson june from the original (british museum). charles lamb to william hone july from the original at rowfant. charles lamb to edward moxon july from the original at rowfant. charles lamb to p.g. patmore july from patmore's _my friends and acquaintances_. charles lamb to mrs. shelley july mr. hazlitt's text (bohn). charles lamb to mrs. basil montagu summer mr. hazlitt's text (bohn). mary lamb to lady stoddart aug. charles lamb to sir john stoddart from the original (messrs. maggs). charles lamb to bernard barton aug. from the original (british museum). charles lamb to bernard barton aug. from the original (british museum). charles lamb to p.g. patmore sept. from _my friends and acquaintances_. charles lamb to john bates dibdin sept. from the original in the possession of mr. r.w. dibdin. charles lamb to john bates dibdin sept. from the original in the possession of mr. r.w. dibdin. charles lamb to john bates dibdin sept. from the original in the possession of mr. r.w. dibdin. charles lamb to thomas hood sept. from the facsimile in mrs. balmanno's _pen and pencil_. charles lamb to henry colburn sept. from the original (south kensington). charles lamb to edward moxon ?sept. from the original in the possession of mr. henry poulton. charles lamb to crabb robinson oct. from the original (dr. williams' library). charles lamb to john bates dibdin oct. from the original in the possession of mr. r.w. dibdin. charles lamb to barron field oct. from the _memoirs of charles matthews_. charles lamb to william hone ?oct. mr. hazlitt's text (_the lambs_). charles lamb to thomas hood no date from the _national review_. charles lamb to bernard barton no date from the original (british museum). charles lamb to bernard barton dec. from the original (british museum). charles lamb to leigh hunt dec. mr. hazlitt's text (bohn). charles lamb to william hone dec. charles lamb to thomas allsop ?dec. from _harper's magazine_. charles lamb to thomas allsop dec. from _harper's magazine_. charles lamb to edward moxon dec. from the original at rowfant. charles lamb to bernard barton end of year from the original (british museum). . charles lamb to thomas allsop jan. from _harper's magazine_ with alterations. charles lamb to edward moxon ?jan. from the original at rowfant. charles lamb to edward moxon feb. from the original at rowfant. charles lamb to charles cowden clarke feb. from _reminiscences of writers_. charles lamb to crabb robinson feb. from the original (dr. williams' library). charles lamb to edward moxon march mr. hazlitt's text (bohn). charles lamb to bernard barton april from the original (british museum). charles lamb to thomas allsop may from _harper's magazine_. charles lamb to edward moxon may from the original. charles lamb to walter wilson may from the original (british museum). charles lamb to t.n. talfourd may from the original (dr. williams' library). charles lamb to william wordsworth may from the original (dr. williams' library). charles lamb to mrs. morgan june mary lamb to the thomas hoods ?summer mr. hazlitt's text (_the lambs_). charles lamb to b.r. haydon aug. from taylor's _life of haydon_. charles lamb to john rickman (_translation_) oct. charles lamb to bernard barton oct. from the original (british museum). charles lamb to charles cowden clarke oct. from _recollections of writers_. charles lamb to vincent novello nov. from _recollections of writers_. charles lamb to thomas hood late autumn from _hood's own_. charles lamb to edward moxon dec. text from mr. samuel davey. charles lamb to bernard barton dec. from the original (british museum). charles lamb to charles cowden clarke dec. from _recollections of writers_. charles lamb to t.n. talfourd end of year mr. hazlitt's text (bohn). . charles lamb to george dyer ?jan. from the original (british museum). charles lamb to b.w. procter jan. mr. hazlitt's text (bohn). charles lamb to b.w. procter jan. mr. hazlitt's text (bohn) with alterations. charles lamb to thomas allsop jan. from _harper's magazine_. charles lamb to b.w. procter jan. mr. hazlitt's text (bohn) with alterations. charles lamb to b.w. procter early in year mr. hazlitt's text (bohn) with alterations. charles lamb to b.w. procter feb. mr. hazlitt's text (bohn). charles lamb to charles cowden clarke feb. from _recollections of writers_. charles lamb to crabb robinson feb. from the original (dr. williams' library). charles lamb to samuel rogers march from _rogers and his contemporaries_. charles lamb to bernard barton march from the original (british museum). charles lamb to miss sarah james ?april text from mr. samuel davey. charles lamb to crabb robinson ?april from the original (dr. williams' library). charles lamb to crabb robinson april from the original (dr. williams' library). charles lamb to george dyer april from _the mirror_, . charles lamb to thomas hood ?may mr. hazlitt's text (_the lambs_). charles lamb to edward moxon no date from _the autographic mirror_. charles lamb to walter wilson may mr. hazlitt's text (bohn). charles lamb to bernard barton june from the original (british museum). charles lamb to bernard barton july from the original (british museum). charles lamb to thomas allsop late july from _harper's magazine_. charles lamb to edward moxon sept. from the original at rowfant. charles lamb to james gillman oct. mr. hazlitt's text (bohn). charles lamb to vincent novello nov. from the original (british museum). charles lamb to walter wilson nov. mr. hazlitt's text (bohn). charles lamb to james gillman ?nov. mr. hazlitt's text (bohn). charles lamb to james gillman nov. mr. hazlitt's text (bohn). charles lamb to bernard barton dec. from the original (british museum). charles lamb to william wordsworth mary lamb to dorothy wordsworth jan. from mr. gordon wordsworth's original. charles lamb to bernard barton feb. from the original (british museum). charles lamb to mrs. williams feb. mr. hazlitt's text (_the lambs_). charles lamb to mrs. williams march mr. hazlitt's text (_the lambs_). charles lamb to sarah hazlitt march mr. hazlitt's text (bohn). charles lamb to mrs. williams march mr. hazlitt's text (bohn). charles lamb to james gillman march mr. hazlitt's text (bohn). charles lamb to william ayrton march mr. hazlitt's text (bohn). charles lamb to mrs. williams march mr. hazlitt's text (_the lambs_). charles lamb to mrs. williams april from the original in the possession of mr. yates thompson. charles lamb to mrs. williams april from the original. charles lamb to james gillman ?spring mr. hazlitt's text (bohn). charles lamb to jacob vale asbury ?april from _the athenaewn_. charles lamb to jacob vale asbury no date by permission of mr. edward hartley. charles lamb to mrs. williams april mr. hazlitt's text (_the lambs_). charles lamb to robert southey may mr. hazlitt's text (bohn). charles lamb to edward moxon may from the original at rowfant. charles lamb to vincent novello may from the original (british museum). charles lamb to vincent novello may from the original (british museum). charles lamb to william hone may mr. hazlitt's text (bohn). charles lamb to sarah hazlitt may mr. hazlitt's text (bohn). charles lamb to sarah hazlitt june mr. hazlitt's text (bohn). charles lamb to bernard barton june from the original (british museum). charles lamb to bernard barton aug. from the original (british museum). charles lamb to samuel rogers oct. from _rogers and his contemporaries_. charles lamb to vincent novello nov. from _recollections of writers_. charles lamb to edward moxon nov. mr. hazlitt's text (bohn). charles lamb to edward moxon ?dec. from the original at rowfant. charles lamb to george dyer dec. mr. hazlitt's text (bohn) with alterations. charles lamb to edward moxon ?christmas from the original (south kensington). . charles lamb to edward moxon feb. from the original at rowfant. charles lamb to george dyer feb. mr. hazlitt's text (bohn). charles lamb to bernard barton april from the original (british museum). charles lamb to h.f. cary may mr. hazlitt's text (bohn). charles lamb to edward moxon july from the original at rowfant. charles lamb to edward moxon early aug. from the original at rowfant. charles lamb to edward moxon aug. from the original at rowfant. charles lamb to edward moxon sept. from the original at rowfant. charles lamb to william hazlitt, junior sept. mr. hazlitt's text (_lamb and hazlitt_). charles lamb to edward moxon oct. from the original at rowfant. charles lamb to edward moxon dec. from the original at rowfant. . charles lamb to joseph hume's daughters no date mr. hazlitt's text (_the lambs_). charles lamb to c.w. dilke march from sir charles dilke's original. charles lamb to s.t. coleridge april mr. hazlitt's text (bohn). charles lamb to james sheridan knowles ?april from the original (south kensington). charles lamb to john forster ?late april from the original (south kensington). charles lamb to edward moxon? june from the original (south kensington). charles lamb to thomas allsop july from _harper's magazine_. charles lamb to walter wilson aug. from the original in the bodleian. charles lamb to crabb robinson ?early oct. from the original (south kensington). charles lamb to walter savage landor oct. from the original (south kensington). charles lamb to edward moxon late in year from the original at rowfant. charles lamb to edward moxon winter mr. hazlitt's text (bonn). charles lamb to edward moxon dec. from the original (south kensington). charles lamb to john forster. dec. from the original (south kensington). . charles lamb to edward moxon jan. from sir charles dilke's original. charles lamb to edward moxon jan. from the original at rowfant. charles lamb to john forster no date from the original (south kensington). charles lamb to john forster no date from the original (south kensington). charles lamb to john forster no date from the original (south kensington). charles lamb to edward moxon jan. from the original at rowfant. charles lamb to edward moxon feb. from the original (south kensington). charles lamb to edward moxon feb. from the original (south kensington). charles lamb to t.n. talfourd feb. mr. hazlitt's text (bohn). charles lamb to edward moxon no date from the original in the possession of mr. henry poulton. charles lamb to c.w. dilke feb. from sir charles dilke's original. charles lamb to edward moxon early in year from the original at rowfant. charles lamb to b.w. procter. no date from procter's autobiographical fragment. charles lamb to william hone march from the original (national portrait gallery). charles lamb to edward moxon march from the original (south kensington). charles lamb to edward moxon ?spring from the original (south kensington). charles lamb to edward moxon march from the original at rowfant. charles lamb to edward moxon spring from the original at rowfant. charles lamb to john forster ?march from the original (south kensington). charles lamb to edward moxon ?april from the original at rowfant. charles lamb to c.w. dilke april from sir charles dilke's original. charles lamb to mrs. william ayrton april from the original, lately in the possession of mr. edward ayrton. charles lamb to edward moxon april from the original at rowfant. charles lamb to edward moxon april from the original at rowfant. charles lamb to the rev. james gillman may charles lamb to john forster may from the original (south kensington). charles lamb to john forster may from the original (south kensington). charles lamb to william wordsworth end of may from mr. gordon wordsworth's original. charles lamb to sarah hazlitt may mr. hazlitt's text (bohn) with alterations. charles lamb to mary betham june from _a house of letters_. charles lamb to matilda betham june from _fraser's magazine_. charles lamb to edward moxon july from the original at rowfant. charles lamb to edward moxon july from the original at rowfant. charles and mary lamb to edward and emma moxon ?july from the original at rowfant. charles lamb to h.f. cary sept. mr. hazlitt's text (bohn). charles and mary lamb to edward moxon sept. from the original at rowfant. charles lamb to edward moxon oct. from the original at rowfant. charles lamb to edward and emma moxon nov. mr. hazlitt's text (bohn). charles lamb to c.w. dilke mid. dec. from sir charles dilke's original. charles lamb to samuel rogers dec. from _rogers and his contemporaries_. charles lamb to c.w. dilke no date from sir charles dilke's original. charles lamb to c.w. dilke no date from sir charles dilke's original. . charles lamb to the printer of _the athenaeum_ no date from sir charles dilke's original. charles lamb to mary betham jan. from the original in the possession of mr. b.b. macgeorge. charles lamb to edward moxon jan. from the original (south kensington). charles lamb to miss fryer feb. mr. hazlitt's text (bohn). charles lamb to miss fryer no date from the original in the possession of mr. a.m.s. methuen. charles lamb to william wordsworth feb. from mr. gordon wordsworth's original. charles lamb to t.n. talfourd no date charles lamb to charles cowden clarke (_fragment_) end of june from the _life and labours of vincent novello._ charles lamb to john forster june from the original (south kensington). charles lamb to j. fuller russell summer from _notes and queries_. charles lamb to j. fuller russell summer from _notes and queries_. charles lamb to c.w. dilke end of july from sir charles dilke's original. charles lamb to the rev. james gillman aug. mr. hazlitt's text (bohn). charles and mary lamb to h.f. cary sept. mr. hazlitt's text (bohn). charles lamb to h.f. cary oct. mr. hazlitt's text (bohn). charles lamb to h.f. cary oct. mr. hazlitt's text (bohn). charles lamb to mr. childs ?dec. mr. hazlitt's text (bohn). charles lamb to mr. childs no date charles lamb to mrs. george dyer dec. mr. hazlitt's text (bohn). mary lamb to jane norris dec. mr. hazlitt's text (_the lambs_). mary lamb to jane norris oct. . mr. hazlitt's text (_the lambs_). last letter. miss james to jane norris july . appendix barton's "spiritual law" barton's "translation of enoch" talfourd's "verses in memory of a child named after charles lamb" fitzgerald's "meadows in spring" montgomery's "the common lot" barry cornwall's "epistle to charles lamb" alphabetical list of letters index frontispiece charles lamb (aged ). from the painting by henry meyer at the india office. the letters of charles and mary lamb - letter charles lamb to dorothy wordsworth [p.m. january , .] mary perfectly approves of the appropriat'n of the _feathers_, and wishes them peacocks for your fair niece's sake! dear miss wordsworth, i had just written the above endearing words when monkhouse tapped me on the shoulder with an invitation to cold goose pye, which i was not bird of that sort enough to decline. mrs. m. i am most happy to say 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 play'd the experimental philosopher on it, that's certain. willy shall be welcome to a mince pye, 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 _what 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 sidney, 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 alsop, who sends me hares and pheasants 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. paris, our cambridge friend, has been in town. you do not know the watfords? in trumpington street--they are capital people. ask any body you meet, who is the biggest woman in cambridge--and i'll hold you a wager they'll say mrs. smith. she broke down two benches in trinity gardens, one on the confines of st. john's, which 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 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 , cheapening fowls, which i observe the cambridge poulterers are not sufficiently careful to stump. having now answered most of the points containd in your letter, let me end with assuring you of our very best kindness, and excuse mary from not handling the pen on this occasion, especially as it has fallen into so much better hands! will dr. w. accept of my respects at the end of a foolish letter. c.l. [miss wordsworth was visiting her brother, christopher wordsworth, the master of trinity. willy was william wordsworth, junr. lamb's new year speculations were contained in his _elia_ essay "new year's eve," in the _london magazine_ for january, . there is no evidence that campbell disapproved of the essay. canon ainger suggests that lamb may have thus alluded playfully to the pessimism of his remarks, so opposed to the pleasures of hope. when the _quarterly_ did "come in," in , it was with cold words, as we shall see. "trinity library." it is here that are preserved those mss. of milton, which lamb in his essay "oxford in the vacation," in the _london magazine_ for october, , says he regrets to have seen. "cromwell at sidney." see mary lamb's letter to miss hutchinson, august , . "harvey ... at dr. davy's"--dr. martin davy, master of caius. "alsop." this is the first mention of thomas allsop ( - ), coleridge's friend and disciple, who, meeting coleridge in , had just come into lamb's circle. we shall meet him frequently. allsop's _letters, conversations and recollections of samuel taylor coleridge_ contain much matter concerning lamb. "winter bleak had charms for me." i could not find this for the large edition. it is from burns' "epistle to william simpson," stanza . mrs. paris was a sister of william ayrton and the mother of john ayrton paris, the physician. it was at her house at cambridge that the lambs met emma isola, whom we are soon to meet. "mrs. smith." lamb worked up this portion of his letter into the little humorous sketch "the gentle giantess," printed in the _london magazine_ for december, (see vol. i. of the present edition), wherein mrs. smith of cambridge becomes the widow blacket of oxford. "dr. w."--dr. christopher wordsworth.] letter charles lamb to thomas allsop [no date. .] dear sir--the _hairs_ of our head are numbered, but those which emanate from your heart defy arithmetic. i would send longer thanks but your young man is blowing his fingers in the passage. yours gratefully c.l. [the date of this scrap is unimportant; but it comes well here in connection with the reference in the preceding letter. in _harper's magazine_ for december, , were printed fifty of lamb's notes to allsop, all of which are reproduced in at least two editions of lamb's letters. i have selected only those which say anything, as for the most part lamb was content with the merest message; moreover, the date is often so uncertain as to be only misleading. crabb robinson says of allsop, "i believe his acquaintance with lamb originated in his sending coleridge a present of £ in admiration of his genius."] letter charles lamb to thomas allsop [no date. .] d'r sir--thanks for the birds and your kindness. it was but yesterd'y. i was contriving with talf'd to meet you / way at his chamber. but night don't do so well at present. i shall want to be home at dalston by eight. i will pay an afternoon visit to you when you please. i dine at a chop-house at one always, but i can spend an hour with you after that. yours truly c.l. would saturdy serve? letter charles lamb to mrs. william ayrton [dated at end: jan. , .] dear mrs. ayrton, my sister desires me, as being a more expert penman than herself, to say that she saw mrs. paris yesterday, and that she is very much out of spirits, and has expressed a great wish to see your son william, and fanny-- i like to write that word _fanny_. i do not know but it was one reason of taking upon me this pleasing task-- moreover that if the said william and frances will go and sit an hour with her at any time, she will engage that no one else shall see them but herself, and the servant who opens the door, she being confined to her private room. i trust you and the juveniles will comply with this reasonable request. & am dear mrs. ayrton your's and yours' truly c. lamb. cov. gar. jan. . [mrs. ayrton (_née_ arnold) was the wife of william ayrton, the musical critic.] letter charles lamb to miss humphreys london jan'y. . dear madam, carriages to cambridge are in such request, owing to the installation, that we have found it impossible to procure a conveyance for emma before wednesday, on which day between the hours of and in the afternoon you will see your little friend, with her bloom somewhat impaired by late hours and dissipation, but her gait, gesture, and general manners (i flatter myself) considerably improved by--_somebody that shall be nameless_. my sister joins me in love to all true trumpingtonians, not specifying any, to avoid envy; and begs me to assure you that emma has been a very good girl, which, with certain limitations, i must myself subscribe to. i wish i could cure her of making dog's ears in books, and pinching them on poor pompey, who, for one, i dare say, will heartily rejoyce at her departure. dear madam, yours truly foolish c.l. [addressed to "miss humphreys, with mrs. paris, trumpington street, cambridge." franked by j. rickman. this letter contains the first reference in the correspondence to emma isola, daughter of charles isola, esquire bedell of cambridge university, and granddaughter of agostino isola, the italian critic and teacher, of cambridge, among whose pupils had been wordsworth. miss humphreys was emma isola's aunt. emma seems to have been brought to london by mrs. paris and left with the lambs. pompey seems to have been the lamb's first dog. later, as we shall see, they adopted dash.] letter charles lamb to mrs. william ayrton [dated at end: march , .] dear madam, we are out of town of necessity till wednesday next, when we hope to see one of you at least to a rubber. on some future saturday we shall most gladly accept your kind offer. when i read your delicate little note, i am ashamed of my great staring letters. yours most truly charles lamb. dalston near hackney mar. . [in my large edition i give a facsimile of this letter.] letter charles lamb to thomas allsop march, . my dear sir--if you can come next sunday we shall be equally glad to see you, but do not trust to any of martin's appointments, except on business, in future. he is notoriously faithless in that point, and we did wrong not to have warned you. leg of lamb, as before; hot at . and the heart of lamb ever. yours truly, c.l. letter charles lamb to leigh hunt _indifferent wednesday_ [april ], . dear hunt,--there was a sort of side talk at mr. novello's about our spending _good friday_ at hampstead, but my sister has got so bad a cold, and we both want rest so much, that you shall excuse our putting off the visit some little time longer. perhaps, after all, you know nothing of it.-- believe me, yours truly, c. lamb. letter charles lamb to s.t. coleridge may st [ ], mr. gilman's, highgate. mr. c.--i will not fail you on friday by six, and mary, perhaps, earlier. i very much wish to meet "master mathew," and am much obliged to the g----s for the opportunity. our kind respects to them always.--elia. extract from a ms. note of s.t.c. in my beaumont and fletcher, dated april th . _midnight_. "god bless you, dear charles lamb, i am dying; i feel i have not many weeks left." [master mathew is in ben jonson's "every man in his humour." lamb's "beaumont and fletcher" is in the british museum. the note quoted by lamb is not there, or perhaps it is one that has been crossed out. this still remains: "n.b. i shall not be long here, charles! i gone, you will not mind my having spoiled a book in order to leave a relic. s.t.c., oct. ."] letter charles lamb to james gillman [dated at end: may, .] dear sir--you dine so late on friday, it will be impossible for us to go home by the eight o'clock stage. will you oblige us by securing us beds at some house from which a stage goes to the bank in the morning? i would write to coleridge, but cannot think of troubling a dying man with such a request. yours truly, c. lamb. if the beds in the town are all engaged, in consequence of mr. mathews's appearance, a hackney-coach will serve. wednes'y. may ' . we shall neither of us come much before the time. [mrs. mathews (who was half-sister of fanny kelly) described this evening in her _memoirs_ of her husband, . her account of lamb is interesting:-- mr. lamb's first approach was not prepossessing. his figure was small and mean; and no man certainly was ever less beholden to his tailor. his "bran" new _suit_ of black cloth (in which he affected several times during the day to take great pride, and to cherish as a novelty that he had long looked for and wanted) was drolly contrasted with his very rusty silk stockings, shown from his knees, and his much too large _thick_ shoes, without polish. his shirt rejoiced in a wide ill-plaited frill, and his very small, tight, white neckcloth was hemmed to a fine point at the ends that formed part of the little bow. his hair was black and sleek, but not formal, and his face the gravest i ever saw, but indicating great intellect, and resembling very much the portraits of king charles i. mr. coleridge was very anxious about his _pet_ lamb's first impression upon my husband, which i believe his friend saw; and guessing that he had been extolled, he mischievously resolved to thwart his panegyrist, disappoint the strangers, and altogether to upset the suspected plan of showing him off. the mathews' were then living at ivy cottage, only a short distance from the grove, highgate, where the famous mathews collection of pictures was to be seen of which lamb subsequently wrote in the _london magazine_. here should come a note to ayrton saying that madame noblet is the least graceful dancer that lamb ever "did not see."] letter charles lamb to john payne collier may , . dear j.p.c.,--many thanks for the "decameron:" i have not such a gentleman's book in my collection: it was a great treat to me, and i got it just as i was wanting something of the sort. i take less pleasure in books than heretofore, but i like books about books. in the second volume, in particular, are treasures--your discoveries about "twelfth night," etc. what a shakespearian essence that speech of osrades for food!--shakespeare is coarse to it--beginning "forbear and eat no more." osrades warms up to that, but does not set out ruffian-swaggerer. the character of the ass with those three lines, worthy to be set in gilt vellum, and worn in frontlets by the noble beasts for ever-- "thou would, perhaps, he should become thy foe, and to that end dost beat him many times: he cares not for himself, much less thy blow." cervantes, sterne, and coleridge, have said positively nothing for asses compared with this. i write in haste; but p. , vol. i., the line you cannot appropriate is gray's sonnet, specimenifyed by wordsworth in first preface to l.b., as mixed of bad and good style: p. , nd vol., you will find last poem but one of the collection on sidney's death in spenser, the line, "scipio, caesar, petrarch of our time." this fixes it to be raleigh's: i had guess'd it to be daniel's. the last after it, "silence augmenteth rage," i will be crucified if it be not lord brooke's. hang you, and all meddling researchers, hereafter, that by raking into learned dust may find me out wrong in my conjecture! dear j.p.c., i shall take the first opportunity of personally thanking you for my entertainment. we are at dalston for the most part, but i fully hope for an evening soon with you in russell or bouverie street, to talk over old times and books. remember _us_ kindly to mrs. j.p.c. yours very kindly, charles lamb. i write in misery. n.b.--the best pen i could borrow at our butcher's: the ink, i verily believe, came out of the kennel. [collier's _poetical decameron_, in two volumes, was published in : a series of imaginary conversations on curious and little-known books. his "twelfth night" discoveries will be found in the eighth conversation; collier deduces the play from barnaby rich's _farewell to military profession_, . he also describes thomas lodge's "rosalynde," the forerunner of "as you like it," in which is the character rosader, whom lamb calls osrades. his speech for food runs thus:-- it hapned that day that _gerismond_, the lawfull king of _france_ banished by _torismond_, who with a lustie crew of outlawes liued in that forrest, that day in honour of his birth, made a feast to all his bolde yeomen, and frolickt it with store of wine and venison, sitting all at a long table vnder the shadow of limon trees: to that place by chance fortune conducted rosader, who seeing such a crew of braue men, hauing store of that for want of which hee and adam perished, hee slept boldly to the boords end, and saluted the company thus.--whatsoeuer thou be that art maister of these lustie squires, i salute thee as graciously as a man in extreame distresse may: knowe that i and a fellow friend of mine, are here famished in the forrest for want of foode: perish we must, vnlesse relieued by thy fauours. therefore if thou be a gentleman, giue meate to men, and such as are euery way worthie of life: let the proudest squire that sits at thy table rise and encounter with me in any honourable point of activitie whatsoeuer, and if he and thou proue me not a man, send mee away comfortlesse: if thou refuse this, as a niggard of thy cates, i will haue amongst you with my sword, for rather wil i die valiantly, then perish with so cowardly an extreame (collier's _poetical decameron_, , eighth conversation). lamb compares with that the passage in "as you like it," ii., , , beginning with orlando's "forbear, and eat no more." the character of the ass is quoted by collier from an old book, _the noblenesse of the asse_, , in the third conversation:-- thou wouldst (perhaps) he should become thy foe, and to that end doost beat him many times; he cares not for himselfe, much lesse thy blowe. lamb wrote more fully of this passage in an article on the ass contributed to hone's _every-day book_ in (see vol. i. of the present edition). the line from gray's sonnet on the death of mr. richard west was this:-- and weep the more because i weep in vain. "scipio, caesar," etc. this line runs, in the epitaph on sidney, beginning "to praise thy life"-- scipio, cicero, and petrarch of our time! it is generally supposed to be by raleigh. the next poem, "silence augmenteth grief," is attributed by malone to sir edward dyer, and by hannah to raleigh.] letter charles lamb to b.w. procter [no date. ?summer, .] dear sir, the _wits_ (as clare calls us) assemble at my cell ( russell st. cov.-gar.) this evening at / before . cold meat at . puns at--a little after. mr. cary wants to see you, to scold you. i hope you will not fail. yours &c. &c. &c. c. lamb. thursday. i am sorry the london magazine is going to be given up. [i assume the date of this note to be summer, , because it was then that baldwin, cradock & joy, the _london magazine's_ first publishers, gave it up. the reason was the death of john scott, the editor, and probably to a large extent the originator, of the magazine. it was sold to taylor & hessey, their first number being dated july, . scott had become involved in a quarrel with _blackwood_, which reached such a pitch that a duel was fought, between scott and christie, a friend of lockhart's. the whole story, which is involved, and indeed not wholly clear, need not be told here: it will be found in mr. lang's memoir of lockhart. the meeting was held at chalk farm on february , . peter george patmore, sub-editor of the _london_, was scott's second. scott fell, wounded by a shot which christie fired purely in self-defence. he died on february . mr. cary. henry francis cary the translator of dante and a contributor to the _london magazine_. the _london magazine_ had four periods. from to the middle of , when it was baldwin, cradock & joy's. from to the end of , when it was taylor & hessey's at a shilling. from january, , to august of that year, when it was taylor & hessey's at half-a-crown; and from september, l , to the end, when it was henry southern's, and was published by hunt & clarke.] letter charles lamb to john taylor margate, june , . dear sir,--i am extremely sorry to be obliged to decline the article proposed, as i should have been flattered with a plate accompanying it. in the first place, midsummer day is not a topic i could make anything of--i am so pure a cockney, and little read, besides, in may games and antiquities; and, in the second, i am here at margate, spoiling my holydays with a review i have undertaken for a friend, which i shall barely get through before my return; for that sort of work is a hard task to me. if you will excuse the shortness of my first contribution-and i _know_ i can promise nothing more for july--i will endeavour a longer article for _our next_. will you permit me to say that i think leigh hunt would do the article you propose in a masterly manner, if he has not outwrit himself already upon the subject. i do not return the proof--to save postage--because it is correct, with one exception. in the stanza from wordsworth, you have changed day into air for rhyme-sake: day is the right reading, and i implore you to restore it. the other passage, which you have queried, is to my ear correct. pray let it stand. d'r s'r, yours truly, c. lamb. on second consideration, i do enclose the proof. [john taylor ( - ), the publisher, with hessey, of the _london magazine_ was, in , the first publicly to identify sir philip francis with junius. taylor acted as editor of the _london magazine_ from to , assisted by thomas hood. later his interests were centred in currency questions. "i am here at margate." i do not know what review lamb was writing. if written and published it has not been reprinted. it was on this visit to margate that lamb met charles cowden clarke. "my first contribution." the first number to bear taylor & hessey's name was dated july, but they had presumably acquired the rights in the magazine before then. lamb's first contribution to the _london magazine_ had been in august, , "the south-sea house." the proof which lamb returned was that of the _elia_, essay on "mackery end in hertfordshire," printed in the july number of the _london magazine_, in which he quoted a stanza from wordsworth's "yarrow visited":-- but thou, that didst appear so fair to fond imagination, dost rival in the light of day her delicate creation. here should come a scrap from lamb to ayrton, dated july , , referring to the coronation. lamb says that in consequence of this event he is postponing his wednesday evening to friday.] letter charles lamb to john taylor july , . d'r sir,--the _lond. mag._ is chiefly pleasant to me, because some of my friends write in it. i hope hazlitt intends to go on with it, we cannot spare table talk. for myself i feel almost exhausted, but i will try my hand a little longer, and shall not at all events be written out of it by newspaper paragraphs. your proofs do not seem to want my helping hand, they are quite correct always. for god's sake change _sisera_ to _jael_. this last paper will be a choke-pear i fear to some people, but as you do not object to it, i can be under little apprehension of your exerting your censorship too rigidly. thanking you for your extract from m'r. e.'s letter, i remain, d'r sir, your obliged, c. lamb. [hazlitt continued his table talk in the _london magazine_ until december, . lamb seems to have been treated foolishly by some newspaper critic; but i have not traced the paragraphs in question. the proof was that of the _elia_ essay "imperfect sympathies," which was printed (with a fuller title) in the number for august, . the reference to jael is in the passage on braham and the jewish character. i do not identify mr. e. possibly elton. see next letter. here should come a further letter to taylor, dated july , , in which lamb refers to some verses addressed to him by "olen" (charles abraham elton: see note to next letter) in the _london magazine_ for august, remonstrating with him for the pessimism of the _elia_ essay "new year's eve" (see vol. ii. of this edition). lamb also remarks that he borrowed the name elia (pronounced ellia) from an old south-sea house clerk who is now dead. elia has recently been identified by mr. r.w. goulding, the librarian at welbeck abbey, as f. augustus elia, author of a french tract entitled _considération sur l'état actuel de la france au mois de juin . par une anglais_. it is privately reprinted in _letters from the originals at welbeck abbey_, .] letter charles lamb to charles abraham elton india house to which place all letters addressed to c.l. commonly come. [august , (?).] my dear sir, you have overwhelmed me with your favours. i have received positively a little library from baldwyn's. i do not know how i have deserved such a bounty. we have been up to the ear in the classics ever since it came. i have been greatly pleased, but most, i think, with the hesiod,--the titan battle quite amazed me. gad, it was no child's play--and then the homely aphorisms at the end of the works--how adroitly you have turned them! can he be the same hesiod who did the titans? the latter is-- "-----wine which to madness does incline." but to read the days and works, is like eating nice brown bread, homely sweet and nutritive. apollonius was new to me. i had confounded him with the conjuror of that name. medea is glorious; but i cannot give up dido. she positively is the only fine lady of antiquity: her courtesy to the trojans is altogether queen-like. eneas is a most disagreeable person. ascanius a pretty young master. mezentius for my money. his dying speech shames turpin--not the archbishop i mean, but the roadster of that name. i have been ashamed to find how many names of classics (and more than their names) you have introduced me to, that before i was ignorant of. your commendation of master chapman arrideth me. can any one read the pert modern frenchify'd notes, &c., in pope's translation, and contrast them with solemn weighty prefaces of chapman, writing in full faith, as he evidently does, of the plenary inspiration of his author--worshipping his meanest scraps and relics as divine--without one sceptical misgiving of their authenticity, and doubt which was the properest to expound homer to their countrymen. reverend chapman! you have read his hymn to pan (the homeric)--why, it is milton's blank verse clothed with rhyme. paradise lost could scarce lose, could it be so accoutred. i shall die in the belief that he has improved upon homer, in the odyssey in particular--the disclosure of ulysses of himself, to alcinous, his previous behaviour at the song of the stern strife arising between achilles and himself (how it raises him above the _iliad_ ulysses!) but you know all these things quite as well as i do. but what a deaf ear old c. would have turned to the doubters in homer's real personality! they might as well have denied the appearance of j.c. in the flesh.--he apparently believed all the fables of h.'s birth, &c. those notes of bryant have caused the greatest disorder in my brain-pan. well, i will not flatter when i say that we have had two or three long evening's _good reading_ out of your kind present. i will say nothing of the tenderest parts in your own little volume, at the end of such a slatternly scribble as this, but indeed they cost us some tears. i scrawl away because of interruptions every moment. you guess how it is in a busy office--papers thrust into your hand when your hand is busiest--and every anti-classical disavocation. [_conclusion cut away_.] [sir charles abraham elton ( - ) seems to have sent lamb a number of his books, principally his _specimens of the classical_ _poets ... from homer to tryphiodorus translated into english verse_, baldwin, , in three volumes. lamb refers first to the passage from hesiod's _theogony_, and then to his _works and days_ (which chapman translated)--"dispensation of providence to the just and unjust." apollonius rhodius was the author of _the argonautics_. lamb then passes on to virgil. for the death of mezentius see the _aeneid_, book x., at the end. the makers of broadsides had probably credited dick turpin with a dying speech. "those notes of bryant." lamb possibly refers to jacob bryant's _essay on the original genius and writings of homer_, , or his pamphlet on the trojan war, , . "your own little volume." probably _the brothers and other poems_, by elton, .] letter charles lamb to charles cowden clarke [summer, .] my dear sir--your letter has lain in a drawer of my desk, upbraiding me every time i open the said drawer, but it is almost impossible to answer such a letter in such a place, and i am out of the habit of replying to epistles otherwhere than at office. you express yourself concerning h. like a true friend, and have made me feel that i have somehow neglected him, but without knowing very well how to rectify it. i live so remote from him--by hackney--that he is almost out of the pale of visitation at hampstead. and i come but seldom to cov't gard'n this summer time--and when i do, am sure to pay for the late hours and pleasant novello suppers which i incur. i also am an invalid. but i will hit upon some way, that you shall not have cause for your reproof in future. but do not think i take the hint unkindly. when i shall be brought low by any sickness or untoward circumstance, write just such a letter to some tardy friend of mine--or come up yourself with your friendly henshaw face--and that will be better. i shall not forget in haste our casual day at margate. may we have many such there or elsewhere! god bless you for your kindness to h., which i will remember. but do not show n. this, for the flouting infidel doth mock when christians cry god bless us. yours and _his, too_, and all our little circle's most affect'e. c. lamb. mary's love included. [charles cowden clarke ( - ) was the son of a schoolmaster who had served as usher with george dyer at northampton. afterwards he established a school at enfield, where keats was one of the scholars. charles cowden clarke, at this time a bookseller, remained one of keats' friends and was a friend also of leigh hunt's, on whose behalf he seems to have written to lamb. later he became a partner of alfred novello, the musical publisher, son of vincent novello. in he married mary victoria novello. "friendly henshaw face." i cannot explain this. leigh hunt left england for italy in november, , to join shelley and byron. here should come a brief note to allan cunningham asking him to an evening party of _london magazine_ contributors at russell st., given in the boston bibliophile edition.] letter mary lamb to mrs. william ayrton [no date. ? .] thursday morning. my dear friend, the kind interest you took in my perplexities of yesterday makes me feel that you will be well pleased to hear i got through my complicated business far better than i had ventured to hope i should do. in the first place let me thank you, my good friend, for your good advice; for, had i not gone to martin first he would have sent a senseless letter to mr. rickman, and _now_ he is coming here to-day in order to frame one in conjunction with my brother. what will be mr. rickman's final determination i know not, but he and mrs. rickman both gave me a most kind reception, and a most patient hearing, and then mr. r. walked with me as far as bishopsgate street, conversing the whole way on the same unhappy subject. i will see you again the very first opportunity till when farewel with grateful thanks. how senseless i was not to make you go back in that empty coach. i never have but one idea in my poor head at a time. yours affectionately m. lamb. at mr. coston's no. kingsland row dalston. [the explanation of this letter is found in an entry in crabb robinson's _diary_, the unpublished portion, which tells us that owing to certain irregularities rickman, who was clerk assistant at the table of the house of commons, had been obliged to discharge martin burney, who was one of his clerks. here should come another scrap from lamb to ayrton, dated august , stating that at to-morrow's rubber the windows will be closed on account of her majesty's death. her majesty was queen caroline, whom lamb had championed. she died on august .] letter charles lamb to thomas allsop oct. , . my dear sir, i have to thank you for a fine hare, and unless i am mistaken for _two_, the first i received a week since, the account given with it was that it came from mr. alfourd--i have no friend of that name, but two who come near it mr. talfourd mr. alsop so my gratitude must be divided between you, till i know the true sender. we are and shall be some time, i fear, at dalston, a distance which does not improve hares by the circuitous route of cov't garden, though for the sweetness of _this last_ i will answer. we dress it to-day. i suppose you know my sister has been & is ill. i do not see much hopes, though there is a glimmer, of her speedy recovery. when we are all well, i hope to come among our town friends, and shall have great pleasure in welcoming you from beresford hall. yours, & old mr. walton's, & honest mr. cotton's piscatorum amicus, c.l. india house oct. letter charles lamb to william ayrton [oct. , .] i come, grimalkin! dalston, near hackney, th oct'r. one thousand hundred and twenty one years and a wee-bit since you and i were redeemed. i doubt if _you_ are done properly yet. [a further letter to ayrton, dated from dalston, october , is printed by mr. macdonald, in which lamb speaks of his sister's illness and the death of his brother john, who died on october , aged fifty-eight. it is reasonable to suppose that lamb, when the above note was written, was unaware of his brother's death (see note to letter on page ). on october , however, he had written to the editor of the _london magazine_ saying that he was most uncomfortably situated at home and expecting some trouble which might prevent further writing for some time--which may have been an allusion to his brother's illness or to signs of mary lamb's approaching malady. here should come a note to william hone, evidently in reply to a comment on lamb's essay on "saying grace." here should come a letter from lamb to rickman, dated november , , referring to admiral burney's death. "i have been used to death lately. poor jim white's departure last year first broke the spell. i had been so fortunate as to have lost no friends in that way for many long years, and began to think people did not die." he says that mary lamb has recovered from a long illness and is pretty well resigned to john lamb's death.] letter charles lamb to s.t. coleridge march th, . dear c.,--it gives me great satisfaction to hear that the pig turned out so well--they are interesting creatures at a certain age--what a pity such buds should blow out into the maturity of rank bacon! you had all some of the crackling --and brain sauce--did you remember to rub it with butter, and gently dredge it a little, just before the crisis? did the eyes come away kindly with no oedipean avulsion? was the crackling the colour of the ripe pomegranate? had you no complement of boiled neck of mutton before it, to blunt the edge of delicate desire? did you flesh maiden teeth in it? not that i sent the pig, or can form the remotest guess what part owen could play in the business. i never knew him give anything away in my life. he would not begin with strangers. i suspect the pig, after all, was meant for me; but at the unlucky juncture of time being absent, the present somehow went round to highgate. to confess an honest truth, a pig is one of those things i could never think of sending away. teals, wigeons, snipes, barn-door fowl, ducks, geese--your tame villatic things--welsh mutton, collars of brawn, sturgeon, fresh or pickled, your potted char, swiss cheeses, french pies, early grapes, muscadines, i impart as freely unto my friends as to myself. they are but self-extended; but pardon me if i stop somewhere--where the fine feeling of benevolence giveth a higher smack than the sensual rarity--there my friends (or any good man) may command me; but pigs are pigs, and i myself therein am nearest to myself. nay, i should think it an affront, an undervaluing done to nature who bestowed such a boon upon me, if in a churlish mood i parted with the precious gift. one of the bitterest pangs of remorse i ever felt was when a child--when my kind old aunt had strained her pocketstrings to bestow a sixpenny whole plum-cake upon me. in my way home through the borough, i met a venerable old man, not a mendicant, but thereabouts--a look-beggar, not a verbal petitionist; and in the coxcombry of taught-charity i gave away the cake to him. i walked on a little in all the pride of an evangelical peacock, when of a sudden my old aunt's kindness crossed me--the sum it was to her--the pleasure she had a right to expect that i--not the old impostor --should take in eating her cake--the cursed ingratitude by which, under the colour of a christian virtue, i had frustrated her cherished purpose. i sobbed, wept, and took it to heart so grievously, that i think i never suffered the like--and i was right. it was a piece of unfeeling hypocrisy, and proved a lesson to me ever after. the cake has long been masticated, consigned to dunghill with the ashes of that unseasonable pauper. but when providence, who is better to us all than our aunts, gives me a pig, remembering my temptation and my fall, i shall endeavour to act towards it more in the spirit of the donor's purpose. yours (short of pig) to command in everything. c.l. [this letter probably led to the immediate composition of the _elia_ essay "a dissertation on roast pig" (see vol. ii. of the present edition), which was printed in the _london magazine_ for september, . see also "thoughts on presents of game," vol. i. of this edition. "owen." lamb's landlord in russell street. "my kind old aunt... the borough." this is rather perplexing. lamb, to the best of our knowledge, never as a child lived anywhere but in the temple. his only aunt of whom we know anything lived with the family also in the temple. but john lamb's will proves lamb to have had two aunts. the reference to the borough suggests therefore that the aunt in question was not sarah lamb (aunt hetty) but her sister.] letter charles lamb to william wordsworth th march, . my dear wordsworth--a letter from you is very grateful, i have not seen a kendal postmark so long! we are pretty well save colds and rheumatics, and a certain deadness to every thing, which i think i may date from poor john's loss, and another accident or two at the same time, that has made me almost bury myself at dalston, where yet i see more faces than i could wish. deaths over-set one and put one out long after the recent grief. two or three have died within this last two twelvem'ths, and so many parts of me have been numbed. one sees a picture, reads an anecdote, starts a casual fancy, and thinks to tell of it to this person in preference to every other--the person is gone whom it would have peculiarly suited. it won't do for _another_. every departure destroys a class of sympathies. there's capt. burney gone!--what fun has whist now? what matters it what you lead, if you can no longer fancy him looking over you? one never hears any thing, but the image of the particular person occurs with whom alone almost you would care to share the intelligence. thus one distributes oneself about--and now for so many parts of me i have lost the market. common natures do not suffice me. good people, as they are called, won't serve. i want individuals. i am made up of queer points and i want so many answering needles. the going away of friends does not make the remainder more precious. it takes so much from them as there was a common link. a. b. and c. make a party. a. dies. b. not only loses a. but all a.'s part in c. c. loses a.'s part in b., and so the alphabet sickens by subtraction of interchangeables. i express myself muddily, capite dolente. i have a dulling cold. my theory is to enjoy life, but the practice is against it. i grow ominously tired of official confinement. thirty years have i served the philistines, and my neck is not subdued to the yoke. you don't know how wearisome it is to breathe the air of four pent walls without relief day after day, all the golden hours of the day between and without ease or interposition. taedet me harum quotidianarum formarum, these pestilential clerk faces always in one's dish. o for a few years between the grave and the desk! they are the same, save that at the latter you are outside the machine. the foul enchanter--letters four do form his name--busirane is his name in hell--that has curtailed you of some domestic comforts, hath laid a heavier hand on me, not in present infliction, but in taking away the hope of enfranchisement. i dare not whisper to myself a pension on this side of absolute incapacitation and infirmity, till years have sucked me dry. otium cum indignitate. i had thought in a green old age (o green thought!) to have retired to ponder's end--emblematic name how beautiful! in the ware road, there to have made up my accounts with heaven and the company, toddling about between it and cheshunt, anon stretching on some fine izaac walton morning to hoddesdon or amwell, careless as a beggar, but walking, walking ever, till i fairly walkd myself off my legs, dying walking! the hope is gone. i sit like philomel all day (but not singing) with my breast against this thorn of a desk, with the only hope that some pulmonary affliction may relieve me. vide lord palmerston's report of the clerks in the war office (debates, this morning's times) by which it appears in years, as many clerks have been coughd and catarrhd out of it into their freer graves. thank you for asking about the pictures. milton hangs over my fire side in covt. card, (when i am there), the rest have been sold for an old song, wanting the eloquent tongue that should have set them off! you have gratifyd me with liking my meeting with dodd. for the malvolio story--the thing is become in verity a sad task and i eke it out with any thing. if i could slip out of it i sh'd be happy, but our chief reputed assistants have forsaken us. the opium eater crossed us once with a dazzling path, and hath as suddenly left us darkling; and in short i shall go on from dull to worse, because i cannot resist the bookseller's importunity--the old plea you know of authors, but i believe on my part sincere. hartley i do not so often see, but i never see him in unwelcome hour. i thoroughly love and honor him. i send you a frozen epistle, but it is winter and dead time of the year with me. may heaven keep something like spring and summer up with you, strengthen your eyes and make mine a little lighter to encounter with them, as i hope they shall yet and again, before all are closed. yours, with every kind rem'be. c.l. i had almost forgot to say, i think you thoroughly right about presentation copies. i should like to see you print a book i should grudge to purchase for its size. d----n me, but i would have it though! [john lamb's will left everything to his brother. we must suppose that his widow was independently provided for. i doubt if the brothers had seen each other except casually for some time. the _elia_ essay "my relations" contains john lamb's full-length portrait under the name of james elia. captain burney died on november , , "the foul enchanter--letters four do form his name." from coleridge's war eclogue, "fire, famine and slaughter," where the letters form the name of pitt. here they stand for joseph hume, not lamb's friend, but joseph hume, m.p. ( - ), who had attacked with success abuses in the east india company; had revised economically the system of collecting the revenue, thus touching wordsworth as distributor of stamps; and had opposed vansittart's scheme for the reduction of pension charges. "_vide_ lord palmerston's report." in the _times_ of march is the report of a debate on the estimates. palmerston proved a certain amount of reduction of salary in the war office. incidentally he remarked that "since not fewer than twenty-six clerks had died of pulmonary complaints, and disorders arising from sedentary habits." milton was the portrait, already described, which had been left to lamb. lamb gave it as a dowry to emma isola when she became mrs. moxon. "my meeting with dodd ... malvolio story." in the essay "the old actors," in the london magazine for february, (see vol. ii. of this edition). "our chief reputed assistants." hazlitt had left the _london magazine_; scott, the original editor, was dead. de quincey, whose _confessions of an opium-eater_ were appearing in its pages, has left a record of a visit to the lambs about this time. see his "london reminiscences." "hartley." hartley coleridge, then a young man of twenty-five, was living in london after the unhappy sudden termination of his oxford career. here should come a brief note to mrs. norris, dated march , , given in the boston bibliophile edition. here should come a letter from lamb to william godwin, dated april , in which lamb remarks that he cannot think how godwin, who in his writings never expresses himself disrespectfully of any one but his maker, can have given offence to rickman. this reminds one of godwin's remark about coleridge, "god bless him--to use a vulgar expression," as recorded by coleridge in one of his letters. lamb also said of godwin (and to him) that he had read more books that were not worth reading than any man in england.] letter charles lamb to w. harrison ainsworth [dated at end: may , .] dear sir,--i have read your poetry with pleasure. the tales are pretty and prettily told, the language often finely poetical. it is only sometimes a little careless, i mean as to redundancy. i have marked certain passages (in pencil only, which will easily obliterate) for your consideration. excuse this liberty. for the distinction you offer me of a dedication, i feel the honor of it, but i do not think it would advantage the publication. i am hardly on an eminence enough to warrant it. the reviewers, who are no friends of mine--the two big ones especially who make a point of taking no notice of anything i bring out--may take occasion by it to decry us both. but i leave you to your own judgment. perhaps, if you wish to give me a kind word, it will be more appropriate _before your republication of tourneur_. the "specimens" would give a handle to it, which the poems might seem to want. but i submit it to yourself with the old recollection that "beggars should not be chusers" and remain with great respect and wishing success to both your publications your obe't. ser't. c. lamb. no hurry at all for tourneur. tuesday may ' . [william harrison ainsworth ( - ), afterwards known as a novelist, was then articled to a manchester solicitor, but had begun his literary career. the book to which lamb refers was called _the works of cheviot tichburn_, , and was dedicated to him in the following terms:--"to my friend charles lamb, as a slight mark of gratitude for his kindness and admiration of his character, these poems are inscribed." ainsworth was meditating an edition of the works of cyril tourneur, author of "the atheist's tragedy," to whom lamb had drawn attention in the _dramatic specimens_, . the book was never published.] letter charles lamb to william godwin may , . dear godwin--i sincerely feel for all your trouble. pray use the enclosed £ , and pay me when you can. i shall make it my business to see you very shortly. yours truly c. lamb. [owing largely to a flaw in the title-deed of his house at skinner street, which he had to forfeit, godwin had come upon poverty greater than any he had previously suffered, although he had been always more or less necessitous. lamb now lent him £ . in the following year, after being mainly instrumental in putting on foot a fund for godwin's benefit, he transformed this loan into a gift. an appeal was issued in asking for; £ , the following postscript to which, in lamb's hand, is preserved at the south kensington museum:-- "there are few circumstances belonging to the case which are not sufficiently adverted to in the above letter. "mr. godwin's opponent declares himself determined to act against him with the last degree of hostility: the law gives him the power the first week in november to seize upon mr. godwin's property, furniture, books, &c. together with all his present sources of income for the support of himself and his family. mr. godwin has at this time made considerable progress in a work of great research, and requiring all the powers of his mind, to the completion of which he had lookd for future pecuniary advantage. his mind is at this moment so entirely occupied in this work, that he feels within himself the firmness and resolution that no _prospect_ of evil or calamity shall draw him off from it or suspend his labours. but the _calamity itself_, if permitted to arrive, will produce the physical impossibility for him to proceed. his books and the materials of his work, as well as his present sources of income, will be taken from him. those materials have been the collection of several years, and it would require a long time to replace them, if they could ever be replaced. "the favour of an early answer is particularly requested, that the extent of the funds supplied may as soon as possible be ascertained, particularly as any aid, however kindly intended, will, after the lapse of a very few weeks, become useless to the purpose in view." the signatories to the appeal were: crabb robinson (£ ), william ayrton (£ ), john murray (£ s.), charles lamb (£ ), lord francis leveson-gower (£ ), lord dudley (£ ), the hon. w. lamb (£ ) and sir james macintosh (£ ). other contributions were: lord byron, £ s.; t.m. alsager, £ ; and "a b c, by charles lamb," £ . a b c was sir walter scott. the work on which godwin was then labouring was his _history of the commonwealth_, - . his new home was in the strand. in he received the post of yeoman usher of the exchequer, which he held till his death in , although its duties had vanished ere then.] letter charles lamb to mrs. john lamb may . dear mrs. lamb, a letter has come to arnold for mrs. phillips, and, as i have not her address, i take this method of sending it to you. that old rogue's name is sherwood, as you guessed, but as i named the shirts to him, i think he must have them. your character of him made me almost repent of the bounty. you must consider this letter as mary's--for writing letters is such a trouble and puts her to such twitters (family modesty, you know; it is the way with me, but i try to get over it) that in pity i offer to do it for her.-- we hold our intention of seeing france, but expect to see you here first, as we do not go till the th of next month. a steam boat goes to dieppe, i see.-- christie has not sent to me, and i suppose is in no hurry to settle the account. i think in a day or two (if i do not hear from you to the contrary) i shall refresh his memory. i am sorry i made you pay for two letters. i peated it, and re-peated it. miss wright is married, and i am a hamper in her debt, which i hope will now not be remembered. she is in great good humour, i hear, and yet out of spirits. where shall i get such full flavor'd geneva again? old mr. henshaw died last night precisely at / past .--he has been open'd by desire of mrs. mckenna; and, where his heart should have been, was found a stone. poor arnold is inconsolable; and, not having shaved since, looks deplorable. with our kind remembrances to caroline and your friends we remain yours affectionaly c.l. and m. lamb. [_occupying the entire margin up the left-hand side of the letter is, in mary lamb's hand_:--] i thank you for your kind letter, and owe you one in return, but charles is in such a hurry to send this to be franked. your affectionate sister m. lamb. [_on the right-hand margin, beside the paragraph about mr. henshaw, is written in the same hand, underlined_:--] he is not dead. [john lamb's widow had been a mrs. dowden, with an unmarried daughter, probably the caroline referred to. the letter treats of family matters which could not now be explained even if it were worth while. the lambs were arranging a visit to versailles, to the kenneys. mr. henshaw was lamb's godfather, a gunsmith.] letter (_fragment_) charles lamb to mary lamb (in paris). [august, .] then you must walk all along the borough side of the seine facing the tuileries. there is a mile and a half of print shops and book stalls. if the latter were but english. then there is a place where the paris people put all their dead people and bring em flowers and dolls and ginger bread nuts and sonnets and such trifles. and that is all i think worth seeing as sights, except that the streets and shops of paris are themselves the best sight. [the lambs had left england for france in june. while they were there mary lamb was taken ill again--in a diligence, according to moore--and lamb had to return home alone, leaving a letter, of which this is the only portion that has been preserved, for her guidance on her recovery. it is also the only writing from lamb to his sister that exists. mary lamb, who had taken her nurse with her in case of trouble, was soon well again, and in august had the company of crabb robinson in paris. mrs. aders was also there, and foss, the bookseller in pall mall, and his brother. and it was on this visit that the lambs met john howard payne, whom we shall shortly see.] letter charles lamb to john clare india house, aug., . dear clare--i thank you heartily for your present. i am an inveterate old londoner, but while i am among your choice collections, i seem to be native to them, and free of the country. the quantity of your observation has astonished me. what have most pleased me have been recollections after a ramble, and those grongar hill kind of pieces in eight syllable lines, my favourite measure, such as cowper hill and solitude. in some of your story-telling ballads the provincial phrases sometimes startle me. i think you are too profuse with them. in poetry _slang_ of every kind is to be avoided. there is a rustick cockneyism, as little pleasing as ours of london. transplant arcadia to helpstone. the true rustic style, the arcadian english, i think is to be found in shenstone. would his schoolmistress, the prettiest of poems, have been better, if he had used quite the goody's own language? now and then a home rusticism is fresh and startling, but where nothing is gained in expression, it is out of tenor. it may make folks smile and stare, but the ungenial coalition of barbarous with refined phrases will prevent you in the end from being so generally tasted, as you deserve to be. excuse my freedom, and take the same liberty with my _puns_. i send you two little volumes of my spare hours. they are of all sorts, there is a methodist hymn for sundays, and a farce for saturday night. pray give them a place on your shelf. pray accept a little volume, of which i have [a] duplicate, that i may return in equal number to your welcome presents. i think i am indebted to you for a sonnet in the london for august. since i saw you i have been in france, and have eaten frogs. the nicest little rabbity things you ever tasted. do look about for them. make mrs. clare pick off the hind quarters, boil them plain, with parsley and butter. the fore quarters are not so good. she may let them hop off by themselves. yours sincerely, chas. lamb. [john clare ( - ) was the northamptonshire poet whom the _london magazine_ had introduced to fame. octavius gilchrist had played to him the same part that capell lofft had to bloomfield. his first volume, _poems descriptive of rural life and scenery_, was published in january, ; his next, _the village minstrel_, in september of the next year. these he had probably sent to lamb. helpstone was clare's birthplace. lamb's two little return volumes were his _works_. the sonnet in the august _london magazine_ was not signed by clare. it runs thus:-- to ella elia, thy reveries and vision'd themes to care's lorn heart a luscious pleasure prove; wild as the mystery of delightful dreams, soft as the anguish of remember'd love: like records of past days their memory dances mid the cool feelings manhood's reason brings, as the unearthly visions of romances peopled with sweet and uncreated things;-- and yet thy themes thy gentle worth enhances! then wake again thy wild harp's tenderest strings, sing on, sweet bard, let fairy loves again smile in thy dreams, with angel ecstacies; bright o'er our souls will break the heavenly strain through the dull gloom of earth's realities. clare addressed to lamb a sonnet on his _dramatic specimens_ which was printed in hone's _year book_ in . here should come a letter from lamb to ayrton dated sept. , , referring to the writer's "drunken caput" and loss of memory. here should come a letter from lamb to mrs. james kenney, dated sept. , , in which lamb says that mary lamb had reached home safely from france, and that she failed to smuggle crabb robinson's waistcoat. he adds that the custom house people could not comprehend how a waistcoat, marked henry robinson, could be a part of miss lamb's wearing apparel. at the end of the letter is a charming note to mrs. kenney's little girl, sophy, whom lamb calls his dear wife. he assures her that the few short days of connubial felicity which he passed with her among the pears and apricots of versailles were some of the happiest of his life.] letter charles lamb to bernard barton india house, sept. . dear sir--you have misapprehended me sadly, if you suppose that i meant to impute any inconsistency (in your writing poetry) with your religious profession. i do not remember what i said, but it was spoken sportively, i am sure. one of my levities, which you are not so used to as my older friends. i probably was thinking of the light in which your so indulging yourself would appear to _quakers_, and put their objection in my own foolish mouth. i would eat my words (provided they should be written on not very coarse paper) rather than i would throw cold water upon your, and my once, harmless occupation. i have read napoleon and the rest with delight. i like them for what they are, and for what they are not. i have sickened on the modern rhodomontade & byronism, and your plain quakerish beauty has captivated me. it is all wholesome cates, aye, and toothsome too, and withal quakerish. if i were george fox, and george fox licenser of the press, they should have my absolute imprimatur. i hope i have removed the impression. i am, like you, a prisoner to the desk. i have been chained to that gally thirty years, a long shot. i have almost grown to the wood. if no imaginative poet, i am sure i am a figurative one. do "friends" allow puns? _verbal_ equivocations?--they are unjustly accused of it, and i did my little best in the "imperfect sympathies" to vindicate them. i am very tired of clerking it, but have no remedy. did you see a sonnet to this purpose in the examiner?-- "who first invented work--and tied the free and holy-day rejoycing spirit down to the ever-haunting importunity of business, in the green fields, and the town-- to plough--loom--anvil--spade--&, oh, most sad, to this dry drudgery of the desk's dead wood? who but the being unblest, alien from good, sabbathless satan! he who his unglad task ever plies 'mid rotatory burnings, that round and round incalculably reel-- for wrath divine hath made him like a wheel-- in that red realm from whence are no returnings; where toiling and turmoiling ever and aye he, and his thoughts, keep pensive worky-day." c.l. i fancy the sentiment exprest above will be nearly your own, the expression of it probably would not so well suit with a follower of john woolman. but i do not know whether diabolism is a part of your creed, or where indeed to find an exposition of your creed at all. in feelings and matters not dogmatical, i hope i am half a quaker. believe me, with great respect, yours c. lamb. i shall always be happy to see, or hear from you.-- [this is the first of the letters to bernard barton ( - ), a clerk in a bank at woodbridge, in suffolk, who was known as the quaker poet. lamb had met him at a _london magazine_ dinner at waterloo place, and had apparently said something about quakers and poetry which barton, on thinking it over, had taken too seriously. bernard barton was already the author of four volumes of poetry, of which _napoleon and other poems_ was the latest, published in . lamb's essay on "imperfect sympathies" had been printed in the _london magazine_ for august, . for john woolman, see note on page . the sonnet "work" had been printed in the _examiner_, august , .] letter charles lamb to barron field sept. , . my dear f.,--i scribble hastily at office. frank wants my letter presently. i & sister are just returned from paris!! we have eaten frogs. it has been such a treat! you know our monotonous general tenor. frogs are the nicest little delicate things--rabbity-flavoured. imagine a lilliputian rabbit! they fricassee them; but in my mind, drest seethed, plain, with parsley and butter, would have been the decision of apicius. shelley the great atheist has gone down by water to eternal fire! hunt and his young fry are left stranded at pisa, to be adopted by the remaining duumvir, lord byron--his wife and children & their maid. what a cargo of jonases, if they had foundered too! the only use i can find of friends, is that they do to borrow money of you. henceforth i will consort with none but rich rogues. paris is a glorious picturesque old city. london looks mean and new to it, as the town of washington would, seen after _it_. but they have no st. paul's or westminster abbey. the seine, so much despised by cockneys, is exactly the size to run thro' a magnificent street; palaces a mile long on one side, lofty edinbro' stone (o the glorious antiques!): houses on the other. the thames disunites london & southwark. i had talma to supper with me. he has picked up, as i believe, an authentic portrait of shakspere. he paid a broker about £ english for it. it is painted on the one half of a pair of bellows--a lovely picture, corresponding with the folio head. the bellows has old carved wings round it, and round the visnomy is inscribed, near as i remember, not divided into rhyme--i found out the rhyme-- "whom have we here, stuck on this bellows, but the prince of good fellows, willy shakspere?" at top-- "o base and coward luck! to be here stuck.--poins." at bottom-- "nay! rather a glorious lot is to him assign'd, who, like the almighty, rides upon the wind.--pistol." this is all in old carved wooden letters. the countenance smiling, sweet, and intellectual beyond measure, even as he was immeasurable. it may be a forgery. they laugh at me and tell me ireland is in paris, and has been putting off a portrait of the black prince. how far old wood may be imitated i cannot say. ireland was not found out by his parchments, but by his poetry. i am confident no painter on either side the channel could have painted any thing near like the face i saw. again, would such a painter and forger have expected £ for a thing, if authentic, worth £ ? talma is not in the secret, for he had not even found out the rhymes in the first inscription. he is coming over with it, and, my life to southey's thalaba, it will gain universal faith. the letter is wanted, and i am wanted. imagine the blank filled up with all kind things. our joint hearty remembrances to both of you. yours as ever, c. lamb. [frank was francis john field, barron field's brother, in the india house. shelley was drowned on july , . talma was françois joseph talma ( - ), the great french tragedian. lamb, introduced by john howard payne, saw him in "regulus," but not understanding french was but mildly interested. "ah," said talma in the account by james kenney printed in henry angelo's _pic nic_, "i was not very happy to-night; you must see me in 'scylla.'" "incidit in scyllam," said lamb, "qui vult vitare charybdiro." "ah, you are a rogue; you are a great rogue," was talma's reply. talma had bought a pair of bellows with shakespeare's head on it. lamb's belief in the authenticity of this portrait was misplaced, as the following account from _chambers' journal_ for september , , will show:-- about the latter part of the last century, one zincke, an artist of little note, but grandson of the celebrated enameller of that name, manufactured fictitious shakespeares by the score.... the most famous of zincke's productions is the well-known talma shakespeare, which gentle charles lamb made a pilgrimage to paris to see; and when he did see, knelt down and kissed with idolatrous veneration. zincke painted it on a larger panel than was necessary for the size of the picture, and then cut away the superfluous wood, so as to leave the remainder in the shape of a pair of bellows.... zincke probably was thinking of "a muse of fire" when he adopted this strange method of raising the wind; but he made little by it, for the dealer into whose hands the picture passed, sold it as a curiosity, not an original portrait, for £ . the buyer, being a person of ingenuity, and fonder of money than curiosities, fabricated a series of letters to and from sir kenelm digby, and, passing over to france, _planted_--the slang term used among the less honest of the curiosity-dealing fraternity--the picture and the letters in an old château near paris. of course a confederate managed to discover the _plant_, in the presence of witnesses, and great was the excitement that ensued. sir kenelm digby had been in france in the reign of charles i., and the fictitious correspondence _proved_ that the picture was an original, and had been painted by queen elizabeth's command, on the lid of her favourite pair of bellows! it really would seem that the more absurd a deception is, the better it succeeds. all paris was in delight at possessing an original shakespeare, while the london amateurs were in despair at such a treasure being lost to england. the ingenious person soon found a purchaser, and a high price recompensed him for his trouble. but more remains to be told. the happy purchaser took his treasure to ribet, the first parisian picture-cleaner of the day, to be cleaned. ribet set to work; but we may fancy his surprise as the superficial _impasto_ of zincke washed off beneath the sponge, and shakespeare became a female in a lofty headgear adorned with blue ribbons. in a furious passion the purchaser ran to the seller. "let us talk over the affair quietly," said the latter; "i have been cheated as well as you: let us keep the matter secret; if we let the public know it, all paris and even london too, will be laughing at us. i will return you your money, and take back the picture, if you will employ ribet to restore it to the same condition as it was in when you received it." this fair proposition was acceded to, and ribet restored the picture; but as he was a superior artist to zincke, he greatly improved it, and this improvement was attributed to his skill as a cleaner. the secret being kept, and the picture, improved by cleaning, being again in the market, talma, the great tragedian, purchased it at even a higher price than that given by the first buyer. talma valued it highly, enclosed it in a case of morocco and gold, and subsequently refused napoleons for it; and even when at last its whole history was disclosed, he still cherished it as a genuine memorial of the great bard. by kind permission of mr. b.b. macgeorge, the owner both of the letter and bellows, i was enabled to give a reproduction of the portrait in my large edition. ireland was the author of "vortigern," the forged play attributed to shakespeare.] letter charles lamb to john howard payne [autumn, .] dear payne--a friend and fellow-clerk of mine, mr. white (a good fellow) coming to your parts, i would fain have accompanied him, but am forced instead to send a part of me, verse and prose, most of it from to years old, such as i then was, and i am not much altered. paris, which i hardly knew whether i liked when i was in it, is an object of no small magnitude with me now. i want to be going, to the jardin des plantes (is that right, louisa?) with you to pere de la chaise, la morgue, and all the sentimentalities. how is talma, and his (my) dear shakspeare? n.b.--my friend white knows paris thoroughly, and does not want a guide. we did, and had one. we both join in thanks. do you remember a blue-silk girl (english) at the luxembourg, that did not much seem to attend to the pictures, who fell in love with you, and whom i fell in love with--an inquisitive, prying, curious beauty--where is she? _votre très humble serviteur_, charlois agneau, _alias_ c. lamb. guichy is well, and much as usual. he seems blind to all the distinctions of life, except to those of sex. remembrance to kenny and poole. [john howard payne ( - ) was born in new york. he began life as an actor in as young norval in "douglas," and made his english _début_ in in the same part. for several years he lived either in london or paris, where among his friends were washington irving and talma. he wrote a number of plays, and in one of them, "clari, or the maid of milan," is the song "home, sweet home," with bishop's music, on which his immortality rests. payne died in tunis, where he was american consul, in , and when in he was reinterred at washington, it was as the author of "home, sweet home." he seems to have been a charming but ill-starred man, whom to know was to love. mr. white was edward white of the india house, by whom lamb probably sent a copy of the edition of his _works_. louisa was louisa holcroft. guichy was possibly the frenchman, mentioned by crabb robinson, with whom the lambs had travelled to france. poole was, i imagine, john poole, the dramatist, author of burlesque plays in the _london magazine_ and later of "paul pry," which, it is quite likely, he based on lamb's sketch "tom pry."] letter charles lamb to bernard barton [dated at end: october .] dear sir--i am asham'd not sooner to have acknowledged your letter and poem. i think the latter very temperate, very serious and very seasonable. i do not think it will convert the club at pisa, neither do i think it will satisfy the bigots on our side the water. something like a parody on the song of ariel would please them better. full fathom five the atheist lies, of his bones are hell-dice made.-- i want time, or fancy, to fill up the rest. i sincerely sympathise with you on your doleful confinement. of time, health, and riches, the first in order is not last in excellence. riches are chiefly good, because they give us time. what a weight of wearisome prison hours have [i] to look back and forward to, as quite cut out [of] life--and the sting of the thing is, that for six hours every day i have no business which i could not contract into two, if they would let me work task-work. i shall be glad to hear that your grievance is mitigated. shelly i saw once. his voice was the most obnoxious squeak i ever was tormented with, ten thousand times worse than the laureat's, whose voice is the worst part about him, except his laureatcy. lord byron opens upon him on monday in a parody (i suppose) of the "vision of judgment," in which latter the poet i think did not much show _his_. to award his heaven and his hell in the presumptuous manner he has done, was a piece of immodesty as bad as shelleyism. i am returning a poor letter. i was formerly a great scribbler in that way, but my hand is out of order. if i said my head too, i should not be very much out, but i will tell no tales of myself. i will therefore end (after my best thanks, with a hope to see you again some time in london), begging you to accept this letteret for a letter--a leveret makes a better present than a grown hare, and short troubles (as the old excuse goes) are best. i hear that c. lloyd is well, and has returned to his family. i think this will give you pleasure to hear. i remain, dear sir, yours truly c. lamb. e.i.h. oct. . [barton had just published his _verses on the death of p.b. shelley_, a lament for misapplied genius. the club at pisa referred particularly to byron, leigh hunt, and trelawney. trelawney placed three lines from ariel's song in "the tempest" on shelley's monument; but whether lamb knew this, or his choice of rival lines is a coincidence, i do not know. trelawney chose the lines:-- nothing of him that doth fade but doth suffer a sea-change into something rich and strange. there is no other record of lamb's meeting with shelley, who, by the way, admired lamb's writings warmly, particularly _mrs. leicester's school_ (see the letter to barton, august , ). byron's _vision of judgment_, a burlesque of southey's poem of the same name, was printed in _the liberal_ for .] letter charles lamb to b.r. haydon india house, th october, . dear haydon, poor godwin has been turned out of his house and business in skinner street, and if he does not pay two years' arrears of rent, he will have the whole stock, furniture, &c., of his new house (in the strand) seized when term begins. we are trying to raise a subscription for him. my object in writing this is simply to ask you, if this is a kind of case which would be likely to interest mrs. coutts in his behalf; and who in your opinion is the best person to speak with her on his behalf. without the aid of from £ to £ by that time, early in november, he must be ruined. you are the only person i can think of, of her acquaintance, and can, perhaps, if not yourself, recommend the person most likely to influence her. shelley had engaged to clear him of all demands, and he has gone down to the deep insolvent. yours truly, c. lamb. is sir walter to be applied to, and by what channel? [mrs. coutts was probably harriot mellon, the actress, widow of the banker, thomas coutts, and afterwards duchess of st. albans. she had played the part of the heroine melesinda in "mr. h."] letter charles lamb to john howard payne thursday [oct. ], . "ali pacha" will do. i sent my sister the first night, not having been able to go myself, and her report of its effect was most favourable. i saw it last night--the third night--and it was most satisfactorily received. i have been sadly disappointed in talfourd, who does the critiques in the "times," and who promised his strenuous services; but by some damn'd arrangement he was sent to the wrong house, and a most iniquitous account of ali substituted for his, which i am sure would have been a kind one. the "morning herald" did it ample justice, without appearing to puff it. it is an abominable misrepresentation of the "times," that farren played ali like lord ogilby. he acted infirmity of body, but not of voice or purpose. his manner was even grand. a grand old gentleman. his falling to the earth when his son's death was announced was fine as anything i ever saw. it was as if he had been blasted. miss foote looked helpless and beautiful, and greatly helped the piece. it is going on steadily, i am sure, for _many nights_. marry, i was a little disappointed with hassan, who tells us he subsists by cracking court jests before hali, but he made none. in all the rest, scenery and machinery, it was faultless. i hope it will bring you here. i should be most glad of that. i have a room for you, and you shall order your own dinner three days in the week. i must retain my own authority for the rest. as far as magazines go, i can answer for talfourd in the "new monthly." he cannot be put out there. but it is established as a favourite, and can do without these expletives. i long to talk over with you the shakspeare picture. my doubts of its being a forgery mainly rest upon the goodness of the picture. the bellows might be trumped up, but where did the painter spring from? is ireland a consummate artist--or any of ireland's accomplices?--but we shall confer upon it, i hope. the "new times," i understand was favorable to "ali," but i have not seen it. i am sensible of the want of method in this letter, but i have been deprived of the connecting organ, by a practice i have fallen into since i left paris, of taking too much strong spirits of a night. i must return to the hotel de l'europe and macon. how is kenney? have you seen my friend white? what is poole about, &c.? do not write, but come and answer me. the weather is charming, and there is a mermaid to be seen in london. you may not have the opportunity of inspecting such a _poisarde_ once again in ten centuries. my sister joins me in the hope of seeing you. yours truly, c. lamb. [lamb had met john howard payne, the american dramatist, at kenney's, in france. "ali pacha," a melodrama in two acts, was produced at covent garden on october , . it ran altogether sixteen nights. william farren played the hero. lord ogleby, an antiquated fop, is a character in "the clandestine marriage" by colman and garrick. miss foote played helena. see notes to the letter above for other references.] letter charles lamb to b.r. haydon tuesday, th [october, ]. dear h., i have written a very respectful letter to sir w.s. godwin did not write, because he leaves all to his committee, as i will explain to you. if this rascally weather holds, you will see but one of us on that day. yours, with many thanks, c. lamb. letter charles lamb to sir walter scott east india house, london, th october . dear sir,--i have to acknowledge your kind attention to my application to mr. haydon. i have transmitted your draft to mr. g[odwin]'s committee as an anonymous contribution through me. mr. haydon desires his thanks and best respects to you, but was desirous that i should write to you on this occasion. i cannot pass over your kind expressions as to myself. it is not likely that i shall ever find myself in scotland, but should the event ever happen, i should be proud to pay my respects to you in your own land. my disparagement of heaths and highlands--if i said any such thing in half earnest,--you must put down as a piece of the old vulpine policy. i must make the most of the spot i am chained to, and console myself for my flat destiny as well as i am able. i know very well our mole-hills are not mountains, but i must cocker them up and make them look as big and as handsome as i can, that we may both be satisfied. allow me to express the pleasure i feel on an occasion given me of writing to you, and to subscribe myself, dear sir, your obliged and respectful servant, charles lamb. [see note to the letter to godwin above. lamb and scott never met. talfourd, however, tells us that "he used to speak with gratitude and pleasure of the circumstances under which he saw him once in fleet-street. a man, in the dress of a mechanic, stopped him just at inner temple-gate, and said, touching his hat, 'i beg your pardon, sir, but perhaps you would like to see sir walter scott; that is he just crossing the road;' and lamb stammered out his hearty thanks to his truly humane informer." mr. lang has recently discovered that also in or thereabouts sir walter invited lamb to abbotsford.] letter charles lamb to thomas robinson [dated at end: nov. , .] dear sir, we have to thank you, or mrs. robinson-- for i think her name was on the direction--for the best pig, which myself, the warmest of pig-lovers, ever tasted. the dressing and the sauce were pronounced incomparable by two friends, who had the good fortune to drop in to dinner yesterday, but i must not mix up my cook's praises with my acknowledgments; let me but have leave to say that she and we did your pig justice. i should dilate on the crackling--done to a turn--but i am afraid mrs. clarkson, who, i hear, is with you, will set me down as an epicure. let it suffice, that you have spoil'd my appetite for boiled mutton for some time to come. your brother henry partook of the cold relics--by which he might give a good guess at what it had been _hot_. with our thanks, pray convey our kind respects to mrs. robinson, and the lady before mentioned. your obliged ser't charles lamb. india house nov. . [this letter is addressed to r. robinson, esq., bury, suffolk, but i think there is no doubt that thomas robinson was the recipient. thomas robinson of bury st. edmunds was henry crabb robinson's brother. lamb's "dissertation on roast pig" had been printed in the _london magazine_ in september, , and this pig was one of the first of many such gifts that came to him.] letter charles lamb to john howard payne wednesday, november, ' . dear p.--owing to the inconvenience of having two lodgings, i did not get your letter quite so soon as i should. the india house is my proper address, where i am sure for the fore part of every day. the instant i got it, i addressed a letter, for kemble to see, to my friend henry robertson, the treasurer of covent garden theatre. he had a conference with kemble, and the result is, that robertson, in the name of the management, recognized to me the full ratifying of your bargain: £ for ali, the slaves, and another piece which they had not received. he assures me the whole will be paid you, or the proportion for the two former, as soon as ever the treasury will permit it. he offered to write the same to you, if i pleased. he thinks in a month or so they will be able to liquidate it. he is positive no trick could be meant you, as mr. planche's alterations, which were trifling, were not at all considered as affecting your bargain. with respect to the copyright of ali, he was of opinion no money would be given for it, as ali is quite laid aside. this explanation being given, you would not think of printing the two copies together by way of recrimination. he told me the secret of the two galley slaves at drury lane. elliston, if he is informed right, engaged poole to translate it, but before poole's translation arrived, finding it coming out at cov. gar., he procured copies of two several translations of it in london. so you see here are four translations, reckoning yours. i fear no copyright would be got for it, for anybody may print it and anybody has. your's has run seven nights, and r. is of opinion it will not exceed in number of nights the nights of ali,--about thirteen. but your full right to your bargain with the management is in the fullest manner recognized by him officially. he gave me every hope the money will be spared as soon as they can spare it. he said _a month or two_, but seemed to me to mean about _a month_. a new lady is coming out in juliet, to whom they look very confidently for replenishing their treasury. robertson is a very good fellow and i can rely upon his statement. should you have any more pieces, and want to get a copyright for them, i am the worst person to negotiate with any bookseller, having been cheated by all i have had to do with (except taylor and hessey,--but they do not publish theatrical pieces), and i know not how to go about it, or who to apply to. but if you had no better negotiator, i should know the minimum you expect, for i should not like to make a bargain out of my own head, being (after the duke of wellington) the worst of all negotiators. i find from robertson you have written to bishop on the subject. have you named anything of the copyright of the slaves. r. thinks no publisher would pay for it, and you would not risque it on your own account. this is a mere business letter, so i will just send my love to my little wife at versailles, to her dear mother, etc. believe me, yours truly, c.l. [payne's translation of the french play was produced at covent garden on november , , under the title "the soldier's daughter." on the same night appeared a rival version at drury lane entitled "two galley slaves." payne's was played eleven times. the new lady as juliet was the other fanny kelly not lamb's: fanny h. kelly, from dublin. the revival began on november . planché was james robinson planché ( - ), the most prolific of librettists. robert william elliston, of whom lamb later wrote so finely, was then managing drury lane. "having been cheated." lamb's particular reference was to baldwin (see the letter to barton, jan. , ). "the duke of wellington." a reference to the duke's failure in representing england at the congress of powers in vienna and verona. lamb's "dear little wife" was sophy kenney.] letter mary lamb to mrs. james kenney [no date. ?early december, .] my dear friend,--how do you like harwood? is he not a noble boy? i congratulate you most heartily on this happy meeting, and only wish i were present to witness it. come back with harwood, i am dying to see you--we will talk, that is, you shall talk and i will listen from ten in the morning till twelve at night. my thoughts are often with you, and your children's dear faces are perpetually before me. give them all one additional kiss every morning for me. remember there's one for louisa, one to ellen, one to betsy, one to sophia, one to james, one to teresa, one to virginia, and one to charles. bless them all! when shall i ever see them again? thank you a thousand times for all your kindness to me. i know you will make light of the trouble my illness gave you; but the recollection of it often sits heavy on my heart. if i could ensure my health, how happy should i be to spend a month with you every summer! when i met mr. kenney there, i sadly repented that i had not dragged you on to dieppe with me. what a pleasant time we should have spent there! you shall not be jealous of mr. payne. remember he did charles and i good service without grudge or grumbling. say to him how much i regret that we owe him unreturnable obligations; for i still have my old fear that we shall never see him again. i received great pleasure from seeing his two successful pieces. my love to your boy kenney, my boy james, and all my dear girls, and also to rose; i hope she still drinks wine with you. thank lou-lou for her little bit of letter. i am in a fearful hurry, or i would write to her. tell my friend the poetess that i expect some french verses from her shortly. i have shewn betsy's and sophy's letters to all who came near me, and they have been very much admired. dear fanny brought me the bag. good soul you are to think of me! manning has promised to make fanny a visit this morning, happy girl! miss james i often see, i think never without talking of you. oh the dear long dreary boulevards! how i do wish to be just now stepping out of a cuckoo into them! farewel, old tried friend, may we meet again! would you could bring your house with all its noisy inmates, and plant it, garden, gables and all, in the midst of covent garden. yours ever most affectionately, m. lamb. my best respects to your good neighbours. [harwood was harwood holcroft. "louisa," etc. mrs. kenney's children by her first marriage were louisa, ellen, betsy and sophia. by her second, with kenney, the others. charles was named charles lamb kenney. "payne's two successful pieces"--"ali pacha" and "the soldier's daughter." fanny was fanny holcroft, mrs. kenney's stepdaughter. miss kelly has added to this letter a few words of affection to mrs. kenney from "the real old original fanny kelly." charles lamb also contributed to this letter a few lines to james kenney, expressing his readiness to meet moore the poet. he adds that he made a hit at him as little in the _london magazine_, which though no reason for not meeting him was a reason for not volunteering a visit to him. the reference is to the sonnet to barry cornwall in the _london magazine_ for september, , beginning-- let hate, or grosser heats, their foulness mask neath riddling junius, or in l----e's name. the second line was altered in lamb's _album verses_, , to-- under the vizor of a borrowed name.] letter charles lamb to john taylor [dated: dec. , .] dear sir,--i should like the enclosed dedication to be printed, unless you dislike it. i like it. it is in the olden style. but if you object to it, put forth the book as it is. only pray don't let the printer mistake the word _curt_ for _curst_. c.l. dec. , . dedication to the friendly and judicious reader, who will take these papers, as they were meant; not understanding every thing perversely in the absolute and literal sense, but giving fair construction as to an after-dinner conversation; allowing for the rashness and necessary incompleteness of first thoughts; and not remembering, for the purpose of an after taunt, words spoken peradventure after the fourth glass. the author wishes (what he would will for himself) plenty of good friends to stand by him, good books to solace him, prosperous events to all his honest undertakings, and a candid interpretation to his most hasty words and actions. the other sort (and he hopes many of them will purchase his book too) he greets with the curt invitation of timon, "uncover, dogs, and lap:" or he dismisses them with the confident security of the philosopher, "you beat but on the case of elia." c.l. dec. , . [_elia. essays which have appeared under that signature in the london magazine_ was just about to be published. the book came out with no preface. "you beat but on the case." when anaxarchus, the philosopher, was being pounded to death in a mortar, by command of alexander the great, he made use of this phrase. after these words, in canon ainger's transcript, lamb remarks:--"on better consideration, pray omit that dedication. the essays want no preface: they are _all preface_. a preface is nothing but a talk with the reader; and they do nothing else. pray omit it. "there will be a sort of preface in the next magazine, which may act as an advertisement, but not proper for the volume. "let elia come forth bare as he was born." the sort of preface in the next magazine (january, ) was the "character of the late elia," used as a preface to the _last essays_ in .] letter charles lamb to walter wilson e.i.h. dec. . dear wilson _lightening_ i was going to call you-- you must have thought me negligent in not answering your letter sooner. but i have a habit of never writing letters, but at the office--'tis so much time cribbed out of the company--and i am but just got out of the thick of a tea sale, in which most of the entry of notes, deposits &c. usually falls to my share. dodwell is willing, but alas! slow. to compare a pile of my notes with his little hillock (which has been as long a building), what is it but to compare olympus with a mole-hill. then wadd is a sad shuffler.-- i have nothing of defoe's but two or three novels, and the plague history. i can give you no information about him. as a slight general character of what i remember of them (for i have not look'd into them latterly) i would say that "in the appearance of _truth_ in all the incidents and conversations that occur in them they exceed any works of fiction i am acquainted with. it is perfect illusion. the _author_ never appears in these self-narratives (for so they ought to be called or rather autobiographies) but the _narrator_ chains us down to an implicet belief in every thing he says. there is all the minute detail of a log-book in it. dates are painfully pressed upon the memory. facts are repeated over and over in varying phrases, till you cannot chuse but believe them. it is like reading evidence given in a court of justice. so anxious the story-teller seems, that the truth should be clearly comprehended, that when he has told us a matter of fact, or a motive, in a line or two farther down he _repeats_ it with his favorite figure of speech, 'i say' so and so,--though he had made it abundantly plain before. this is in imitation of the common people's way of speaking, or rather of the way in which they are addressed by a master or mistress, who wishes to impress something upon their memories; and has a wonderful effect upon matter-of-fact readers. indeed it is to such principally that he writes. his style is elsewhere beautiful, but plain _& homely_. robinson crusoe is delightful to all ranks and classes, but it is easy to see that it is written in phraseology peculiarly adapted to the lower conditions of readers: hence it is an especial favorite with seafaring men, poor boys, servant maids &c. his novels are capital kitchen-reading, while they are worthy from their deep interest to find a shelf in the libraries of the wealthiest, and the most learned. his passion for _matter of fact narrative_ sometimes betrayed him into a long relation of common incidents which might happen to any man, and have no interest but the intense appearance of truth in them, to recommend them. the whole latter half, or two thirds, of colonel jack is of this description. the beginning of colonel jack is the most affecting natural picture of a young thief that was ever drawn. his losing the stolen money in the hollow of a tree, and finding it again when he was in despair, and then being in equal distress at not knowing how to dispose of it, and several similar touches in the early history of the colonel, evince a deep knowledge of human nature; and, putting out of question the superior _romantic_ interest of the latter, in my mind very much exceed crusoe. roxana ( st edition) is the next in interest, though he left out the best part of it**in** subsequent editions from a foolish hypercriticism of his friend, southerne. but moll flanders, the account of the plague &c. &c. are all of one family, and have the same stamp of character."-- [_at the top of the first page is added:--_] _omitted at the end_ ... believe me with friendly recollections, _brother_ (as i used to call you) yours c. lamb. [_below the "dear wilson" is added in smaller writing:--_] the review was not mine, nor have i seen it. [lamb's friend walter wilson was beginning his _memoirs of the life and times of daniel defoe_, . the passage sent to him in this letter by lamb he printed in vol. iii., page . some years later lamb sent wilson a further criticism. see also letter below for the reference to _roxana_. dodwell we have met. of wadd we have no information, except, according to crabb robinson's _diary_, that he once accidentally discharged a pen full of ink into lamb's eye and that lamb wrote this epigram upon him:-- what wadd knows, god knows, but god knows _what_ wadd knows.] letter charles lamb to bernard barton [dated at end: december .] dear sir--i have been so distracted with business and one thing or other, i have not had a quiet quarter of an hour for epistolary purposes. christmas too is come, which always puts a rattle into my morning scull. it is a visiting unquiet un-quakerish season. i get more and more in love with solitude, and proportionately hampered with company. i hope you have some holydays at this period. i have one day, christmas day, alas! too few to commemorate the season. all work and no play dulls me. company is not play, but many times hard work. to play, is for a man to do what he pleases, or to do nothing--to go about soothing his particular fancies. i have lived to a time of life, to have outlived the good hours, the nine o'clock suppers, with a bright hour or two to clear up in afterwards. now you cannot get tea before that hour, and then sit gaping, music-bothered perhaps, till half-past brings up the tray, and what you steal of convivial enjoyment after, is heavily paid for in the disquiet of to-morrow's head. i am pleased with your liking john woodvil, and amused with your knowledge of our drama being confined to shakspeare and miss bailly. what a world of fine territory between land's end and johnny grots have you missed traversing. i almost envy you to have so much to read. i feel as if i had read all the books i want to read. o to forget fielding, steele, &c., and read 'em new. can you tell me a likely place where i could pick up, cheap, fox's journal? there are no quaker circulating libraries? ellwood, too, i must have. i rather grudge that s[outhe]y has taken up the history of your people. i am afraid he will put in some levity. i am afraid i am not quite exempt from that fault in certain magazine articles, where i have introduced mention of them. were they to do again, i would reform them. why should not you write a poetical account of your old worthies, deducing them from fox to woolman?--but i remember you did talk of something in that kind, as a counterpart to the ecclesiastical sketches. but would not a poem be more consecutive than a string of sonnets? you have no martyrs _quite to the fire_, i think, among you. but plenty of heroic confessors, spirit-martyrs--lamb-lions.--think of it. it would be better than a series of sonnets on "eminent bankers."--i like a hit at our way of life, tho' it does well for me, better than anything short of _all one's time to one's self_, for which alone i rankle with envy at the rich. books are good, and pictures are good, and money to buy them therefore good, but to buy _time!_ in other words, life-- the "compliments of the time to you" should end my letter; to a friend i suppose i must say the "sincerity of the season;" i hope they both mean the same. with excuses for this hastily penn'd note, believe me with great respect-- c. lamb. dec. . [miss bailly would be joanna baillie ( - ), author of _plays on the passions_. the copy of fox's _journal_, , which was lent to lamb is now in the possession of the society of friends. in it is written: "this copy of george fox's journal, being the earliest edition of that work, the property of john t. shewell of ipswich, is lent for six months to charles lamb, at the request of sam'l alexander of needham, ipswich, st mo. ." lamb has added: "returned by charles lamb, within the period, with many thanks to the lender for the very great satisfaction which he has derived from the perusal of it." southey was meditating a life of george fox and corresponded with barton on the subject. he did not write the book. barton had a plan to provide wordsworth's ecclesiastical sonnets with a quaker pendant. he did not carry it out. here might come an undated and unpublished letter from lamb to basil montagu, which is of little interest except as referring to miss james, mary lamb's nurse. lamb says that she was one of four sisters, daughters of a welsh clergyman, who all became nurses at mrs. warburton's, hoxton, whither, i imagine, mary lamb had often retired. mrs. parsons, one of the sisters, became mary lamb's nurse when, some time after lamb's death, she moved to alpha road, mrs. parsons' house. the late john hollingshead, great-nephew of these ladies, says in his interesting book, _my lifetime_, that their father was rector of beguildy, in shropshire.] letter charles lamb to john howard payne [january, .] dear payne--your little books are most acceptable. 'tis a delicate edition. they are gone to the binder's. when they come home i shall have two--the "camp" and "patrick's day"--to read for the first time. i may say three, for i never read the "school for scandal." "_seen_ it i have, and in its happier days." with the books harwood left a truncheon or mathematical instrument, of which we have not yet ascertained the use. it is like a telescope, but unglazed. or a ruler, but not smooth enough. it opens like a fan, and discovers a frame such as they weave lace upon at lyons and chambery. possibly it is from those parts. i do not value the present the less, for not being quite able to detect its purport. when i can find any one coming your way i have a volume for you, my elias collected. tell poole, his cockney in the lon. mag. tickled me exceedingly. harwood is to be with us this evening with fanny, who comes to introduce a literary lady, who wants to see me,--and whose portentous name is _plura_, in english "many things." now, of all god's creatures, i detest letters-affecting, authors-hunting ladies. but fanny "will have it so." so miss many things and i are to have a conference, of which you shall have the result. i dare say she does not play at whist. treasurer robertson, whose coffers are absolutely swelling with pantomimic receipts, called on me yesterday to say he is going to write to you, but if i were also, i might as well say that your last bill is at the banker's, and will be honored on the instant receipt of the third piece, which you have stipulated for. if you have any such in readiness, strike while the iron is hot, before the clown cools. tell mrs. kenney, that the miss f.h. (or h.f.) kelly, who has begun so splendidly in juliet, is the identical little fanny kelly who used to play on their green before their great lying-inn lodgings at bayswater. her career has stopt short by the injudicious bringing her out in a vile new tragedy, and for a third character in a stupid old one,--the earl of essex. this is macready's doing, who taught her. her recitation, &c. (_not her voice or person_), is masculine. it is so clever, it seemed a male _debut_. but cleverness is the bane of female tragedy especially. passions uttered logically, &c. it is bad enough in men-actors. could you do nothing for little clara fisher? are there no french pieces with a child in them? by pieces i mean here dramas, to prevent male-constructions. did not the blue girl remind you of some of congreve's women? angelica or millamant? to me she was a vision of genteel comedy realized. those kind of people never come to see one. _n'import_--havn't i miss many things coming? will you ask horace smith to----[_the remainder of this letter has been lost_.] [payne seems to have sent lamb an edition of sheridan. "the camp" and "st. patrick's day" are among sheridan's less known plays. poole was writing articles on france in the _london magazine_. lamb refers to "a cockney's rural sports," in the number for december, . fanny was fanny holcroft. plura i do not identify. the new tragedy in which miss kelly had to play was probably "the huguenot," produced december , . "the earl of essex" was revived december , . macready played in both. "cleverness is the bane." see lamb's little article on "the new acting" in vol. i. the blue girl seems to refer to the lady mentioned at the end of the first letter to payne. angelica is in congreve's "love for love"; millamant in his "way of the world."] letter charles lamb to william wordsworth [no date. january, .] dear wordsworth, i beg your acceptance of elia, detached from any of its old companions which might have been less agreeable to you. i hope your eyes are better, but if you must spare them, there is nothing in my pages which a lady may not read aloud without indecorum, _which is more than can be said of shakspeare_. what a nut this last sentence would be for blackwood! you will find i availed myself of your suggestion, in curtailing the dissertation on malvolio. i have been on the continent since i saw you. i have eaten frogs. i saw monkhouse tother day, and mrs. m. being too poorly to admit of company, the annual goosepye was sent to russell street, and with its capacity has fed "a hundred head" (not of aristotle's) but "of elia's friends." mrs. monkhouse is sadly confined, but chearful.-- this packet is going off, and i have neither time, place nor solitude for a longer letter. will you do me the favor to forward the other volume to southey? mary is perfectly well, and joins me in kindest rememb'ces to you all. [_signature cut away_.] ["what a nut... for blackwood." to help on maga's great cause against cockney arrogance. "the dissertation on malvolio." in elia the essays on the old actors were much changed and rearranged (see appendix to vol. ii. in this edition).] letter charles lamb to mr. and mrs. j.d. collier twelfth day [january ], . the pig was above my feeble praise. it was a dear pigmy. there was some contention as to who should have the ears, but in spite of his obstinacy (deaf as these little creatures are to advice) i contrived to get at one of them. it came in boots too, which i took as a favor. generally those petty toes, pretty toes! are missing. but i suppose he wore them, to look taller. he must have been the least of his race. his little foots would have gone into the silver slipper. i take him to have been chinese, and a female.-- if evelyn could have seen him, he would never have farrowed two such prodigious volumes, seeing how much good can be contained in--how small a compass! he crackled delicately. john collier jun has sent me a poem which (without the smallest bias from the aforesaid present, believe me) i pronounce _sterling_. i set about evelyn, and finished the first volume in the course of a natural day. to-day i attack the second--parts are very interesting.-- i left a blank at top of my letter, not being determined _which_ to address it to, so farmer and farmer's wife will please to divide our thanks. may your granaries be full, and your rats empty, and your chickens plump, and your envious neighbors lean, and your labourers busy, and you as idle and as happy as the day is long! vive l'agriculture! frank field's marriage of course you have seen in the papers, and that his brother barron is expected home. how do you make your pigs so little? they are vastly engaging at that age. i was so myself. now i am a disagreeable old hog-- a middle-aged-gentleman-and-a-half. my faculties, thank god, are not much impaired. i have my sight, hearing, taste, pretty perfect; and can read the lord's prayer in the common type, by the help of a candle, without making many mistakes. believe me, while my faculties last, a proper appreciator of your many kindnesses in this way; and that the last lingering relish of past flavors upon my dying memory will be the smack of that little ear. it was the left ear, which is lucky. many happy returns (not of the pig) but of the new year to both.-- mary for her share of the pig and the memoirs desires to send the same-- d'r. m'r. c. and m'rs. c.-- yours truly c. lamb. [this letter is usually supposed to have been addressed by lamb to mr. and mrs. bruton of mackery end. the address is, however, mrs. collier, smallfield place, east grinstead, sussex. "if evelyn could have seen him." john evelyn's _diary_ had recently been published, in and , in two large quarto volumes.] letter charles lamb to charles aders [jan. , .] dear sir--we shall have great pleasure in surprising mrs. aders on her birthday--you will perceive how cunningly i have contrived the direction of this note, _to evade postage_. yours truly c. lamb. jan. ' . [this note is sent to me by mr. g. dunlop of kilmarnock. it is the only note to aders, a friend of crabb robinson, to whose house lamb often went for talk and whist. aders had a fine collection of german pictures. see the verses to him in vol. iv. the cunning in the address consisted apparently in obtaining the signature of an india house colleague to certify that it was "official."] letter charles lamb to bernard barton jan., . "throw yourself on the world without any rational plan of support, beyond what the chance employ of booksellers would afford you"!!! throw yourself rather, my dear sir, from the steep tarpeian rock, slap-dash headlong upon iron spikes. if you had but five consolatory minutes between the desk and the bed, make much of them, and live a century in them, rather than turn slave to the booksellers. they are turks and tartars, when they have poor authors at their beck. hitherto you have been at arm's length from them. come not within their grasp. i have known many authors for bread, some repining, others envying the blessed security of a counting house, all agreeing they had rather have been taylors, weavers, what not? rather than the things they were. i have known some starved, some to go mad, one clear friend literally dying in a workhouse. you know not what a rapacious, dishonest set those booksellers are. ask even southey, who (a single case almost) has made a fortune by book drudgery, what he has found them. o you know not, may you never know! the miseries of subsisting by authorship. 'tis a pretty appendage to a situation like yours or mine, but a slavery worse than all slavery to be a book-seller's dependent, to drudge your brains for pots of ale and breasts of mutton, to change your free thoughts and voluntary numbers for ungracious task-work. those fellows hate _us_. the reason i take to be, that, contrary to other trades, in which the master gets all the credit (a jeweller or silversmith for instance), and the journeyman, who really does the fine work, is in the background, in _our_ work the world gives all the credit to us, whom _they_ consider as _their_ journeymen, and therefore do they hate us, and cheat us, and oppress us, and would wring the blood of us out, to put another sixpence in their mechanic pouches. i contend, that a bookseller has a _relative honesty_ towards authors, not like his honesty to the rest of the world. b[aldwin], who first engag'd me as elia, has not paid me up yet (nor any of us without repeated mortifying applials), yet how the knave fawned while i was of service to him! yet i dare say the fellow is punctual in settling his milk-score, &c. keep to your bank, and the bank will keep you. trust not to the public, you may hang, starve, drown yourself, for anything that worthy _personage_ cares. i bless every star that providence, not seeing good to make me independent, has seen it next good to settle me upon the stable foundation of leadenhall. sit down, good b.b., in the banking office; what, is there not from six to eleven p.m. days in the week, and is there not all sunday? fie, what a superfluity of man's time,--if you could think so! enough for relaxation, mirth, converse, poetry, good thoughts, quiet thoughts. o the corroding torturing tormenting thoughts, that disturb the brain of the unlucky wight, who must draw upon it for daily sustenance. henceforth i retract all my fond complaints of mercantile employment, look upon them as lovers' quarrels. i was but half in earnest. welcome, dead timber of a desk, that makes me live. a little grumbling is a wholesome medicine for the spleen; but in my inner heart do i approve and embrace this our close but unharassing way of life. i am quite serious. if you can send me fox, i will not keep it six _weeks_, and will return it, with warm thanks to yourself and friend, without blot or dog's ear. you much oblige me by this kindness. yours truly, c. lamb. please to direct to me at india ho. in future. [? i am] not always at russell st. [barton had long been meditating the advisability of giving up his place in the bank at woodbridge and depending upon his pen. lamb's letter of dissuasion is not the only one which he received. byron had written to him in : "you deserve success; but we knew, before addison wrote his cato, that desert does not always command it. but suppose it attained-- 'you know what ills the author's life assail-- toil, envy, want, the _patron_, and the jail.' do not renounce writing, but never trust entirely to authorship. if you have a profession, retain it; it will be like prior's fellowship, a last and sure resource." barton had now broken again into dissatisfaction with his life. he did not, however, leave the bank. southey made no "fortune" by his pen. he almost always had to forestall his new works.] letter charles lamb to john howard payne january, ' . dear payne--i have no mornings (my day begins at p.m.) to transact business in, or talents for it, so i employ mary, who has seen robertson, who says that the piece which is to be operafied was sent to you six weeks since by a mr. hunter, whose journey has been delayed, but he supposes you have it by this time. on receiving it back properly done, the rest of your dues will be forthcoming. you have received £ from harwood, i hope? bishop was at the theatre when mary called, and he has put your other piece into c. kemble's hands (the piece you talk of offering elliston) and c.k. sent down word that he had not yet had time to read it. so stand your affairs at present. glossop has got the murderer. will you address him on the subject, or shall i--that is, mary? she says you must write more _showable_ letters about these matters, for, with all our trouble of crossing out this word, and giving a cleaner turn to th' other, and folding down at this part, and squeezing an obnoxious epithet into a corner, she can hardly communicate their contents without offence. what, man, put less gall in your ink, or write me a biting tragedy! c. lamb. [here should come a letter from lamb to ayrton asking him to meet the burneys and paynes on wednesday at half-past four.] letter charles lamb to john howard payne february [ ], . my dear miss lamb--i have enclosed for you mr. payne's piece called grandpapa, which i regret to say is not thought to be of the nature that will suit this theatre; but as there appears to be much merit in it, mr. kemble strongly recommends that you should send it to the english opera house, for which it seems to be excellently adapted. as you have already been kind enough to be our medium of communication with mr. payne, i have imposed this trouble upon you; but if you do not like to act for mr. payne in the business, and have no means of disposing of the piece, i will forward it to paris or elsewhere as you think he may prefer. very truly yours, henry robertson. t.r.c.g., feb. . dear p---- we have just received the above, and want your instructions. it strikes me as a very merry little piece, that should be played by _very young actors_. it strikes me that miss clara fisher would play the _boy_ exactly. she is just such a forward chit. no young _man_ would do it without its appearing absurd, but in a girl's hands it would have just all the reality that a short dream of an act requires. then for the sister, if miss stevenson that was, were miss stevenson and younger, they two would carry it off. i do not know who they have got in that young line, besides miss c.f., at drury, nor how you would like elliston to have it--has he not had it? i am thick with arnold, but i have always heard that the very slender profits of the english opera house do not admit of his giving above a trifle, or next to none, for a piece of this kind. write me what i should do, what you would ask, &c. the music (printed) is returned with the piece, and the french original. tell mr. grattan i thank him for his book, which as far as i have read it is a very _companionable one_. i have but just received it. it came the same hour with your packet from cov. gar., i.e. yester-night late, to my summer residence, where, tell kenney, the cow is quiet. love to all at versailles. write quickly. c.l. i have no acquaintance with kemble at all, having only met him once or twice; but any information, &c., i can get from r., who is a good fellow, you may command. i am sorry the rogues are so dilitory, but i distinctly believe they mean to fulfill their engagement. i am sorry you are not here to see to these things. i am a poor man of business, but command me to the short extent of my tether. my sister's kind remembrance ever. c.l. [the "grandpapa" was eventually produced at drury lane, may , , and played thrice. miss stevenson was an actress praised by lamb in _the examiner_ (see vol. i. of this edition). c.f. was clara fisher, mentioned above. samuel james arnold was manager of the lyceum, then known as the english opera house; he was the brother of mrs. william ayrton, lamb's friend. mr. grattan was thomas colley grattan ( - ), who was then living in paris. his book would be _highways and byways_, first series, . there is one other note to payne in the _century magazine_, unimportant and undated, suggesting a walk one sunday.] letter charles lamb to bernard barton [p.m. february , .] my dear sir--i have read quite through the ponderous folio of g.f. i think sewell has been judicious in omitting certain parts, as for instance where g.f. _has_ revealed to him the natures of all the creatures in their names, as adam had. he luckily turns aside from that compendious study of natural history, which might have superseded buffon, to his proper spiritual pursuits, only just hinting what a philosopher he might have been. the ominous passage is near the beginning of the book. it is clear he means a physical knowledge, without trope or figure. also, pretences to miraculous healing and the like are more frequent than i should have suspected from the epitome in sewell. he is nevertheless a great spiritual man, and i feel very much obliged by your procuring me the loan of it. how i like the quaker phrases--though i think they were hardly completed till woolman. a pretty little manual of quaker language (with an endeavour to explain them) might be gathered out of his book. could not you do it? i have read through g.f. without finding any explanation of the term _first volume_ in the title page. it takes in all, both his life and his death. are there more last words of him? pray, how may i venture to return it to mr. shewell at ipswich? i fear to send such a treasure by a stage coach. not that i am afraid of the coachman or the guard _reading_ it. but it might be lost. can you put me in a way of sending it in safety? the kind hearted owner trusted it to me for six months. i think i was about as many days in getting through it, and i do not think that i skipt a word of it. i have quoted g.f. in my quaker's meeting, as having said he was "lifted up in spirit" (which i felt at the time to be not a quaker phrase), "and the judge and jury were as dead men under his feet." i find no such words in his journal, and i did not get them from sewell, and the latter sentence i am sure i did not mean to invent. i must have put some other quaker's words into his mouth. is it a fatality in me, that every thing i touch turns into a lye? i once quoted two lines from a translation of dante, which hazlitt very greatly admired, and quoted in a book as proof of the stupendous power of that poet, but no such lines are to be found in the translation, which has been searched for the purpose. i must have dreamed them, for i am quite certain i did not forge them knowingly. what a misfortune to have a lying memory.--yes, i have seen miss coleridge, and wish i had just such a--daughter. god love her--to think that she should have had to toil thro' five octavos of that cursed (i forget i write to a quaker) abbeypony history, and then to abridge them to , and all for £ . at her years, to be doing stupid jesuits' latin into english, when she should be reading or writing romances. heaven send her uncle do not breed her up a quarterly reviewer!--which reminds me, that he has spoken very respectfully of you in the last number, which is the next thing to having a review all to one's self. your description of mr. mitford's place makes me long for a pippin and some carraways and a cup of sack in his orchard, when the sweets of the night come in. farewell. c. lamb. [in the folio of george fox's _journal_ the revelation of the names of creatures occurs twice, once under notts in and again under mansfield in . "sewell." _the history of the rise, increase and progress of the christian people called quakers_, . by william sewell ( - ). "in my quaker's meeting"--the _elia_ essay (see vol. ii.). "i once quoted two lines." possibly, mr. a.r. waller suggests to me, the lines:-- because on earth their names in fame's eternal volume shine for aye, quoted by hazlitt in his _round table_ essay "on posthumous fame," and again in one of his _edinburgh review_ articles. they are presumably based upon the _inferno_, canto iv. (see haselfoot's translation, second edition, , page , lines - ). but the "manufacturer" of them must have had spenser's line in his mind, "on fame's eternall bead-roll worthie to be fyled" (_faerie queene_, bk. iv., canto ii., stanza ). they have not yet been found in any translation of dante. this explanation would satisfy lamb's words "quoted in a book," i.e., _the round table_, published in . "miss coleridge"--coleridge's daughter sara, born in , who had been brought up by her uncle, southey. she had translated martin dobrizhoffer's latin history of the abipones in order to gain funds for her brother derwent's college expenses. her father considered the translation "unsurpassed for pure mother english by anything i have read for a long time." sara coleridge married her cousin, henry nelson coleridge, in . she edited her father's works and died in . at the present time she and her mother were visiting the gillmans. mr. mitford was john mitford ( - ), rector of benhall, in suffolk, and editor of old poets. later he became editor of the _gentleman's magazine_. he was a cousin of mary russell mitford. in the _gentleman's magazine_ for may, , is a review of talfourd's edition of lamb's _letters_, probably from his pen, in which he records a visit to the lambs in .] letter charles lamb to walter wilson [dated at end: february , .] dear w.--i write that you may not think me neglectful, not that i have any thing to say. in answer to your questions, it was at _your_ house i saw an edition of roxana, the preface to which stated that the author had left out 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 savage is said to have done in _his_, prying in at windows to get a glimpse of her), and that it was by advice of southern, who objected to the circumstances as being untrue, when the rest of the story was founded on fact; which shows s. to have been a stupid-ish fellow. the incidents so resemble savage's story, that i taxed godwin with taking falconer 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 _my_ roxana. the prologue you speak of was mine, so named, but not worth much. you ask me for or pages of verse. i have not written so much since you knew me. i am altogether prosaic. may be i may touch off a sonnet in time. i do not prefer col. jack to either rob. cr. or roxana. i only spoke of the beginning of it, his childish history. the rest is poor. i do not know anywhere any good character of de foe besides what you mention. i do not know that swift mentions him. pope does. i forget if d'israeli has. dunlop i think has nothing of him. he is quite new ground, and scarce known beyond crusoe. i do not know who wrote quarll. i never thought of quarll 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 know the paper in the englishman by sir rd. 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 memoirs; they are about lord peterborough's campaign in spain, & a good book. puzzelli puzzles me, and i am in a cloud about donald m'leod. i never heard of them; so you see, my dear wilson, what poor assistances i can give in the way of information. i wish your book out, for i shall like to see any thing about de foe or from you. your old friend, c. lamb. from my and your old compound. feb. ' . [with this letter compare the letter on september , , to godwin, and the letter on december , , to wilson. defoe's _roxana_, first edition, does not, as a matter of fact, contain the episode of the daughter which lamb so much admired. later editions have it. godwin says in his preface to "faulkener," , the play to which lamb wrote a prologue in praise of defoe (see vol. iv.), that the only accessible edition of _roxana_ in which the story of susannah is fully told is that of . richard savage was considered to be the natural son of the countess of macclesfield and earl rivers. his mother at first disowned him, but afterwards, when this became impossible, repulsed him. johnson says in his "life of savage," that it was his hero's "practice to walk in the dark evenings for several hours before her door in hopes of seeing her as she might come by accident to the window or cross her apartment with a candle in her hand." swift and defoe were steady enemies, although i do not find that either mentions the other by name. but swift in _the examiner_ often had defoe in mind, and defoe in one of his political writings refers to swift, _apropos_ wood's halfpence, as "the copper farthing author." pope referred to defoe twice in the _dunciad_: once as standing high, fearless and unabashed in the pillory, and once, libellously, as the father of norton, of the _flying post_. _philip quarll_ was the first imitation of _robinson crusoe_. it was published in , purporting to be the narrative of one dorrington, a merchant, and quarll's discoverer. the title begins, _the hermit; or, the unparalleled sufferings and surprising adventures of mr. philip quarll, an englishman_ ... lamb says in his essay on christ's hospital that the blue-coat boys used to read the book. the authorship of the book is still unknown. steele's account of selkirk is in _the englishman_, no. , dec. , . wilson quoted it. defoe's fictitious _military memoirs of capt. george carleton_ was published in . i cannot explain puzzelli or donald m'leod. later lamb sent wilson, who seems to have asked for some verse about defoe, the "ode to the treadmill," but wilson did not use it. "my old compound." robinson's _diary_ (vol. i., page ) has this: "the large room in the accountant's office at the east india house is divided into boxes or compartments, in each of which sit six clerks, charles lamb himself in one. they are called compounds. the meaning of the word was asked one day, and lamb said it was 'a collection of simples.'"] letter charles lamb to bernard barton [dated at end: march , .] dear sir--the approbation of my little book by your sister is very pleasing to me. the quaker incident did not happen to me, but to carlisle the surgeon, from whose mouth i have twice heard it, at an interval of ten or twelve years, with little or no variation, and have given it as exactly as i could remember it. the gloss which your sister, or you, have put upon it does not strike me as correct. carlisle drew no inference from it against the honesty of the quakers, but only in favour of their surprising coolness--that they should be capable of committing a good joke, with an utter insensibility to its being any jest at all. i have reason to believe in the truth of it, because, as i have said, i heard him repeat it without variation at such an interval. the story loses sadly in print, for carlisle is the best story teller i ever heard. the idea of the discovery of roasting pigs, i also borrowed, from my friend manning, and am willing to confess both my plagiarisms. should fate ever so order it that you shall be in town with your sister, mine bids me say that she shall have great pleasure in being introduced to her. i think i must give up the cause of the bank--from nine to nine is galley-slavery, but i hope it is but temporary. your endeavour at explaining fox's insight into the natures of animals must fail, as i shall transcribe the passage. it appears to me that he stopt short in time, and was on the brink of falling with his friend naylor, my favourite.--the book shall be forthcoming whenever your friend can make convenient to call for it. they have dragged me again into the magazine, but i feel the spirit of the thing in my own mind quite gone. "some brains" (i think ben jonson says it) "will endure but one skimming." we are about to have an inundation of poetry from the lakes, wordsworth and southey are coming up strong from the north. the she coleridges have taken flight, to my regret. with sara's own-made acquisitions, her unaffectedness and no-pretensions are beautiful. you might pass an age with her without suspecting that she knew any thing but her mother's tongue. i don't mean any reflection on mrs. coleridge here. i had better have said her vernacular idiom. poor c. i wish he had a home to receive his daughter in. but he is but as a stranger or a visitor in this world. how did you like hartley's sonnets? the first, at least, is vastly fine. lloyd has been in town a day or two on business, and is perfectly well. i am ashamed of the shabby letters i send, but i am by nature anything but neat. therein my mother bore me no quaker. i never could seal a letter without dropping the wax on one side, besides scalding my fingers. i never had a seal too of my own. writing to a great man lately, who is moreover very heraldic, i borrowed a seal of a friend, who by the female side quarters the protectorial arms of cromwell. how they must have puzzled my correspondent!--my letters are generally charged as double at the post office, from their inveterate clumsiness of foldure. so you must not take it disrespectful to your self if i send you such ungainly scraps. i think i lose £ a year at the india house, owing solely to my want of neatness in making up accounts. how i puzzle 'em out at last is the wonder. i have to do with millions. _i?_ it is time to have done my incoherences. believe me yours truly c. lamb. tuesd ma . [lamb had sent _elia_ to woodbridge. bernard barton's sister was maria hack, author of many books for children. the quaker incident is in the essay "imperfect sympathies." carlisle was sir anthony carlisle. "your endeavour at explaining fox's insight." see letter above. james nayler ( ?- ), an early quaker who permitted his admirers to look upon him as a new christ. he went to extremes totally foreign to the spirit of the society. barton made a paraphrase of nayler's "last testimony." "they have dragged me again." lamb had been quite ready to give up _elia_ with the first essays. "old china," one of his most charming papers, was in the march _london magazine_. "some brains ..." i had to give this up in my large edition. i now find that swift says it, not ben jonson. "there is a brain that will endure but one scumming." preface to _battle of the books_. "hartley's sonnets." four sonnets by hartley coleridge were printed in the _london magazine_ for february, , addressed to r.s. jameson. "writing to a great man lately." this was sir walter scott (see page ). barron field would be the friend with the seal. here should come a letter from lamb to ayrton saying that there will be cards and cold mutton in russell st. from to and gin and jokes from . to .] letter charles lamb to bernard barton [p.m. april .] dear sir--you must think me ill mannered not to have replied to your first letter sooner, but i have an ugly habit of aversion from letter writing, which makes me an unworthy correspondent. i have had no spring, or cordial call to the occupation of late. i have been not well lately, which must be my lame excuse. your poem, which i consider very affecting, found me engaged about a humorous paper for the london, which i had called a "letter to an _old gentleman_ whose education had been neglected"--and when it was done taylor and hessey would not print it, and it discouraged me from doing any thing else, so i took up scott, where i had scribbled some petulant remarks, and for a make shift father'd them on ritson. it is obvious i could not make your poem a part of them, and as i did not know whether i should ever be able to do to my mind what you suggested, i thought it not fair to keep back the verses for the chance. mr. mitford's sonnet i like very well; but as i also have my reasons against interfering at all with the editorial arrangement of the london, i transmitted it (not in my own hand-writing) to them, who i doubt not will be glad to insert it. what eventual benefit it can be to you (otherwise than that a kind man's wish is a benefit) i cannot conjecture. your society are eminently men of business, and will probably regard you as an idle fellow, possibly disown you, that is to say, if you had put your own name to a sonnet of that sort, but they cannot excommunicate mr. mitford, therefore i thoroughly approve of printing the said verses. when i see any quaker names to the concert of antient music, or as directors of the british institution, or bequeathing medals to oxford for the best classical themes, etc.--then i shall begin to hope they will emancipate you. but what as a society can they do for you? you would not accept a commission in the army, nor they be likely to procure it; posts in church or state have they none in their giving; and then if they disown you--think--you must live "a man forbid." i wishd for you yesterday. i dined in parnassus, with wordsworth, coleridge, rogers, and tom moore--half the poetry of england constellated and clustered in gloster place! it was a delightful even! coleridge was in his finest vein of talk, had all the talk, and let 'em talk as evilly as they do of the envy of poets, i am sure not one there but was content to be nothing but a listener. the muses were dumb, while apollo lectured on his and their fine art. it is a lie that poets are envious, i have known the best of them, and can speak to it, that they give each other their merits, and are the kindest critics as well as best authors. i am scribbling a muddy epistle with an aking head, for we did not quaff hippocrene last night. many, it was hippocras rather. pray accept this as a letter in the mean time, and do me the favor to mention my respects to mr. mitford, who is so good as to entertain good thoughts of elia, but don't show this almost impertinent scrawl. i will write more respectfully next time, for believe me, if not in words, in feelings, yours most so. ["your poem." barton's poem was entitled "a poet's thanks," and was printed in the _london magazine_ for april, , the same number that contained lamb's article on ritson and scott. it is one of his best poems, an expression of contentment in simplicity. the "letter to an old gentleman," a parody of de quincey's series of "letters to a young gentleman" in the _london magazine_, was not published until january, . scott was john scott of amwell (barton's predecessor as the quaker poet), who had written a rather foolish book of prose, _critical essays on the english poets_. ritson was joseph ritson, the critic and antiquarian. see vol. i. of the present edition for the essay. barton seems to have suggested to lamb that he should write an essay around the poem "a poet's thanks." mitford's sonnet, which was printed in the _london magazine_ for june, , was addressed commiseratingly to bernard barton. it began:-- what to thy broken spirit can atone, unhappy victim of the tyrant's fears; and continued in the same strain, the point being that barton was the victim of his quaker employers, who made him "prisoner at once and slave." lamb's previous letter shows us that barton was being worked from nine till nine, and we must suppose also that an objection to his poetical exercises had been lodged or suggested. the matter righted itself in time. "i dined in parnassus." this dinner, at thomas monkhouse's, no. gloucester place, is described both by moore and by crabb robinson, who was present. moore wrote in his _journal_:-- "dined at mr. monkhouse's (a gentleman i had never seen before) on wordsworth's invitation, who lives there whenever he comes to town. a singular party. coleridge, rogers, wordsworth and wife, charles lamb (the hero at present of the _london magazine_), and his sister (the poor woman who went mad in a diligence on the way to paris), and a mr. robinson, one of the _minora sidera_ of this constellation of the lakes; the host himself, a maecenas of the school, contributing nothing but good dinners and silence. charles lamb, a clever fellow, certainly, but full of villainous and abortive puns, which he miscarries of every minute. some excellent things, however, have come from him." lamb told moore that he had hitherto always felt an antipathy to him, but henceforward should like him. crabb robinson writes:-- "_april th_.--dined at monkhouse's. our party consisted of wordsworth, coleridge, lamb, moore, and rogers. five poets of very unequal worth and most disproportionate popularity, whom the public probably would arrange in the very inverse order, except that it would place moore above rogers. during this afternoon, coleridge alone displayed any of his peculiar talent. he talked much and well. i have not for years seen him in such excellent health and spirits. his subjects metaphysical criticism--wordsworth he chiefly talked to. rogers occasionally let fall a remark. moore seemed conscious of his inferiority. he was very attentive to coleridge, but seemed to relish lamb, whom he sat next. l. was in a good frame--kept himself within bounds and was only cheerful at last.... i was at the bottom of the table, where i very ill performed my part.... i walked home late with lamb." many years later robinson sent to the athenaeum (june , ) a further and fuller account of the evening.] letter charles lamb to b.w. procter april th, . dear lad,--you must think me a brute beast, a rhinoceros, never to have acknowledged the receipt of your precious present. but indeed i am none of those shocking things, but have arrived at that indisposition to letter-writing, which would make it a hard exertion to write three lines to a king to spare a friend's life. whether it is that the magazine paying me so much a page, i am loath to throw away composition--how much a sheet do you give your correspondents? i have hung up pope, and a gem it is, in my town room; i hope for your approval. though it accompanies the "essay on man," i think that was not the poem he is here meditating. he would have looked up, somehow affectedly, if he were just conceiving "awake, my st. john." neither is he in the "rape of the lock" mood exactly. i think he has just made out the last lines of the "epistle to jervis," between gay and tender, "and other beauties envy worsley's eyes." i'll be damn'd if that isn't the line. he is brooding over it, with a dreamy phantom of lady mary floating before him. he is thinking which is the earliest possible day and hour that she will first see it. what a miniature piece of gentility it is! why did you give it me? i do not like you enough to give you anything so good. i have dined with t. moore and breakfasted with rogers, since i saw you; have much to say about them when we meet, which i trust will be in a week or two. i have been over-watched and over-poeted since wordsworth has been in town. i was obliged for health sake to wish him gone: but now he is gone i feel a great loss. i am going to dalston to recruit, and have serious thoughts--of altering my condition, that is, of taking to sobriety. what do you advise me? t. moore asked me your address in a manner which made me believe he meant to call upon you. rogers spake very kindly of you, as every body does, and none with so much reason as your c.l. [this is the first important letter to bryan waller procter, better known as barry cornwall, who was afterwards to write, in his old age, so pleasant a memoir of lamb. he was then thirty-five, was practising law, and had already published _marcian colonna_ and _a sicilian story_. the epistle to mr. jervas (with mr. dryden's translation of fresnoy's _art of painting_) did not end upon this line, but some eighteen lines later. i give the portrait in my large edition. "lady mary." by lady mary lamb means, as pope did in the first edition, lady mary wortley montagu. but after his quarrel with that lady pope altered it to worsley, signifying lady frances worsley, daughter of the duke of marlborough and wife of sir robert worsley.] letter charles lamb to sarah hutchinson [p.m. april , .] dear miss h----, mary has such an invincible reluctance to any epistolary exertion, that i am sparing her a mortification by taking the pen from her. the plain truth is, she writes such a pimping, mean, detestable hand, that she is ashamed of the formation of her letters. there is an essential poverty and abjectness in the frame of them. they look like begging letters. and then she is sure to omit a most substantial word in the second draught (for she never ventures an epistle, without a foul copy first) which is obliged to be interlined, which spoils the neatest epistle, you know [_the word "epistle" is underlined_). her figures, , , , , &c., where she has occasion to express numerals, as in the date ( apr ), are not figures, but figurantes. and the combined posse go staggering up and down shameless as drunkards in the day time. it is no better when she rules her paper, her lines are "not less erring" than her words--a sort of unnatural parallel lines, that are perpetually threatening to meet, which you know is quite contrary to euclid [_here lamb has ruled lines grossly unparallel_]. her very blots are not bold like this [_here a bold blot_], but poor smears [_here a poor smear_] half left in and half scratched out with another smear left in their place. i like a clean letter. a bold free hand, and a fearless flourish. then she has always to go thro' them (a second operation) to dot her i s, and cross her t s. i don't think she can make a cork screw, if she tried--which has such a fine effect at the end or middle of an epistle--and fills up-- [_here lamb has made a corkscrew two inches long_.] there is a corkscrew, one of the best i ever drew. by the way what incomparable whiskey that was of monkhouse's. but if i am to write a letter, let me begin, and not stand flourishing like a fencer at a fair. it gives me great pleasure (the letter now begins) to hear that you got down smoothly, and that mrs. monkhouse's spirits are so good and enterprising. it shews, 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 out-stripping neighbor. pray present our kindest wishes to her, and all. (that sentence should properly have come in the post script, 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 was 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 astraea, and the cold piety of the age lacks fervor to recall them--only peter left his key--the iron one of the two, that shuts amain--and that's the reason i am lockd up. meanwhile of afternoons we pick up primroses at dalston, and mary corrects me when i call 'em cowslips. god bless you all, and pray remember me euphoneously to mr. gnwellegan. that lee priory must be a dainty bower, is it built of flints, and does it stand at kingsgate? did you remem [_this is apparently the proper end of the letter. at least there is no indication of another sheet_.] [addressed to "miss hutchinson, sion hill, ramsgate, kent," where she was staying with mrs. monkhouse. i give a facsimile of it in my large edition. "'time'--as was said of one of us." johnson wrote of shakespeare, in the prologue at the opening of drury lane theatre in :-- and panting time toil'd after him in vain. "the saints' days." see note to the letter to mrs. wordsworth, feb. , . "mr. gnwellegan." probably lamb's effort to write the name of edward quillinan, afterwards wordsworth's son-in-law, whose first wife had been a miss brydges of lee priory. "lee priory"--the home of sir egerton brydges, at ickham, near canterbury, for some years. he had, however, now left, and the private press was closed. in _notes and queries_, november , , was printed the following scrap, a postscript by charles lamb to a letter from mary lamb to miss h. i place it here, having no clue as to date, nor does it matter:--] letter (_fragment_) charles lamb to miss hutchinson (?) a propos of birds--the other day at a large dinner, being call'd upon for a toast, i gave, as the best toast i knew, "wood-cock toast," which was drunk with cheers. yours affect'y c. lamb. letter charles lamb to john bates dibdin [no date. probably .] it is hard when a gentleman cannot remain concealed, who affecteth obscurity with greater avidity than most do seek to have their good deeds brought to light--to haye a prying inquisitive finger, (to the danger of its own scorching), busied in removing the little peck measure (scripturally a bushel) under which one had hoped to bury his small candle. the receipt of fern-seed, i think, in this curious age, would scarce help a man to walk invisible. well, i am discovered--and thou thyself, who thoughtest to shelter under the pease-cod of initiality (a stale and shallow device), art no less dragged to light--thy slender anatomy--thy skeletonian d---- fleshed and sinewed out to the plump expansion of six characters--thy tuneful genealogy deduced-- by the way, what a name is timothy! lay it down, i beseech thee, and in its place take up the properer sound of timotheus-- then mayst thou with unblushing fingers handle the lyre "familiar to the d----n name." with much difficulty have i traced thee to thy lurking-place. many a goodly name did i run over, bewildered between dorrien, and doxat, and dover, and dakin, and daintry--a wilderness of d's--till at last i thought i had hit it--my conjectures wandering upon a melancholy jew--you wot the israelite upon change--master daniels--a contemplative hebrew-- to the which guess i was the rather led, by the consideration that most of his nation are great readers-- nothing is so common as to see them in the jews' walk, with a bundle of script in one hand, and the man of feeling, or a volume of sterne, in the other-- i am a rogue if i can collect what manner of face thou carriest, though thou seemest so familiar with mine--if i remember, thou didst not dimly resemble the man daniels, whom at first i took thee for--a care-worn, mortified, economical, commercio-political countenance, with an agreeable limp in thy gait, if elia mistake thee not. i think i sh'd shake hands with thee, if i met thee. [john bates dibdin, the son of charles dibdin the younger and grandson of the great charles dibdin, was at this time a young man of about twenty-four, engaged as a clerk in a shipping office in the city. i borrow from canon ainger an interesting letter from a sister of dibdin on the beginning of the correspondence:-- my brother ... had constant occasion to conduct the giving or taking of cheques, as it might be, at the india house. there he always selected "the little clever man" in preference to the other clerks. at that time the _elia essays_ were appearing in print. no one had the slightest conception who "elia" was. he was talked of everywhere, and everybody was trying to find him out, but without success. at last, from the style and manner of conveying his ideas and opinions on different subjects, my brother began to suspect that lamb was the individual so widely sought for, and wrote some lines to him, anonymously, sending them by post to his residence, with the hope of sifting him on the subject. although lamb could not _know_ who sent him the lines, yet he looked very hard at the writer of them the next time they met, when he walked up, as usual, to lamb's desk in the most unconcerned manner, to transact the necessary business. shortly after, when they were again in conversation, something dropped from lamb's lips which convinced his hearer, beyond a doubt, that his suspicions were correct. he therefore wrote some more lines (anonymously, as before), beginning-- "i've found thee out, o elia!" and sent them to colebrook row. the consequence was that at their next meeting lamb produced the lines, and after much laughing, confessed himself to be _elia_. this led to a warm friendship between them. dibdin's letter of discovery was signed d. hence lamb's fumbling after his christian name, which he probably knew all the time.] letter charles lamb to bernard barton [p.m. may, .] dear sir--i am vexed to be two letters in your debt, but i have been quite out of the vein lately. a philosophical treatise is wanting, of the causes of the backwardness with which persons after a certain time of life set about writing a letter. i always feel as if i had nothing to say, and the performance generally justifies the presentiment. taylor and hessey did foolishly in not admitting the sonnet. surely it might have followed the b.b. i agree with you in thinking bowring's paper better than the former. i will inquire about my letter to the old gentleman, but i expect it to _go in_, after those to the young gent'n are completed. i do not exactly see why the goose and little goslings should emblematize _a quaker poet that has no children_. but after all--perhaps it is a pelican. the mene mene tekel upharsin around it i cannot decypher. the songster of the night pouring out her effusions amid a silent meeting of madge owlets, would be at least intelligible. a full pause here comes upon me, as if i had not a word more left. i will shake my brain. once-- twice--nothing comes up. george fox recommends waiting on these occasions. i wait. nothing comes. g. fox--that sets me off again. i have finished the journal, and more pages of the _doctrinals_, which i picked up for s. d. if i get on at this rate, the society will be in danger of having two quaker poets--to patronise. i am at dalston now, but if, when i go back to cov. gar., i find thy friend has not call'd for the journal, thee must put me in a way of sending it; and if it should happen that the lender of it, having that volume, has not the other, i shall be most happy in his accepting the doctrinals, which i shall read but once certainly. it is not a splendid copy, but perfect, save a leaf of index. i cannot but think _the london_ drags heavily. i miss janus. and o how it misses hazlitt! procter too is affronted (as janus has been) with their abominable curtailment of his things--some meddling editor or other--or phantom of one --for neither he nor janus know their busy friend. but they always find the best part cut out; and they have done well to cut also. i am not so fortunate as to be served in this manner, for i would give a clean sum of money in sincerity to leave them handsomely. but the dogs--t. and h. i mean-- will not affront me, and what can i do? must i go on to drivelling? poor relations is tolerable--but where shall i get another subject--or who shall deliver me from the body of this death? i assure you it teases me more than it used to please me. ch. lloyd has published a sort of quaker poem, he tells me, and that he has order'd me a copy, but i have not got it. have you seen it? i must leave a little wafer space, which brings me to an apology for a conclusion. i am afraid of looking back, for i feel all this while i have been writing nothing, but it may show i am alive. believe me, cordially yours c. lamb. [the sonnet probably was mitford's, which was printed in the june number (see above). bowring, afterwards sir john, was writing in the _london magazine_ on "spanish romances." "the goose and little goslings." possibly the design upon the seal of barton's last letter. "janus." the first mention of thomas griffiths wainewright (see note below), who sometimes wrote in the _london_ over the pseudonym janus weathercock. john taylor, hood and perhaps john hamilton reynolds, made up the magazine for press. in the may number, in addition to lamb's "poor relations," were contributions from de quincey, hartley coleridge, cary, and barton. but it was not what it had been. lloyd's quaker poem would probably be one of those in his _poems_, , which contains some of his most interesting work.] letter charles lamb to john bates dibdin [p.m. may , .] dear sir--your verses were very pleasant, and i shall like to see more of them--i do not mean _addressed to me_. i do not know whether you live in town or country, but if it suits your convenience i shall be glad to see you some evening-- say thursday--at great russell street, cov't garden. if you can come, do not trouble yourself to write. we are old fashiond people who _drink tea_ at six, or not much later, and give cold mutton and pickle at nine, the good old hour. i assure you (if it suit you) we shall be glad to see you.-- yours, etc. c. lamb. e.i.h., tuesday, my love to mr. railton. some day of may . the same to mr. rankin, not official. to the whole firm indeed. [the verses are not, i fear, now recoverable. dibdin's firm was railton, rankin & co., in old jury. here should come a letter from lamb to hone, dated may , . william hone ( - ), who then, his stormy political days over, was publishing antiquarian works on ludgate hill, had sent lamb his _ancient mysteries described_, . lamb thanks him for it, and invites him to kingsland row, dalston, the next sunday: "we dine exactly at ."] letter mary lamb to mrs. randal norris hastings, at mrs. gibbs, york cottage, priory, no. . [june , .] my dear friend,--day after day has passed away, and my brother has said, "i will write to mrs. [? mr.] norris to-morrow," and therefore i am resolved to write to _mrs. norris_ to-day, and trust him no longer. we took our places for sevenoaks, intending to remain there all night in order to see knole, but when we got there we chang'd our minds, and went on to tunbridge wells. about a mile short of the wells the coach stopped at a little inn, and i saw, "lodgings to let" on a little, very little house opposite. i ran over the way, and secured them before the coach drove away, and we took immediate possession: it proved a very comfortable place, and we remained there nine days. the first evening, as we were wandering about, we met a lady, the wife of one of the india house clerks, with whom we had been slightly acquainted some years ago, which slight acquaintance has been ripened into a great intimacy during the nine pleasant days that we passed at the wells. she and her two daughters went with us in an open chaise to knole, and as the chaise held only five, we mounted miss james upon a little horse, which she rode famously. i was very much pleased with knole, and still more with penshurst, which we also visited. we saw frant and the rocks, and made much use of your guide book, only charles lost his way once going by the map. we were in constant exercise the whole time, and spent our time so pleasantly that when we came here on monday we missed our new friends and found ourselves very dull. we are by the seaside in a _still less house_, and we have exchanged a very pretty landlady for a very ugly one, but she is equally attractive to us. we eat turbot, and we drink smuggled hollands, and we walk up hill and down hill all day long. in the little intervals of rest that we allow ourselves i teach miss james french; she picked up a few words during her foreign tour with us, and she has had a hankering after it ever since. we came from tunbridge wells in a postchaise, and would have seen battle abbey on the way, but it is only shewn on a monday. we are trying to coax charles into a monday's excursion. and bexhill we are also thinking about. yesterday evening we found out by chance the most beautiful view i ever saw. it is called "the lovers' seat."... you have been here, therefore you must have seen [it, or] is it only mr. and mrs. faint who have visited hastings? [tell mrs.] faint that though in my haste to get housed i d[ecided on] ... ice's lodgings, yet it comforted all th ... to know that i had a place in view. i suppose you are so busy that it is not fair to ask you to write me a line to say how you are going on. yet if any one of you have half an hour to spare for that purpose, it will be most thankfully received. charles joins with me in love to you all together, and to each one in particular upstairs and downstairs. yours most affectionately, m. lamb. june [mr. hazlitt dates this letter or , and considers it to refer to a second visit to hastings; but i think most probably it refers to the visit, especially as the lovers' seat would assuredly have been discovered then. miss james was mary lamb's nurse. mrs. randal norris had been a miss faint. there is a curious similarity between a passage in this letter and in one of byron's, written in : "i have been swimming, and eating turbot, and smuggling neat brandies, and silk handkerchiefs ... and walking on cliffs and tumbling down hills." a hastings guide book for gives mrs. gibbs' address as york cottages, near priory bridge. near by, in pelham place, a mr. hogsflesh had a lodging-house.] letter charles lamb to bernard barton [p.m. july, .] dear sir--i shall be happy to read the ms. and to forward it; but t. and h. must judge for themselves of publication. if it prove interesting (as i doubt not) i shall not spare to say so, you may depend upon it. suppose you direct it to acco'ts. office, india house. i am glad you have met with some sweetening circumstances to your unpalatable draught. i have just returned from hastings, where are exquisite views and walks, and where i have given up my soul to walking, and i am now suffering sedentary contrasts. i am a long time reconciling to town after one of these excursions. home is become strange, and will remain so yet a while. home is the most unforgiving of friends and always resents absence; i know its old cordial looks will return, but they are slow in clearing up. that is one of the features of this _our_ galley slavery, that peregrination ended makes things worse. i felt out of water (with all the sea about me) at hastings, and just as i had learned to domiciliate there, i must come back to find a home which is no home. i abused hastings, but learned its value. there are spots, inland bays, etc., which realise the notions of juan fernandez. the best thing i lit upon by accident was a small country church (by whom or when built unknown) standing bare and single in the midst of a grove, with no house or appearance of habitation within a quarter of a mile, only passages diverging from it thro' beautiful woods to so many farm houses. there it stands, like the first idea of a church, before parishioners were thought of, nothing but birds for its congregation, or like a hermit's oratory (the hermit dead), or a mausoleum, its effect singularly impressive, like a church found in a desert isle to startle crusoe with a home image; you must make out a vicar and a congregation from fancy, for surely none come there. yet it wants not its pulpit, and its font, and all the seemly additaments of _our_ worship. southey has attacked elia on the score of infidelity, in the quarterly, article, "progress of infidels [infidelity]." i had not, nor have, seen the monthly. he might have spared an old friend such a construction of a few careless flights, that meant no harm to religion. if all his unguarded expressions on the subject were to be collected-- but i love and respect southey--and will not retort. i hate his review, and his being a reviewer. the hint he has dropped will knock the sale of the book on the head, which was almost at a stop before. let it stop. there is corn in egypt, while there is cash at leadenhall. you and i are something besides being writers. thank god. yours truly c.l. [what the ms. was i do not know. lamb recurs more fully to the description of the little church--probably hollingdon rural, about three miles north-west from the town--in later letters. the thoughts in the second paragraph of this letter were amplified in the _elia_ essay "the old margate hoy," in the _london magazine_ for july, . "southey has attacked elia." in an article in the _quarterly_ for january, , in a review of a work by grégoire on deism in france, under the title "the progress of infidelity," southey had a reference to _elia_ in the following terms:-- "unbelievers have not always been honest enough thus to express their real feelings; but this we know concerning them, that when they have renounced their birthright of hope, they have not been able to divest themselves of fear. from the nature of the human mind this might be presumed, and in fact it is so. they may deaden the heart and stupify the conscience, but they cannot destroy the imaginative faculty. there is a remarkable proof of this in _elia's essays_, a book which wants only a sounder religious feeling, to be as delightful as it is original." and then southey went on to draw attention to the case of thornton hunt, the little child of leigh hunt, the (to southey) notorious free-thinker, who, as lamb had stated in the essay "witches and other night fears," would wake at night in terror of images of fear. "i will not retort." lamb, as we shall see, changed his mind. "almost at a stop before." _elia_ was never popular until long after lamb's death. it did not reach a second edition until . there are now several new editions every year.] letter charles lamb to thomas allsop [july, .] d'r a.--i expect proctor and wainwright (janus w.) this evening; will you come? i suppose it is but a comp't to ask mrs. alsop; but it is none to say that we should be most glad to see her. yours ever. how vexed i am at your dalston expedit'n. c.l. tuesday. [mrs. allsop was a daughter of mrs. jordan, and had herself been an actress.] letter charles lamb to bernard barton [dated at end: september ( ).] dear b.b.--what will you say to my not writing? you cannot say i do not write now. hessey has not used your kind sonnet, nor have i seen it. pray send me a copy. neither have i heard any more of your friend's ms., which i will reclaim, whenever you please. when you come london-ward you will find me no longer in cov't gard. i have a cottage, in colebrook row, islington. a cottage, for it is detach'd; a white house, with good rooms; the new river (rather elderly by this time) runs (if a moderate walking pace can be so termed) close to the foot of the house; and behind is a spacious garden, with vines (i assure you), pears, strawberries, parsnips, leeks, carrots, cabbages, to delight the heart of old alcinous. you enter without passage into a cheerful dining room, all studded over and rough with old books, and above is a lightsome drawing room, windows, full of choice prints. i feel like a great lord, never having had a house before. the london i fear falls off.--i linger among its creaking rafters, like the last rat. it will topple down, if they don't get some buttresses. they have pull'd down three, w. hazlitt, proctor, and their best stay, kind light hearted wainwright --their janus. the best is, neither of our fortunes is concern'd in it. i heard of you from mr. pulham this morning, and that gave a fillip to my laziness, which has been intolerable. but i am so taken up with pruning and gardening, quite a new sort of occupation to me. i have gather'd my jargonels, but my windsor pears are backward. the former were of exquisite raciness. i do now sit under my own vine, and contemplate the growth of vegetable nature. i can now understand in what sense they speak of father adam. i recognise the paternity, while i watch my tulips. i almost fell with him, for the first day i turned a drunken gard'ner (as he let in the serpent) into my eden, and he laid about him, lopping off some choice boughs, &c., which hung over from a neighbor's garden, and in his blind zeal laid waste a shade, which had sheltered their window from the gaze of passers by. the old gentlewoman (fury made her not handsome) could scarcely be reconciled by all my fine words. there was no buttering her parsnips. she talk'd of the law. what a lapse to commit on the first day of my happy "garden-state." i hope you transmitted the fox-journal to its owner with suitable thanks. mr. cary, the dante-man, dines with me to-day. he is a model of a country parson, lean (as a curate ought to be), modest, sensible, no obtruder of church dogmas, quite a different man from southey,--you would like him. pray accept this for a letter, and believe me with sincere regards yours c.l. sept. ["your kind sonnet." barton's well-known sonnet to elia (quoted below) had been printed in the _london magazine_ long before--in the previous february. i do not identify this one among his writings. "i have a cottage." this cottage still stands ( ). within it is much as in lamb's day, but outwardly changed, for a new house has been built on one side and it is thus no longer detached. the new river still runs before it, but subterraneously. barton was so attracted by one at least of lamb's similes that, i fancy, he borrowed it for an account of his grandfather's house at tottenham which he wrote some time later; for i find that gentleman's garden described as "equal to that of old alcinous." "kind light hearted wainwright." lamb has caused much surprise by using such words of one who was destined to become almost the most cold-blooded criminal in english history; but, as hartley coleridge wrote in another connection, it was lamb's way to take things by the better handle, and wainewright's worst faults in those days seem to have been extravagance and affectation. lamb at any rate liked him and wainewright was proud to be on a footing with elia and his sister, as we know from his writings. wainewright at this time was not quite twenty-nine; he had painted several pictures, some of which were accepted by the academy, and he had written a number of essays over several different pseudonyms, chief of which was janus weathercock. he lived in great marlborough street in some style and there entertained many literary men, among them lamb. it was not until that his criminal career began. "mr. pulham"--brook pulham of the india house, who made the caricature etching of elia. "while i watch my tulips." lamb is, of course, embroidering here, but we have it on the authority of george daniel, the antiquary, that with his removal to colebrooke cottage began an interest in horticulture, particularly in roses. "mr. cary." the rev. henry francis cary ( - ), the translator of dante and afterwards, , assistant-keeper of the printed books in the british museum. a regular contributor to the _london magazine_.] letter charles lamb to thomas allsop [dated at end: sept. ( ).] dear alsop--i am snugly seated at the cottage; mary is well but weak, and comes home on _monday_; she will soon be strong enough to see her friends here. in the mean time will you dine with me at / past four to-morrow? ayrton and mr. burney are coming. colebrook cottage, left hand side, end of colebrook row on the western brink of the new river, a detach'd whitish house. no answer is required but come if you can. c. lamb. saturday th sep. i call'd on you on sunday. resp'cts to mrs. a. & boy. letter charles lamb to thomas allsop [p.m. sept. , .] my dear a.--i am going to ask you to do me the greatest favour which a man can do to another. i want to make my will, and to leave my property in trust for my sister. _n.b._ i am not _therefore_ going to die.--would it be unpleasant for you to be named for one? the other two i shall beg the same favor of are talfourd and proctor. if you feel reluctant, tell me, and it sha'n't abate one jot of my friendly feeling toward you. yours ever, c. lamb. e.i. house, aug. [_i.e_., sept.] , . letter charles lamb to thomas allsop [p.m. september , .] my dear a.--your kindness in accepting my request no words of mine can repay. it has made you overflow into some romance which i should have check'd at another time. i hope it may be in the scheme of providence that my sister may go first (if ever so little a precedence), myself next, and my good ex'rs survive to remembr us with kindness many years. god bless you. i will set proctor about the will forthwith. c. lamb. [here should come another note to allsop dated sept. , , saying that mary lamb is still ill at fulham. given in the boston bibliophile edition.] letter charles lamb to thomas allsop [september, .] dear a.--your cheese is the best i ever tasted; mary will tell you so hereafter. she is at home, but has disappointed me. she has gone back rather than improved. however, she has sense enough to value the present, for she is greatly fond of stilton. yours is the delicatest rain-bow-hued melting piece i ever flavoured. believe me. i took it the more kindly, following so great a kindness. depend upon't, yours shall be one of the first houses we shall present ourselves at, when we have got our bill of health. being both yours and mrs. allsop's truly. c.l. & m.l. [allsop and procter may have been named as executors of lamb's will at one time, but when it came to be proved the executors were talfourd and ryle, a fellow-clerk in the india house.] letter charles lamb to bernard barton [p.m. september , .] dear sir--i have again been reading your stanzas on bloomfield, which are the most appropriate that can be imagined, sweet with doric delicacy. i like that our more chaste theocritus-- just hinting at the fault of the grecian. i love that stanza ending with words phrases fashions pass away; but truth and nature live through all. but i shall omit in my own copy the one stanza which alludes to lord b.--i suppose. it spoils the sweetness and oneness of the feeling. cannot we think of burns, or thompson, without sullying the thought with a reflection out of place upon lord rochester? these verses might have been inscribed upon a tomb; are in fact an epitaph; satire does not look pretty upon a tombstone. besides, there is a quotation in it, always bad in verse; seldom advisable in prose. i doubt if their having been in a paper will not prevent t. and h. from insertion, but i shall have a thing to send in a day or two, and shall try them. omitting that stanza, a _very little_ alteration is want'g in the beginn'g of the next. you see, i use freedom. how happily (i flatter not!) you have bro't in his subjects; and, (_i suppose_) his favorite measure, though i am not acquainted with any of his writings but the farmer's boy. he dined with me once, and his manners took me exceedingly. i rejoyce that you forgive my long silence. i continue to estimate my own-roof comforts highly. how could i remain all my life a lodger! my garden thrives (i am told) tho' i have yet reaped nothing but some tiny sallad, and withered carrots. but a garden's a garden anywhere, and twice a garden in london. somehow i cannot relish that word horkey. cannot you supply it by circumlocution, and direct the reader by a note to explain that it means the horkey. but horkey choaks me in the text. it raises crowds of mean associations, hawking and sp-----g, gauky, stalky, maukin. the sound is every thing, in such dulcet modulations 'specially. i like gilbert meldrum's sterner tones, without knowing who gilbert meldrum is. you have slipt in your rhymes as if they grew there, so natural-artificially, or artificial-naturally. there's a vile phrase. do you go on with your quaker sonnets--[to] have 'em ready with southey's book of the church? i meditate a letter to s. in the london, which perhaps will meet the fate of the sonnet. excuse my brevity, for i write painfully at office, liable to callings off. and i can never sit down to an epistle elsewhere. i read or walk. if you return this letter to the post office, i think they will return d, seeing it is but half a one. believe me tho' entirely yours c.l. [barton's "verses to the memory of bloomfield, the suffolk poet" (who died in august, ), were printed in book form in his poetic vigils, . this is the stanza that lamb most liked:-- it is not quaint and local terms besprinkled o'er thy rustic lay, though well such dialect confirms its power unletter'd minds to sway, it is not _these_ that most display thy sweetest charms, thy gentlest thrall,-- words, phrases, fashions, pass away, but truth and nature live through all. the stanza referring to byron was not reprinted, nor was the word horkey, which means harvest home in suffolk. gilbert meldrum is a character in one of bloomfield's _rural tales_. "quaker sonnets." barton did not carry out this project. southey's _book of the church_ was published in . "i meditate a letter to s." the "letter of elia to mr. southey" was published in the _london magazine_ for october, .] letter (_fragment_) charles lamb to charles lloyd [no date. autumn, .] your lines are not to be understood reading on one leg. they are _sinuous_, and to be won with wrestling. i assure you in sincerity that nothing you have done has given me greater satisfaction. your obscurity, where you are dark, which is seldom, is that of too much meaning, not the painful obscurity which no toil of the reader can dissipate; not the dead vacuum and floundering place in which imagination finds no footing; it is not the dimness of positive darkness, but of distance; and he that reads and not discerns must get a better pair of spectacles. i admire every piece in the collection; i cannot say the first is best; when i do so, the last read rises up in judgment. to your mother--to your sister--to mary dead--they are all weighty with thought and tender with sentiment. your poetry is like no other:--those cursed dryads and pagan trumperies of modern verse have put me out of conceit of the very name of poetry. your verses are as good and as wholesome as prose; and i have made a sad blunder if i do not leave you with an impression that your present is rarely valued. charles lamb. [this scrap is in _selections from the poems and letters of bernard barton_, , edited by edward fitzgerald and lucy barton. lloyd says: "i had a very ample testimony from c. lamb to the character of my last little volume. i will transcribe to you what he says, as it is but a note, and his manner is always so original, that i am sure the introduction of the merest trifle from his pen will well compensate for the absence of anything of mine." the volume was _poems_, , one of the chief of which was "stanzas on the difficulty with which, in youth, we bring home to our habitual consciousness, the idea of death," to which lloyd appended the following sentence from elia's essay on "new year's eve," as motto: "not childhood alone, but the young man till thirty, never feels practically that he is mortal. he knows it indeed, and, if need were, he could preach a homily on the fragility of life; but he brings it not home to himself, any more than in a hot june, we can appropriate to our imagination the freezing days of december."] letter charles lamb to rev. h.f. cary india office, th oct., . dear sir,--if convenient, will you give us house room on saturday next? i can sleep anywhere. if another sunday suit you better, pray let me know. we were talking of roast _shoulder_ of mutton with onion sauce; but i scorn to prescribe to the hospitalities of mine host. with respects to mrs. c., yours truly, c. lamb. letter charles lamb to thomas allsop [no date. ?oct., .] dear sir--mary has got a cold, and the nights are dreadful; but at the first indication of spring (_alias_ the first dry weather in nov'r early) it is our intention to surprise you early some even'g. believe me, most truly yours, c.l. the cottage, saturday night. mary regrets very much mrs. allsop's fruitless visit. it made her swear! she was gone to visit miss hutchins'n, whom she found out. letter charles lamb to j.b. dibdin [p.m. october , .] my dear sir--your pig was a _picture_ of a pig, and your picture a _pig_ of a picture. the former was delicious but evanescent, like a hearty fit of mirth, or the crackling of thorns under a pot; but the latter is an _idea_, and abideth. i never before saw swine upon sattin. and then that pretty strawy canopy about him! he seems to purr (rather than grunt) his satisfaction. such a gentlemanlike porker too! morland's are absolutely clowns to it. who the deuce painted it? i have ordered a little gilt shrine for it, and mean to wear it for a locket; a shirt-pig. i admire the petty-toes shrouded in a veil of something, not _mud_, but that warm soft consistency with [? which] the dust takes in elysium after a spring shower--it perfectly engloves them. i cannot enough thank you and your country friend for the delicate double present--the utile et decorum--three times have i attempted to write this sentence and failed; which shows that i am not cut out for a pedant. _sir_ (as i say to southey) will you come and see us at our poor cottage of colebrook to tea tomorrow evening, as early as six? i have some friends coming at that hour-- the panoply which covered your material pig shall be forthcoming-- the pig pictorial, with its trappings, domesticate with me. your greatly obliged elia. tuesday. ["_sir_ (as i say to southey)." elia's letter to southey in the london magazine began thus.] letter charles lamb to sarah hazlitt [no date. early november, .] 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 window; 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, marched 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 accompanied 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, whimpered, 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 open-mouthed about having paling before the river, but i cannot see that, because a.. lunatic 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 had the honour 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 present, 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. does mary hazlitt go on with her novel, or has she begun another? i would not discourage her, tho' we continue to think it (so far) in its present state not saleable. our kind remembrances to her and hers and you and yours.-- yours truly, c. lamb. i am pleased that h. liked my letter to the laureate. [addressed to "mrs. hazlitt, alphington, near exeter." this letter is the first draft of the _elia_ essay "amicus redivivus," which was printed in the _london magazine_ in december, . george dyer, who was then sixty-eight, had been getting blind steadily for some years. a visit to lamb's cottage to-day, bearing in mind that the ribbon of green between iron railings that extends along colebrooke row was at that time an open stream, will make the nature of g.d.'s misadventure quite plain. "mary hazlitt"-the daughter of john hazlitt, the essayist's brother. "i am pleased that h. liked my letter to the laureate." hazlitt wrote, in the essay "on the pleasures of hating," "i think i must be friends with lamb again, since he has written that magnanimous letter to southey, and told him a piece of his mind!" coleridge also approved of it, and crabb robinson's praise was excessive. here should come a note from lamb to mrs. shelley dated nov. , , saying that dyer walked into the new river on sunday week at one o'clock with his eyes open.] letter charles lamb to robert southey e.i.h., st november, . dear southey,-the kindness of your note has melted away the mist which was upon me. i have been fighting against a shadow. that accursed "quarterly review" had vexed me by a gratuitous speaking, of its own knowledge, that the "confessions of a drunkard" was a genuine description of the state of the writer. little things, that are not ill meant, may produce much ill. _that_ might have injured me alive and dead. i am in a public office, and my life is insured. i was prepared for anger, and i thought i saw, in a few obnoxious words, a hard case of repetition directed against me. i wished both magazine and review at the bottom of the sea. i shall be ashamed to see you, and my sister (though innocent) will be still more so; for the folly was done without her knowledge, and has made her uneasy ever since. my guardian angel was absent at that time. i will muster up courage to see you, however, any day next week (wednesday excepted). we shall hope that you will bring edith with you. that will be a second mortification. she will hate to see us; but come and heap embers. we deserve it, i for what i've done, and she for being my sister. do come early in the day, by sun-light, that you may see my _milton_. i am at colebrook cottage, colebrook row, islington. a detached whitish house, close to the new river, end of colebrook terrace, left hand from sadler's wells. will you let me know the day before? your penitent c. lamb. p.s.--i do not think your handwriting at all like hunt's. i do not think many things i did think. [for the right appreciation of this letter elia's letter to southey must be read (see vol. i. of the present edition). it was hard hitting, and though lamb would perhaps have been wiser had he held his hand, yet southey had taken an offensive line of moral superiority and rebuke, and much that was said by lamb was justified. southey's reply ran thus:-- my dear lamb--on monday i saw your letter in the _london magazine_, which i had not before had an opportunity of seeing, and i now take the first interval of leisure for replying to it. nothing could be further from my mind than any intention or apprehension of any way offending or injuring a man concerning whom i have never spoken, thought, or felt otherwise than with affection, esteem, and admiration. if you had let me know in any private or friendly manner that you felt wounded by a sentence in which nothing but kindness was intended--or that you found it might injure the sale of your book--i would most readily and gladly have inserted a note in the next review to qualify and explain what had hurt you. you have made this impossible, and i am sorry for it. but i will not engage in controversy with you to make sport for the philistines. the provocation must be strong indeed that can rouse me to do this, even with an enemy. and if you can forgive an unintended offence as heartily as i do the way in which you have resented it, there will be nothing to prevent our meeting as we have heretofore done, and feeling towards each other as we have always been wont to do. only signify a correspondent willingness on your part, and send me your address, and my first business next week shall be to reach your door, and shake hands with you and your sister. remember me to her most kindly and believe me--. yours, with unabated esteem and regards, robert southey. the matter closed with this exchange of letters, and no hostility remained on either side. lamb's quarrel with the _quarterly_ began in , when in a review of weber's edition of ford lamb was described as a "poor maniac." it was renewed in , when his article on wordsworth's _excursion_ was mutilated. it broke out again in , as lamb says here, when a reviewer of reid's treatise on _hypochondriasis and other nervous affections_ (supposed to be dr. gooch, a friend of dr. henry southey's) referred to lamb's "confessions of a drunkard" (see vol. i.) as being, from his own knowledge, true. thus lamb's patience was naturally at breaking point when his own friend southey attacked _elia_ a few numbers later. "i do not think your handwriting at all like hunt's." lamb had said, in the letter, of leigh hunt: "his hand-writing is so much the same with your own, that i have opened more than one letter of his, hoping, nay, not doubting, but it was from you, and have been disappointed (he will bear with my saying so) at the discovery of my error."] letter charles lamb to bernard barton [p.m. november , .] dear b.b.--i am ashamed at not acknowledging your kind little poem, which i must needs like much, but i protest i thought i had done it at the moment. is it possible a letter has miscarried? did you get one in which i sent you an extract from the poems of lord sterling? i should wonder if you did, for i sent you none such.--there was an incipient lye strangled in the birth. some people's conscience is so tender! but in plain truth i thank you very much for the verses. i have a very kind letter from the laureat, with a self-invitation to come and shake hands with me. this is truly handsome and noble. 'tis worthy of my old idea of southey. shall not i, think you, be covered with a red suffusion? you are too much apprehensive of your complaint. i know many that are always ailing of it, and live on to a good old age. i know a merry fellow (you partly know him) who when his medical adviser told him he had drunk away all _that part_, congratulated himself (now his liver was gone) that he should be the longest liver of the two. the best way in these cases is to keep yourself as ignorant as you can--as ignorant as the world was before galen--of the entire inner construction of the animal man--not to be conscious of a midriff--to hold kidneys (save of sheep and swine) to be an agreeable fiction--not to know whereabout the gall grows--to account the circulation of the blood an idle whimsey of harvey's--to acknowledge no mechanism not visible. for, once fix the seat of your disorder, and your fancies flux into it like bad humours. those medical gentries chuse each his favourite part--one takes the lungs--another the aforesaid liver--and refer to _that_ whatever in the animal economy is amiss. above all, use exercise, take a little more spirituous liquors, learn to smoke, continue to keep a good conscience, and avoid tampering with hard terms of art--viscosity, schirossity, and those bugbears, by which simple patients are scared into their grave. believe the general sense of the mercantile world, which holds that desks are not deadly. it is the mind, good b.b., and not the limbs, that taints by long sitting. think of the patience of taylors--think how long the chancellor sits-- think of the brooding hen. i protest i cannot answer thy sister's kind enquiry, but i judge i shall put forth no second volume. more praise than buy, and t. and h. are not particularly disposed for martyrs. thou wilt see a funny passage, and yet a true history, of george dyer's aquatic incursion, in the next "london." beware his fate, when thou comest to see me at my colebrook cottage. i have filled my little space with my little thoughts. i wish thee ease on thy sofa, but not too much indulgence on it. from my poor desk, thy fellow-sufferer this bright november, c.l. [again i do not identify the kind little poem. it may have been a trifle enclosed in a letter, which barton did not print and lamb destroyed.] letter charles lamb to w. harrison ainsworth india-house, th dec., . (if i had time i would go over this letter again, and dot all my i's.) dear sir,--i should have thanked you for your books and compliments sooner, but have been waiting for a revise to be sent, which does not come, tho' i returned the proof on the receit of your letter. i have read warner with great pleasure. what an elaborate piece of alliteration and antithesis! why it must have been a labour far above the most difficult versification. there is a fine simile of or picture of semiramis arming to repel a siege. i do not mean to keep the book, for i suspect you are forming a curious collection, and i do not pretend to any thing of the kind. i have not a blackletter book among mine, old chaucer excepted, and am not bibliomanist enough to like blackletter. it is painful to read. therefore i must insist on returning it at opportunity, not from contumacity and reluctance to be oblig'd, but because it must suit you better than me. the loss of a present _from_ should never exceed the gain of a present _to_. i hold this maxim infallible in the accepting line. i read your magazines with satisfaction. i throughly agree with you as to the german faust, as far [as] i can do justice to it from an english translation. 'tis a disagreeable canting tale of seduction, which has nothing to do with the spirit of faustus-- curiosity. was the dark secret to be explored to end in the seducing of a weak girl, which might have been accomplished by earthly agency? when marlow gives _his_ faustus a mistress, he flies him at helen, flower of greece, to be sure, and not at miss betsy, or miss sally thoughtless. "cut is the branch that bore the goodly fruit, and wither'd is apollo's laurel tree: faustus is dead." what a noble natural transition from metaphor to plain speaking! as if the figurative had flagged in description of such a loss, and was reduced to tell the fact simply.-- i must now thank you for your very kind invitation. it is not out of prospect that i may see manchester some day, and then i will avail myself of your kindness. but holydays are scarce things with me, and the laws of attendance are getting stronger and stronger at leadenhall. but i shall bear it in mind. meantime something may (more probably) bring you to town, where i shall be happy to see you. i am always to be found (alas!) at my desk in the forepart of the day. i wonder why they do not send the revise. i leave late at office, and my abode lies out of the way, or i should have seen about it. if you are impatient, perhaps a line to the printer, directing him to send it me, at accountant's office, may answer. you will see by the scrawl that i only snatch a few minutes from intermitting business. your oblig. ser., c. lamb. [william harrison ainsworth, afterwards to be known as a novelist, was then a solicitor's pupil at manchester, aged . he had sent lamb william warner's _syrinx; or, a sevenfold history_, . the book was a gift, and is now in the dyce and foster library at south kensington. goethe's _faust_. lamb, as we have seen, had read the account of the play in madame de staël's _germany_. he might also have read the translation by lord francis leveson-gower, . hayward's translation was not published till . goethe admired lamb's sonnet on his family name.] letter charles lamb to w. harrison ainsworth [dated at end: december ( ).] my dear sir--you talk of months at a time and i know not what inducements to visit manchester, heaven knows how gratifying! but i have had my little month of already. it is all over, and without incurring a disagreeable favor i cannot so much as get a single holyday till the season returns with the next year. even our half-hour's absences from office are set down in a book! next year, if i can spare a day or two of it, i will come to manchester, but i have reasons at home against longer absences.-- i am so ill just at present--(an illness of my own procuring last night; who is perfect?)--that nothing but your very great kindness could make me write. i will bear in mind the letter to w.w., you shall have it quite in time, before the . my aking and confused head warns me to leave off.--with a muddled sense of gratefulness, which i shall apprehend more clearly to-morrow, i remain, your friend unseen, c.l. i.h. th. will your occasions or inclination bring _you_ to london? it will give me great pleasure to show you every thing that islington can boast, if you know the meaning of that very cockney sound. we have the new river! i am asham'd of this scrawl: but i beg you to accept it for the present. i am full of qualms. a fool at is a fool indeed. [w.w. was wordsworth. "a fool at is a fool indeed." "a fool at forty is a fool indeed" was young's line in satire ii. of the series on "love of fame." lamb was nearing forty-nine.] letter charles lamb to bernard barton [january , .] dear b.b.--do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--i have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--i am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than judge park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an o--i acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--i am weary of the world--life is weary of me-- my day is gone into twilight and i don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but i can't muster courage to snuff it--i inhale suffocation--i can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis o'clock and thurtell is just now coming out upon the new drop--jack ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot i elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, i should just say, "will it?"--i have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my eyebrows--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a grub street attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not i, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- o for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do i try all i can to cure it, i try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--i sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; i come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment. who shall deliver me from the body of this death? it is just minutes after . thurtell is by this time a good way on his journey, baiting at scorpion perhaps, ketch is bargaining for his cast coat and waistcoat, the jew demurs at first at three half crowns, but on consideration that he, may get somewhat by showing 'em in the town, finally closes.-- c.l. ["judge park's wig." sir james alan park, of the bench of common pleas, who tried thurtell, the murderer of mr. william weare of lyon's inn, in gill's hill lane, radlett, on october , .] letter charles lamb to bernard barton [p.m. january , .] my dear sir--that peevish letter of mine, which was meant to convey an apology for my incapacity to write, seems to have been taken by you in too serious a light. it was only my way of telling you i had a severe cold. the fact is i have been insuperably dull and lethargic for many weeks, and cannot rise to the vigour of a letter, much less an essay. the london must do without me for a time, a time, and half a time, for i have lost all interest about it, and whether i shall recover it again i know not. i will bridle my pen another time, & not teaze and puzzle you with my aridities. i shall begin to feel a little more alive with the spring. winter is to me (mild or harsh) always a great trial of the spirits. i am ashamed not to have noticed your tribute to woolman, whom we love so much. it is done in your good manner. your friend taylor called upon me some time since, and seems a very amiable man. his last story is painfully fine. his book i "like." it is only too stuft with scripture, too parsonish. the best thing in it is the boy's own story. when i say it is too full of scripture, i mean it is too full of direct quotations; no book can have too much of silent scripture in it. but the natural power of a story is diminished when the uppermost purpose in the writer seems to be to recommend something else, viz religion. you know what horace says of the deus intersit. i am not able to explain myself, you must do it for me.-- my sister's part in the leicester school (about two thirds) was purely her own; as it was (to the same quantity) in the shakspeare tales which bear my name. i wrote only the witch aunt, the first going to church, and the final story about a little indian girl in a ship. your account of my black balling amused me. _i think, as quakers, they did right_. there are some things hard to be understood. the more i think the more i am vexed at having puzzled you with that letter, but i have been so out of letter writing of late years, that it is a sore effort to sit down to it, & i felt in your debt, and sat down waywardly to pay you in bad money. never mind my dulness, i am used to long intervals of it. the heavens seem brass to me--then again comes the refreshing shower. "i have been merry once or twice ere now." you said something about mr. mitford in a late letter, which i believe i did not advert to. i shall be happy to show him my milton (it is all the show things i have) at any time he will take the trouble of a jaunt to islington. i do also hope to see mr. taylor there some day. pray say so to both. coleridge's book is good part printed, but sticks a little for _more copy_. it bears an unsaleable title--extracts from bishop leighton--but i am confident there will be plenty of good notes in it, more of bishop coleridge than leighton, i hope; for what is leighton? do you trouble yourself about libel cases? the decision against hunt for the "vision of judgment" made me sick. what is to become of the old talk about our good old king --his personal virtues saving us from a revolution &c. &c. why, none that think it can utter it now. it must stink. and the vision is really, as to him-ward, such a tolerant good humour'd thing. what a wretched thing a lord chief justice is, always was, & will be! keep your good spirits up, dear bb--mine will return--they are at present in abeyance. but i am rather lethargic than miserable. i don't know but a good horse whip would be more beneficial to me than physic. my head, without aching, will teach yours to ache. it is well i am getting to the conclusion. i will send a better letter when i am a better man. let me thank you for your kind concern for me (which i trust will have reason soon to be dissipated) & assure you that it gives me pleasure to hear from you.-- yours truly c.l. ["the london must do without me." lamb contributed nothing between december, ("amicus redivivus"), and september, ("blakesmoor in h----shire"). barton's tribute to woolman was the poem "a memorial to john woolman," printed in poetic vigils. taylor was charles benjamin tayler ( - ), the curate of hadleigh, in suffolk, and the author of many religious books. lamb refers to _may you like it_, . "what horace says":-- nec deus intersit nisi dignus vindice nodus inciderit. _ars poetica_, , . neither let a god interfere, unless a difficulty worth a god's unravelling should happen (smart's translation). "my black balling." _elia_ had been rejected by a book club in woodbridge. "coleridge's book"--the _aids to reflection_, . the first intention had been a selection of "beauties" from bishop leighton ( - ), archbishop of glasgow, and author, among other works, of _rules and instructions for a holy life_. "the decision against hunt." john hunt, the publisher of _the liberal_, in which byron's "vision of judgment" had been printed in , had just been fined £ for the libel therein contained on george iii. here should come a note from lamb to charles ollier, thanking him for a copy of his _inesilla; or, the tempter: a romance, with other tales_.] letter charles lamb to bernard barton [p.m. february , .] my dear sir--your title of poetic vigils arrides me much more than a volume of verse, which is no meaning. the motto says nothing, but i cannot suggest a better. i do not like mottoes but where they are singularly felicitous; there is foppery in them. they are unplain, un-quakerish. they are good only where they flow from the title and are a kind of justification of it. there is nothing about watchings or lucubrations in the one you suggest, no commentary on vigils. by the way, a wag would recommend you to the line of pope sleepless himself--to give his readers sleep-- i by no means wish it. but it may explain what i mean, that a neat motto is child of the title. i think poetic virgils as short and sweet as can be desired; only have an eye on the proof, that the printer do not substitute virgils, which would ill accord with your modesty or meaning. your suggested motto is antique enough in spelling, and modern enough in phrases; a good modern antique: but the matter of it is germane to the purpose only supposing the title proposed a vindication of yourself from the presumption of authorship. the st title was liable to this objection, that if you were disposed to enlarge it, and the bookseller insisted on its appearance in two tomes, how oddly it would sound-- a volume of verse in two volumes d edition &c-- you see thro' my wicked intention of curtailing this epistolet by the above device of large margin. but in truth the idea of letterising has been oppressive to me of late above your candour to give me credit for. there is southey, whom i ought to have thank'd a fortnight ago for a present of the church book. i have never had courage to buckle myself in earnest even to acknowledge it by six words. and yet i am accounted by some people a good man. how cheap that character is acquired! pay your debts, don't borrow money, nor twist your kittens neck off, or disturb a congregation, &c.-- your business is done. i know things (thoughts or things, thoughts are things) of myself which would make every friend i have fly me as a plague patient. i once * * *, and set a dog upon a crab's leg that was shoved out under a moss of sea weeds, a pretty little feeler.--oh! pah! how sick i am of that; and a lie, a mean one, i once told!-- i stink in the midst of respect. i am much hypt; the fact is, my head is heavy, but there is hope, or if not, i am better than a poor shell fish--not morally when i set the whelp upon it, but have more blood and spirits; things may turn up, and i may creep again into a decent opinion of myself. vanity will return with sunshine. till when, pardon my neglects and impute it to the wintry solstice. c. lamb. [the motto eventually adopted for barton's _poetic vigils_ was from vaughan's _silex scintillans:_-- dear night! this world's defeat; the stop to busie fools; care's check and curb; the day of spirits; my soul's calm retreat which none disturb!] letter charles lamb to bernard barton [p.m. march, .] dear b.b.--i hasten to say that if my opinion can strengthen you in your choice, it is decisive for your acceptance of what has been so handsomely offered. i can see nothing injurious to your most honourable sense. think that you are called to a poetical ministry--nothing worse--the minister is worthy of the hire. the only objection 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 make my _dark heavy_ poem, _light_ and _light_-- where the two senses of _light_ are opposed to different opposites. 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 conscience, and jeremy taylor's ductor dubitantium, the first a moderate octavo, the latter a folio of close pages, and when you have thoroughly digested the admirable reasons pro and con which 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 . i therefore most sincerely congratulate with you, excepting so far as excepted above. if you have fair prospects 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 _from_ any duty, but _to_ a duty which you feel to be your vocation. farewell heartily c.l. [in the memoir of barton by edward fitzgerald, prefixed to the _poems and letters_, it is stated that in this year barton received a handsome addition to his income. "a few members of his society, including some of the wealthier of his own family, raised £ among them for his benefit [not guineas, as lamb says]. it seems that he felt some delicacy at first in accepting this munificent testimony which his own people offered to his talents." birton had written to lamb on the subject.] letter charles lamb to bernard barton [(early spring), .] i am sure i cannot fill a letter, though i should disfurnish my scull to fill it. but you expect something, and shall have a note-let. is sunday, not divinely speaking, but humanly and holydaysically, a blessing? without its institution, would our rugged taskmasters have given us a leisure day, so often, think you, as once in a month?--or, if it had not been instituted, might they not have given us every th day? solve me this problem. if we are to go times a day to church, why has sunday slipped into the notion of a _holli_day? a holyday i grant it. the puritans, i have read in southey's book, knew the distinction. they made people observe sunday rigorously, would not let a nursery maid walk out in the fields with children for recreation on that day. but _then_--they gave the people a holliday from all sorts of work every second tuesday. this was giving to the two caesars that which was _his_ respective. wise, beautiful, thoughtful, generous legislators! would wilberforce give us our tuesdays? no, d--n him. he would turn the six days into sevenths, and those smiling seasons of the year into a russian winter. _old play_. i am sitting opposite a person who is making strange distortions with the gout, which is not unpleasant--to me at least. what is the reason we do not sympathise with pain, short of some terrible surgical operation? hazlitt, who boldly says all he feels, avows that not only he does not pity sick people, but he hates them. i obscurely recognise his meaning. pain is probably too selfish a consideration, too simply a consideration of self-attention. we pity poverty, loss of friends etc. more complex things, in which the sufferers feelings are associated with others. this is a rough thought suggested by the presence of gout; i want head to extricate it and plane it. what is all this to your letter? i felt it to be a good one, but my turn, when i write at all, is perversely to travel out of the record, so that my letters are any thing but answers. so you still want a motto? you must not take my ironical one, because your book, i take it, is too serious for it. bickerstaff might have used it for _his_ lucubrations. what do you think of (for a title) religio tremuli or tremebundi there is religio-medici and laici.--but perhaps the volume is not quite quakerish enough or exclusively for it--but your own vigils is perhaps the best. while i have space, let me congratulate with you the return of spring--what a summery spring too! all those qualms about the dog and cray-fish melt before it. i am going to be happy and _vain_ again. a hasty farewell c. lamb. ["southey's book"--_the book of the church_. "would wilberforce give us our tuesdays?"--william wilberforce, the abolitionist and the principal "puritan" of that day.] letter charles lamb to mrs. thomas allsop [p.m. april , .] dear mrs. a.--mary begs me to say how much she regrets we can not join you to reigate. our reasons are -- st i have but one holyday namely good friday, and it is not pleasant to solicit for another, but that might have been got over. dly manning is with us, soon to go away and we should not be easy in leaving him. dly our school girl emma comes to us for a few days on thursday. thly and lastly, wordsworth is returning home in about a week, and out of respect to them we should not like to absent ourselves just now. in summer i shall have a month, and if it shall suit, should like to go for a few days of it out with you both _any where_. in the mean time, with many acknowledgments etc. etc., i remain yours (both) truly, c. lamb. india ho. apr. remember sundays. letter charles lamb to william hone [no date. april, .] dear sir,--miss hazlitt (niece to pygmalion) begs us to send to you _for mr. hardy_ a parcel. i have not thank'd you for your pamphlet, but i assure you i approve of it in all parts, only that i would have seen my calumniators at hell, before i would have told them i was a xtian, _tho' i am one_, i think as much as you. i hope to see you here, some day soon. the parcel is a novel which i hope mr. h. may sell for her. i am with greatest friendliness yours c. lamb. sunday. ["pygmalion." a reference to hazlitt's _liber amoris; or, the new pygmalion_, . hone's pamphlet would be his _aspersions answered: an explanatory statement to the public at large and every reader of the "quarterly review_," . here should come a note from lamb to thomas hardy, dated april , , in which lamb says that miss hazlitt's novel, which mr. hardy promised to introduce to mr. ridgway, the publisher, is lying at mr. hone's. hardy was a bootmaker in fleet street.] letter charles lamb to bernard barton may , . dear b.b.--i am oppressed with business all day, and company all night. but i will snatch a quarter of an hour. your recent acquisitions of the picture and the letter are greatly to be congratulated. i too have a picture of my father and the copy of his first love verses; but they have been mine long. blake is a real name, i assure you, and a most extraordinary man, if he be still living. he is the robert [william] blake, whose wild designs accompany a splendid folio edition of the "night thoughts," which you may have seen, in one of which he pictures the parting of soul and body by a solid mass of human form floating off, god knows how, from a lumpish mass (fac simile to itself) left behind on the dying bed. he paints in water colours marvellous strange pictures, visions of his brain, which he asserts that he has seen. they have great merit. he has _seen_ the old welsh bards on snowdon--he has seen the beautifullest, the strongest, and the ugliest man, left alone from the massacre of the britons by the romans, and has painted them from memory (i have seen his paintings), and asserts them to be as good as the figures of raphael and angelo, but not better, as they had precisely the same retro-visions and prophetic visions with themself [himself]. the painters in oil (which he will have it that neither of them practised) he affirms to have been the ruin of art, and affirms that all the while he was engaged in his water paintings, titian was disturbing him, titian the iii genius of oil painting. his pictures--one in particular, the canterbury pilgrims (far above stothard's)--have great merit, but hard, dry, yet with grace. he has written a catalogue of them with a most spirited criticism on chaucer, but mystical and full of vision. his poems have been sold hitherto only in manuscript. i never read them; but a friend at my desire procured the "sweep song." there is one to a tiger, which i have heard recited, beginning-- "tiger, tiger, burning bright, thro' the desarts of the night," which is glorious, but, alas! i have not the book; for the man is flown, whither i know not--to hades or a mad house. but i must look on him as one of the most extraordinary persons of the age. montgomery's book i have not much hope from. the society, with the affected name, has been labouring at it for these years, and made few converts. i think it was injudicious to mix stories avowedly colour'd by fiction with the sad true statements from the parliamentary records, etc., but i wish the little negroes all the good that can come from it. i batter'd my brains (not butter'd them--but it is a bad _a_) for a few verses for them, but i could make nothing of it. you have been luckier. but blake's are the flower of the set, you will, i am sure, agree, tho' some of montgomery's at the end are pretty; but the dream awkwardly paraphras'd from b. with the exception of an epilogue for a private theatrical, i have written nothing now for near months. it is in vain to spur me on. i must wait. i cannot write without a genial impulse, and i have none. 'tis barren all and dearth. no matter; life is something without scribbling. i have got rid of my bad spirits, and hold up pretty well this rain-damn'd may. so we have lost another poet. i never much relished his lordship's mind, and shall be sorry if the greeks have cause to miss him. he was to me offensive, and i never can make out his great _power_, which his admirers talk of. why, a line of wordsworth's is a lever to lift the immortal spirit! byron can only move the spleen. he was at best a satyrist,--in any other way he was mean enough. i dare say i do him injustice; but i cannot love him, nor squeeze a tear to his memory. he did not like the world, and he has left it, as alderman curtis advised the radicals, "if they don't like their country, damn 'em, let 'em leave it," they possessing no rood of ground in england, and he , acres. byron was better than many curtises. farewell, and accept this apology for a letter from one who owes you so much in that kind. yours ever truly, c.l. [lamb's portrait of his father is reproduced in vol. ii. of my large edition. the first love verses are no more. william blake was at this time sixty-six years of age. he was living in poverty and neglect at fountain court, strand. blake made illustrations to young's _night thoughts_, of which only forty-seven were published. lamb is, however, thinking of his edition of blair's _grave_. the exhibition of his works was held in , and it was for this that blake wrote the descriptive catalogue. lamb had sent blake's "sweep song," which, like "tiger, tiger," is in the _songs of innocence_, to james montgomery for his _chimney-sweepers' friend and climbing boys' album_, , a little book designed to ameliorate the lot of those children, in whose interest a society existed. barton also contributed something. it was blake's poem which had excited barton's curiosity. probably he thought that lamb wrote it. lamb's mistake concerning blake's name is curious in so far as that it was blake's brother robert, who died in , who in a vision revealed to the poet the method by which the _songs of innocence_ were to be reproduced. "the dream awkwardly paraphras'd from b." the book ended with three "climbing-boys' soliloquies" by montgomery. the second was a dream in which the dream in blake's song was extended and prosified. "an epilogue for a private theatrical." probably the epilogue for the amateur performance of "richard ii.," given by the family of henry field, barren field's father (see vol. iv. of the present edition). "another great poet." byron died on april , . "alderman curtis." see note above.] letter charles lamb to bernard barton july th, . dear b.b.--i have been suffering under a severe inflammation of the eyes, notwithstanding which i resolutely went through your very pretty volume at once, which i dare pronounce in no ways inferior to former lucubrations. "_abroad_" and "_lord_" are vile rhymes notwithstanding, and if you count you will wonder how many times you have repeated the word _unearthly_--thrice in one poem. it is become a slang word with the bards; avoid it in future lustily. "time" is fine; but there are better a good deal, i think. the volume does not lie by me; and, after a long day's smarting fatigue, which has almost put out my eyes (not blind however to your merits), i dare not trust myself with long writing. the verses to bloomfield are the sweetest in the collection. religion is sometimes lugged in, as if it did not come naturally. i will go over carefully when i get my seeing, and exemplify. you have also too much of singing metre, such as requires no deep ear to make; lilting measure, in which you have done woolman injustice. strike at less superficial melodies. the piece on nayler is more to my fancy. my eye runs waters. but i will give you a fuller account some day. the book is a very pretty one in more than one sense. the decorative harp, perhaps, too ostentatious; a simple pipe preferable. farewell, and many thanks. c. lamb. [barton's new book was _poetic vigils_, . it contained among other poems "an ode to time," "verses to the memory of bloomfield," "a memorial of john woolman," beginning-- there is glory to me in thy name, meek follower of bethlehem's child, more touching by far than the splendour of fame with which the vain world is beguil'd, and "a memorial of james nayler." the following "sonnet to elia," from the _london magazine_, is also in the volume: it is odd that lamb did not mention it:-- sonnet to elia delightful author! unto whom i owe moments and moods of fancy and of feeling, afresh to grateful memory now appealing, fain would i "bless thee--ere i let thee go!" from month to month has the exhaustless flow of thy original mind, its wealth revealing, with quaintest humour, and deep pathos healing the world's rude wounds, revived life's early glow: and, mixt with this, at times, to earnest thought, glimpses of truth, most simple and sublime, by thy imagination have been brought over my spirit. from the olden time of authorship thy patent should be dated, and thou with marvell, brown, and burton mated.] letter charles lamb to w. marter [dated at end: july ( ).] dear marter,--i have just rec'd your letter, having returned from a month's holydays. my exertions for the london are, tho' not dead, in a dead sleep for the present. if your club like scandal, blackwood's is your magazine; if you prefer light articles, and humorous without offence, the new monthly is very amusing. the best of it is by horace smith, the author of the rejected addresses. the old monthly has more of matter, information, but not so merry. i cannot safely recommend any others, as not knowing them, or knowing them to their disadvantage. of reviews, beside what you mention, i know of none except the review on hounslow heath, which i take it is too expensive for your ordering. pity me, that have been a gentleman these four weeks, and am reduced in one day to the state of a ready writer. i feel, i feel, my gentlemanly qualities fast oozing away--such as a sense of honour, neckcloths twice a day, abstinence from swearing, &c. the desk enters into my soul. see my thoughts on business next page. sonnet who first invented _work?_--and bound the free and holyday-rejoicing spirit down to the ever-haunting importunity of _business_ in the green fields, and the town-- to plough, loom, [anvil], spade, and (oh most sad!) to this dry drudgery of the desk's dead wood? who but the being unblest, alien from good, sabbathless satan! he, who his unglad task ever plies 'mid rotatory burnings, that round and round incalculably reel-- for wrath divine hath made him like a wheel-- in that red realm from whence are no returnings; where toiling & turmoiling ever & aye he and his thoughts keep pensive worky-day. with many recollections of pleasanter times, my old compeer, happily released before me, adieu. c. lamb. e.i.h. july [ ]. [marter was an old india house clerk; we do not meet with him again. the sonnet had been printed in _the examiner_ in . lamb, who was fond of it, reprinted it in _album verses_, .] letter charles lamb to john bates dibdin [p.m. july , .] my dear sir--i must appear negligent in not having thanked you for the very pleasant books you sent me. arthur, and the novel, we have both of us read with unmixed satisfaction. they are full of quaint conceits, and running over with good humour and good nature. i naturally take little interest in story, but in these the manner and not the end is the interest; it is such pleasant travelling, one scarce cares whither it leads us. pray express our pleasure to your father with my best thanks. i am involved in a routine of visiting among the family of barren field, just ret'd, from botany bay--i shall hardly have an open evening before tuesday next. will you come to us then? yours truly, c. lamb. wensday july . [_arthur_ and the novel were two books by charles dibdin the younger, the father of lamb's correspondent. arthur was _young arthur; or, the child of mystery: a metrical romance_, , and the novel was _isn't it odd?_ three volumes of high-spirited ramblings something in the manner of _tristram shandy_, nominally written by marmaduke merrywhistle, and published in . barron field had returned from his judgeship in new south wales on june .] letter (_possibly incomplete_) charles lamb to thomas hood [p.m. august , .] and what dost thou at the priory? _cucullus non facit monachum_. english me that, and challenge old lignum janua to make a better. my old new river has presented no extraordinary novelties lately; but there hope sits every day, speculating upon traditionary gudgeons. i think she has taken the fisheries. i now know the reason why our forefathers were denominated east and west angles. yet is there no lack of spawn; for i wash my hands in fishets that come through the pump every morning thick as motelings,--little things o o o like _that_, that perish untimely, and never taste the brook. you do not tell me of those romantic land bays that be as thou goest to lover's seat: neither of that little churchling in the midst of a wood (in the opposite direction, nine furlongs from the town), that seems dropped by the angel that was tired of carrying two packages; marry, with the other he made shift to pick his flight to loretto. inquire out, and see my little protestant loretto. it stands apart from trace of human habitation; yet hath it pulpit, reading-desk, and trim front of massiest marble, as if robinson crusoe had reared it to soothe himself with old church-going images. i forget its christian name, and what she-saint was its gossip. you should also go to no. , standgate street,--a baker, who has the finest collection of marine monsters in ten sea counties,--sea dragons, polypi, mer-people, most fantastic. you have only to name the old gentleman in black (not the devil) that lodged with him a week (he'll remember) last july, and he will show courtesy. he is by far the foremost of the savans. his wife is the funniest thwarting little animal! they are decidedly the lions of green hastings. well, i have made an end of my say. my epistolary time is gone by when i could have scribbled as long (i will not say as agreeable) as thine was to both of us. i am dwindled to notes and letterets. but, in good earnest, i shall be most happy to hail thy return to the waters of old sir hugh. there is nothing like inland murmurs, fresh ripples, and our native minnows. "he sang in meads how sweet the brooklets ran, to the rough ocean and red restless sands." i design to give up smoking; but i have not yet fixed upon the equivalent vice. i must have _quid pro quo;_ or _quo pro quid_, as tom woodgate would correct me. my service to him. c.l. [this is the first letter to hood, then a young man of twenty-five, and assistant editor of the _london magazine_. he was now staying at hastings, on his honeymoon, presumably, and, like the lambs, near the priory. "_cucullus non facit monachum_"--a "lamb-pun." the hood does not make the monk. "old lignum janua"--the tom woodgate mentioned at the end of the letter, a boatman at hastings. hood wrote some verses to him. "my old new river." this passage was placed by hood as the motto of his verses "walton redivivus," in _whims and oddities_, . "little churchling." this is lamb's second description of hollingdon rural. the third and best is in a later letter. "there is nothing like inland murmurs." lamb is here remembering wordsworth's tintern abbey lines:-- with a sweet inland murmur. in the _elia_ essay "the old margate hoy" lamb, in speaking of hastings, had made the same objection. in a letter to his sister, written from hastings at this time, hood says:-- this is the last of our excursions. we have tried, but in vain, to find out the baker and his wife recommended to us by lamb as the very lions of green hastings. there is no such street as he has named throughout the town, and the ovens are singularly numerous. we have given up the search, therefore, but we have discovered the little church in the wood, and it is such a church! it ought to have been our st. botolph's. ... such a verdant covert wood stothard might paint for the haunting of dioneus, pamphillus, and fiammetta as they walk in the novel of boccacce. the ground shadowed with bluebells, even to the formation of a plumb-like bloom upon its little knolls and ridges; and ever through the dell windeth a little path chequered with the shades of aspens and ashes and the most verdant and lively of all the family of trees. here a broad, rude stone steppeth over a lazy spring, oozing its way into grass and weeds; anon a fresh pathway divergeth, you know not whither. meanwhile the wild blackbird startles across the way and singeth anew in some other shade. to have seen fiammetta there, stepping in silk attire, like a flower, and the sunlight looking upon her betwixt the branches! i had not walked (in the body) with romance before. then suppose so much of a space cleared as maketh a small church _lawn_ to be sprinkled with old gravestones, and in the midst the church itself, a small christian dovecot, such as lamb has truly described it, like a little temple of juan fernandes. i could have been sentimental and wished to lie some day in that place, its calm tenants seeming to come through such quiet ways, through those verdant alleys, to their graves. in coming home i killed a viper in our serpentine path, and mrs. fernor says i am by that token to overcome an enemy. is taylor or hessey dead? the reptile was dark and dull, his blood being yet sluggish from the cold; howbeit, he tried to bite, till i cut him in two with a stone. i thought of hessey's long back-bone when i did it. they are called _adders_, tell your father, because two and two of them together make four.] letter charles lamb to bernard barton [p.m. august , .] dear b.b.--i congratulate you on getting a house over your head. i find the comfort of it i am sure. at my town lodgings the mistress was always quarrelling with our maid; and at my place of rustication, the whole family were always beating one another, brothers beating sisters (one a most beautiful girl lamed for life), father beating sons and daughters, and son again beating his father, knocking him fairly down, a scene i never before witnessed, but was called out of bed by the unnatural blows, the parricidal colour of which, tho' my morals could not but condemn, yet my reason did heartily approve, and in the issue the house was quieter for a day or so than i had ever known. i am now all harmony and quiet, even to the sometimes wishing back again some of the old rufflings. there is something stirring in these civil broils. the album shall be attended to. if i can light upon a few appropriate rhymes (but rhymes come with difficulty from me now) i shall beg a place in the neat margin of your young housekeeper. the prometheus unbound, is a capital story. the literal rogue! what if you had ordered elfrida in _sheets!_ she'd have been sent up, i warrant you. or bid him clasp his bible (_i.e._ to his bosom)-he'd ha clapt on a brass clasp, no doubt.-- i can no more understand shelly than you can. his poetry is "thin sewn with profit or delight." yet i must point to your notice a sonnet conceivd and expressed with a witty delicacy. it is that addressed to one who hated him, but who could not persuade him to hate _him_ again. his coyness to the other's passion (for hate demands a return as much as love, and starves without it) is most arch and pleasant. pray, like it very much. for his theories and nostrums they are oracular enough, but i either comprehend 'em not, or there is miching malice and mischief in 'em. but for the most part ringing with their own emptiness. hazlitt said well of 'em--many are wiser and better for reading shakspeare, but nobody was ever wiser or better for reading sh----y. i wonder you will sow your correspondence on so barren a ground as i am, that make such poor returns. but my head akes at the bare thought of letter writing. i wish all the ink in the ocean dried up, and would listen to the quills shivering [? shrivelling] up in the candle flame, like parching martyrs. the same indisposit'n to write it is has stopt my elias, but you will see a futile effort in the next no., "wrung from me with slow pain." the fact is, my head is seldom cool enough. i am dreadfully indolent. to have to do anything-to order me a new coat, for instance, tho' my old buttons are shelled like beans-- is an effort. my pen stammers like my tongue. what cool craniums those old enditers of folios must have had. what a mortify'd pulse. well, once more i throw myself on your mercy-- wishing peace in thy new dwelling-- c. lamb. [the lambs gave up their "country lodgings" at dalston on moving to colebrooke row. "the album." see next letter to barton. "the prometheus unbound." a bookseller, asked for _prometheus unbound_, shelley's poem, had replied that _prometheus_ was not to be had "in sheets." _elfrida_ was a dramatic poem by william mason, gray's friend. this is shelley's poem (not a sonnet) which lamb liked:-- lines to a reviewer alas! good friend, what profit can you see in hating such an hateless thing as me? there is no sport in hate, where all the rage is on one side. in vain would you assuage your frowns upon an unresisting smile, in which not even contempt lurks, to beguile your heart by some faint sympathy of hate. oh conquer what you cannot satiate! for to your passion i am far more coy then ever yet was coldest maid or boy in winter-noon. of your antipathy if i am the narcissus, you are free to pine into a sound with hating me. hazlitt writes of shelley in his essay "on paradox and commonplace" in _table talk_; but he does not make this remark there. perhaps he said it in conversation. "the next number." the "futile effort" was "blakesmoor in h----shire" in the _london magazine_ for september, . here should come a note from lamb to cary, august , , in which lamb thanks him for his translation of _the birds_ of aristophanes and accepts an invitation to dine.] letter charles lamb to bernard barton [dated at end: september , .] little book! surnam'd of white; clean, as yet, and fair to sight; keep thy attribution right, never disproportion'd scrawl; ugly blot, that's worse than all; on thy maiden clearness fall. in each letter, here design'd, let the reader emblem'd find neatness of the owner's mind. gilded margins count a sin; let thy leaves attraction win by thy golden rules within: sayings, fetch'd from sages old; saws, which holy writ unfold, worthy to be writ in gold: lighter fancies not excluding; blameless wit, with nothing rude in, sometimes mildly interluding amid strains of graver measure:-- virtue's self hath oft her pleasure in sweet muses' groves of leisure. riddles dark, perplexing sense; darker meanings of offence; what but _shades_, be banish'd hence. whitest thoughts, in whitest dress-- candid meanings--best express mind of quiet quakeress. dear b.b.--"i am ill at these numbers;" but if the above be not too mean to have a place in thy daughter's sanctum, take them with pleasure. i assume that her name is hannah, because it is a pretty scriptural cognomen. i began on another sheet of paper, and just as i had penn'd the second line of stanza an ugly blot [_here is a blot_] as big as this, fell, to illustrate my counsel.--i am sadly given to blot, and modern blotting-paper gives no redress; it only smears and makes it worse, as for example [_here is a smear_]. the only remedy is scratching out, which gives it a clerkish look. the most innocent blots are made with red ink, and are rather ornamental. [_here are two or three blots in red ink._] marry, they are not always to be distinguished from the effusions of a cut finger. well, i hope and trust thy tick doleru, or however you spell it, is vanished, for i have frightful impressions of that tick, and do altogether hate it, as an unpaid score, or the tick of a death watch. i take it to be a species of vitus's dance (i omit the sanctity, writing to "one of the men called friends"). i knew a young lady who could dance no other, she danced thro' life, and very queer and fantastic were her steps. heaven bless thee from such measures, and keep thee from the foul fiend, who delights to lead after false fires in the night, flibbertigibit, that gives the web and the pin &c. i forget what else.-- from my den, as bunyan has it, sep. . c.l. [the verses were for the album of barton's daughter, lucy (afterwards mrs. edward fitzgerald). lucy was her only name. lamb afterwards printed them in his _album verses_, .] letter charles lamb to mrs. john dyer collier [dated at end: november , .] dear mrs. collier--we receive so much pig from your kindness, that i really have not phrase enough to vary successive acknowledg'mts. i think i shall get a printed form: to serve on all occasions. to say it was young, crisp, short, luscious, dainty-toed, is but to say what all its predecessors have been. it was eaten on sunday and monday, and doubts only exist as to which temperature it eat best, hot or cold. i incline to the latter. the petty-feet made a pretty surprising proe-gustation for supper on saturday night, just as i was loathingly in expectation of bren-cheese. i spell as i speak. i do not know what news to send you. you will have heard of alsager's death, and your son john's success in the lottery. i say he is a wise man, if he leaves off while he is well. the weather is wet to weariness, but mary goes puddling about a-shopping after a gown for the winter. she wants it good & cheap. now i hold that no good things are cheap, pig-presents always excepted. in this mournful weather i sit moping, where i now write, in an office dark as erebus, jammed in between walls, and writing by candle-light, most melancholy. never see the light of the sun six hours in the day, and am surprised to find how pretty it shines on sundays. i wish i were a caravan driver or a penny post man, to earn my bread in air & sunshine. such a pedestrian as i am, to be tied by the legs, like a fauntleroy, without the pleasure of his exactions. i am interrupted here with an official question, which will take me up till it's time to go to dinner, so with repeated thanks & both our kindest rememb'ces to mr. collier & yourself, i conclude in haste. yours & his sincerely, c. lamb. from my den in leadenhall, nov. . on further enquiry alsager is not dead, but mrs. a. is bro't. to bed. [mrs. collier was the mother of john payne collier. alsager we have already met. henry fauntleroy was the banker, who had just been found guilty of forgery and on the day that lamb wrote was sentenced to death. he was executed on the th (see a later letter).] letter charles lamb to b.w. procter [dated at end: november , ' .] my dear procter,-- i do agnise a shame in not having been to pay my congratulations to mrs. procter and your happy self, but on sunday (my only morning) i was engaged to a country walk; and in virtue of the hypostatical union between us, when mary calls, it is understood that i call too, we being univocal. but indeed i am ill at these ceremonious inductions. i fancy i was not born with a call on my head, though i have brought one down upon it with a vengeance. i love not to pluck that sort of fruit crude, but to stay its ripening into visits. in probability mary will be at southampton row this morning, and something of that kind be matured between you, but in any case not many hours shall elapse before i shake you by the hand. meantime give my kindest felicitations to mrs. procter, and assure her i look forward with the greatest delight to our acquaintance. by the way, the deuce a bit of cake has come to hand, which hath an inauspicious look at first, but i comfort myself that that mysterious service hath the property of sacramental bread, which mice cannot nibble, nor time moulder. i am married myself--to a severe step-wife, who keeps me, not at bed and board, but at desk and board, and is jealous of my morning aberrations. i can not slip out to congratulate kinder unions. it is well she leaves me alone o' nights--the damn'd day-hag _business_. she is even now peeping over me to see i am writing no love letters. i come, my dear-- where is the indigo sale book? twenty adieus, my dear friends, till we meet. yours most truly, c. lamb. leadenhall, nov. ' . [procter married anne skepper, step-daughter of basil montagu, in october, . one of their daughters was adelaide ann procter. "agnise"--acknowledge. it has been suggested that lamb favoured this old word also on account of its superficial association with _agnus_, a lamb.] letter charles lamb to henry crabb robinson [p.m. nov. , .] dr. r. barren field bids me say that he is resident at his brother henry's, a surgeon &c., a few doors west of christ church passage newgate street; and that he shall be happy to accompany you up thence to islington, when next you come our way, but not so late as you sometimes come. i think we shall be out on tuesd'y. yours ever c. lamb. sat'y. [barron field, as i have said, had returned from new south wales in june of this year. later he became chief justice at gibraltar.] letter charles lamb to sarah hutchinson desk ii, nov. [ ]. my dear miss hutchinson, mary bids me thank you for your kind letter. we are a little puzzled about your where-abouts: miss wordsworth writes torkay, and you have queerly made it torquay. now tokay we have heard of, and torbay, which we take to be the true _male_ spelling of the place, but somewhere we fancy it to be on "devon's leafy shores," where we heartily wish the kindly breezes may restore all that is invalid among you. robinson is returned, and speaks much of you all. we shall be most glad to hear good news from you from time to time. the best is, proctor is at last married. we have made sundry attempts to see the bride, but have accidentally failed, she being gone out a gadding. we had promised our dear friends the monkhouses, promised ourselves rather, a visit to them at ramsgate, but i thought it best, and mary seemed to have it at heart too, not to go far from home these last holy days. it is connected with a sense of unsettlement, and secretly i know she hoped that such abstinence would be friendly to her health. she certainly has escaped her sad yearly visitation, whether in consequence of it, or of faith in it, and we have to be thankful for a good . to get such a notion into our heads may go a great way another year. not that we quite confined ourselves; but assuming islington to be head quarters, we made timid flights to ware, watford &c. to try how the trouts tasted, for a night out or so, not long enough to make the sense of change oppressive, but sufficient to scour the rust of home. coleridge is not returned from the sea. as a little scandal may divert you recluses--we were in the summer dining at a clergyman of southey's "church of england," at hertford, the same who officiated to thurtell's last moments, and indeed an old contemporary blue of c.'s and mine at school. after dinner we talked of c., and f. who is a mighty good fellow in the main, but hath his cassock prejudices, inveighed against the moral character of c. i endeavoured to enlighten him on the subject, till having driven him out of some of his holds, he stopt my mouth at once by appealing to me whether it was not very well known that c. "at that very moment was living in a state of open a------y with mrs. * * * * * at highgate?" nothing i could say serious or bantering after that could remove the deep inrooted conviction of the whole company assembled that such was the case! of course you will keep this quite close, for i would not involve my poor blundering friend, who i dare say believed it all thoroughly. my interference of course was imputed to the goodness of my heart, that could imagine nothing wrong &c. such it is if ladies will go gadding about with other people's husbands at watering places. how careful we should be to avoid the appearance of evil. i thought this anecdote might amuse you. it is not worth resenting seriously; only i give it as a specimen of orthodox candour. o southey, southey, how long would it be before you would find one of us _unitarians_ propagating such unwarrantable scandal! providence keep you all from the foul fiend scandal, and send you back well and happy to dear gloster place. c.l. [thomas monkhouse, who was in a decline, had been ordered to torquay. crabb robinson had been in normandy for some weeks. the too credulous clergyman at hertford was frederick william franklin, master of the blue coat school there (from to ), who was at christ's hospital with lamb. "mrs. * * * * * *." mrs. gillman.] letter charles lamb to leigh hunt [no date. ? november, .] illustrezzimo signor,--i have obeyed your mandate to a tittle. i accompany this with a volume. but what have you done with the first i sent you?--have you swapt it with some lazzaroni for macaroni? or pledged it with a gondolierer for a passage? peradventuri the cardinal gonsalvi took a fancy to it:--his eminence has done my nearness an honour. 'tis but a step to the vatican. as you judge, my works do not enrich the workman, but i get vat i can for 'em. they keep dragging me on, a poor, worn mill-horse, in the eternal round of the damn'd magazine; but 'tis they are blind, not i. colburn (where i recognise with delight the gay w. honeycomb renovated) hath the ascendency. i was with the novellos last week. they have a large, cheap house and garden, with a dainty library (magnificent) without books. but what will make you bless yourself (i am too old for wonder), something has touched the right organ in vincentio at last. he attends a wesleyan chapel on kingsland green. he at first tried to laugh it off--he only went for the singing; but the cloven foot--i retract--the lamb's trotters--are at length apparent. mary isabella attributes it to a lightness induced by his headaches. but i think i see in it a less accidental influence. mister clark is at perfect staggers! the whole fabric of his infidelity is shaken. he has no one to join him in his coarse-insults and indecent obstreperousnesses against christianity, for holmes (the bonny holmes) is gone to salisbury to be organist, and isabella and the clark make but a feeble quorum. the children have all nice, neat little clasped pray-books, and i have laid out s. d. in watts's hymns for christmas presents for them. the eldest girl alone holds out; she has been at boulogne, skirting upon the vast focus of atheism, and imported bad principles in patois french. but the strongholds are crumbling. n. appears as yet to have but a confused notion of the atonement. it makes him giddy, he says, to think much about it. but such giddiness is spiritual sobriety. well, byron is gone, and ------ is now the best poet in england. fill up the gap to your fancy. barry cornwall has at last carried the pretty a. s. they are just in the treacle-moon. hope it won't clog his wings--gaum we used to say at school. mary, my sister, has worn me out with eight weeks' cold and toothache, her average complement in the winter, and it will not go away. she is otherwise well, and reads novels all day long. she has had an exempt year, a good year, for which, forgetting the minor calamity, she and i are most thankful. alsager is in a flourishing house, with wife and children about him, in mecklenburg square--almost too fine to visit. barron field is come home from sydney, but as yet i can hear no tidings of a pension. he is plump and friendly, his wife really a very superior woman. he resumes the bar. i have got acquainted with mr. irving, the scotch preacher, whose fame must have reached you. he is a humble disciple at the foot of gamaliel s.t.c. judge how his own sectarists must stare when i tell you he has dedicated a book to s.t.c., acknowledging to have learnt more of the nature of faith, christianity, and christian church, from him than from all the men he ever conversed with. he is a most amiable, sincere, modest man in a room, this boanerges in the temple. mrs. montague told him the dedication would do him no good. "that shall be a reason for doing it," was his answer. judge, now, whether this man be a quack. dear h., take this imperfect notelet for a letter; it looks so much the more like conversing on nearer terms. love to all the hunts, old friend thornton, and all. yours ever, c. lamb. [leigh hunt was still living at genoa. shelley and byron, whom he had left england to join, were both dead. lamb, i assume, sent him a second copy of _elia_, with this letter. cardinal gonsalvi was ercole gonsalvi ( - ), secretary to pius vii. and a patron of the arts. lawrence painted him. for the present state of the _london magazine_ see next letter. leigh hunt contributed to colburn's _new monthly magazine_, among other things, a series of papers on "the months." hunt also contributed an account of the honeycomb family, by harry honeycomb. by mary isabella lamb meant mary sabilla novello, vincent novello's wife. the eldest girl was mary victoria, afterwards the wife of charles cowden clarke, the mr. clark mentioned here. novello (now living at shackleford green) remained a good roman catholic to the end. holmes was edward holmes ( - ), a pupil of cowden clarke's father at enfield and schoolfellow of keats. he had lived with the novellos, studying music, and later became a musical writer and teacher and the biographer of mozart. mrs. barron field was a miss jane carncroft, to whom lamb addressed some album verses (see vol. iv. of this edition). leigh hunt knew of field's return, for he had contributed to the _new monthly_ earlier in the year a rhymed letter to him in which he welcomed him home again. irving was edward irving ( - ), afterwards the founder of the catholic apostolic sect, then drawing people to the chapel in hatton garden, attached to the caledonian asylum. the dedication, to which lamb alludes more than once in his correspondence, was that of his work, _for missionaries after the apostolical school, a series of orations in four parts_, ... . it runs:-- dedication to samuel taylor coleridge, esq. my dear and honoured friend, unknown as you are, in the true character either of your mind or of your heart, to the greater part of your countrymen, and misrepresented as your works have been, by those who have the ear of the vulgar, it will seem wonderful to many that i should make choice of you, from the circle of my friends, to dedicate to you these beginnings of my thoughts upon the most important subject of these or any times. and when i state the reason to be, that you have been more profitable to my faith in orthodox doctrine, to my spiritual understanding of the word of god, and to my right conception of the christian church, than any or all of the men with whom i have entertained friendship and conversation, it will perhaps still more astonish the mind, and stagger the belief, of those who have adopted, as once i did myself, the misrepresentations which are purchased for a hire and vended for a price, concerning your character and works. you have only to shut your ear to what they ignorantly say of you, and earnestly to meditate the deep thoughts with which you are instinct, and give them a suitable body and form that they may live, then silently commit them to the good sense of ages yet to come, in order to be ranked hereafter amongst the most gifted sages and greatest benefactors of your country. enjoy and occupy the quiet which, after many trials, the providence of god hath bestowed upon you, in the bosom of your friends; and may you be spared until you have made known the multitude of your thoughts, unto those who at present value, or shall hereafter arise to value, their worth. i have partaken so much high intellectual enjoyment from being admitted into the close and familiar intercourse with which you have honoured me, and your many conversations concerning the revelations of the christian faith have been so profitable to me in every sense, as a student and a preacher of the gospel, as a spiritual man and a christian pastor, and your high intelligence and great learning have at all times so kindly stooped to my ignorance and inexperience, that not merely with the affection of friend to friend, and the honour due from youth to experienced age, but with the gratitude of a disciple to a wise and generous teacher, of an anxious inquirer to the good man who hath helped him in the way of truth, i do now presume to offer you the first-fruits of my mind since it received a new impulse towards truth, and a new insight into its depths, from listening to your discourse. accept them in good part, and be assured that however insignificant in themselves, they are the offering of a heart which loves your heart, and of a mind which looks up with reverence to your mind. edward irving. "old friend thornton" was leigh hunt's son, thornton leigh hunt, whom lamb had addressed in verse in as "my favourite child." he was now fourteen.] letter charles lamb to bernard barton and lucy barton [p.m. december , .] 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 proper care for their execution. but mr. m. must have patience. china is a great way off, further perhaps than he thinks; and his next year's roses must be content to wither in a wedgewood 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 will probably consult his own taste after all. [illustration: handdrawn sketch] the last pattern is obviously fitted for ranunculuses only. the two former may indifferently hold daisies, marjoram, sweet williams, and that sort. my friend in canton is inspector of teas, his name 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 s. d. 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 will not go off, he publishes two; two stick, he tries three; three hang fire, he is confident that four will have a better chance. and now, my dear sir, trifling apart, the gloomy catastrophe of yesterday morning prompts a sadder vein. the fate of the unfortunate fauntleroy makes me, whether i will or no, to cast reflecting eyes around on such of my friends as by a parity of situation are exposed to a similarity of temptation. my very style, seems to myself to become more impressive than usual, with the change of theme. who that standeth, knoweth but he may yet fall? your hands as yet, i am most willing to believe, have never deviated into others' property. you think it impossible that you could ever commit so heinous an offence. but so thought fauntleroy once; so have thought many besides him, who at last have expiated, as he hath done. you are as yet upright. but you are a banker, at least the next thing to it. i feel the delicacy of the subject; but cash must pass thro' your hands, sometimes to a great amount. if in an unguarded hour--but i will hope better. consider the scandal it will bring upon those of your persuasion. thousands would go to see a quaker hanged, that would be indifferent to the fate of a presbyterian, or an anabaptist. think of the effect it would have on the sale of your poems alone; not to mention higher considerations. i tremble, i am sure, at myself, when i think that so many poor victims of the law at one time of their life made as sure of never being hanged as i in my presumption am too ready to do myself. what are we better than they? do we come into the world with different necks? is there any distinctive mark under our left ears? are we unstrangulable? i ask you. think of these things. i am shocked sometimes at the shape of my own fingers, not for their resemblance to the ape tribe (which is something) but for the exquisite adaptation of them to the purposes of picking, fingering, &c. no one that is so framed, i maintain it, but should tremble. postscript for your daughter's eyes only. dear miss ---- your pretty little letterets make me ashamed of my great straggling coarse handwriting. i wonder where you get pens to write so small. sure they must be the pinions of a small wren, or a robin. if you write so in your album, you must give us glasses to read by. i have seen a lady's similar book all writ in following fashion. i think it pretty and fanciful. "o how i love in early dawn to bend my steps o'er flowery dawn [lawn]," which i think has an agreeable variety to the eye. which i recommend to your notice, with friend elia's best wishes. [the _london magazine_ began a new series at half a crown with the number for january, . it had begun to decline very noticeably. the _new monthly magazine_, to the january number of which lamb contributed his "illustrious defunct" essay, was its most serious rival. lamb returned to some of his old vivacity and copiousness in the _london magazine_ for january, . to that number he contributed his "biographical memoir of mr. liston" and the "vision of horns"; and to the february number "letter to an old gentleman," "unitarian protests" and the "autobiography of mr. munden." "g.d."--george dyer again. "fauntleroy." see note above. fauntleroy's fate seems to have had great fascination for lamb. he returned to the subject, in the vein of this letter, in "the last peach," a little essay printed in the _london magazine_ for april, (see vol. i. of this edition); and in _memories of old friends, being extracts from the journals and letters of caroline fox, ... from to _, , i find the following entry:-- october [l ].--g. wightwick and others dined with us. he talked agreeably about capital punishments, greatly doubting their having any effect in preventing crime. soon after fauntleroy was hanged, an advertisement appeared, "to all good christians! pray for the soul of fauntleroy." this created a good deal of speculation as to whether he was a catholic, and at one of coleridge's soirées it was discussed for a considerable time; at length coleridge, turning to lamb, asked, "do you know anything about this affair?" "i should think i d-d-d-did," said elia, "for i paid s-s-s-seven and sixpence for it!" lamb's postscript is written in extremely small characters, and --the letters of the two lines of verse are in alternate red and black inks. it was this letter which, edward fitzgerald tells us, thackeray pressed to his forehead, with the remark "saint charles!" hitherto, the postscript not having been thought worthy of print by previous editors, it was a little difficult to understand why this particular letter had been selected for thackeray's epithet. but when one thinks of the patience with which, after making gentle fun of her father, lamb sat down to amuse lucy barton, and, as thackeray did, thinks also of his whole life, it becomes more clear. here should come a letter to alaric a. watts dated dec. , , in reply to a request for a contribution to one of this inveterate album-maker's albums. lamb acquiesces. later he came to curse the things. given in the boston bibliophile edition.] letter charles lamb to john bates dibdin [p.m. january ii, .] my dear sir--pray return my best thanks to your father for his little volume. it is like all of his i have seen, spirited, good humoured, and redolent of the wit and humour of a century ago. he should have lived with gay and his set. the chessiad is so clever that i relish'd it in spite of my total ignorance of the game. i have it not before me, but i remember a capital simile of the charwoman letting in her watchman husband, which is better than butler's lobster turned to red. hazard is a grand character, jove in his chair. when you are disposed to leave your one room for my six, colebrooke is where it was, and my sister begs me to add that as she is disappointed of meeting your sister _your way_, we shall be most happy to see her _our way_, when you have an even'g to spare. do not stand on ceremonies and introductions, but come at once. i need not say that if you can induce your father to join the party, it will be so much the pleasanter. can you name an evening _next week_? i give you long credit. meantime am as usual yours truly c.l. e.i.h. jan. . when i saw the chessiad advertised by c.d. the younger, i hoped it might be yours. what title is left for you-- charles dibdin _the younger, junior_. o no, you are timothy. [charles dibdin the younger wrote a mock-heroic poem, "the chessiad," which was published with _comic tales_ in . the simile of the charwoman runs thus:-- now morning, yawning, rais'd her from her bed, slipp'd on her wrapper blue and 'kerchief red, and took from night the key of sleep's abode; for night within that mansion had bestow'd the hours of day; now, turn and turn about, morn takes the key and lets the day-hours out; laughing, they issue from the ebon gate, and night walks in. as when, in drowsy state, some watchman, wed to one who chars all day, takes to his lodging's door his creeping way; his rib, arising, lets him in to sleep, while she emerges to scrub, dust, and sweep. this is the lobster simile in _hudibras_, part ii., canto , lines - :-- the sun had long since, in the lap of thetis, taken out his nap, and, like a lobster boiled, the morn from black to red began to turn. hazard is the chief of the gods in the chessiad's little drama. "you are timothy." see letter to dibdin above. i have included in vol. i. of the present edition a review of dibdin's book, in the _new times_, january , , which both from internal evidence and from the quotation of the charwoman passage i take to be by lamb, who was writing for that paper at that time.] letter charles lamb to thomas allsop jan. , . dear allsop--i acknowledge with thanks the receipt of a draft on messrs. wms. for £ : : which i haste to cash in the present alarming state of the money market. hurst and robinson gone. i have imagined a chorus of ill-used authors singing on the occasion: what should we when booksellers break? we should rejoice da capo. we regret exceed'ly mrs. allsop's being unwell. mary or both will come and see her soon. the frost is cruel, and we have both colds. i take pills again, which battle with your wine & victory hovers doubtful. by the bye, tho' not disinclined to presents i remember our bargain to take a dozen at sale price and must demur. with once again thanks and best loves to mrs. a. turn over--yours, c. lamb. [hurst and robinson were publishers. lamb took the idea for his chorus from davenant's version of "macbeth" which he described in _the spectator_ in (see vol. i. of the present edition). it is there a chorus of witches-- we should rejoice when good kings bleed. ] letter charles lamb to sarah hutchinson [p.m. january , .] the brevity of this is owing to scratching it off at my desk amid expected interruptions. by habit, i can write letters only at office. dear miss h. thank you for a noble goose, which wanted only the massive encrustation that we used to pick-axe open about this season in old gloster place. when shall we eat another goosepye 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 lond. i know of none. this first specimen is flat and pert enough to justify subscribers who grudge at t'other shilling. de quincey's parody was submitted to him before printed, and had his probatum. the "horns" is in a poor taste, resembling the most laboured papers in the spectator. i had sign'd 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 consent. but did you read the "memoir of liston"? 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 paragraph, pure invention; and has passed for gospel, has been republished in newspapers, and in the penny play-bills of the night, as an authentic account. i shall certainly go to the naughty man some day for my fibbings. in the next no. i figure as a theologian! and have attacked 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 looking forward to a london flight with the spring. winter _we_ have had none, but plenty of foul weather. i have lately pick'd 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 [_"talk kay" here written and scratched out_] torquay. suppose you try it. well god bless you all, as wishes mary, [most] sincerely, with many thanks for letter &c. elia. [the monkhouses' house in london was at gloucester place. lamb's de quincey parody was the "letter to an old gentleman, whose education has been neglected." "coleridge's book"--the _aids to reflection_, published in may or june, . "i have lately pick'd up an epigram." this is by henry man, an old south-sea house clerk, whom in his south-sea house essay lamb mentions as a wit. the epigram, which refers to lord spencer and lord sandwich, will be found in man's _miscellaneous works_, .] letter charles lamb to vincent novello [p.m. jan. , .] dear corelli, my sister's cold is as obstinate as an old handelian, whom a modern amateur is trying to convert to mozart-ism. as company must & always does injure it, emma and i propose to come to you in the evening of to-morrow, _instead of meeting here_. an early bread-and-cheese supper at / past eight will oblige us. loves to the bearer of many children. c. lamb. tuesday colebrooke. i sign with a black seal, that you may begin to think, her cold has killed mary, which will be an agreeable unsurprise when you read the note. [this is the first letter to novello, who was the peculiar champion of mozart and haydn. lamb calls him corelli after archangelo corelli ( - ), the violinist and composer. it was part of a joke between lamb and novello that lamb should affect to know a great deal about music. see the _elia_ essay "a chapter on ears" for a description of novello's playing. mrs. novello was the mother of eleven children.] letter charles lamb to bernard barton [dated at end: february, .] dear b.b.--i am vexed that ugly paper should have offended. i kept it as clear from objectionable phrases as possible, and it was hessey's fault, and my weakness, that it did not appear anonymous. no more of it for god's sake. the spirit of the age is by hazlitt. the characters of coleridge, &c. he had done better in former publications, the praise and the abuse much stronger, &c. but the new ones are capitally done. horne tooke is a matchless portrait. my advice is, to borrow it rather than read [? buy] it. i have it. he has laid on too many colours on my likeness, but i have had so much injustice done me in my own name, that i make a rule of accepting as much over-measure to elia as gentlemen think proper to bestow. lay it on and spare not. your gentleman brother sets my mouth a watering after liberty. o that i were kicked out of leadenhall with every mark of indignity, and a competence in my fob. the birds of the air would not be so free as i should. how i would prance and curvet it, and pick up cowslips, and ramble about purposeless as an ideot! the author-mometer is a good fancy. i have caused great speculation in the dramatic (not _thy_) world by a lying life of liston, all pure invention. the town has swallowed it, and it is copied into news papers, play bills, etc., as authentic. you do not know the droll, and possibly missed reading the article (in our st no., new series). a life more improbable for him to have lived would not be easily invented. but your rebuke, coupled with "dream on j. bunyan," checks me. i'd rather do more in my favorite way, but feel dry. i must laugh sometimes. i am poor hypochondriacus, and _not_ liston. our 'nd n'o is all trash. what are t. and h. about? it is whip syllabub, "thin sown with aught of profit or delight." thin sown! not a germ of fruit or corn. why did poor scott die! there was comfort in writing with such associates as were his little band of scribblers, some gone away, some affronted away, and i am left as the solitary widow looking for water cresses. the only clever hand they have is darley, who has written on the dramatists, under name of john lacy. but his function seems suspended. i have been harassed more than usually at office, which has stopt my correspondence lately. i write with a confused aching head, and you must accept this apology for a letter. i will do something soon if i can as a peace offering to the queen of the east angles. something she shan't scold about. for the present, farewell. thine c.l. feb. . i am fifty years old this day. drink my health. ["that ugly paper" was "a vision of horns." hazlitt's _spirit of the age_ had just been published, containing criticisms, among others, of coleridge, horne tooke, and lamb. lamb was very highly praised. here is a passage from the article:-- how admirably he has sketched the former inmates of the south-sea house; what "fine fretwork he makes of their double and single entries!" with what a firm yet subtle pencil he has embodied "mrs. battle's opinions on whist!" how notably he embalms a battered _beau_; how delightfully an amour, that was cold forty years ago, revives in his pages! with what well-disguised humour he introduces us to his relations, and how freely he serves up his friends! certainly, some of his portraits are _fixtures_, and will do to hang up as lasting and lively emblems of human infirmity. then there is no one who has so sure an ear for "the chimes at midnight," not even excepting mr. justice shallow; nor could master silence himself take his "cheese and pippins" with a more significant and satisfactory air. with what a gusto mr. lamb describes the inns and courts of law, the temple and gray's inn, as if he had been a student there for the last two hundred years, and had been as well acquainted with the person of sir francis bacon as he is with his portrait or writings! it is hard to say whether st. john's gate is connected with more intense and authentic associations in his mind, as a part of old london wall, or as the frontispiece (time out of mind) of the _gentleman's magazine_. he hunts watling street like a gentle spirit; the avenues to the play-houses are thick with panting recollections; and christ's hospital still breathes the balmy breath of infancy in his description of it! "your gentleman brother"--john barton, bernard's younger half-brother. "the author-mometer." i have not discovered to what lamb refers. "dream on j. bunyan." probably a poem by barton, but i have not traced it. "t. and h."--taylor & hessey. "poor scott"--john scott, who founded the _london magazine_. "darley"--george darley ( - ), author of _sylvia; or, the may queen_, . "the queen of the east angles." possibly lucy barton, possibly anne knight, a friend of barton's.] letter charles lamb to thomas manning [not dated. ? february, .] 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 tuthill 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 cannot be more explicit at present. but i have it under his own hand, that i am _non_-capacitated (i cannot write it _in_-) for business. o joyous imbecility! not a susurration of this to _anybody!_ mary's love. c. lamb. [lamb had just taken a most momentous step in his career and had consulted tuthill as to his health, in the hope of perhaps obtaining release and a pension from the east india house. we learn more of this soon. here might come two brief notes to dibdin, of no importance.] letter charles lamb to sarah hutchinson [dated at end: march , .] dear miss hutchinson your news has made us all very sad. i had my hopes to the last. i seem as if i were disturbing you at such an awful time even by a reply. but i must acknowledge your kindness in presuming upon the interest we shall all feel on the subject. no one will more feel it than robinson, to whom i have written. no one more than he and we acknowleged the nobleness and worth of what we have lost. words are perfectly idle. we can only pray for resignation to the survivors. our dearest expressions of condolence to mrs. m------ at this time in particular. god bless you both. i have nothing of ourselves to tell you, and if i had, i could not be so unreverent as to trouble you with it. we are all well, that is all. farewell, the departed--and the left. your's and his, while memory survives, cordially c. lamb. mar. . [the letter refers to the death of thomas monkhouse. here should come an undated note from lamb to procter, in which lamb refers to the same loss: "we shall be most glad to see you, though more glad to have seen double _you_."] letter charles lamb to bernard barton [p.m. march , .] wednesday. dear b.b.--i have had no impulse to write, or attend to any single object but myself, for weeks past. my single self. i by myself i. i am sick of hope deferred. the grand wheel is in agitation that is to turn up my fortune, but round it rolls and will turn up nothing. i have a glimpse of freedom, of becoming a gentleman at large, but i am put off from day to day. i have offered my resignation, and it is neither accepted nor rejected. eight weeks am i kept in this fearful suspence. guess what an absorbing stake i feel it. i am not conscious of the existence of friends present or absent. the e.i. directors alone can be that thing to me--or not.-- i have just learn'd that nothing will be decided this week. why the next? why any week? it has fretted me into an itch of the fingers, i rub 'em against paper and write to you, rather than not allay this scorbuta. while i can write, let me adjure you to have no doubts of irving. let mr. mitford drop his disrespect. irving has prefixed a dedication (of a missionary subject st part) to coleridge, the most beautiful cordial and sincere. he there acknowledges his obligation to s.t.c. for his knowledge of gospel truths, the nature of a xtian church, etc., to the talk of s.t.c. (at whose gamaliel feet he sits weekly) [more] than to that of all the men living. this from him--the great dandled and petted sectarian--to a religious character so equivocal in the world's eye as that of s.t.c., so foreign to the kirk's estimate!--can this man be a quack? the language is as affecting as the spirit of the dedication. some friend told him, "this dedication will do you no good," _i.e._ not in the world's repute, or with your own people. "that is a reason for doing it," quoth irving. i am thoroughly pleased with him. he is firm, outspeaking, intrepid--and docile as a pupil of pythagoras. you must like him. yours, in tremors of painful hope, c. lamb. [in the first paragraphs lamb refers to the great question of his release from the india house. in a letter dated february , , of mary russell mitford, who looked upon irving as quack absolute, we find her discussing the preacher with charles lamb.] letter charles lamb to henry crabb robinson [march ], . i have left the d------d india house for ever! give me great joy. c. lamb. [robinson states in his reminiscences of coleridge, wordsworth and lamb, preserved in ms. at dr. williams' library: "a most important incident in lamb's life, tho' in the end not so happy for him as he anticipated, was his obtaining his discharge, with a pension of almost £ a year, from the india house. this he announced to me by a note put into my letter box: 'i have left the india house. d------ time. i'm all for eternity.' he was rather more than years of age. i found him and his sister in high spirits when i called to wish them joy on the of april. 'i never saw him so calmly cheerful,' says my journal, 'as he seemed then.'" see the next letters for lamb's own account of the event.] letter charles lamb to william wordsworth colebrook cottage, april, . dear wordsworth, i have been several times meditating a letter to you concerning the good thing which has befallen me, but the thought of poor monkhouse came across me. he was one that i had exulted in the prospect of congratulating me. he and you were to have been the first participators, for indeed it has been ten weeks since the first motion of it. here i am then after years slavery, sitting in my own room at o'clock this finest of all april mornings a freed man, with £ a year for the remainder of my life, live i as long as john dennis, who outlived his annuity and starved at . £ , i.e. £ , with a deduction of £ for a provision secured to my sister, she being survivor, the pension guaranteed by act georgii tertii, &c. i came home for ever on tuesday in last week. the incomprehensibleness of my condition overwhelm'd me. it was like passing from life into eternity. every year to be as long as three, i.e. to have three times as much real time, time that is my own, in it! i wandered about thinking i was happy, but feeling i was not. but that tumultuousness is passing off, and i begin to understand the nature of the gift. holydays, even the annual month, were always uneasy joys: their conscious fugitiveness--the craving after making the most of them. now, when all is holyday, there are no holydays. i can sit at home in rain or shine without a restless impulse for walkings. i am daily steadying, and shall soon find it as natural to me to be my own master, as it has been irksome to have had a master. mary wakes every morning with an obscure feeling that some good has happened to us. leigh hunt and montgomery after their releasements describe the shock of their emancipation much as i feel mine. but it hurt their frames. i eat, drink, and sleep sound as ever. i lay no anxious schemes for going hither and thither, but take things as they occur. yesterday i excursioned miles, to day i write a few letters. pleasuring was for fugitive play days, mine are fugitive only in the sense that life is fugitive. freedom and life co-existent. at the foot of such a call upon you for gratulation, i am ashamd to advert to that melancholy event. monkhouse was a character i learnd to love slowly, but it grew upon me, yearly, monthly, daily. what a chasm has it made in our pleasant parties! his noble friendly face was always coming before me, till this hurrying event in my life came, and for the time has absorpt all interests. in fact it has shaken me a little. my old desk companions with whom i have had such merry hours seem to reproach me for removing my lot from among them. they were pleasant creatures, but to the anxieties of business, and a weight of possible worse ever impending, i was not equal. tuthill and gilman gave me my certificates. i laughed at the friendly lie implied in them, but my sister shook her head and said it was all true. indeed this last winter i was jaded out, winters were always worse than other parts of the year, because the spirits are worse, and i had no daylight. in summer i had daylight evenings. the relief was hinted to me from a superior power, when i poor slave had not a hope but that i must wait another years with jacob--and lo! the rachel which i coveted is bro't to me-- have you read the noble dedication of irving's "missionary orations" to s.t.c. who shall call this man a quack hereafter? what the kirk will think of it neither i nor irving care. when somebody suggested to him that it would not be likely to do him good, videlicet among his own people, "that is a reason for doing it" was his noble answer. that irving thinks he has profited mainly by s.t.c., i have no doubt. the very style of the ded. shows it. communicate my news to southey, and beg his pardon for my being so long acknowledging his kind present of the "church," which circumstances i do not wish to explain, but having no reference to himself, prevented at the time. assure him of my deep respect and friendliest feelings. divide the same, or rather each take the whole to you, i mean you and all yours. to miss hutchinson i must write separate. what's her address? i want to know about mrs. m. farewell! and end at last, long selfish letter! c. lamb. [lamb expanded the first portion of this letter into the _elia_ essay "the superannuated man," which ought to be read in connection with it (see vol. ii. of the present edition). leigh hunt and james montgomery, the poet, had both undergone imprisonment for libel. at a court of directors of the india house held on march , , it was resolved "that the resignation of mr. charles lamb of the accountant general's office, on account of certified ill-health, be accepted, and, it appearing that he has served the company faithfully for years, and is now in the receipt of an income of £ per annum, he be allowed a pension of £ (four hundred and fifty pounds) per annum, under the provisions of the act of the geo. iii., cap. , to commence from this day."] letter charles lamb to bernard barton [p.m. april , .] dear b.b.--my spirits are so tumultuary with the novelty of my recent emancipation, that i have scarce steadiness of hand, much more mind, to compose a letter. i am free, b.b.--free as air. the little bird that wings the sky knows no such liberty! i was set free on tuesday in last week at o'clock. i came home for ever! i have been describing my feelings as well as i can to wordsw'th. in a long letter, and don't care to repeat. take it briefly that for a few days i was painfully oppressed by so mighty a change, but it is becoming daily more natural to me. i went and sat among 'em all at my old years desk yester morning; and deuce take me if i had not yearnings at leaving all my old pen and ink fellows, merry sociable lads, at leaving them in the lurch, fag, fag, fag. the comparison of my own superior felicity gave me any thing but pleasure. b.b., i would not serve another years for seven hundred thousand pounds! i have got £ net for life, sanctioned by act of parliament, with a provision for mary if she survives me. i will live another years; or, if i live but , they will be thirty, reckoning the quantity of real time in them, _i.e._ the time that is a man's own. tell me how you like "barbara s."--will it be received in atonement for the foolish vision, i mean by the lady? _apropos_, i never saw mrs. crawford in my life, nevertheless 'tis all true of somebody. address me in future colebrook cottage, islington. i am really nervous (but that will wear off) so take this brief announcement. yours truly c.l. ["barbara s----," the _elia_ essay, was printed in the _london magazine_, april, (see vol ii. of this edition). it purports to be an incident in the life of mrs. crawford, the actress, but had really happened to fanny kelly.] letter charles lamb to sarah hutchinson [p.m. april , .] dear miss hutchinson--you want to know all about my gaol delivery. take it then. about weeks since i had a sort of intimation that a resignation might be well accepted from me. this was a kind bird's whisper. on that hint i spake. gilman and tuthill furnishd me with certificates of wasted health and sore spirits--not much more than the truth, i promise you--and for weeks i was kept in a fright-- i had gone too far to recede, and they might take advantage and dismiss me with a much less sum than i had reckoned on. however liberty came at last with a liberal provision. i have given up what i could have lived on in the country, but have enough to live here by managem't and scribbling occasionally. i would not go back to my prison for seven years longer for £ a year. years after one is is no trifle to give up. still i am a young _pensioner_, and have served but years, very few i assure you retire before , , or years' service. you will ask how i bear my freedom. faith, for some days i was staggered. could not comprehend the magnitude of my deliverance, was confused, giddy, knew not whether i was on my head or my heel as they say. but those giddy feelings have gone away, and my weather glass stands at a degree or two above content i go about quiet, and have none of that restless hunting after recreation which made holydays formerly uneasy joys. all being holydays, i feel as if i had none, as they do in heaven, where 'tis all red letter days. i have a kind letter from the words'wths _congratulatory_ not a little. it is a damp, i do assure you, amid all my prospects that i can receive _none_ from a quarter upon which i had calculated, almost more than from any, upon receiving congratulations. i had grown to like poor m. more and more. i do not esteem a soul living or not living more warmly than i had grown to esteem and value him. but words are vain. we have none of us to count upon many years. that is the only cure for sad thoughts. if only some died, and the rest were permanent on earth, what a thing a friend's death would be then! i must take leave, having put off answering [a load] of letters to this morning, and this, alas! is the st. our kindest remembrances to mrs. monkhouse and believe us yours most truly, c. lamb. letter charles lamb to william horne [p.m. may , .] dear hone,--i send you a trifle; you have seen my lines, i suppose, in the "london." i cannot tell you how much i like the "st. chad wells." yours truly c. lamb. p.s. why did you not stay, or come again, yesterday? [these words accompany lamb's contribution, "remarkable correspondent," to hone's _every-day book_ (see vol. i. of this edition). lamb was helping hone in his new venture as much as he was able; and hone in return dedicated the first volume to him. "st. chad's wells" was an article by hone in the number for march .] letter charles lamb to william wordsworth [no date. may, .] dear w. i write post-hoste to ensure a frank. thanks for your hearty congratulations. i may now date from the th 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 people. how i look down on the slaves and drudges of the world! its inhabitants are a vast cotton-web of spin spin spinners. o the carking cares! o 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 circumstances 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 finishd his prize essay, which if it get the prize he'll touch an additional £ i fancy. his book too (commentary on bishop leighton) is quite finished and _penes_ taylor and hessey. in the london which is just out ( st may) are papers entitled the _superannuated man_, which i wish you to see, and also st apr. a little thing called barbara 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 crumenae, 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 third: but couragio. i despair not. your kind hint of the cottage was well thrown out. an anchorage 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 ruralize in fancy. some d------d people are come in and i must finish abruptly. 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. [coleridge had been appointed to one of the ten royal associateships of the newly chartered royal society of literature, thus becoming entitled to an annuity of guineas. an essay was expected from each associate. coleridge wrote on the _prometheus_ of aeschylus, and read it on may . his book was _aids to reflection_. see note on page . "i shall miss my thirds." lamb's pension was two-thirds of his stipend. "some d-----d people." a hint for lamb's popular fallacy on home, soon to be written. "round your wrekin." lamb repeats this phrase twice in the next few months. he got it from the dedication to farquhar's play "the recruiting officer"--"to all friends round the wrekin." here perhaps should come a letter to mrs. norris printed in the boston bibliophile edition containing some very interesting comic verses on england somewhat in the manner of _don juan_-- i like the weather when it's not too rainy, that is, i like two months of every year, and so on.] letter charles lamb to charles chambers [undated. ? may, .] with regard to a john-dory, which you desire to be particularly informed about, i honour the fish, but it is rather on account of quin who patronised it, and whose taste (of a _dead_ man) i had as lieve go by as anybody's (apicius and heliogabalus excepted--this latter started nightingales' tongues and peacocks' brains as a garnish). else in _itself_, and trusting to my own poor single judgment, it hath not that moist mellow oleaginous gliding smooth descent from the tongue to the palate, thence to the stomach, &c., that your brighton turbot hath, which i take to be the most friendly and familiar flavor of any that swims--most genial and at home to the palate. nor has it on the other hand that fine falling off flakiness, that oleaginous peeling off (as it were, like a sea onion), which endears your cod's head & shoulders to some appetites; that manly firmness, combined with a sort of womanish coming-in-pieces, which the same cod's head & shoulders hath, where the whole is easily separable, pliant to a knife or a spoon, but each individual flake presents a pleasing resistance to the opposed tooth. you understand me--these delicate subjects are necessarily obscure. but it has a third flavor of its own, perfectly distinct from cod or turbot, which it must be owned may to some not injudicious palates render it acceptable--but to my unpractised tooth it presented rather a crude river-fish-flavor, like your pike or carp, and perhaps like them should have been tamed & corrected by some laborious & well chosen sauce. still i always suspect a fish which requires so much of artificial settings-off. your choicest relishes (like nature's loveliness) need not the foreign aid of ornament, but are when unadorned (that is, with nothing but a little plain anchovy & a squeeze of lemon) then adorned the most. however, i shall go to brighton again next summer, and shall have an opportunity of correcting my judgment, if it is not sufficiently informed. i can only say that when nature was pleased to make the john dory so notoriously deficient in outward graces (as to be sure he is the very rhinoceros of fishes, the ugliest dog that swims, except perhaps the sea satyr, which i never saw, but which they say is terrible), when she formed him with so few external advantages, she might have bestowed a more elaborate finish in his parts internal, & have given him a relish, a sapor, to recommend him, as she made pope a poet to make up for making him crooked. i am sorry to find that you have got a knack of saying things which are not true to shew your wit. if i had no wit but what i must shew at the expence of my virtue or my modesty, i had as lieve be as stupid as * * * at the tea warehouse. depend upon it, my dear chambers, that an ounce of integrity at our death-bed will stand us in more avail than all the wit of congreve or... for instance, you tell me a fine story about truss, and his playing at leamington, which i know to be false, because i have advice from derby that he was whipt through the town on that very day you say he appeared in some character or other, for robbing an old woman at church of a seal ring. and dr. parr has been two months dead. so it won't do to scatter these untrue stories about among people that know any thing. besides, your forte is not invention. it is _judgment_, particularly shown in your choice of dishes. we seem in that instance born under one star. i like you for liking hare. i esteem you for disrelishing minced veal. liking is too cold a word.--i love you for your noble attachment to the fat unctuous juices of deer's flesh & the green unspeakable of turtle. i honour you for your endeavours to esteem and approve of my favorite, which i ventured to recommend to you as a substitute for hare, bullock's heart, and i am not offended that you cannot taste it with _my_ palate. a true son of epicurus should reserve one taste peculiar to himself. for a long time i kept the secret about the exceeding deliciousness of the marrow of boiled knuckle of veal, till my tongue weakly ran riot in its praises, and now it is prostitute & common.--but i have made one discovery which i will not impart till my dying scene is over, perhaps it will be my last mouthful in this world: delicious thought, enough to sweeten (or rather make savoury) the hour of death. it is a little square bit about this size in or near the knuckle bone of a fried joint of... fat i can't call it nor lean [illustration: handrawn sketch] neither altogether, it is that beautiful compound, which nature must have made in paradise park venison, before she separated the two substances, the dry & the oleaginous, to punish sinful mankind; adam ate them entire & inseparate, and this little taste of eden in the knuckle bone of a fried... seems the only relique of a paradisaical state. when i die, an exact description of its topography shall be left in a cupboard with a key, inscribed on which these words, "c. lamb dying imparts this to c. chambers as the only worthy depository of such a secret." you'll drop a tear.... [charles chambers was the brother of john chambers (see above). he had been at christ's hospital with lamb and subsequently became a surgeon in the navy. he retired to leamington and practised there until his death, somewhen about , says mr. hazlitt. he seems to have inherited some of the epicure's tastes of his father, the "sensible clergyman in warwickshire" who, lamb tells us in "thoughts on presents of game," "used to allow a pound of epping to every hare." this letter adds one more to the list of lamb's gustatory raptures, and it is remarkable as being his only eulogy of fish. mr. hazlitt says that the date september , , has been added by another hand; but if the remark about dr. parr is true (he died march , ) the time is as i have stated. fortunately the date in this particular case is unimportant. mr. hazlitt suggests that the stupid person in the tea warehouse was bye, whom we met recently. of truss we know nothing. the name may be a misreading of twiss (horace twiss, - , politician, buffoon, and mrs. siddons' nephew), who was quite a likely person to be lied about in joke at that time. here should come a note to allsop dated may , , changing an appointment: "i am as mad as the devil." given in the boston bibliophile edition.] letter charles lamb to s.t. coleridge [? june, .] my dear coleridge,--with pain and grief, i must entreat 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 get up miserable. i am not well enough for company. i do assure you, no other thing prevents my coming. i expect field 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 gillmans. 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. [this letter has previously been dated , but i think wrongly. lamb had no long illness then, and field was then in gibraltar, where he was chief-justice. lamb's long illness was in , when coleridge's thursday evenings at highgate were regular. coleridge's nephew may have been one of several. i fancy it was the rev. edward coleridge. henry nelson coleridge had already left, i think, for the west indies.] letter charles lamb to henry colburn (?) [dated at end: june (? ).] dear sir, i am quite ashamed, after your kind letter, of having expressed any disappointment about my remuneration. it is quite equivalent to the value of any thing i have yet sent you. i had twenty guineas a sheet from the london; and what i did for them was more worth that sum, than any thing, i am afraid, i can now produce, would be worth the lesser sum. i used up all my best thoughts in that publication, and i do not like to go on writing worse & worse, & feeling that i do so. i want to try something else. however, if any subject turns up, which i think will do your magazine no discredit, you shall have it at _your_ price, or something between _that_ and my old price. i prefer writing to seeing you just now, for after such a letter as i have received from you, in truth i am ashamed to see you. we will never mention the thing again. your obliged friend & serv't c. lamb. june . [in the absence of any wrapper i have assumed this note to be addressed to colburn, the publisher of the _new monthly magazine_. lamb's first contribution to that periodical was "the illustrious defunct" (see vol. i. of this edition) in january, . a year later he began the "popular fallacies," and continued regularly for some months.] letter charles lamb to s.t. coleridge [p.m. july , .] dear c.--we are going off to enfield, to allsop's, for a day or , with some intention of succeeding them in their lodging for a time, for this damn'd nervous fever (vide lond. mag. for july) indisposes me for seeing any friends, and never any poor devil was so befriended as i am. do you know any poor solitary human that wants that cordial to life a--true friend? i can spare him twenty, he shall have 'em good cheap. i have gallipots of 'em--genuine balm of cares--a going--a going--a going. little plagues plague me a times more than ever. i am like a disembodied soul--in this my eternity. i feel every thing entirely, all in all and all in etc. this price i pay for liberty, but am richly content to pay it. the odes are - ths done by hood, a silentish young man you met at islinton one day, an invalid. the rest are reynolds's, whose sister h. has recently married. i have not had a broken finger in them. they are hearty good-natured things, and i would put my name to 'em chearfully, if i could as honestly. i complimented them in a newspaper, with an abatement for those puns you laud so. they are generally an excess. a pun is a thing of too much consequence to be thrown in as a make-weight. you shall read one of the addresses over, and miss the puns, and it shall be quite as good and better than when you discover 'em. a pun is a noble thing per se: o never lug it in as an accessory. a pun is a sole object for reflection (vide _my_ aids to that recessment from a savage state)--it is entire, it fills the mind: it is perfect as a sonnet, better. it limps asham'd in the train and retinue of humour: it knows it should have an establishment of its own. the one, for instance, i made the other day, i forget what it was. hood will be gratify'd, as much as i am, by your mistake. i liked 'grimaldi' the best; it is true painting, of abstract clownery, and that precious concrete of a clown: and the rich succession of images, and words almost such, in the first half of the mag. ignotum. your picture of the camel, that would not or could not thread your nice needle-eye of subtilisms, was confirm'd by elton, who perfectly appreciated his abrupt departure. elton borrowed the "aids" from hessey (by the way what is your enigma about cupid? i am cytherea's son, if i understand a tittle of it), and returnd it next day saying that years ago, when he was pure, he _thought_ as you do now, but that he now thinks as you did years ago. but e. seems a very honest fellow. hood has just come in; his sick eyes sparkled into health when he read your approbation. they had meditated a copy for you, but postponed it till a neater d edition, which is at hand. have you heard _the creature_ at the opera house--signor non-vir sed veluti vir? like orpheus, he is said to draw storks &c, _after_ him. a picked raisin for a sweet banquet of sounds; but i affect not these exotics. nos durum genus, as mellifluous ovid hath it. fanny holcroft is just come in, with her paternal severity of aspect. she has frozen a bright thought which should have follow'd. she makes us marble, with too little conceiving. twas respecting the signor, whom i honour on this side idolatry. well, more of this anon. we are setting out to walk to enfield after our beans and bacon, which are just smoking. kindest remembrances to the g.'s ever. from islinton, d day, d month of my hegira or flight from leadenhall. c.l. olim clericus. ["to allsop's." allsop says in his _letters... of coleridge_ that he and the lambs were housemates for a long time. "vide lond. mag. for july"--where the _elia_ essay "the convalescent" was printed. "the odes"--_odes and addresses to great people, ._ coleridge after reading the book had written to lamb as follows (the letter is printed by hood):-- my dear charles,--this afternoon, a little, thin, mean-looking sort of a foolscap, sub-octavo of poems, printed on very dingy outsides, lay on the table, which the cover informed me was circulating in our book-club, so very grub-streetish in all its appearance, internal as well as external, that i cannot explain by what accident of impulse (assuredly there was no _motive_ in play) i came to look into it. least of all, the title, odes and addresses to great men, which connected itself in my head with rejected addresses, and all the smith and theodore hook squad. but, my dear charles, it was certainly written by you, or under you, or _una eum_ you. i know none of your frequent visitors capacious and assimilative enough of your converse to have reproduced you so honestly, supposing you had left yourself in pledge in his lock-up house. gillman, to whom i read the spirited parody on the introduction to peter bell, the ode to the great unknown, and to mrs. fry; he speaks doubtfully of reynolds and hood. but here come irving and basil montagu. _thursday night o'clock_.--no! charles, it is _you_. i have read them over again, and i understand why you have _anon'd_ the book. the puns are nine in ten good--many excellent --the newgatory transcendent. and then the _exemplum sine exemplo_ of a volume of personalities, and contemporaneities, without a single line that could inflict the infinitesimal of an unpleasance on any man in his senses: saving and except perhaps in the envy-addled brain of the despiser of your _lays_. if not a triumph over him, it is at least an _ovation_. then, moreover, and besides, to speak with becoming modesty, excepting my own self, who is there but you who can write the musical lines and stanzas that are intermixed? here, gillman, come up to my garret, and driven back by the guardian spirits of four huge flower-holders of omnigenous roses and honeysuckles--(lord have mercy on his hysterical olfactories! what will he do in paradise? i must have a pair or two of nostril-plugs, or nose-goggles laid in his coffin)--stands at the door, reading that to m'adam, and the washer-woman's letter, and he admits _the facts_. you are found _in the manner_, as the lawyers say! so, mr. charles! hang yourself up, and send me a line, by way of token and acknowledgment. my dear love to mary. god bless you and your unshamabramizer. s.t. coleridge. reynolds was john hamilton reynolds. according to a marked copy in the possession of mr. buxton forman, reynolds wrote only the odes to mr. m'adam, mr. dymoke, sylvanus urban, elliston and the dean and chapter of westminster. the newspaper in which lamb complimented the book was the _new times_, for april , . see vol. i. of the present edition for the review, where the remarks on puns are repeated. the "mag. ignotum" was the ode to the great unknown, the author of the scotch novels. in the same paper on january , , lamb had written an essay called "many friends" (see vol. i.) a little in the manner of this first paragraph. "your picture of the camel." probably the story of a caller told by coleridge to lamb in a letter. "your enigma about cupid." possibly referring to the following passage in the _aids to reflection_, , pages - :-- from the remote east turn to the mythology of minor asia, to the descendants of javan _who dwelt in the tents of shem, and possessed the isles_. here again, and in the usual form of an historic solution, we find the same _fact_, and as characteristic of the human _race_, stated in that earliest and most venerable mythus (or symbolic parable) of prometheus--that truly wonderful fable, in which the characters of the rebellious spirit and of the divine friend of mankind ([greek: theos philanthropos]) are united in the same person: and thus in the most striking manner noting the forced amalgamation of the patriarchal tradition with the incongruous scheme of pantheism. this and the connected tale of io, which is but the sequel of the prometheus, stand alone in the greek mythology, in which elsewhere both gods and men are mere powers and products of nature. and most noticeable it is, that soon after the promulgation and spread of the gospel had awakened the moral sense, and had opened the eyes even of its wiser enemies to the necessity of providing some solution of this great problem of the moral world, the beautiful parable of cupid and psyche was brought forward as a _rival_ fall of man: and the fact of a moral corruption connatural with the human race was again recognized. in the assertion of original sin the greek mythology rose and set. "have you heard _the creature?_"--giovanni battista velluti ( - ), an italian soprano singer who first appeared in england on june , , in meyerbeer's "il crociato in egitto." he received £ , for five months' salary.] letter charles lamb to bernard barton [p.m. july , .] my dear b.b.--my nervous attack has so unfitted me, that i have not courage to sit down to a letter. my poor pittance in the london you will see is drawn from my sickness. your book is very acceptable to me, because most of it [is] new to me, but your book itself we cannot thank you for more sincerely than for the introduction you favoured us with to anne knight. now cannot i write _mrs._ 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 rememb'ces to her, and how glad we are we can say that word. if ever she come to southwark again i count upon another 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. but i liked the dedicat'n much, and the apology for your bald burying grounds. to shelly, but _that_ is not new. to the young vesper-singer, great bealing's, 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 considerat'n that they are snatch'd 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. ["my poor pittance"-"the convalescent." "your book"-barton's _poems_, th edition, . the dedication was to barton's sister, maria hack. "anne knight." a quaker lady, who kept a school at woodbridge.] letter charles lamb to john aitken colebrooke cottage, islington, july , . dear sir,--with thanks for your last no. of the cabinet-- as i cannot arrange with a london publisher to reprint "rosamund gray" as a book, it will be at your service to admit into the cabinet as soon as you please. your h'ble serv't, ch's lamb. emma, eldest of your name, meekly trusting in her god midst the red-hot plough-shares trod, and unscorch'd preserved her fame. by that test if _you_ were tried, ugly names might be defied; though devouring fire's a glutton, through the trial you might go 'on the light fantastic toe,' nor for plough-shares care a button. [aitken was an edinburgh bookseller who edited _the cabinet; or, the selected beauties of literature_, , and . the particular interest of the letter is that it shows lamb to have wanted to publish _rosamund gray_ a third time in his life. hitherto we had only his statement that hessey said that the world would not bear it. aitken printed the story in _the cabinet_ for . previously he had printed "dream children" and "the inconveniences of being hanged." i have been told (but have had no opportunity of verifying the statement) that the buttons, for one of whom the appended acrostic was written, were cousins of the lambs. here should come an unpublished letter to miss kelly thanking her for tickets and saying that liston is to produce lamb's farce "the pawnbroker's daughter," which "will take." here should come a letter from lamb to hone, dated enfield, july , . lamb had written some quatrains to the editor of the _every-day book_, which were printed in the _london magazine_ for may, . hone copied them into his periodical, accompanied by a reply. lamb began:-- i like you, and your book, ingenuous hone! hone's reply contained the sentiment:-- i am "ingenuous": it is all i can pretend to; it is all i wish to be. see the _every-day book_, vol. i., july . hone at this time was occupying lamb's house at colebrooke row, while the lambs were staying at the allsops' lodgings at enfield. lamb again refers to "the pawnbroker's daughter." he says it is at the theatre now and harley is there too. this would be john pritt harley, the actor. the play, as it happened, was never acted. here should come three notes to thomas allsop in july and august, , one of which damns the afternoon sun. given in the boston bibliophile edition.] letter charles lamb to bernard barton [p.m. august , .] 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, where i do not feel it natural to sit down to a letter. it is at all times an exertion. i had rather talk with you, and ann knight, quietly at colebrook lodge, over the matter of your last. you mistake me when you express misgivings about my relishing a series of scriptural poems. i wrote confusedly. what i meant to say was, that one or two consolatory 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 seriously, the homely old version of the 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 addresses 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. omniscience, 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 falling 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 condemn'd before commission. in these things we grope and flounder, 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 bye), let us take it. and as to where an untried 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 induces 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 flounder. finally, write what your own conscience, which to you is the unerring judge, seems 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 hearts desire. taylor has dropt the london. 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 xtian with light and merry shoulders. it had got silly, indecorous, pert, and every thing that is bad. both our kind _remembrances_ to mrs. k. and yourself, and stranger's-greeting to lucy--is it lucy or ruth?--that gathers wise sayings in a book. c. lamb. [the london magazine passed into the hands of henry southern in september, . lamb's last article for it was in the august number--"imperfect dramatic illusion," reprinted in the _last essays of elia_ as "stage illusion."] letter charles lamb to robert southey august , . dear southey,--you'll know who this letter comes from by opening slap-dash upon the text, as in the good old times. i never could come into the custom of envelopes; 'tis a modern foppery; the plinian correspondence gives no hint of such. in singleness of sheet and meaning then i thank you for your little book. i am ashamed to add a codicil of thanks for your "book of the church." i scarce feel competent to give an opinion of the latter; i have not reading enough of that kind to venture at it. i can only say the fact, that i have read it with attention and interest. being, as you know, not quite a churchman, i felt a jealousy at the church taking to herself the whole deserts of christianity, catholic and protestant, from druid extirpation downwards. i call all good christians the church, capillarians and all. but i am in too light a humour to touch these matters. may all our churches flourish! two things staggered me in the poem (and one of them staggered both of us). i cannot away with a beautiful series of verses, as i protest they are, commencing "jenner." 'tis like a choice banquet opened with a pill or an electuary-- physic stuff. t'other is, we cannot make out how edith should be no more than ten years old. by'r lady, we had taken her to be some sixteen or upwards. we suppose you have only chosen the round number for the metre. or poem and dedication may be both older than they pretend to; but then some hint might have been given; for, as it stands, it may only serve some day to puzzle the parish reckoning. but without inquiring further (for 'tis ungracious to look into a lady's years), the dedication is eminently pleasing and tender, and we wish edith may southey joy of it. something, too, struck us as if we had heard of the death of john may. a john may's death was a few years since in the papers. we think the tale one of the quietest, prettiest things we have seen. you have been temperate in the use of localities, which generally spoil poems laid in exotic regions. you mostly cannot stir out (in such things) for humming-birds and fire-flies. a tree is a magnolia, &c.--can i but like the truly catholic spirit? "blame as thou mayest the papist's erring creed"--which and other passages brought me back to the old anthology days and the admonitory lesson to "dear george" on the "the vesper bell," a little poem which retains its first hold upon me strangely. the compliment to the translatress is daintily conceived. nothing is choicer in that sort of writing than to bring in some remote, impossible parallel,--as between a great empress and the inobtrusive quiet soul who digged her noiseless way so perseveringly through that rugged paraguay mine. how she dobrizhoffered it all out, it puzzles my slender latinity to conjecture. why do you seem to sanction lander's unfeeling allegorising away of honest quixote! he may as well say strap is meant to symbolise the scottish nation before the union, and random since that act of dubious issue; or that partridge means the mystical man, and lady bellaston typifies the woman upon many waters. gebir, indeed, may mean the state of the hop markets last month, for anything i know to the contrary. that all spain overflowed with romancical books (as madge newcastle calls them) was no reason that cervantes should not smile at the matter of them; nor even a reason that, in another mood, he might not multiply them, deeply as he was tinctured with the essence of them. quixote is the father of gentle ridicule, and at the same time the very depository and treasury of chivalry and highest notions. marry, when somebody persuaded cervantes that he meant only fun, and put him upon writing that unfortunate second part with the confederacies of that unworthy duke and most contemptible duchess, cervantes sacrificed his instinct to his understanding. we got your little book but last night, being at enfield, to which place we came about a month since, and are having quiet holydays. mary walks her twelve miles a day some days, and i my twenty on others. 'tis all holiday with me now, you know. the change works admirably. for literary news, in my poor way, i have a one-act farce going to be acted at the haymarket; but when? is the question. 'tis an extravaganza, and like enough to follow "mr. h." "the london magazine" has shifted its publishers once more, and i shall shift myself out of it. it is fallen. my ambition is not at present higher than to write nonsense for the playhouses, to eke out a somewhat contracted income. _tempus erat_. there was a time, my dear cornwallis, when the muse, &c. but i am now in macfleckno's predicament,-- "promised a play, and dwindled to a farce." coleridge is better (was, at least, a few weeks since) than he has been for years. his accomplishing his book at last has been a source of vigour to him. we are on a half visit to his friend allsop, at a mrs. leishman's, enfield, but expect to be at colebrooke cottage in a week or so, where, or anywhere, i shall be always most happy to receive tidings from you. g. dyer is in the height of an uxorious paradise. his honeymoon will not wane till he wax cold. never was a more happy pair, since acme and septimius, and longer. farewell, with many thanks, dear s. our loves to all round your wrekin. your old friend, c. lamb. [in the letter to barton of march , , lamb continues or amplifies his remarks on his own letter-writing habits. "capillarians." the _new english dictionary_ gives lamb's word in this connection as its sole example, meaning without stem. "the poem"--southey's _tale of paraguay_, , which begins with an address to jenner, the physiologist:-- jenner! for ever shall thy honour'd name, and is dedicated to edith may southey-- edith! ten years are number'd, since the day. edith southey was born in . the dedication was dated . john may was southey's friend and correspondent. it was not he that had died. "the vesper bell"--"the chapel bell," which was not in the _annual anthology_, but in southey's _poems_, . dear george would perhaps be burnett, who was at oxford with southey when the verses were written. "the compliment to the translatress." southey took his _tale of paraguay_ from dobrizhoffer's _history of the abipones_, which his niece, sara coleridge, had translated. southey remarks in the poem that could dobrizhoffer have foreseen by whom his words were to be turned into english, he would have been as pleased as when he won the ear of the empress queen. "landor's ... allegorising." landor, in the conversation between "peter leopold and the president du paty," makes president du paty say that cervantes had deeper purpose than the satirising of knight-errants, don quixote standing for the emperor charles v. and sancho panza symbolising the people. southey quoted the passage in the notes to the proem. lamb's _elia_ essay on the "defect of imagination" (see vol. ii.) amplifies this criticism of don quixote. "a one-act farce." this was, i imagine, "the pawnbroker's daughter," although that is in two acts. it was not, however, acted. george dyer had just been married to the widow of a solicitor who lived opposite him in clifford's inn. here should come three unimportant notes to hone with reference to the _every-day book_--adding an invitation to enfield to be shown "dainty spots."] letter charles lamb to thomas allsop [p.m. sept. , .] my dear allsop--we are exceedingly grieved for your loss. when your note came, my sister went to pall mall, to find you, and saw mrs. l. and was a little comforted to find mrs. a. had returned to enfield before the distresful event. i am very feeble, can scarce move a pen; got home from enfield on the friday, and on monday follow'g was laid up with a most violent nervous fever second this summer, have had leeches to my temples, have not had, nor can not get, a night's sleep. so you will excuse more from yours truly, c. lamb. islington, sept. our most kind rememb'ces to poor mrs. allsop. a line to say how you both are will be most acceptable. [allsop's loss was, i imagine, the death of one of his children.] letter charles lamb to thomas allsop [p.m. sept. , .] my dear allsop--come not near this unfortunate roof yet a while. my disease is clearly but slowly going. field is an excellent attendant. but mary's anxieties have overturned her. she has her old miss james with her, without whom i should not feel a support in the world. we keep in separate apartments, and must weather it. let me know all of your healths. kindest love to mrs. allsop. c. lamb. saturday. can you call at mrs. burney james street, and _tell her_, & that i can see no one here in this state. if martin return-- if well enough, i will meet him some where, _don't let him come_. [field was henry field, barren field's brother. here should come a note from lamb to hone, dated september , , in which lamb describes the unhappy state of the house at colebrooke row, with himself and his sister both ill. here also should come a similar note to william ayrton. "all this summer almost i have been ill. i have been laid up (the second nervous attack) now six weeks." on october lamb sends hone the first "bit of writing" he has done "these many weeks."] letter charles lamb to william hone [p.m. oct. , .] i send a scrap. is it worth postage? my friends are fairly surprised that you should set me down so unequivocally for an ass, as you have done, page . here he is what follows? the ass call you this friendship? mercy! what a dose you have sent me of burney!--a perfect _opening_* draught. *a pun here is intended. [this is written on the back of the ms. "in _re_ squirrels" for hone's _every-day book_ (see vol. i. of this edition). lamb's previous contribution had been "the ass" which hone had introduced with a few words.] letter charles lamb to thomas allsop [dec. , .] dear a.--you will be glad to hear that _we_ are at home to visitors; not too many or noisy. some fine day shortly mary will surprise mrs. allsop. the weather is not seasonable for formal engagements. yours _most ever_, c. lamb. satr'd. [here should come a note to manning at totteridge, signed charles and mary lamb, and dated december , . it indicates that both are well again, and hoping to see manning at colebrooke.] letter charles lamb to charles ollier [no date. ? dec., .] dear o.--i leave it _entirely to mr. colburn_; but if not too late, i think the proverbs had better have l. signd to them and reserve _elia_ for essays _more eliacal_. may i trouble you to send my magazine, not to norris, but h.c. robinson esq. king's bench walks, instead. yours truly c. lamb. my friend hood, a prime genius and hearty fellow, brings this. [lamb's "popular fallacies" began in the _new monthly magazine_ in january, . henry colburn was the publisher of that magazine, which had now obtained lamb's regular services. the nominal editor was campbell, the poet, who was assisted by cyrus redding. ollier seems to have been a sub-editor.] letter charles lamb to charles ollier colebrook cottage, colebrook row, tuesday [early ]. dear ollier,--i send you two more proverbs, which will be the last of this batch, unless i send you one more by the post on thursday; none will come after that day; so do not leave any open room in that case. hood sups with me to-night. can you come and eat grouse? 'tis not often i offer at delicacies. yours most kindly, c. lamb. letter charles lamb to charles ollier january, . dear o.,--we lamented your absence last night. the grouse were piquant, the backs incomparable. you must come in to cold mutton and oysters some evening. name your evening; though i have qualms at the distance. do you never leave early? my head is very queerish, and indisposed for much company; but we will get hood, that half hogarth, to meet you. the scrap i send should come in after the "rising with the lark." yours truly. colburn, i take it, pays postages. [the scrap was the fallacy "that we should lie down with the lamb," which has perhaps the rarest quality of the series. here perhaps should come two further notes to ollier, referring to some articles on chinese jests by manning. here should come a letter to mr. hudson dated february , , recommending a nurse for a mental case. given in the boston bibliophile edition.] letter charles lamb to bernard barton [p.m. february , .] my kind remembrances to your daughter and a.k. always. dear b.b.--i got your book not more than five days ago, so am not so negligent as i must have appeared to you with a fortnight's sin upon my shoulders. i tell you with sincerity that i think you have completely succeeded in what you intended to do. what is poetry may be disputed. these are poetry to me at least. they are concise, pithy, and moving. uniform as they are, and unhistorify'd, i read them thro' at two sittings without one sensation approaching to tedium. i do not know that among your many kind presents of this nature this is not my favourite volume. the language is never lax, and there is a unity of design and feeling, you wrote them _with love_--to avoid the cox-_combical_ phrase, con amore. i am particularly pleased with the "spiritual law," page - . it reminded me of quarles, and holy mr. herbert, as izaak walton calls him: the two best, if not only, of our devotional poets, tho' some prefer watts, and some _tom moore_. i am far from well or in my right spirits, and shudder at pen and ink work. i poke out a monthly crudity for colburn in his magazine, which i call "popular fallacies," and periodically crush a proverb or two, setting up my folly against the wisdom of nations. do you see the "new monthly"? one word i must object to in your little book, and it recurs more than once--fadeless is no genuine compound; loveless is, because love is a noun as well as verb, but what is a fade?--and i do not quite like whipping the greek drama upon the back of "genesis," page . i do not like praise handed in by disparagement: as i objected to a side censure on byron, etc., in the lines on bloomfield: with these poor cavils excepted, your verses are without a flaw. c. lamb. [barton's new book was _devotional verses: founded on, and illustrative of select texts of scripture_, . see the appendix for "the spiritual law." "holy mr. herbert." writing to lady beaumont in coleridge says: "my dear old friend charles lamb and i differ widely (and in point of taste and moral feeling this is a rare occurrence) in our estimate and liking of george herbert's sacred poems. he greatly prefers quarles--nay, he dislikes herbert." barton whipped the greek drama on the back of genesis in the following stanza, referring to abraham's words before preparing to sacrifice isaac:-- brief colloquy, yet more sublime, to every feeling heart, than all the boast of classic time, or drama's proudest art: far, far beyond the grecian stage, or poesy's most glowing page. for lamb's reference to byron, see above.] letter charles lamb to charles ollier [p.m. march , .] d'r ollier if not too late, pray omit the last paragraph in "actor's religion," which is clumsy. it will then end with the word mugletonian. i shall not often trouble you in this manner, but i am suspicious of this article as lame. c. lamb. ["the religion of actors" was printed in the _new monthly magazine_ for april, . the essay ends at "muggletonian." see vol. i. of this edition.] letter charles lamb to bernard barton [p.m. march , .] dear b.b.--you may know my letters by the paper and the folding. for the former, i live on scraps obtained in charity from an old friend whose stationary is a permanent perquisite; for folding, i shall do it neatly when i learn to tye my neckcloths. i surprise most of my friends by writing to them on ruled paper, as if i had not got past pothooks and hangers. sealing wax, i have none on my establishment. wafers of the coarsest bran supply its place. when my epistles come to be weighed with pliny's, however superior to the roman in delicate irony, judicious reflexions, etc., his gilt post will bribe over the judges to him. all the time i was at the e.i.h. i never mended a pen; i now cut 'em to the stumps, marring rather than mending the primitive goose quill. i cannot bear to pay for articles i used to get for nothing. when adam laid out his first penny upon nonpareils at some stall in mesopotamos, i think it went hard with him, reflecting upon his old goodly orchard, where he had so many for nothing. when i write to a great man, at the court end, he opens with surprise upon a naked note, such as whitechapel people interchange, with no sweet degrees of envelope: i never inclosed one bit of paper in another, nor understand the rationale of it. once only i seald with borrow'd wax, to set walter scott a wondering, sign'd with the imperial quarterd arms of england, which my friend field gives in compliment to his descent in the female line from o. cromwell. it must have set his antiquarian curiosity upon watering. to your questions upon the currency, i refer you to mr. robinson's last speech, where, if you can find a solution, i cannot. i think this tho' the best ministry we ever stumbled upon. gin reduced four shillings in the gallon, wine shillings in the quart. this comes home to men's minds and bosoms. my tirade against visitors was not meant _particularly_ at you or a.k. i scarce know what i meant, for i do not just now feel the grievance. i wanted to make an _article_. so in another thing i talkd of somebody's _insipid wife_, without a correspondent object in my head: and a good lady, a friend's wife, whom i really _love_ (don't startle, i mean in a licit way) has looked shyly on me ever since. the blunders of personal application are ludicrous. i send out a character every now and then, on purpose to exercise the ingenuity of my friends. "popular fallacies" will go on; that word concluded is an erratum, i suppose, for continued. i do not know how it got stuff'd in there. a little thing without name will also be printed on the religion of the actors, but it is out of your way, so i recommend you, with true author's hypocrisy, to skip it. we are about to sit down to roast beef, at which we could wish a.k., b.b., and b.b.'s pleasant daughter to be humble partakers. so much for my hint at visitors, which was scarcely calculated for droppers in from woodbridge. the sky does not drop such larks every day. my very kindest wishes to you all three, with my sister's best love. c. lamb. ["mr. robinson's last speech." frederick john robinson, afterwards earl of ripon, then chancellor of the exchequer under the earl of liverpool. the government had decided to check the use of paper-money by stopping the issue of notes for less than £ ; and robinson had made a speech on the subject on february . the motion was carried, but to some extent was compromised. it was robinson who, as chancellor of the exchequer, found the money for building the new british museum and purchasing angerstein's pictures as the beginning of the national gallery. "my tirade against visitors"--the popular fallacy "that home is home," in the _new monthly magazine_ for march. "somebody's insipid wife." in the popular fallacy "that you must love me and love my dog," in the february number, lamb had spoken of honorius' "vapid wife." barton and his daughter visited lamb at colebrooke cottage somewhen about this time. mrs. fitzgerald, in , wrote out for me her recollections of the day. lamb, who was alone, opened the door himself. he sent out for a luncheon of oysters. the books on his shelves, mrs. fitzgerald remembered, retained the price-labels of the stalls where he had bought them. she also remembered a portrait over the fireplace. this would be the milton. in the _gem_ for was a poem by barton, "to milton's portrait in a friend's parlour."] letter charles lamb to s.t. coleridge march nd, . dear c.,--we will with great pleasure be with you on thursday in the next week early. your finding out my style in your nephew's pleasant book is surprising to me. i want eyes to descry it. you are a little too hard upon his morality, though i confess he has more of sterne about him than of sternhold. but he saddens into excellent sense before the conclusion. your query shall be submitted to miss kelly, though it is obvious that the pantomime, when done, will be more easy to decide upon than in proposal. i say, do it by all means. i have decker's play by me, if you can filch anything out of it. miss gray, with her kitten eyes, is an actress, though she shows it not at all, and pupil to the former, whose gestures she mimics in comedy to the disparagement of her own natural manner, which is agreeable. it is funny to see her bridling up her neck, which is native to f.k.; but there is no setting another's manners upon one's shoulders any more than their head. i am glad you esteem manning, though you see but his husk or shrine. he discloses not, save to select worshippers, and will leave the world without any one hardly but me knowing how stupendous a creature he is. i am perfecting myself in the "ode to eton college" against thursday, that i may not appear unclassic. i have just discovered that it is much better than the "elegy." in haste, c.l. p.s.--i do not know what to say to your _latest_ theory about nero being the messiah, though by all accounts he was a 'nointed one. ["next week early." canon ainger's text here has: "may we venture to bring emma with us?" "your nephew's pleasant book"--henry nelson coleridge's _six months in the west indies in _. in the last chapter but one of the book is an account of the slave question, under the title "planters and slaves." "sternhold"--thomas sternhold, the coadjutor of hopkins in paraphrasing the psalms. "the pantomime." coleridge seems to have had some project for modernising dekker for fanny kelly. mr. dykes campbell suggested that the play to be treated was "old fortunatus." "miss gray." i have found nothing of this lady. "manning." writing to robert lloyd twenty-five years earlier lamb had said of manning: "a man of great power--an enchanter almost.--far beyond coleridge or any man in power of impressing --when he gets you alone he can act the wonders of egypt. only he is lazy, and does not always put forth all his strength; if he did, i know no man of genius at all comparable to him." "against thursday." coleridge was "at home" on thursday evenings. possibly on this occasion some one interested in gray was to be there, or the allusion may be a punning one to miss gray. "your _latest_ theory." i cannot explain this.] letter charles lamb to h.f. cary april , . dear sir,--it is whispered me that you will not be unwilling to look into our doleful hermitage. without more preface, you will gladden our cell by accompanying our old chums of the london, darley and allan cunningham, to enfield on wednesday. you shall have hermit's fare, with talk as seraphical as the novelty of the divine life will permit, with an innocent retrospect to the world which we have left, when i will thank you for your hospitable offer at chiswick, and with plain hermit reasons evince the necessity of abiding here. without hearing from you, then, you shall give us leave to expect you. i have long had it on my conscience to invite you, but spirits have been low; and i am indebted to chance for this awkward but most sincere invitation. yours, with best love to mrs. cary, c. lamb. darley knows all about the coaches. oh, for a museum in the wilderness! [cary, who had been afternoon lecturer at chiswick and curate of the savoy, this year took up his post as assistant keeper of the printed books at the british museum. george darley, who wrote some notes to gary's _dante_, we have met. allan cunningham was the scotch poet and the author of the lives of the painters, the "giant" of the _london magazine_. the lambs seem to have been spending some days at enfield. here should come a note from lamb to ollier asking for a copy of the april _new monthly magazine_ for himself, and one for his chinese friend (manning) if his jests are in.] letter charles lamb to vincent novello [p.m. may , .] dear n. you will not expect us to-morrow, i am sure, while these damn'd north easters continue. we must wait the zephyrs' pleasures. by the bye, i was at highgate on wensday, the only one of the party. yours truly c. lamb. _summer_, as my friend coleridge waggishly writes, has set in with its usual severity. kind rememb'ces to mrs. novello &c. letter charles lamb to bernard barton [p.m. may , .] dear b.b.--i have had no spirits lately to begin a letter to you, though i am under obligations to you (how many!) for your neat little poem, 'tis just what it professes to be, a simple tribute in chaste verse, serious and sincere. i do not know how friends will relish it, but we out-lyers, honorary friends, like it very well. i have had my head and ears stuff'd up with the east winds. a continual ringing in my brain of bells jangled, or the spheres touchd by some raw angel. it is not george trying the th psalm? i get my music for nothing. but the weather seems to be softening, and will thaw my stunnings. coleridge writing to me a week or two since begins his note--"summer has set in with its usual severity." a cold summer is all i know of disagreeable in cold. i do not mind the utmost rigour of real winter, but these smiling hypocrites of mays wither me to death. my head has been a ringing chaos, like the day the winds were made, before they submitted to the discipline of a weather-cock, before the quarters were made. in the street, with the blended noises of life about me, i hear, and my head is lightened, but in a room the hubbub comes back, and i am deaf as a sinner. did i tell you of a pleasant sketch hood has done, which he calls _very deaf indeed_? it is of a good naturd stupid looking old gentleman, whom a footpad has stopt, but for his extreme deafness cannot make him understand what he wants; the unconscious old gentleman is extending his ear-trumpet very complacently, and the fellow is firing a pistol into it to make him hear, but the ball will pierce his skull sooner than the report reach his sensorium. i chuse a very little bit of paper, for my ear hisses when i bend down to write. i can hardly read a book, for i miss that small soft voice which the idea of articulated words raises (almost imperceptibly to you) in a silent reader. i seem too deaf to see what i read. but with a touch or two of returning zephyr my head will melt. what lyes you poets tell about the may! it is the most ungenial part of the year, cold crocuses, cold primroses, you take your blossoms in ice --a painted sun-- unmeaning joy around appears, and nature smiles as if she sneers. it is ill with me when i begin to look which way the wind sits. ten years ago i literally did not know the point from the broad end of the vane, which it was the [?that] indicated the quarter. i hope these ill winds have blowd _over_ you, as they do thro' me. kindest rememb'ces to you and yours. c.l. ["your neat little poem." it is not possible to trace this poem. probably, i think, the "stanzas written for a blank leaf in sewell's history of the quakers," printed in _a widow's tale_, . "george ." byron's "vision of judgment" thus closes:-- king george slipp'd into heaven for one; and when the tumult dwindled to a calm, i left him practising the hundredth psalm. this is hood's sketch, in his _whims and oddities_:-- [illustration: "very deaf indeed."] "unmeaning joy around appears..." i have not found this.] letter charles lamb to s.t. coleridge june st, . dear coleridge,--if i know myself, nobody more detests the display of personal vanity which is implied in the act of sitting for one's picture than myself. but the fact is, that the likeness which accompanies this letter was stolen from my person at one of my unguarded moments by some too partial artist, and my friends are pleased to think that he has not much flattered me. whatever its merits may be, you, who have so great an interest in the original, will have a satisfaction in tracing the features of one that has so long esteemed you. there are times when in a friend's absence these graphic representations of him almost seem to bring back the man himself. the painter, whoever he was, seems to have taken me in one of those disengaged moments, if i may so term them, when the native character is so much more honestly displayed than can be possible in the restraints of an enforced sitting attitude. perhaps it rather describes me as a thinking man than a man in the act of thought. whatever its pretensions, i know it will be dear to you, towards whom i should wish my thoughts to flow in a sort of an undress rather than in the more studied graces of diction. i am, dear coleridge, yours sincerely, c. lamb. [the portrait to which lamb refers will be found opposite page in my large edition. it was etched by brook pulham of the india house. it was this picture which so enraged procter when he saw it in a printshop (probably that referred to by lamb in a later letter) that he reprimanded the dealer. here should come a charming letter to louisa holcroft dated june, offering her a room at enfield "pretty cheap, only two smiles a week."] letter charles lamb to john bates dibdin friday, someday in june, . [p.m. june , .] dear d.--my first impulse upon opening your letter was pleasure at seeing your old neat hand, nine parts gentlemanly, with a modest dash of the clerical: my second a thought, natural enough this hot weather, am i to answer all this? why 'tis as long as those to the ephesians and galatians put together--i have counted the words for curiosity. but then paul has nothing like the fun which is ebullient all over yours. i don't remember a good thing (good like yours) from the st romans to the last of the hebrews. i remember but one pun in all the evangely, and that was made by his and our master: thou art peter (that is doctor rock) and upon this rock will i build &c.; which sanctifies punning with me against all gainsayers. i never knew an enemy to puns, who was not an ill-natured man. your fair critic in the coach reminds me of a scotchman who assured me that he did not see much in shakspeare. i replied, i dare say _not_. he felt the equivoke, lookd awkward, and reddish, but soon returnd to the attack, by saying that he thought burns was as good as shakspeare: i said that i had no doubt he was--to a _scotchman_. we exchangd no more words that day.--your account of the fierce faces in the hanging, with the presumed interlocution of the eagle and the tyger, amused us greatly. you cannot be so very bad, while you can pick mirth off from rotten walls. but let me hear you have escaped out of your oven. may the form of the fourth person who clapt invisible wet blankets about the shoulders of shadrach meshach and abednego, be with you in the fiery trial. but get out of the frying pan. your business, i take it, is bathing, not baking. let me hear that you have clamber'd up to lover's seat; it is as fine in that neighbourhood as juan fernandez, as lonely too, when the fishing boats are not out; i have sat for hours, staring upon a shipless sea. the salt sea is never so grand as when it is left to itself. one cock-boat spoils it. a sea-mew or two improves it. and go to the little church, which is a very protestant loretto, and seems dropt by some angel for the use of a hermit, who was at once parishioner and a whole parish. it is not too big. go in the night, bring it away in your portmanteau, and i will plant it in my garden. it must have been erected in the very infancy of british christianity, for the two or three first converts; yet hath it all the appertenances of a church of the first magnitude, its pulpit, its pews, its baptismal font; a cathedral in a nutshell. seven people would crowd it like a caledonian chapel. the minister that divides the word there, must give lumping penny-worths. it is built to the text of two or three assembled in my name. it reminds me of the grain of mustard seed. if the glebe land is proportionate, it may yield two potatoes. tythes out of it could be no more split than a hair. its first fruits must be its last, for 'twould never produce a couple. it is truly the strait and narrow way, and few there be (of london visitants) that find it. the still small voice is surely to be found there, if any where. a sounding board is merely there for ceremony. it is secure from earthquakes, not more from sanctity than size, for 'twould feel a mountain thrown upon it no more than a taper-worm would. go and see, but not without your spectacles. by the way, there's a capital farm house two thirds of the way to the lover's seat, with incomparable plum cake, ginger beer, etc. mary bids me warn you not to read the anatomy of melancholy in your present _low way_. you'll fancy yourself a pipkin, or a headless bear, as burton speaks of. you'll be lost in a maze of remedies for a labyrinth of diseasements, a plethora of cures. read fletcher; above all the spanish curate, the thief or little nightwalker, the wit without money, and the lover's pilgrimage. laugh and come home fat. neither do we think sir t. browne quite the thing for you just at present. fletcher is as light as soda water. browne and burton are too strong potions for an invalid. and don't thumb or dirt the books. take care of the bindings. lay a leaf of silver paper under 'em, as you read them. and don't smoke tobacco over 'em, the leaves will fall in and burn or dirty their namesakes. if you find any dusty atoms of the indian weed crumbled up in the beaum't and fletcher, they are _mine_. but then, you know, so is the folio also. a pipe and a comedy of fletcher's the last thing of a night is the best recipe for light dreams and to scatter away nightmares. probatum est. but do as you like about the former. only cut the baker's. you will come home else all crust; rankings must chip you before you can appear in his counting house. and my dear peter fin junr., do contrive to see the sea at least once before you return. you'll be ask'd about it in the old jewry. it will appear singular not to have seen it. and rub up your muse, the family muse, and send us a rhyme or so. don't waste your wit upon that damn'd dry salter. i never knew but one dry salter, who could relish those mellow effusions, and he broke. you knew tommy hill, the wettest of dry salters. dry salters, what a word for this thirsty weather! i must drink after it. here's to thee, my dear dibdin, and to our having you again snug and well at colebrooke. but our nearest hopes are to hear again from you shortly. an epistle only a quarter as agreeable as your last, would be a treat. yours most truly c. lamb timothy b. dibdin, esq., no. , blucher row, priory, hastings. [dibdin, who was in delicate health, had gone to hastings to recruit, with a parcel of lamb's books for company. he seems to have been lodged above the oven at a baker's. this letter contains lamb's crowning description of hollingdon rural church. "a caledonian chapel." referring to the crowds that listened to irving. "peter fin." a character in jones' "peter finn's trip to brighton," , as played by liston. "tommy hill." in the british museum is preserved the following brief note addressed to mr. thomas hill--probably the same. the date is between and :--] letter charles lamb to thomas hill d'r sir it is necessary _i see you sign_, can you step up to me inner temple lane this evening. i shall wait at home. yours, c. lamb. [i have no notion to what the note refers. it is quite likely, mr. j.a. rutter suggests, that hill the drysalter, a famous busy-body, and a friend of theodore hook, stood for the portrait of tom pry in lamb's "lepus papers" (see vol. i.). s.c. hall, in his _book of memories_, says of hill that "his peculiar faculty was to find out what everybody did, from a minister of state to a stableboy."] letter charles lamb to john bates dibdin [p.m. july , .] because you boast poetic grandsire, and rhyming kin, both uncle and sire, dost think that none but _their_ descendings can tickle folks with double endings? i had a dad, that would for half a bet have put down thine thro' half the alphabet. thou, who would be dan prior the second, for dan posterior must be reckon'd. in faith, dear tim, your rhymes are slovenly, as a man may say, dough-baked and ovenly; tedious and long as two long acres, and smell most vilely of the baker's. (i have been cursing every limb o' thee, because i could not hitch in _timothy_. jack, will, tom, dick's, a serious evil, but tim, plain tim's--the very devil.) thou most incorrigible scribbler, right watering place and cockney dribbler, what _child_, that barely understands _a, b, c_, would ever dream that stanza would tinkle into rhyme with "plan, sir"? go, go, you are not worth an answer. i had a sire, that at plain crambo had hit you o'er the pate a damn'd blow. how now? may i die game, and you die brass, but i have stol'n a quip from hudibras. 'twas thinking on that fine old suttler, } that was in faith a second butler; } mad as queer rhymes as he, and subtler. } he would have put you to 't this weather for rattling syllables together; rhym'd you to death, like "rats in ireland," except that he was born in high'r land. his chimes, not crampt like thine, and rung ill, had made job split his sides on dunghill. there was no limit to his merryings at christ'nings, weddings, nay at buryings. no undertaker would live near him, those grave practitioners did fear him; mutes, at his merry mops, turned "vocal." and fellows, hired for silence, "spoke all." no _body_ could be laid in cavity, long as he lived, with proper gravity. his mirth-fraught eye had but to glitter, and every mourner round must titter. the parson, prating of mount hermon, stood still to laugh, in midst of sermon. the final sexton (smile he _must_ for him) could hardly get to "dust to dust" for him. he lost three pall-bearers their livelyhood, only with simp'ring at his lively mood: provided that they fresh and neat came, all jests were fish that to his net came. he'd banter apostolic castings, as you jeer fishermen at hastings. when the fly bit, _like me_, he leapt-o'er-all, and stood not much on what was scriptural. p.s. i had forgot, at small bohemia (enquire the way of your maid euphemia) are sojourning, of all good fellows the prince and princess,--the _novellos_-- pray seek 'em out, and give my love to 'em; you'll find you'll soon be hand and glove to 'em. in prose, little bohemia, about a mile from hastings in the hollington road, when you can get so far. dear dib, i find relief in a word or two of prose. in truth my rhymes come slow. you have "routh of 'em." it gives us pleasure to find you keep your good spirits. your letter did us good. pray heaven you are got out at last. write quickly. this letter will introduce you, if 'tis agreeable. take a donkey. 'tis novello the composer and his wife, our very good friends. c.l. [dibdin must have sent the verses which lamb asked for in the previous letter, and this is lamb's reply. pride of ancestry seems to have been the note of dibdin's effort. probably there is a certain amount of truth in lamb's account of the resolute merriment of his father. it is not inconsistent with his description of lovel in the _elia_ essay "the old benchers of the inner temple." "i have stol'n a quip." the manner rather than the precise matter, i think. here should come a letter from lamb to the rev. edward coleridge, coleridge's nephew, dated july , . it thanks the recipient for his kindness to the child of a friend of lamb's, samuel anthony bloxam, coleridge having assisted in getting frederick bloxam into eton (where he was a master) on the foundation. samuel bloxam and lamb were at christ's hospital together.] letter charles lamb to william wordsworth [p.m. september , .] my dear wordsworth, the bearer of this is my young friend moxon, a young lad with a yorkshire head, and a heart that would do honour to a more southern county: no offence to westmoreland. he is one of longman's best hands, and can give you the best account of the trade as 'tis now going; or stopping. for my part, the failure of a bookseller is not the most unpalatable accident of mortality: sad but not saddest the desolation of a hostile city. when constable fell from heaven, and we all hoped baldwin was next, i tuned a slight stave to the words in macbeth (d'avenant's) to be sung by a chorus of authors, what should we do when booksellers break? we should rejoyce. moxon is but a tradesman in the bud yet, and retains his virgin honesty; esto perpetua, for he is a friendly serviceable fellow, and thinks nothing of lugging up a cargo of the newest novels once or twice a week from the row to colebrooke to gratify my sister's passion for the newest things. he is her bodley. he is author besides of a poem which for a first attempt is promising. it is made up of common images, and yet contrives to read originally. you see the writer felt all he pours forth, and has not palmed upon you expressions which he did not believe at the time to be more his own than adoptive. rogers has paid him some proper compliments, with sound advice intermixed, upon a slight introduction of him by me; for which i feel obliged. moxon has petition'd me by letter (for he had not the confidence to ask it in london) to introduce him to you during his holydays; pray pat him on the head, ask him a civil question or two about his verses, and favor him with your genuine autograph. he shall not be further troublesome. i think i have not sent any one upon a gaping mission to you a good while. we are all well, and i have at last broke the bonds of business a second time, never to put 'em on again. i pitch colburn and his magazine to the divil. i find i can live without the necessity of writing, tho' last year i fretted myself to a fever with the hauntings of being starved. those vapours are flown. all the difference i find is that i have no pocket money: that is, i must not pry upon an old book stall, and cull its contents as heretofore, but shoulders of mutton, whitbread's entire, and booth's best, abound as formerly. i don't know whom or how many to send our love to, your household is so frequently divided, but a general health to all that may be fixed or wandering; stars, wherever. we read with pleasure some success (i forget quite what) of one of you at oxford. mrs. monkhouse (... was one of you) sent us a kind letter some [months back], and we had the pleasure to [see] her in tolerable spirits, looking well and kind as in by-gone days. do take pen, or put it into goodnatured hands dorothean or wordsworthian-female, or hutchinsonian, to inform us of your present state, or possible proceedings. i am ashamed that this breaking of the long ice should be a letter of business. there is none circum praecordia nostra i swear by the honesty of pedantry, that wil i nil i pushes me upon scraps of latin. we are yours cordially: chas. & mary lamb. september. . [in this letter, the first to wordsworth for many months, we have the first mention of edward moxon, who was to be so closely associated with lamb in the years to come. moxon, a young yorkshireman, educated at the green coat school, was then nearly twenty-five, and was already author of _the prospect and other poems_, dedicated to rogers, who was destined to be a valuable patron. moxon subsequently became wordsworth's publisher. "constable ... baldwin." archibald constable & co., scott's publishers, failed in . baldwin was the first publisher of the _london magazine_. "i pitch colburn and his magazine." lamb wrote nothing in the _new monthly magazine_ after september, . i append portions of what seems to be lamb's first letter to edward moxon, obviously written before this date, but not out of place here. the letter seems to have accompanied the proof of an article on lamb which he had corrected and was returning to moxon.] letter charles lamb to edward moxon (_fragment_) were my own feelings consulted i should print it verbatim, but i won't hoax you, else i love a lye. my biography, parentage, place of birth, is a strange mistake, part founded on some nonsense i wrote about elia, and was true of him, the real elia, whose name i took.... c.l. was born in crown office row, inner temple in . admitted into christs hospital, , where he was contemporary with t.f.m. [thomas fanshawe middleton], afterwards bishop of calcutta, and with s.t.c. with the last of these two eminent scholars he has enjoyed an intimacy through life. on quitting this foundation he became a junior clerk in the south sea house under his elder brother who died accountant there some years since.... i am not the author of the opium eater, &c. [i have not succeeded in finding the article in question.] letter charles lamb to john bates dibdin [p.m. september , .] an answer is requested. saturday. dear d.--i have observed that a letter is never more acceptable than when received upon a rainy day, especially a rainy sunday; which moves me to send you somewhat, however short. this will find you sitting after breakfast, which you will have prolonged as far as you can with consistency to the poor handmaid that has the reversion of the tea leaves; making two nibbles of your last morsel of _stale_ roll (you cannot have hot new ones on the sabbath), and reluctantly coming to an end, because when that is done, what can you do till dinner? you cannot go to the beach, for the rain is drowning the sea, turning rank thetis fresh, taking the brine out of neptune's pickles, while mermaids sit upon rocks with umbrellas, their ivory combs sheathed for spoiling in the wet of waters foreign to them. you cannot go to the library, for it's shut. you are not religious enough to go to church. o it is worth while to cultivate piety to the gods, to have something to fill the heart up on a wet sunday! you cannot cast accounts, for your ledger is being eaten up with moths in the ancient jewry. you cannot play at draughts, for there is none to play with you, and besides there is not a draught board in the house. you cannot go to market, for it closed last night. you cannot look in to the shops, their backs are shut upon you. you cannot read the bible, for it is not good reading for the sick and the hypochondriacal. you cannot while away an hour with a friend, for you have no friend round that wrekin. you cannot divert yourself with a stray acquaintance, for you have picked none up. you cannot bear the chiming of bells, for they invite you to a banquet, where you are no visitant. you cannot cheer yourself with the prospect of a tomorrow's letter, for none come on mondays. you cannot count those endless vials on the mantlepiece with any hope of making a variation in their numbers. you have counted your spiders: your bastile is exhausted. you sit and deliberately curse your hard exile from all familiar sights and sounds. old ranking poking in his head unexpectedly would just now be as good to you as grimaldi. any thing to deliver you from this intolerable weight of ennui. you are too ill to shake it off: not ill enough to submit to it, and to lie down as a lamb under it. the tyranny of sickness is nothing to the cruelty of convalescence: 'tis to have thirty tyrants for one. that pattering rain drops on your brain. you'll be worse after dinner, for you must dine at one to-day, that betty may go to afternoon service. she insists upon having her chopped hay. and then when she goes out, who _was_ something to you, something to speak to--what an interminable afternoon you'll have to go thro'. you can't break yourself from your locality: you cannot say "tomorrow morning i set off for banstead, by god": for you are book'd for wednesday. foreseeing this, i thought a _cheerful letter_ would come in opportunely. if any of the little topics for mirth i have thought upon should serve you in this utter extinguishment of sunshine, to make you a little merry, i shall have had my ends. i love to make things comfortable. [_here is an erasure._] this, which is scratch'd out was the most material thing i had to say, but on maturer thoughts i defer it. p.s.--we are just sitting down to dinner with a pleasant party, coleridge, reynolds the dramatist, and sam bloxam: to-morrow (that is, to_day_), liston, and wyat of the wells, dine with us. may this find you as jolly and freakish as we mean to be. c. lamb. [addressed to "t. dibdin esq're. no. meadow cottages, hastings, sussex." "you have counted your spiders." referring, i suppose, to paul pellisson-fontanier, the academician, and a famous prisoner in the bastille, who trained a spider to eat flies from his hand. "grimaldi"--joseph grimaldi, the clown. ranking was one of dibdin's employers. "a pleasant party." reynolds, the dramatist, would be frederic reynolds ( - ); bloxam we have just met; and wyat of the wells was a comic singer and utility actor at sadler's wells. canon ainger remarks that as a matter of fact dibdin was a religious youth.] letter charles lamb to bernard barton [p.m. september , .] dear b.b.--i don't know why i have delay'd so long writing. 'twas a fault. the under current of excuse 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 (which accounts for its delay) but was daily expectated. days are past, and it comes not, and the mermaids may be drinking their tea out of his china for ought i know; but let's hope not. in the meantime i have paid £ , etc., for the freight and prime cost, (which i a little expected he would have settled in london.) but do not mention it. i was enabled to do it by a receipt of £ from colburn, with whom however i have done. i should else have run short. for i just make ends meet. we will wait the arrival of the trinkets, and to ascertain their full expence, and then bring in the bill. (don't mention it, for i daresay 'twas mere thoughtlessness.) i am sorry you and yours have any plagues about dross matters. i have been sadly puzzled at the defalcation of more than one third of my income, out of which when entire i saved nothing. but cropping off wine, old books, &c. and in short all that can be call'd pocket money, i hope to be able to go on at the cottage. remember, i beg you not to say anything to mitford, for if he be honest it will vex him: if not, which i as little expect as that you should [not] be, i have a hank still upon the jars. colburn had something of mine in last month, which he has had in hand these months, and had lost, or cou'dnt find room for: i was used to different treatment in the london, and have forsworn periodicals. i am going thro' a course of reading at the museum: the garrick plays, out of part of which i formed my specimens: i have two thousand to go thro'; and in a few weeks have despatch'd the tythe of 'em. it is a sort of office to me; hours, to , the same. it does me good. man must have regular occupation, that has been used to it. so a.k. keeps a school! she teaches nothing wrong, i'll answer for't. i have a dutch print of a schoolmistress; little old-fashioned fleminglings, with only one face among them. she a princess of schoolmistress, wielding a rod for form more than use; the scene an old monastic chapel, with a madonna over her head, looking just as serious, as thoughtful, as pure, as gentle, as herself. tis a type of thy friend. will you pardon my neglect? mind, again i say, don't shew this to m.; let me wait a little longer to know the event of his luxuries. (i am sure he is a good fellow, tho' i made a serious yorkshire lad, who met him, stare when i said he was a clergyman. he is a pleasant layman spoiled.) heaven send him his jars uncrack'd, and me my---- yours with kindest wishes to your daughter and friend, in which mary joins c.l. ["i saved nothing." lamb, however, according to procter, left £ at his death eight years later. he must have saved £ a year from his pension of £ , living at the rate of £ per annum, plus small earnings, for the rest of his life, and investing the £ at per cent, compound interest. "colburn had something of mine." the popular fallacy "that a deformed person is a lord," not included by lamb with the others when he reprinted them. printed in vol. i. of this edition. "reading at the museum." lamb had begun to visit the museum every day to collect extracts from the garrick plays for hone's _table book_, . "a.k."--anne knight again. the pleasant yorkshire lad whom mitford's secular air surprised was probably moxon. here might come a business letter, from lamb to barton, preserved in the british museum, relating to mitford's jars.] letter charles lamb to edward moxon [no date. ? sept., .] i have had much trouble to find field to-day. no matter. he was packing up for out of town. he has writ a handsomest letter, which you will transmit to murry with your proof-sheets. seal it.-- yours c. l----. mrs. hood will drink tea with us on thursday at / past _at latest_. n.b. i have lost my museum reading today: a day with titus: owing to your dam'd bisness.--i am the last to reproach anybody. i scorn it. if you shall have the whole book ready soon, it will be best for murry to see. [i am not clear as to what proof-sheets of moxon's lamb refers. his second book, _christmas_, , was issued through hurst, chance & co. barton field and john murray were friends. "a day with titus." can this (a friend suggests) have any connection with the phrase _amici! diem perdidi?_ there is no titus play among the garrick extracts.] letter charles lamb to bernard barton [no postmark or date. soon after preceding letter to barton. .] dear b.b.--the _busy bee_, as hood after dr. watts apostrophises thee, and well dost thou deserve it for thy labors in the muses' gardens, wandering over parterres of think-on-me's and forget-me-nots, to a total impossibility of forgetting thee,--thy letter was acceptable, thy scruples may be dismissed, thou art rectus in curiâ, not a word more to be said, verbum sapienti and so forth, the matter is decided with a white stone, classically, mark me, and the apparitions vanishd 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 mathew-like intention to do it. see ben jonson.--i think you told me your acquaint'ce with the drama was confin'd to shakspeare and miss bailly: 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 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 mist seeing him, to have talk'd 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 discover'd certain which have slipt his errata. i put 'em in the next page, as perhaps thou canst transmit them to him. for what purpose, but to grieve him (which yet i should be sorry to do), but then it shews my learning, and the excuse is complimentary, as it implies their correction in a future edition. his own things in the book are magnificent, and as an old christ's hospitaller i was particularly refreshd 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 inches in the girth, but is yet a lusty fellow. hood's book is mighty clever, and went off copies the st day. sion's songs do not disperse so quickly. the next leaf is for rev'd j.m. in this adieu thine briefly in a tall friendship c. lamb. [barton's letter, to which this is an answer, not being preserved, we do not know what his scruples were. b.b. was a great contributor to annuals. "with a white stone." in trials at law a white stone was cast as a vote for acquittal, a black stone for condemnation (see ovid, _metamorphoses_, , ). "master mathew"--in ben jonson's "every man in his humour." "croly"--the rev. george croly ( - ), of the _literary gazette_, author of _the angel of the world_ and other pretentious poems. "mitford's sacred specimens"--_sacred specimens selected from the early english poets_, . the last poem, by mitford himself, was "lines written under the portrait of edward vi." "hood's book"--_whims and oddities_, second series, . here should come a note to allsop stating that lamb is "near killed with christmassing."] letter charles lamb to henry crabb robinson colebrooke row, islington, saturday, th jan., . dear robinson,--i called upon you this morning, and found that you were gone to visit a dying friend. i had been upon a like errand. poor norris has been lying dying for now almost a week, such is the penalty we pay for having enjoyed a strong constitution! whether he knew me or not, i know not, or whether he saw me through his poor glazed eyes; but the group i saw about him i shall not forget. upon the bed, or about it, were assembled his wife and two daughters, and poor deaf richard, his son, looking doubly stupified. there they were, and seemed to have been sitting all the week. i could only reach out a hand to mrs. norris. speaking was impossible in that mute chamber. by this time i hope it is all over with him. in him i have a loss the world cannot make up. he was my friend and my father's friend all the life i can remember. i seem to have made foolish friendships ever since. those are friendships which outlive a second generation. old as i am waxing, in his eyes i was still the child he first knew me. to the last he called me charley. i have none to call me charley now. he was the last link that bound me to the temple. you are but of yesterday. in him seem to have died the old plainness of manners and singleness of heart. letters he knew nothing of, nor did his reading extend beyond the pages of the "gentleman's magazine." yet there was a pride of literature about him from being amongst books (he was librarian), and from some scraps of doubtful latin which he had picked up in his office of entering students, that gave him very diverting airs of pedantry. can i forget the erudite look with which, when he had been in vain trying to make out a black-letter text of chaucer in the temple library, he laid it down and told me that--"in those old books, charley, there is sometimes a deal of very indifferent spelling;" and seemed to console himself in the reflection! his jokes, for he had his jokes, are now ended, but they were old trusty perennials, staples that pleased after _decies repetita_, and were always as good as new. one song he had, which was reserved for the night of christmas-day, which we always spent in the temple. it was an old thing, and spoke of the flat bottoms of our foes and the possibility of their coming over in darkness, and alluded to threats of an invasion many years blown over; and when he came to the part "we'll still make 'em run, and we'll still make 'em sweat, in spite of the devil and brussels gazette!" his eyes would sparkle as with the freshness of an impending event. and what is the "brussels gazette" now? i cry while i enumerate these trifles. "how shall we tell them in a stranger's ear?" his poor good girls will now have to receive their afflicted mother in an inaccessible hovel in an obscure village in herts, where they have been long struggling to make a school without effect; and poor deaf richard--and the more helpless for being so--is thrown on the wide world. my first motive in writing, and, indeed, in calling on you, was to ask if you were enough acquainted with any of the benchers, to lay a plain statement before them of the circumstances of the family. i almost fear not, for you are of another hall. but if you can oblige me and my poor friend, who is now insensible to any favours, pray exert yourself. you cannot say too much good of poor norris and his poor wife. yours ever, charles lamb. [this letter, describing the death of randal norris, sub-treasurer and librarian of the inner temple, was printed with only very slight alterations in hone's _table book_, , and again in the _last essays of elia_, , under the title "a death-bed." it was, however, taken out of the second edition, and "confessions of a drunkard" substituted, in deference to the wishes of norris's family. mrs. norris, as i have said, was a native of widford, where she had known mrs. field, lamb's grandmother. with her son richard, who was deaf and peculiar, mrs. norris moved to widford again, where the daughters, miss betsy and miss jane, had opened a school--goddard house; which they retained until a legacy restored the family prosperity. soon after that they both married, each a farmer named tween. they survived until quite recently. mrs. coe, an old scholar at the misses morris's school in the twenties, gave me, in , some reminiscences of those days, from which i quote a passage or so:-- when he joined the norrises' dinner-table he kept every one laughing. mr. richard sat at one end, and some of the school children would be there too. one day mr. lamb gave every one a fancy name all round the table, and made a verse on each. "you are so-and-so," he said, "and you are so-and-so," adding the rhyme. "what's he saying? what are you laughing at?" mr. richard asked testily, for he was short-tempered. miss betsy explained the joke to him, and mr. lamb, coming to his turn, said--only he said it in verse--"now, dick, it's your turn. i shall call you gruborum; because all you think of is your food and your stomach." mr. richard pushed back his chair in a rage and stamped out of the room. "now i've done it," said mr. lamb: "i must go and make friends with my old chum. give me a large plate of pudding to take to him." when he came back he said, "it's all right. i thought the pudding would do it." mr. lamb and mr. richard never got on very well, and mr. richard didn't like his teasing ways at all; but mr. lamb often went for long walks with him, because no one else would. he did many kind things like that. there used to be a half-holiday when mr. lamb came, partly because he would force his way into the schoolroom and make seriousness impossible. his head would suddenly appear at the door in the midst of lessons, with "well, betsy! how do, jane?" "o, mr. lamb!" they would say, and that was the end of work for that day. he was really rather naughty with the children. one of his tricks was to teach them a new kind of catechism (mrs. coe does not remember it, but we may rest assured, i fear, that it was secular), and he made a great fuss with lizzie hunt for her skill in saying the lord's prayer backwards, which he had taught her. "we'll still make 'em run..." garrick's "hearts of oak," sung in "harlequin's invasion." "how shall we tell them in a stranger's ear?" a quotation from lamb himself, in the lines "written soon after the preceding poem," in (see vol. iv.).] letter charles lamb to henry crabb robinson [no date. jan. , .] dear r.n. is dead. i have writ as nearly as i could to look like a letter meant for _your eye only_. will it do? could you distantly hint (do as your own judgment suggests) that if his son could be got in as clerk to the new subtreasurer, it would be all his father wish'd? but i leave that to you. i don't want to put you upon anything disagreeable. yours thankfully c.l. [the reference at the beginning is to the preceding letter, which was probably enclosed with this note. here should come a note to allsop dated jan. , , complaining of the cold.] letter charles lamb to henry crabb robinson [dated by h.c.r. jan. , .] dear robinson, if you have not seen mr. gurney, leave him quite alone for the present, i have seen mr. jekyll, who is as friendly as heart can desire, he entirely approves of my formula of petition, and gave your very reasons for the propriety of the "little village of hertf'shire." now, mr. g. might not approve of it, and then we should clash. also, mr. j. wishes it to be presented next week, and mr. g. might fix earlier, which would be aukward. mr. j. was so civil to me, that i _think it would be better not for you to show him that letter you intended_. nothing can increase his zeal in the cause of poor mr. norris. mr. gardiner will see you with this, and learn from you all about it, & consult, if you have seen mr. g. & he has fixed a time, how to put it off. mr. j. is most friendly to the boy: i think you had better not teaze the treasurer any more about _him_, as it may make him less friendly to the petition yours ever c.l. [writing to dorothy wordsworth on february , , robinson says: "the lambs are well. i have been so busy that i have not lately seen them. charles has been occupied about the affair of the widow of his old friend norris whose death he has felt. but the health of both is good." gurney would probably be john gurney (afterwards baron gurney), the counsel and judge. jekyll was joseph jekyll, the wit, mentioned by lamb in his essay on "the old benchers of the inner temple." he was a friend of george dyer.] letter charles lamb to henry crabb robinson [dated by h.c. r. jan., .] dear r. do not say any thing to mr. g. about the day _or_ petition, for mr. jekyll wishes it to be next week, and thoroughly approves of my formula, and mr. g. might not, and then they will clash. only speak to him of gardner's wish to have the lad. mr. jekyll was excessive friendly. c.l. [the matter referred to is still the norrises' welfare. mr. hazlitt says that an annuity of £ was settled by the inn on mrs. norris. here perhaps should come a letter from lamb to allsop, printed by mr. fitzgerald, urging allsop to go to highgate to see coleridge and tell him of the unhappy state of his, allsop's, affairs. in crabb robinson's _diary_ for february , , i read: "i went to lamb. found him in trouble about his friend allsop, who is a ruined man. allsop is a very good creature who has been a generous friend to coleridge." writing of his troubles in _letters, conversations and recollections of s.t. coleridge_, allsop says: "charles lamb, charles and mary lamb, 'union is partition,' were never wanting in the hour of need."] letter charles lamb to b.r. haydon [march, .] dear raffaele haydon,--did the maid tell you i came to see your picture, not on sunday but the day before? i think the face and bearing of the bucephalus-tamer very noble, his flesh too effeminate or painty. the skin of the female's back kneeling is much more carnous. i had small time to pick out praise or blame, for two lord-like bucks came in, upon whose strictures my presence seemed to impose restraint: i plebeian'd off therefore. i think i have hit on a subject for you, but can't swear it was never executed,--i never heard of its being,--"chaucer beating a franciscan friar in fleet street." think of the old dresses, houses, &c. "it seemeth that both these learned men (gower and chaucer) were of the inner temple; for not many years since master buckley did see a record in the same house where geoffry chaucer was fined two shillings for beating a franciscan friar in fleet street." _chaucer's life by t. speght, prefixed to the black letter folio of chaucer_, . yours in haste (salt fish waiting), c. lamb. [haydon's picture was his "alexander and bucephalus." the two bucks, he tells us in his _diary_, were the duke of devonshire and mr. agar ellis. haydon did not take up the chaucer subject.] letter charles lamb to william hone [no date. april, .] dear h. never come to our house and not come in. i was quite vex'd. yours truly. c.l. there is in blackwood this month an article most affecting indeed called le revenant, and would do more towards abolishing capital punishments than romillies or montagues. i beg you read it and see if you can extract any of it. _the trial scene in particular_. [written on the fourteenth instalment of the garrick play extracts. the article was in _blackwood_ for april, . hone took lamb's advice, and the extract from it will be found in the _table book_, vol. i., col. . lamb was peculiarly interested in the subject of survival after hanging. he wrote an early _reflector_ essay, "on the inconveniences of being hanged," on the subject, and it is the pivot of his farce "the pawnbroker's daughter." "romillies or montagues." two prominent advocates for the abolition of capital punishment were sir samuel romilly (who died in ) and basil montagu.] letter charles lamb to thomas hood [no date. may, .] dearest hood,--your news has spoil'd us a merry meeting. miss kelly and we were coming, but your letter elicited a flood of tears from mary, and i saw she was not fit for a party. god bless you and the mother (or should be mother) of your sweet girl that should have been. i have won sexpence of moxon by the _sex_ of the dear gone one. yours most truly and hers, [c.l.] [this note refers to one of the hoods' children, which was still-born. it was upon this occasion that lamb wrote the beautiful lines "on an infant dying as soon as born" (see vol. iv.).] letter charles lamb to bernard barton [no date. ( .)] 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 advancing into my plain parlour with a coupee and a sideling bow, and presenting the book as if he had been handing a glass of lemonade to a young miss--imagine this, and contrast it with the serious nature of the book presented! then task your imagination, reversing this picture, to conceive of quite an opposite messenger, a lean, straitlocked, wheyfaced methodist, for such was he in reality who brought it, the genius (it seems) of the wesleyan 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 the heart sick. still thy skill in compounding it i not deny. i turn to what gave me less mingled pleasure. i find markd with pencil these pages in thy pretty book, and fear i have been penurious. page , capital. page th stanza exquisite simile. page th stanza equally good. page d stanza, i long to see van balen. page a downright good sonnet. _dixi_. page 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 canvas, stuff'd in his little girl aside of blacky, gaping at him unmeaningly; and then didn't know what to call it. now for a picture to be promoted to the exhibition (suffolk street) as historical, a subject is requisite. what does me? i but christen it the "young catechist" and furbishd it with dialogue following, which dubb'd it an historical painting. nothing to a friend at need. while this tawny ethiop prayeth, painter, who is she that stayeth by, with skin of whitest lustre; sunny locks, a shining cluster; saintlike seeming to direct him to the power that must protect him? is she of the heav'nborn three, meek hope, strong faith, sweet charity? or some cherub? they you mention far transcend my 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 clapt 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 wood cut 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? how is mitford?-- i'll just hint that the pitcher, the chord and the bowl are a little too often repeated (_passim_) in your book, and that on page last line but _him_ 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 giving it, tho' i really am ashamed of so many presents. i can think of no news, therefore i will end with mine and mary's kindest remembrances to you and yours. c.l. [it has been customary to date this letter december, , but i think that must be too late. lamb would never have waited till then to tell barton that he was contributing the garrick plays to hone's _table book_, especially as the last instalment was printed in that month. barton's new volume was _a widow's tale and other poems_, . the title poem tells how a missionary and his wife were wrecked, and how after three nights and days of horror she was saved. the woodcut on the title-page of barton's book represented the widow supporting her dead or dying husband in the midst of the storm. this is the "exquisite simile" on page , from "a grandsire's tale":-- though some might deem her pensive, if not sad, yet those who knew her better, best could tell how calmly happy, and how meekly glad her quiet heart in its own depths did dwell: like to the waters of some crystal well, in which the stars of heaven at noon are seen. fancy might deem on her young spirit fell glimpses of light more glorious and serene than that of life's brief day, so heavenly was her mien. this was the "downright good sonnet":-- to a grandmother "old age is dark and unlovely."--ossian. o say not so! a bright old age is thine; calm as the gentle light of summer eves, ere twilight dim her dusky mantle weaves; because to thee is given, in strength's decline, a heart that does not thanklessly repine at aught of which the hand of god bereaves, yet all he sends with gratitude receives;-- may such a quiet, thankful close be mine. and hence thy fire-side chair appears to me a peaceful throne--which thou wert form'd to fill; thy children--ministers, who do thy will; and those grand-children, sporting round thy knee, thy little subjects, looking up to thee, as one who claims their fond allegiance still. and these are the lines at the foot of page in a poem addressed to a child seven years old:-- there is a holy, blest companionship in the sweet intercourse thus held with those whose tear and smile are guileless; from whose lip the simple dictate of the heart yet flows;-- though even in the yet unfolded rose the worm may lurk, and sin blight blooming youth, the light born with us long so brightly glows, that childhood's first deceits seem almost truth, to life's cold after lie, selfish, and void of ruth. van balen was the painter of the picture of the "madonna and child" which mrs. fitzgerald (edward fitzgerald's mother) had given to barton and for which he expressed his thanks in a poem. the artist who painted lamb recently was henry meyer ( ?- ), the portrait being that which serves as frontispiece to this volume. i give in my large edition a reproduction of "the young catechist," which meyer also engraved, with lamb's verses attached. in i saw the original in a picture shop in the charing cross road, now removed.] letter charles lamb to william hone [no date. end of may, .] dear h. in the forthcoming "new monthly" are to be verses of mine on a picture about angels. translate em to the table-book. i am off for enfield. yours. c.l. [written on the back of the xxi. garrick extracts. the poem "angel help" was printed in the _new monthly magazine_ for june and copied by hone in the _table-book_, no. , .] letter charles lamb to william hone [no date. june, .] dear hone, i should like this in your next book. we are at enfield, where (when we have solituded awhile) we shall be glad to see you. yours, c. lamb. [this was written on the back of the ms. of "going or gone" (see vol. iv.), a poem of reminiscences of lamb's early widford days, printed in hone's _table-book_, june, , signed elia.] letter charles lamb to bernard barton enfield, and for some weeks to come, "_june , _." dear b.b.--one word more of the picture verses, and that for good and all; pray, with a neat pen alter one line his learning seems to lay small stress on to his learning lays no mighty stress on to avoid the unseemly recurrence (ungrammatical also) of "seems" in the next line, besides the nonsence of "but" there, as it now stands. and i request you, as a personal favor to me, to erase the last line of all, which i should never have written from myself. the fact is, it was a silly joke of hood's, who gave me the frame, (you judg'd rightly it was not its own) with the remark that you would like it, because it was b--d b--d,--and i lugg'd it in: but i shall be quite hurt if it stands, because tho' you and yours have too good sense to object to it, i would not have a sentence of mine seen, that to any foolish ear might sound unrespectful to thee. let it end at appalling; the joke is coarse and useless, and hurts the tone of the rest. take your best "ivory-handled" and scrape it forth. your specimen of what you might have written is hardly fair. had it been a present to me, i should have taken a more sentimental tone; but of a trifle from me it was my cue to speak in an underish tone of commendation. prudent _givers_ (what a word for such a nothing) disparage their gifts; 'tis an art we have. so you see you wouldn't have been so wrong, taking a higher tone. but enough of nothing. by the bye, i suspected m. of being the disparager of the frame; hence a _certain line_. for the frame,'tis as the room is, where it hangs. it hung up fronting my old cobwebby folios and batter'd furniture (the fruit piece has resum'd its place) and was much better than a spick and span one. but if your room be very neat and your _other pictures_ bright with gilt, it should be so too. i can't judge, not having seen: but my dingy study it suited. martin's belshazzar (the picture) i have seen. its architectural effect is stupendous; but the human figures, the squalling contorted little antics that are playing at being frightend, 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 xmas gambol, to scare the ladies. the _type_ is as plain as baskervil's--they should have been dim, full of mystery, letters to the mind rather than the eye.--rembrandt has painted only belshazzar and a courtier or two (taking a part of the banquet for the whole) not fribbled out a mob of fine folks. then every thing 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 would have seen, the _hand_--and the _king_--not to be at leisure to make taylor-remarks on the dresses, or doctor kitchener-like to examine the good things at table. just such a confusd piece is his joshua, fritterd into fragments, little armies here, little armies there--you should see only the _sun_ and _joshua_; if i remember, 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 preternatural 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 balshazar and dare is daniel." you have my thoughts of m. and so adieu c. lamb. [lamb had sent barton the picture that is reproduced in vol. v. of my large edition. later lamb had sent the following lines:-- when last you left your woodbridge pretty, to stare at sights, and see the city, if i your meaning understood, you wish'd a picture, cheap, but good; the colouring? decent; clear, not muddy; to suit a poet's quiet study, where books and prints for delectation hang, rather than vain ostentation. the subject? what i pleased, if comely; but something scriptural and homely: a sober piece, not gay or wanton, for winter fire-sides to descant on; the theme so scrupulously handled, a quaker might look on unscandal'd; such as might satisfy ann knight, and classic mitford just not fright. just such a one i've found, and send it; if liked, i give--if not, but lend it. the moral? nothing can be sounder. the fable? 'tis its own expounder-- a mother teaching to her chit some good book, and explaining it. he, silly urchin, tired of lesson, his learning seems to lay small stress on, but seems to hear not what he hears; thrusting his fingers in his ears, like obstinate, that perverse funny one, in honest parable of bunyan. his working sister, more sedate, listens; but in a kind of state, the painter meant for steadiness; but has a tinge of sullenness; and, at first sight, she seems to brook as ill her needle, as he his book. this is the picture. for the frame-- 'tis not ill-suited to the same; oak-carved, not gilt, for fear of falling; old-fashion'd; plain, yet not appalling; and broad brimm'd, as the owner's calling. it was not obstinate, by the way, who thrust his fingers in his ears, but christian. "hence a _certain line_"--line , i suppose. martin's "belshazzar." "belshazzar's feast," by john martin ( - ), had been exhibited for some years and had created an immense impression. lamb subjected martin's work to a minute analysis a few years later (see the _elia_ essay on the "barrenness of the imaginative faculty in the productions of modern art," vol. ii.). barton did not give up martin in consequence of this letter. the frontispiece to his _new year's eve_, , is by that painter, and the volume contains eulogistic poems upon him, one beginning-- boldest painter of our day. "baskervil's"--john baskerville ( - ), the printer, famous for his folio edition of the bible, . doctor william kitchiner--the author of _apicius redivious; or, the cook's oracle_, .] letter charles lamb to henry crabb robinson [p.m. june , .] dear h.c. we are at mrs. leishman's, chase, enfield. why not come down by the green lanes on sunday? picquet all day. pass the church, pass the "rising sun," turn sharp round the corner, and we are the th or th house on the chase: tall elms darken the door. if you set eyes on m. burney, bring him. yours truly c. lamb. [mrs. leishman's house, or its successor, is the seventh from the rising sun. it is now on gentleman's row, not on chase side proper. the house next it--still, as in lamb's day, a girl's school--is called elm house, but most of the elms which darkened both doors have vanished. it has been surmised that when later in the year lamb took an enfield house in his own name, he took mrs. leishman's; but, as we shall see, his own house was some little distance from hers.] letter charles lamb to william hone [no date. early july, .] dear h., this is hood's, done from the life, of mary getting over a style here. mary, out of a pleasant revenge, wants you to get it _engrav'd_ in table book to surprise h., who i know will be amus'd with you so doing. append some observations about the awkwardness of country styles about edmonton, and the difficulty of elderly ladies getting over 'em.---- that is to say, if you think the sketch good enough. i take on myself the warranty. can you slip down here some day and go a green-dragoning? c.l. enfield (mrs. leishman's, chase). if you do, send hood the number, no. robert st., adelphi, and keep the sketch for me. ["this" was the drawing by hood. i take it from the _table-book_, where it represents mrs. gilpin resting on a stile:-- [illustration] lamb subsequently appended the observations himself. the text of his little article, changing mary lamb into mrs. gilpin, was in the late mr. locker-lampson's collection. the postmark is july . .] letter charles lamb to edward moxon enfield. p.m. july , [ ]. dear m. thanks for your attentions of every kind. emma will not fail mrs. hood's kind invitation, but her aunt is so queer a one, that we cannot let her go with a single gentleman singly to vauxhall; she would withdraw her from us altogether in a fright; but if any of the hood's family accompany you, then there can be small objection. i have been writing letters till too dark to see the marks. i can just say we shall be happy to see you any sunday _after the next_: say, the sunday after, and perhaps the hoods will come too and have a merry other day, before they go hence. but next sunday we expect as many as we can well entertain. with ours and emma's acknowlgm's yours c.l. [the earliest of a long series of letters to edward moxon, preserved at rowfant by the late mr. locker-lampson, but now in america. emma isola's aunt was miss humphreys.] letter charles lamb to p.g. patmore [dated at end: july , .] dear p.--i am so poorly! i have been to a funeral, where i made a pun, to the consternation of the rest of the mourners. and we had wine. i can't describe to you the howl which the widow set up at proper intervals. dash could, for it was not unlike what he makes. the letter i sent you was one directed to the care of e. white, india house, for mrs. hazlitt. _which_ mrs. hazlitt i don't yet know, but a. has taken it to france on speculation. really it is embarrassing. there is mrs. present h., mrs. late h., and mrs. john h., and to which of the three mrs. wiggins's it appertains, i don't know. i wanted to open it, but it's transportation. i am sorry you are plagued about your book. i would strongly recommend you to take for one story massinger's "old law." it is exquisite. i can think of no other. dash is frightful this morning. he whines and stands up on his hind legs. he misses beckey, who is gone to town. i took him to barnet the other day, and he couldn't eat his victuals after it. pray god his intellectuals be not slipping. mary is gone out for some soles. i suppose 'tis no use to ask you to come and partake of 'em; else there's a steam-vessel. i am doing a tragi-comedy in two acts, and have got on tolerably; but it will be refused, or worse. i never had luck with anything my name was put to. oh, i am so poorly! i _waked_ it at my cousin's the bookbinder's, who is now with god; or, if he is not, it's no fault of mine. we hope the frank wines do not disagree with mrs. patmore. by the way, i like her. did you ever taste frogs? get them, if you can. they are like little lilliput rabbits, only a thought nicer. christ, how sick i am!--not of the world, but of the widow's shrub. she's sworn under £ , but i think she perjured herself. she howls in e _la_, and i comfort her in b flat. you understand music?... "no shrimps!" (that's in answer to mary's question about how the soles are to be done.) i am uncertain where this _wandering_ letter may reach you. what you mean by poste restante, god knows. do you mean i must pay the postage? so i do to dover. we had a merry passage with the widow at the commons. she was howling--part howling and part giving directions to the proctor--when crash! down went my sister through a crazy chair, and made the clerks grin, and i grinned, and the widow tittered--_and then i knew that she was not inconsolable_. mary was more frightened than hurt. she'd make a good match for anybody (by she, i mean the widow). "if he bring but a _relict_ away, he is happy, nor heard to complain." shenstone. procter has got a wen growing out at the nape of his neck, which his wife wants him to have cut off; but i think it rather an agreeable excrescence--like his poetry--redundant. hone has hanged himself for debt. godwin was taken up for picking pockets.... beckey takes to bad courses. her father was blown up in a steam machine. the coroner found it insanity. i should not like him to sit on my letter. do you observe my direction? is it gallic?--classical? do try and get some frogs. you must ask for "grenouilles" (green-eels). they don't understand "frogs," though it's a common phrase with us. if you go through bulloign (boulogne) enquire if old godfrey is living, and how he got home from the crusades. he must be a very old man now. if there is anything new in politics or literature in france, keep it till i see you again, for i'm in no hurry. chatty-briant is well i hope. i think i have no more news; only give both our loves ("all three," says dash) to mrs. patmore, and bid her get quite well, as i am at present, bating qualms, and the grief incident to losing a valuable relation. c.l. londres, july , . [this is from patmore's _my friends and acquaintances_, ; but i have no confidence in patmore's transcription. after "picking pockets" should come, for example, according to other editors, the sentence, "moxon has fallen in love with emma, our nut-brown maid." this is the first we hear of the circumstance and quite probably lamb was then exaggerating. as it happened, however, moxon and miss isola, as we shall see, were married in . we do not know the name of the widow; but her husband was lamb's cousin, the bookbinder. the doubt about the hazlitts refers chiefly to william hazlitt's divorce from his first wife in , and his remarriage in with a mrs. bridgewater. "your book." patmore, in _my friends and acquaintances_, writes:-- this refers to a series of tales that i was writing, (since published under the title of _chatsworth, or the romance of a week_.) for the subject of one of which he had recommended me to take "the old law." as lamb's critical faculties (as displayed in the celebrated "specimens" which created an era in the dramatic taste of england) were not surpassed by those of any writer of his day, the reader may like to see a few "specimens" of some notes which lamb took the pains to make on two of the tales that were shown to him. i give these the rather that there is occasionally blended with their critical nicety of tact, a drollery that is very characteristic of the writer. i shall leave these notes and verbal criticisms to speak for themselves, after merely explaining that they are written on separate bits of paper, each note having a numerical reference to that page of the ms. in which occurs the passage commented on. "besides the words 'riant' and 'euphrosyne,' the sentence is senseless. 'a sweet sadness' capable of inspiring 'a more _grave joy_'--than what?--than demonstrations of _mirth_? odd if it had not been. i had once a _wry aunt_, which may make me dislike the phrase. "'pleasurable:'--no word is good that is awkward to spell. (query.) welcome or joyous. "'_steady self-possession_ rather than _undaunted courage_,' etc. the two things are not opposed enough. you mean, rather than rash fire of valour in action. "'looking like a heifer,' i fear wont do in prose. (qy.) 'like to some spotless heifer,'--or,'that you might have compared her to some spotless heifer,' etc.--or 'like to some sacrificial heifer of old.' i should prefer, 'garlanded with flowers as for a sacrifice '--and cut the cow altogether. "(say) 'like the muttering of some strange spell,'--omitting the demon,--they are _subject_ to spells, they don't use them. "'feud' here (and before and after) is wrong. (say) old malice, or, difference. _feud_ is of clans. it might be applied to family quarrels, but is quite improper to individuals falling out. "'apathetic.' vile word. "'mechanically,' faugh!--insensibly--involuntarily--in-any-thing-ly but mechanically. "calianax's character should be somewhere briefly _drawn_, not left to be dramatically inferred. "'surprised and almost vexed while it troubled her.' (awkward.) better, 'in a way that while it deeply troubled her, could not but surprise and vex her to think it should be a source of trouble at all.' "'reaction' is vile slang. 'physical'--vile word. "decidedly, dorigen should simply propose to him to remove the rocks as _ugly_ or _dangerous_, not as affecting her with fears for her husband. the idea of her husband should be excluded from a promise which is meant to be _frank_ upon impossible conditions. she cannot promise in one breath infidelity to him, and make the conditions a good to him. her reason for hating the rocks is good, but not to be expressed here. "insert after 'to whatever consequences it might lead,'--'neither had arviragus been disposed to interpose a husband's authority to prevent the execution of this rash vow, was he unmindful of that older and more solemn vow which, in the days of their marriage, he had imposed upon himself, in no instance to control the settled purpose or determination of his wedded wife;--so that by the chains of a double contract he seemed bound to abide by her decision in this instance, whatever it might be.'" "a tragi-comedy"--lamb's dramatic version of crabbe's "confidante," which he called "the wife's trial" (see vol. iv. of this edition). "procter has got a wen." this paragraph must be taken with salt. poor hone, however, had the rules of the king's bench at the time. beckey was the lambs' servant and tyrant; she had been hazlitt's. patmore described her at some length in his reminiscences of lamb. "chatty-briant"--chateaubriand.] letter charles lamb to mrs. percy bysshe shelley enfield, july th, . dear mrs. shelley,--at the risk of throwing away some fine thoughts, i must write to say how pleased we were with your very kind remembering of us (who have unkindly run away from all our friends) before you go. perhaps you are gone, and then my tropes are wasted. if any piece of better fortune has lighted upon you than you expected, but less than we wish you, we are rejoiced. we are here trying to like solitude, but have scarce enough to justify the experiment. we get some, however. the six days are our sabbath; the seventh--why, cockneys will come for a little fresh air, and so-- but by _your month_, or october at furthest, we hope to see islington: i like a giant refreshed with the leaving off of wine, and mary, pining for mr. moxon's books and mr. moxon's society. then we shall meet. i am busy with a farce in two acts, the incidents tragi-comic. i can do the dialogue _commey fo_: but the damned plot--i believe i must omit it altogether. the scenes come after one another like geese, not marshalling like cranes or a hyde park review. the story is as simple as g[eorge] d[yer], and the language plain as his spouse. the characters are three women to one man; which is one more than laid hold on him in the "evangely." i think that prophecy squinted towards my drama. i want some howard paine to sketch a skeleton of artfully succeeding scenes through a whole play, as the courses are arranged in a cookery book: i to find wit, passion, sentiment, character, and the like trifles: to lay in the dead colours,--i'd titianesque 'em up: to mark the channel in a cheek (smooth or furrowed, yours or mine), and where tears should course i'd draw the waters down: to say where a joke should come in or a pun be left out: to bring my _personae_ on and off like a beau nash; and i'd frankenstein them there: to bring three together on the stage at once; they are so shy with me, that i can get no more than two; and there they stand till it is the time, without being the season, to withdraw them. i am teaching emma latin to qualify her for a superior governess-ship; which we see no prospect of her getting. 'tis like feeding a child with chopped hay from a spoon. sisyphus--his labours were as nothing to it. actives and passives jostle in her nonsense, till a deponent enters, like chaos, more to embroil the fray. her prepositions are suppositions; her conjunctions copulative have no connection in them; her concords disagree; her interjections are purely english "ah!" and "oh!" with a yawn and a gape in the same tongue; and she herself is a lazy, block-headly supine. as i say to her, ass _in praesenti_ rarely makes a wise man _in futuro_. but i daresay it was so with you when you began latin, and a good while after. good-by! mary's love. yours truly, c. lamb. [this is the second letter to mrs. shelley, _née_ mary wollstonecraft godwin, the widow of the poet and the author of _frankenstein_. she had been living in england since ; and in had issued anonymously _the last man_. that she kept much in touch with the lambs' affairs we know by her letters to leigh hunt. major butterworth has kindly supplied me with a copy of her letter to mary lamb which called forth lamb's reply. it runs thus:-- kentish town, july, . my dear miss lamb, you have been long at enfield--i hardly know yet whether you are returned--and i quit town so very soon that i have not time to--as i exceedingly wish--call on you before i go. nevertheless believe (if such familiar expression be not unmeet from me) that i love you with all my heart--gratefully and sincerely--and that when i return i shall seek you with, i hope, not too much zeal--but it will be with great eagerness. you will be glad to hear that i have every reason to believe that the worst of my pecuniary troubles are over--as i am promised a regular tho' small income from my father-in-law. i mean to be very industrious _on other accounts_ this summer, so i hope nothing will go very ill with me or mine. i am afraid miss kelly will think me dreadfully rude for not having availed myself of her kind invitation. will you present my compliments to her, and say that my embarassments, harassings and distance from town are the guilty causes of my omission--for which with her leave i will apologize in person on my return to london. all kind and grateful remembrances to mr. lamb, he must not forget me nor like me one atom less than i delight to flatter myself he does now, when again i come to seize a dinner perforce at your cottage. percy is quite well--and is reading with great extacy (_sic_) the arabian nights. i shall return i suppose some one day in september. god bless you. yours affectionately, mary w. shelley. _commey fo_ is lamb's _comme il faut_. "in the 'evangely.'" if by evangely he meant gospel, lamb was a little confused here, i think. probably isaiah iv. i was in his mind: "and in that day seven women shall take hold of one man." but he may also have half remembered luke xvii. . "i am teaching emma latin." mary lamb contributed to _blackwood's magazine_ for june, , the following little poem describing emma isola's difficulties in these lessons:-- to emma, learning latin, and desponding droop not, dear emma, dry those falling tears, and call up smiles into thy pallid face, pallid and care-worn with thy arduous race: in few brief months thou hast done the work of years. to young beginnings natural are these fears. a right good scholar shalt thou one day be, and that no distant one; when even she, who now to thee a star far off appears, that most rare latinist, the northern maid-- the language-loving sarah[ ] of the lake-- shall hail thee sister linguist. this will make thy friends, who now afford thee careful aid, a recompense most rich for all their pains, counting thy acquisitions their best gains. [footnote : daughter of s.t. coleridge, esq.; an accomplished linguist in the greek and latin tongues, and translatress of a history of the abipones.] a letter to an anonymous correspondent, in the summer of , has an amusing passage concerning emma isola's latin. lamb says that they made cary laugh by translating "blast you" into such elegant verbiage as "deus afflet tibi." he adds, "how some parsons would have goggled and what would hannah more say? i don't like clergymen, but here and there one. cary, the dante cary, is a model quite as plain as parson primrose, without a shade of silliness." on july , , is a letter to mr. dillon, whom i do not identify, saying that lamb has been teaching emma isola latin for the past seven weeks. "ass _in praesenti_." this was boyer's joke, at christ's hospital (see vol. i. of this edition). here should come a letter from lamb to edward white, of the india house, dated august , , in which lamb has some pleasantry about paying postages, and ends by heartily commending white to mind his ledger, and keep his eye on mr. chambers' balances.] letter charles lamb to mrs. basil montagu [summer, .] dear madam,--i return your list with my name. i should be sorry that any respect should be going on towards [clarkson,] and i be left out of the conspiracy. otherwise i frankly own that to pillarize a man's good feelings in his lifetime is not to my taste. monuments to goodness, even after death, are equivocal. i turn away from howard's, i scarce know why. goodness blows no trumpet, nor desires to have it blown. we should be modest for a modest man--as he is for himself. the vanities of life--art, poetry, skill military, are subjects for trophies; not the silent thoughts arising in a good man's mind in lonely places. was i c[larkson,] i should never be able to walk or ride near ------ again. instead of bread, we are giving him a stone. instead of the locality recalling the noblest moment of his existence, it is a place at which his friends (that is, himself) blow to the world, "what a good man is he!" i sat down upon a hillock at forty hill yesternight--a fine contemplative evening,--with a thousand good speculations about mankind. how i yearned with cheap benevolence! i shall go and inquire of the stone-cutter, that cuts the tombstones here, what a stone with a short inscription will cost; just to say--"here c. lamb loved his brethren of mankind." everybody will come there to love. as i can't well put my own name, i shall put about a subscription: _s. d_. mrs. ---- procter g. dyer mr. godwin mrs. godwin mr. irving a watch-chain. mr. ------- the proceeds of ------ first edition.* ___ ___ i scribble in haste from here, where we shall be some time. pray request mr. m[ontagu] to advance the guinea for me, which shall faithfully be forthcoming; and pardon me that i don't see the proposal in quite the light that he may. the kindness of his motives, and his power of appreciating the noble passage, i thoroughly agree in. with most kind regards to him, i conclude, dear madam, yours truly, c. lamb. from mrs. leishman's, chase, enfield. *a capital book, by the bye, but not over saleable. [the memorial to thomas clarkson stands on a hill above wade mill, on the buntingford road, in hertfordshire. forty hill is close to enfield. edward irving's watch-chain. the explanation of lamb's joke is to be found in carlyle's _reminiscences_ (quoted also in froude's _life_, vol. i., page ). irving had put down as his contribution to some subscription list, at a public meeting, "an actual gold watch, which he said had just arrived to him from his beloved brother lately dead in india." this rather theatrical action had evidently amused lamb as it had disgusted carlyle. the "first edition" of "mr. -----" was, i suppose, basil montagu's work on bacon, which macaulay reviewed.] letter mary lamb to lady stoddart [august , .] my dear lady-friend,--my brother called at our empty cottage yesterday, and found the cards of your son and his friend, mr. hine, under the door; which has brought to my mind that i am in danger of losing this post, as i did the last, being at that time in a confused state of mind--for at that time we were talking of leaving, and persuading ourselves that we were intending to leave town and all our friends, and sit down for ever, solitary and forgotten, here. here we are; and we have locked up our house, and left it to take care of itself; but at present we do not design to extend our rural life beyond michaelmas. your kind letter was most welcome to me, though the good news contained in it was already known to me. accept my warmest congratulations, though they come a little of the latest. in my next i may probably have to hail you grandmama; or to felicitate you on the nuptials of pretty mary, who, whatever the beaux of malta may think of her, i can only remember her round shining face, and her "o william!"--"dear william!" when we visited her the other day at school. present my love and best wishes--a long and happy married life to dear isabella--i love to call her isabella; but in truth, having left your other letter in town, i recollect no other name she has. the same love and the same wishes--in futuro--to my friend mary. tell her that her "dear william" grows taller, and improves in manly looks and manlike behaviour every time i see him. what is henry about? and what should one wish for him? if he be in search of a wife, i will send him out emma isola. you remember emma, that you were so kind as to invite to your ball? she is now with us; and i am moving heaven and earth, that is to say, i am pressing the matter upon all the very few friends i have that are likely to assist me in such a case, to get her into a family as a governess; and charles and i do little else here than teach her something or other all day long. we are striving to put enough latin into her to enable her to begin to teach it to young learners. so much for emma --for you are so fearfully far away, that i fear it is useless to implore your patronage for her. i have not heard from mrs. hazlitt a long time. i believe she is still with hazlitt's mother in devonshire. i expect a pacquet of manuscript from you: you promised me the office of negotiating with booksellers, and so forth, for your next work. is it in good forwardness? or do you grow rich and indolent now? it is not surprising that your maltese story should find its way into malta; but i was highly pleased with the idea of your pleasant surprise at the sight of it. i took a large sheet of paper, in order to leave charles room to add something more worth reading than my poor mite. may we all meet again once more! m. lamb. letter charles lamb to sir john stoddart (_same letter: lamb's share_) dear knight--old acquaintance--'tis with a violence to the _pure imagination_ (_vide_ the "excursion" _passim_) that i can bring myself to believe i am writing to dr. stoddart once again, at malta. but the deductions of severe reason warrant the proceeding. i write from enfield, where we are seriously weighing the advantages of dulness over the over-excitement of too much company, but have not yet come to a conclusion. what is the news? for we see no paper here; perhaps you can send us an old one from malta. only, i heard a butcher in the market-place whisper something about a change of ministry. i don't know who's in or out, or care, only as it might affect _you_. for domestic doings, i have only to tell, with extreme regret, that poor elisa fenwick (that was)--mrs. rutherford--is dead; and that we have received a most heart-broken letter from her mother--left with four grandchildren, orphans of a living scoundrel lurking about the pothouses of little russell street, london: they and she--god help 'em!--at new york. i have just received godwin's third volume of the _republic_, which only reaches to the commencement of the protectorate. i think he means to spin it out to his life's thread. have you seen fearn's _anti-tooke_? i am no judge of such things--you are; but i think it very clever indeed. if i knew your bookseller, i'd order it for you at a venture: 'tis two octavos, longman and co. or do you read now? tell it not in the admiralty court, but my head aches _hesterno vino_. i can scarce pump up words, much less ideas, congruous to be sent so far. but your son must have this by to-night's post.[_here came a passage relating to an escapade of young stoddart, then at the charterhouse, which, probably through lamb's intervention, was treated leniently. lamb helped him--with his imposition-- gray's "elegy" into greek elegiacs_.] manning is gone to rome, naples, etc., probably to touch at sicily, malta, guernsey, etc.; but i don't know the map. hazlitt is resident at paris, whence he pours his lampoons in safety at his friends in england. he has his boy with him. i am teaching emma latin. by the time you can answer this, she will be qualified to instruct young ladies: she is a capital english reader: and s.t.c. acknowledges that a part of a passage in milton she read better than he, and part he read best, her part being the shorter. but, seriously, if lady st------ (oblivious pen, that was about to write _mrs._!) could hear of such a young person wanted (she smatters of french, some italian, music of course), we'd send our loves by her. my congratulations and assurances of old esteem. c.l. [stoddart had been appointed in chief-justice and justice of the vice-admiralty court in malta and had been knighted in the same year. his daughter isabella had just married. lady stoddart's literary efforts did not, i think, reach print. "the deductions of severe reason." see the quotation from cottle in the letter to manning of november, . "a change of ministry." on liverpool's resignation early in canning had been called in to form a new ministry, which he effected by an alliance with the whigs. "godwin's _republic_"--_history of the commonwealth of england_, in four volumes, - . "fearn's _anti-tooke_"--_anti-tooke; or, an analysis of the principles and structure of language exemplified in the english tongue_, . here should come a note from lamb to hone, dated august , , in which lamb expresses regret for matilda hone's illness.] letter charles lamb to bernard barton [p.m. august, .] dear b.b.--i have not been able to: answer you, for we have had, and are having (i just snatch a moment), our poor quiet retreat, to which we fled from society, full of company, some staying with us, and this moment as i write almost a heavy importation of two old ladies has come in. whither can i take wing from the oppression of human faces? would i were in a wilderness of apes, tossing cocoa nuts about, grinning and grinned at! mitford was hoaxing you surely about my engraving, 'tis a little sixpenny thing, too like by half, in which the draughtsman has done his best to avoid flattery. there have been editions of it, which i think are all gone, as they have vanish'd from the window where they hung, a print shop, corner of great and little queen streets, lincolns inn fields, where any london friend of yours may inquire for it; for i am (tho' you _won't understand_ it) at enfield (mrs. leishman's, chase). we have been here near months, and shall stay or more, if people will let us alone, but they persecute us from village to village. so don't direct to _islington_ again, till further notice. i am trying my hand at a drama, in acts, founded on crabbe's "confidant," mutatis mutandis. you like the odyssey. did you ever read my "adventures of ulysses," founded on chapman's old translation of it? for children or _men_. ch. is divine, and my abridgment has not quite emptied him of his divinity. when you come to town i'll show it you. you have well described your old fashioned grand-paternall hall. is it not odd that every one's earliest recollections are of some such place. i had my blakesware (blakesmoor in the "london"). nothing fills a childs mind like a large old mansion [_one or two words wafered over_]; better if un-or-partially-occupied; peopled with the spirits of deceased members of [for] the county and justices of the quorum. would i were buried in the peopled solitude of one, with my feelings at years old. those marble busts of the emperors, they seem'd as if they were to stand for ever, as they had stood from the living days of rome, in that old marble hall, and i to partake of their permanency; eternity was, while i thought not of time. but he thought of me, and they are toppled down, and corn covers the spot of the noble old dwelling and its princely gardens. i feel like a grasshopper that chirping about the grounds escaped his scythe only by my littleness. ev'n now he is whetting one of his smallest razors to clean wipe me out, perhaps. well! ["my engraving"--brook pulham's caricature. "you have well described your ... grand-paternall hall." barton wrote the following account of this house, the home of his step-grandfather at tottenham; but i do not know whether it is the same that lamb saw:-- my most delightful recollections of boyhood are connected with the fine old country-house in a green lane diverging from the high road which runs through tottenham. i would give seven years of life as it now is, for a week of that which i then led. it was a large old house, with an iron palisade and a pair of iron gates in front, and a huge stone eagle on each pier. leading up to the steps by which you went up to the hall door, was a wide gravel walk, bordered in summer time by huge tubs, in which were orange and lemon trees, and in the centre of the grass-plot stood a tub yet huger, holding an enormous aloe, the hall itself, to my fancy then lofty and wide as a cathedral would seem now, was a famous place for battledore and shuttlecock; and behind was a garden, equal to that of old alcinous himself. my favourite walk was one of turf by a long straight pond, bordered with lime-trees. but the whole demesne was the fairy ground of my childhood; and its presiding genius was grandpapa. he must have been a very handsome man in his youth, for i remember him at nearly eighty, a very fine-looking one, even in the decay of mind and body. in the morning a velvet cap; by dinner, a flaxen wig; his features always expressive of benignity and placid cheerfulness. when he walked out into the garden, his cocked hat and amber-headed cane completed his costume. to the recollection of this delightful personage, i am, i think, indebted for many soothing and pleasing associations, with old age. "those marble busts of the emperors." see the _elia_ essay "blakesmoor in h----shire," in vol. ii, of this edition.] letter charles lamb to bernard barton th of aug., . i have left a place for a wafer, but can't find it again. dear b.b.--i am thankful to you for your ready compliance with my wishes. emma is delighted with your verses, to which i have appended this notice "the th line refers to the child of a dear friend of the author's, named emma," without which it must be obscure; and have sent it with four album poems of my own (your daughter's with _your_ heading, requesting it a place next mine) to a mr. fraser, who is to be editor of a more superb pocket book than has yet appeared by far! the property of some wealthy booksellers, but whom, or what its name, i forgot to ask. it is actually to have in it schoolboy exercises by his present majesty and the late duke of york, so lucy will come to court; how she will be stared at! wordsworth is named as a contributor. frazer, whom i have slightly seen, is editor of a forth-come or coming review of foreign books, and is intimately connected with lockhart, &c. so i take it that this is a concern of murray's. walter scott also contributes mainly. i have stood off a long time from these annuals, which are ostentatious trumpery, but could not withstand the request of jameson, a particular friend of mine and coleridge. i shall hate myself in frippery, strutting along, and vying finery with beaux and belles with "future lord byrons and sweet l.e.l.'s."-- your taste i see is less simple than mine, which the difference of our persuasions has doubtless effected. in fact, of late you have so frenchify'd your style, larding it with hors de combats, and au desopoirs, that o' my conscience the foxian blood is quite dried out of you, and the skipping monsieur spirit has been infused. doth lucy go to balls? i must remodel my lines, which i write for her. i hope a.k. keeps to her primitives. if you have any thing you'd like to send further, i don't know frazer's address, but i sent mine thro' mr. jameson, or cheyne street, totnam court road. i dare say an honourable place wou'd be given to them; but i have not heard from frazer since i sent mine, nor shall probably again, and therefore i do not solicit it as from him. yesterday i sent off my tragi comedy to mr. kemble. wish it luck. i made it all ('tis blank verse, and i think, of the true old dramatic cut) or most of it, in the green lanes about enfield, where i am and mean to remain, in spite of your peremptory doubts on that head. your refusal to lend your poetical sanction to my icon, and your reasons to evans, are most sensible. may be i may hit on a line or two of my own jocular. may be not. do you never londonize again? i should like to talk over old poetry with you, of which i have much, and you i think little. do your drummonds allow no holydays? i would willingly come and w[ork] for you a three weeks or so, to let you loose. would i could sell or give you some of my leisure! positively, the best thing a man can have to do is nothing, and next to that perhaps--good works. i am but poorlyish, and feel myself writing a dull letter; poorlyish from company, not generally, for i never was better, nor took more walks, miles a day on an average, with a sporting dog--dash--you would not know the plain poet, any more than he doth recognize james naylor trick'd out au deserpoy (how do you spell it.) en passant, j'aime entendre da mon bon hommè sur surveillance de croix, ma pas l'homme figuratif--do you understand me? [the verses with which emma was delighted were probably written for her album. i have not seen them. that album was cut up for the value of its autographs and exists now only in a mutilated state: where, i cannot discover. the pocket-book was _the bijou_, , edited by william fraser for pickering. only one of lamb's contributions was included: his verses for his own album (see vol. iv. of this edition). jameson was robert jameson, to whom hartley coleridge addressed the sonnets in the _london magazine_ to which lamb alludes in a previous letter. he was the husband of mrs. jameson, author of _sacred and legendary art_, but the marriage was not happy. he lived in chenies street. "future lord byrons and sweet l.e.l.'s." a line from some verses written by lamb in more than one album. probably originally intended for emma isola's album. the passage runs, answering the question, "what is an album?"-- 'tis a book kept by modern young ladies for show, of which their plain grandmothers nothing did know. 'tis a medley of scraps, fine verse, and fine prose, and some things not very like either, god knows. the soft first effusions of beaux and of belles, of future lord byrons and sweet l.e.l.'s. l.e.l. was, of course, the unhappy letitia landon, a famous contributor to the published albums. "my tragi comedy." still "the wife's trial." kemble was charles kemble, manager of covent garden theatre. the play was never acted. "your refusal to lend your poetical sanction." this is not clear, but i think the meaning to be deducible. the icon was pulham's etching of lamb. evans was william evans, who had grangerised byron's _english bards and scotch reviewers_. i take it that he was now making another collection of portraits of poets and was asking other poets, their friends, to write verses upon them. in this way he had applied through lamb to barton for verses on pulham's elia, and had been refused. this is, of course, only conjecture. "your drummonds"--your bankers. barton's bankers were the alexanders, a quaker firm. "james naylor." barton had paraphrased nayler's "testimony." following this letter, under the date august , , should come a letter from lamb to robert jameson (husband of mrs. jameson) asking him to interest himself in miss isola's career. "our friend coleridge will bear witness to the very excellent manner in which she read to him some of the most difficult passages in the paradise lost."] letter charles lamb to p.g. patmore mrs. leishman's, chace, enfield, september, . dear patmore--excuse my anxiety--but how is dash? (i should have asked if mrs. patmore kept her rules, and was improving--but dash came uppermost. the order of our thoughts should be the order of our writing.) goes he muzzled, or _aperto ore_? are his intellects sound, or does he wander a little in _his_ conversation? you cannot be too careful to watch the first symptoms of incoherence. the first illogical snarl he makes, to st. luke's with him! all the dogs here are going mad, if you believe the overseers; but i protest they seem to me very rational and collected. but nothing is so deceitful as mad people to those who are not used to them. try him with hot water. if he won't lick it up, it is a sign he does not like it. does his tail wag horizontally or perpendicularly? that has decided the fate of many dogs in enfield. is his general deportment cheerful? i mean when he is pleased--for otherwise there is no judging. you can't be too careful. has he bit any of the children yet? if he has, have them shot, and keep _him_ for curiosity, to see if it was the hydrophobia. they say all our army in india had it at one time--but that was in _hyder_-ally's time. do you get paunch for him? take care the sheep was sane. you might pull out his teeth (if he would let you), and then you need not mind if he were as mad as a bedlamite. it would be rather fun to see his odd ways. it might amuse mrs. patmore and the children. they'd have more sense than he! he'd be like a fool kept in the family, to keep the household in good humour with their own understanding. you might teach him the mad dance set to the mad howl. _madge owl-et_ would be nothing to him. "my, how he capers!" [_in the margin is written_:] one of the children speaks this. [_three lines here are erased_.] what i scratch out is a german quotation from lessing on the bite of rabid animals; but, i remember, you don't read german. but mrs. patmore may, so i wish i had let it stand. the meaning in english is--"avoid to approach an animal suspected of madness, as you would avoid fire or a precipice:--" which i think is a sensible observation. the germans are certainly profounder than we. if the slightest suspicion arises in your breast, that all is not right with him (dash), muzzle him, and lead him in a string (common pack-thread will do; he don't care for twist) to hood's, his quondam master, and he'll take him in at any time. you may mention your suspicion or not, as you like, or as you think it may wound or not mr. h.'s feelings. hood, i know, will wink at a few follies in dash, in consideration of his former sense. besides, hood is deaf, and if you hinted anything, ten to one he would not hear you. besides, you will have discharged your conscience, and laid the child at the right door, as they say. we are dawdling our time away very idly and pleasantly, at a mrs. leishman's, chace, enfield, where, if you come a-hunting, we can give you cold meat and a tankard. her husband is a tailor; but that, you know, does not make her one. i knew a jailor (which rhymes), but his wife was a fine lady. let us hear from you respecting mrs. patmore's regimen. i send my love in a ------ to dash. c. lamb. [_on the outside of the letter was written_:--] seriously, i wish you would call upon hood when you are that way. he's a capital fellow. i sent him a couple of poems --one ordered by his wife, and written to order; and 'tis a week since, and i've not heard from him. i fear something is the matter. _omitted within_ our kindest remembrance to mrs. p. [this is from patmore's _my friends and acquaintances_, ; but again i have no confidence in patmore's transcription. dash had been hood's dog, and afterwards was lamb's; while at one time moxon seems to have had the care of it. patmore possibly was taking dash while the lambs were at mrs. leishman's. one of the children who might be amused by the dog's mad ways was coventry patmore, afterwards the poet, then nearly four years old.] letter charles lamb to john bates dibdin [p.m. september , .] dear dib,--emma isola, who is with us, has opened an album: bring some verses with you for it on sat'y evening. any _fun_ will do. i am teaching her latin; you may make something of that. don't be modest. for in it you shall appear, if i rummage out some of your old pleasant letters for rhymes. but an original is better. has your pa[ ] any scrap? c.l. we shall be most glad to see your sister or sisters with you. can't you contrive it? write in that case. [footnote : the infantile word for father.] [on the blank pages inside the letter dibdin seems to have jotted down ideas for his contribution to the album. unfortunately, as i have said, the album is not forthcoming.] letter charles lamb to john bates dibdin [p.m. september , .] dear _john_--your verses are very pleasant, and have been adopted into the splendid emmatic constellation, where they are not of the least magnitude. she is delighted with their merit and readiness. they are just the thing. the th line is found. we advertised it. hell is cooling for want of company. we shall make it up along with our kitchen fire to roast you into our new house, where i hope you will find us in a few sundays. we have actually taken it, and a compact thing it will be. kemble does not return till the month's end. my heart sometimes is good, sometimes bad, about it, as the day turns out wet or walky. emma has just died, choak'd with a gerund in dum. on opening her we found a participle in rus in the pericordium. the king never dies, which may be the reason that it always reigns here. we join in loves. c.l. his orthograph. what a pen! the umberella is cum bak. letter charles lamb to john bates dibdin [p.m. september , .] my dear, and now more so, john-- how that name smacks! what an honest, full, english, and yet withal holy and apostolic sound it bears, above the methodistical priggish bishoppy name of timothy, under which i had obscured your merits! what i think of the paternal verses, you shall read within, which i assure you is not pen praise but heart praise. it is the gem of the dibdin muses. i have got all my books into my new house, and their readers in a fortnight will follow, to whose joint converse nobody shall be more welcome than you, and _any of yours_. the house is perfection to our use and comfort. milton is come. i wish wordsworth were here to meet him. the next importation is of pots and saucepans, window curtains, crockery and such base ware. the pleasure of moving, when becky moves for you. o the moving becky! i hope you will come and _warm_ the house with the first. from my temporary domicile, enfield. elia, that "is to go."-- [the paternal verses were probably a contribution by charles dibdin the younger for emma isola's album. the lambs were just moving to enfield for good, as they hoped (see next letter), milton was the portrait.] letter charles lamb to thomas hood tuesday [september , ], dear hood, if i have any thing in my head, i will send it to mr. watts. strictly speaking he should have had my album verses, but a very intimate friend importund me for the trifles, and i believe i forgot mr. watts, or lost sight at the time of his similar souvenir. jamieson conveyed the farce from me to mrs. c. kemble, _he_ will not be in town before the th. give our kind loves to all at highgate, and tell them that we have finally torn ourselves out right away from colebrooke, where i had no health, and are about to domiciliate for good at enfield, where i have experienced _good_. lord what good hours do we keep! how quietly we sleep! see the rest in the complete angler. we have got our books into our new house. i am a drayhorse if i was not asham'd of the indigested dirty lumber, as i toppled 'em out of the cart, and blest becky that came with 'em for her having an unstuffd brain with such rubbish. we shall get in by michael's mass. twas with some pain we were evuls'd from colebrook. you may find some of our flesh sticking to the door posts. to change habitations is to die to them, and in my time i have died seven deaths. but i don't know whether every such change does not bring with it a rejuvenescence. tis an enterprise, and shoves back the sense of death's approximating, which tho' not terrible to me, is at all times particularly distasteful. my house-deaths have generally been periodical, recurring after seven years, but this last is premature by half that time. cut off in the flower of colebrook. the middletonian stream and all its echoes mourn. even minnows dwindle. a parvis fiunt minimi. i fear to invite mrs. hood to our new mansion, lest she envy it, & rote [? rout] us. but when we are fairly in, i hope she will come & try it. i heard she & you were made uncomfortable by some unworthy to be cared for attacks, and have tried to set up a feeble counteraction thro' the table book of last saturday. has it not reach'd you, that you are silent about it? our new domicile is no manor house, but new, & externally not inviting, but furnish'd within with every convenience. capital new locks to every door, capital grates in every room, with nothing to pay for incoming & the rent £ less than the islington one. it was built a few years since at £ expence, they tell me, & i perfectly believe it. and i get it for £ exclusive of moderate taxes. we think ourselves most lucky. it is not our intention to abandon regent street, & west end perambulations (monastic & terrible thought!), but occasionally to breathe the fresher air of the metropolis. we shall put up a bedroom or two (all we want) for occasional ex-rustication, where we shall visit, not be visited. plays too we'll see,--perhaps our own. urban! sylvani, & sylvan urbanuses in turns. courtiers for a spurt, then philosophers. old homely tell-truths and learn-truths in the virtuous shades of enfield, liars again and mocking gibers in the coffee houses & resorts of london. what can a mortal desire more for his bi-parted nature? o the curds & cream you shall eat with us here! o the turtle soup and lobster sallads we shall devour with you there! o the old books we shall peruse here! o the new nonsense we shall trifle over there! o sir t. browne!--here. o mr. hood & mr. jerdan there, thine, c (urbanus) l (sylvanus) (elia ambo)-- inclos'd are verses which emma sat down to write, her first, on the eve after your departure. of course they are only for mrs. h.'s perusal. they will shew at least, that one of our party is not willing to cut old friends. what to call 'em i don't know. blank verse they are not, because of the rhymes--rhimes they are not, because of the blank verse. heroics they are not, because they are lyric, lyric they are not, because of the heroic measure. they must be call'd emmaics.------ [mr. watts was alaric a. watts. "thro' the _table book_." lamb contributed to hone's _table book_ a prose paraphrase of hood's _plea, of the midsummer fairies_, just published, which had been dedicated to him, under the title "the defeat of time." in a previous number moxon had addressed to hood a eulogistic sonnet on the same subject. the attacks on hood i have not sought. "we shall put up a bedroom." this project was very imperfectly carried out. indeed lamb practically lost london from this date, his subsequent visits there being as a rule not fortunate. "mr. jerdan"--william jerdan, editor of the _literary gazette_. "emmaics." these verses are no longer forthcoming. here should come a letter to allsop dated september , , saying that mary lamb has her nurse miss james and the house is melancholy. given in the boston bibliophile edition.] letter charles lamb to henry colburn [dated at end: september , .] dear sir--i beg leave in the warmest manner to recommend to your notice mr. moxon, the bearer of this, if by any chance yourself should want a steady hand in your business, or know of any publisher that may want such a one. he is at present in the house of messrs. longman and co., where he has been established for more than six years, and has the conduct of one of the four departments of the country line. a difference respecting salary, which he expected to be a little raised on his last promotion, makes him wish to try to better himself. i believe him to be a young man of the highest integrity, and a thorough man of business; and should not have taken the liberty of recommending him, if i had not thought him capable of being highly useful. i am, sir, with great respect, your hble serv't charles lamb. enfield, chace side, th sep. . [moxon did not go to colburn, but to hurst & co. in st. paul's churchyard.] letter charles lamb to edward moxon [no date. ?sept. , .] pray, send me the table book. dear m. our pleasant meeting[s] for some time are suspended. my sister was taken very ill in a few hours after you left us (i had suspected it),--and i must wait eight or nine weeks in slow hope of her recovery. it is her old complaint. you will say as much to the hoods, and to mrs. lovekin, and mrs. hazlitt, with my kind love. we are in the house, that is all. i hope one day we shall both enjoy it, and see our friends again. but till then i must be a solitary nurse. i am trying becky's sister to be with her, so don't say anything to miss james. yours truly ch. lamb. monday. i will send your books soon. [miss james was, as we have seen, mary lamb's regular nurse. she had subsequently to be sent for. i do not identify mrs. lovekin.] letter charles lamb to henry crabb robinson [dated at end: october ( ).] dear r.--i am settled for life i hope, at enfield. i have taken the prettiest compactest house i ever saw, near to antony robinson's, but alas! at the expence of poor mary, who was taken ill of her old complaint the night before we got into it. so i must suspend the pleasure i expected in the surprise you would have had in coming down and finding us householders. farewell, till we can all meet comfortable. pray, apprise martin burney. him i longed to have seen with you, but our house is too small to meet either of you without her knowledge. god bless you. c. lamb. chase side st oct'r [antony robinson, a prominent unitarian, a friend but no relation of crabb robinson's, had died in the previous january. his widow still lived at enfield.] letter charles lamb to john bates dibdin [p.m. october , .] my dear dibdin, it gives me great pain to have to say that i cannot have the pleasure of seeing you for some time. we are in our house, but mary has been seized with one of her periodical disorders--a temporary derangement--which commonly lasts for two months. you shall have the first notice of her convalescence. can you not send your manuscript by the coach? directed to chase side, next to mr. westwood's insurance office. i will take great care of it. yours most truly c. lamb. letter charles lamb to barron field oct. th, . i am not in humour to return a fit reply to your pleasant letter. we are fairly housed at enfield, and an angel shall not persuade me to wicked london again. we have now six sabbath days in a week for--_none_! the change has worked on my sister's mind, to make her ill; and i must wait a tedious time before we can hope to enjoy this place in unison. enjoy it, when she recovers, i know we shall. i see no shadow, but in her illness, for repenting the step! for mathews --i know my own utter unfitness for such a task. i am no hand at describing costumes, a great requisite in an account of mannered pictures. i have not the slightest acquaintance with pictorial language even. an imitator of me, or rather pretender to be _me_, in his rejected articles, has made me minutely describe the dresses of the poissardes at calais!--i could as soon resolve euclid. i have no eye for forms and fashions. i substitute analysis, and get rid of the phenomenon by slurring in for it its impression. i am sure you must have observed this defect, or peculiarity, in my writings; else the delight would be incalculable in doing such a thing for mathews, whom i greatly like--and mrs. mathews, whom i almost greatlier like. what a feast 'twould be to be sitting at the pictures painting 'em into words; but i could almost as soon make words into pictures. i speak this deliberately, and not out of modesty. i pretty well know what i can't do. my sister's verses are homely, but just what they should be; i send them, not for the poetry, but the good sense and good-will of them. i was beginning to transcribe; but emma is sadly jealous of its getting into more hands, and i won't spoil it in her eyes by divulging it. come to enfield, and _read it_. as my poor cousin, the bookbinder, now with god, told me, most sentimentally, that having purchased a picture of fish at a dead man's sale, his heart ached to see how the widow grieved to part with it, being her dear husband's favourite; and he almost apologised for his generosity by saying he could not help telling the widow she was "welcome to come and look at it"--e.g. at _his house_--"as often as she pleased." there was the germ of generosity in an uneducated mind. he had just _reading_ enough from the backs of books for the "_nec sinit esse feros_"--had he read inside, the same impulse would have led him to give back the two-guinea thing--with a request to see it, now and then, at _her_ house. we are parroted into delicacy.--thus you have a tale for a sonnet. adieu! with (imagine both) our loves. c. lamb. [the suggestion had been made to lamb, through barron field, that he should write a descriptive catalogue of charles mathews' collection of theatrical portraits; lamb having already touched upon them in his "old actors" articles in the _london magazine_ (see vol. ii. of this edition). when they were exhibited, after mathews' death, at the pantheon in oxford street, lamb's remarks were appended to the catalogue _raisonné_. they are now at the garrick club. "an imitator of me." p.g. patmore's _rejected articles_, , leads off with "an unsentimental journey" by elia which is, except for a fitful superficial imitation of some of lamb's mannerisms, as unlike him as could well be. the description of the butterwomen's dress, to which lamb refers, will illustrate the divergence between elia and his parodist:-- her attire is fashioned as follows: and it differs from all her tribe only in the relative arrangement of its colours. on the body a crimson jacket, of a thick, solid texture, and tight to the shape; but without any pretence at ornament. this is met at the waist (which is neither long, nor short, but exactly where nature placed it) by a dark blue petticoat, of a still thicker texture, so that it hangs in large plaits where it is gathered in behind. over this, in front, is tied tightly round the waist, so as to keep all trim and compact, a dark apron, the string of which passes over the little fulled skirt of the jacket behind, and makes it stick out smartly and tastily, while it clips the waist in. the head-gear consists of a sort of mob cap, nothing of which but the edge round the face can be seen, on account of the kerchief (of flowered cotton) which is passed over it, hood fashion, and half tied under the chin. this head-kerchief is in place of the bonnet--a thing not to be seen among the whole five hundred females who make up this pleasant show. indeed, varying the colours of the different articles, this description applies to every dress of the whole assembly; except that in some the fineness of the day has dispensed with the kerchief, and left the snow-white cap exposed; and in others, the whole figure (except the head) is coyishly covered and concealed by a large hooded cloak of black cloth, daintily lined with silk, and confined close up to the throat by an embossed silver clasp, but hanging loosely down to the heels, in thick, full folds. the petticoat is very short; the trim ancles are cased in close-fit hose of dark, sober, slate colour; and the shoes, though thick and serviceable like all the rest of the costume, fit the foot as neatly as those which are not made to walk in. patmore tells us that his first meeting with the lambs was immediately after they had first seen his book; and they left the house intent upon reading it. "my sister's verses." i think these would probably be the lines on emma learning latin which i have quoted above. here should come a very pleasant letter from lamb to dodwell, of the india house, dated october , . lamb thanks dodwell, to whom there is an earlier letter extant, for a pig. he first describes his new house at enfield, and then breaks off about the cooking of the pig, bidding becky do it "nice and _crips_." the rest is chaff concerning the india house and dodwell's fellow-clerks.] letter charles lamb to william hone [no date. ? oct., .] dear hone,--having occasion to write to clarke i put in a bit to you. i see no extracts in this n'o. you should have three sets in hand, one long one in particular from atreus and thyestes, terribly fine. don't spare 'em; with fragments, divided as you please, they'll hold out to xmas. what i have to say is enjoined me most seriously to say to you by moxon. their country customers grieve at getting the table book so late. it is indispensable it should appear on friday. do it but _once_, & you'll never know the difference. fable a boy at my school, a cunning fox, for one penny ensured himself a hot roll & butter every morning for ever. some favor'd ones were allowed a roll & butter to their breakfasts. he had none. but he bought one one morning. what did he do? he did not eat it, but cutting it in two, sold each one of the halves to a half-breakfasted blue boy for _his_ whole roll to-morrow. the next day he had a whole roll to eat, and two halves to swap with other two boys, who had eat their cake & were still not satiated, for whole ones to-morrow. so on ad infinitum. by one morning's abstinence he feasted seven years after. application bring out the next n'o. on friday, for country correspondents' sake. i[t] will be one piece of exertion, and you will go right ever after, for you will have just the time you had before, to bring it out ever after by the friday. you don't know the difference in getting a thing early. your correspondents are your authors. you don't know how an author frets to know the world has got his contribution, when he finds it not on his breakfast table. once in this case is ever without a grain of trouble afterw'ds. i won't like you or speak to you if you don't try it once. yours, on that condition, c. lamb. [this letter is dated by mr. hazlitt conjecturally , but i think it more probably october, , as the extracts (passages from crowne's "thyestes") contributed by lamb to hone's _table book_ were printed late in . in lamb's next note to hone he says how glad he was to receive the _table book_ early on friday: the result of the fable.] letter charles lamb to thomas hood [no date. ? .] dear h.,--emma has a favour, besides a bed, to ask of mrs. hood. your parcel was gratifying. we have all been pleased with mrs. leslie; i speak it most sincerely. there is much manly sense with a feminine expression, which is my definition of ladies' writing. [_mrs. leslie and her grandchildren_, , was the title of a book for children by mrs. reynolds, mother of john hamilton reynolds and mrs. hood, and wife of the writing master at christ's hospital.] letter charles lamb to bernard barton [no date. late .] 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, tho' not of her domestication, for eight or nine weeks together. i see her, but it does her no good. but for this, we have the snuggest, most comfortable house, with every thing most compact and desirable. colebrook is a wilderness. the books, prints, etc., are come here, and the new river 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 tried quiet here for four months, and i will answer for the comfort of it enduring. on emptying my bookshelves i found an ulysses, which i will send to a.k. when i go to town, for her acceptance-- unless the book be out of print. one likes to have one copy of every thing 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 money. it had in the title-page "by the author of mrs. 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 edw'd st caused to be built for his wife at every town where her corpse rested between northamptonsh'r and london. a stately cross each sad spot doth attest, whereat the corpse of elinor did rest, from herdby fetch'd--her spouse so honour'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 akes with this little excursion. pray accept sides for for once. and believe me yours sadly c.l. chace side enfield. ["an ulysses"--lamb's book for children, _the adventures of ulysses_, . _the poetry for children_. the known copies of the first edition of this work can be counted on the fingers. "a stately cross..." these verses were printed in the _englishman's magazine_ in september, . lamb's sympathies were wholly with caroline of brunswick, as his epigrams in _the champion_ show (see vol. iv. of this edition).] letter charles lamb to bernard barton [p.m. december , .] my dear b.b.--i have scarce spirits to write, yet am harass'd with not writing. nine weeks are completed, and mary does not get any better. it is perfectly exhausting. enfield and every thing is very gloomy. but for long experience, i should fear her ever getting well. i feel most thankful for the spinsterly attentions of your sister. thank the kind "knitter in the sun." what nonsense seems verse, when one is seriously out of hope and spirits! i mean that at this time i have some nonsense to write, pain of incivility. would to the fifth heaven no coxcombess had invented albums. i have not had a bijoux, nor the slightest notice from pickering about omitting out of of my things. the best thing is never to hear of such a thing as a bookseller again, or to think there are publishers: second hand stationers and old book stalls for me. authorship should be an idea of the past. old kings, old bishops, are venerable. all present is hollow. i cannot make a letter. i have no straw, not a pennyworth of chaff, only this may stop your kind importunity to know about us. here is a comfortable house, but no tenants. one does not make a household. do not think i am quite in despair, but in addition to hope protracted, i have a stupifying cold and obstructing headache, and the sun is dead. i will not fail to apprise you of the revival of a beam. meantime accept this, rather than think i have forgotten you all. best rememb & yours and theirs truly, c.l. letter charles lamb to leigh hunt [no date. december, .] dear h.,--i am here almost in the eleventh week of the longest illness my sister ever had, and no symptoms of amendment. some had begun, but relapsed with a change of nurse. if she ever gets well, you will like my house, and i shall be happy to show you enfield country. as to my head, it is perfectly at your or any one's service; either m[e]yers' or hazlitt's, which last (done fifteen or twenty years since) white, of the accountant's office, india house, has; he lives in kentish town: i forget where, but is to be found in leadenhall daily. take your choice. i should be proud to hang up as an alehouse sign even; or, rather, i care not about my head or anything, but how we are to get well again, for i am tired out. god bless you and yours from the worst calamity.--yours truly, c.l. kindest remembrances to mrs. hunt. h.'s is in a queer dress. m.'s would be preferable _ad populum_. [leigh hunt had asked lamb for his portrait to accompany his _lord byron and some of his contemporaries_. lamb had been painted by hazlitt in , and by henry meyer, full size, in may, , as well as by others. hunt chose meyer's picture, which was beautifully engraved, for his book, in the large paper edition. the original is now in the india office; a reproduction serves as the frontispiece to this volume. the hazlitt portrait, representing lamb in the garb of a venetian senator, is now in the national portrait gallery; a reproduction serves as the frontispiece to vol. i. of this edition.] letter charles lamb to william hone [p.m. dec. , .] my dear hone, i read the sad accident with a careless eye, the newspaper giving a wrong name to the poor sufferer, but learn'd the truth from clarke. god send him ease, and you comfort in your thick misfortunes. i am in a sorry state. tis the eleventh week of the illness, and i cannot get her well. to add to the calamity, miss james is obliged to leave us in a day or two. we had an enfield nurse for seven weeks, and just as she seem'd mending, _she_ was call'd away. miss j.'s coming seem'd to put her back, and now she is going. i do not compare my sufferings to yours, but you see the world is full of troubles. i wish i could say a word to comfort you. you must cling to all that is left. i fear to ask you whether the book is to be discontinued. what a pity, when it must have delighted so many! let me hear about you and it, and believe me with deepest fellow feeling your friend c. lamb. friday eveng. [hone's son alfred, who had met with an accident, was a sculptor. the _table book_ was to close with the year.] letter charles lamb to thomas allsop [no date. ? middle dec., .] my dear allsop--thanks for the birds. your announcement puzzles me sadly as nothing came. i send you back a word in your letter, which i can positively make nothing [of] and therefore return to you as useless. it means to refer to the birds, but gives me no information. they are at the fire, however. my sister's illness is the most obstinate she ever had. it will not go away, and i am afraid miss james will not be able to stay above a day or two longer. i am desperate to think of it sometimes. 'tis eleven weeks! the day is sad as my prospects. with kindest love to mrs. a. and the children, yours, c.l. no atlas this week. poor hone's good boy alfred has fractured his skull, another son is returned "dead" from the navy office, & his book is going to be given up, not having answered. what a world of troubles this is! [the _atlas_ was the paper which allsop sent to lamb every week.] letter charles lamb to thomas allsop [december , .] my dear allsop--i have writ to say to you that i hope to have a comfortable xmas-day with mary, and i can not bring myself to go from home at present. your kind offer, and the kind consent of the young lady to come, we feel as we should do; pray accept all of you our kindest thanks: at present i think a visitor (good & excellent as we remember her to be) might a little put us out of our way. emma is with us, and our small house just holds us, without obliging mary to sleep with becky, &c. we are going on extremely comfortably, & shall soon be in capacity of seeing our friends. much weakness is left still. with thanks and old rememb'rs, yours, c.l. letter charles lamb to edward moxon [p.m. dec. , .] my dear moxon, i am at length able to tell you that we are all doing well, and shall be able soon to see our friends as usual. if you will venture a winter walk to enfield tomorrow week (sunday oth) you will find us much as usual; we intend a delicious quiet christmas day, dull and friendless, for we have not spirits for festivities. pray communicate the good news to the hoods, and say i hope he is better. i should be thankful for any of the books you mention, but i am so apprehensive of their miscarriage by the stage,--at all events i want none just now. pray call and see mrs. lovekin, i heard she was ill; say we shall be glad to see them some fine day after a week or so. may i beg you to call upon miss james, and say that we are quite well, and that mary hopes she will excuse her writing herself yet; she knows that it is rather troublesome to her to write. we have rec'd her letter. farewell, till we meet. yours truly, c. lamb. enfield. letter charles lamb to bernard barton [no date. end of .] my dear b.--we are all pretty well again and comfortable, and i take a first opportunity of sending the adventures of ulysses, hoping that among us--homer, chapman, and _c'o_.--we shall afford you some pleasure. 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 _for ever_. with 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 two days but my landlord's daughter (not at the pot house) requested me to write in her female friend's, and in her own; if i go to [blank space: something seems to be missing] thou art there also, o 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 albo-phobia! ["a trumpery book." i have not found it. writing in the _englishman's magazine_ in , in a review of his own _album verses_, lamb amplifies his sentiments on albums (see vol. i.).] letter charles lamb to thomas allsop [january , .] dear allsop--i have been very poorly and nervous lately, but am recovering sleep, &c. i do not invite or make engagements for particular days; but i need not say how pleasant your dropping in _any_ sunday morn'g would be. perhaps jameson would accompany you. pray beg him to keep an accurate record of the warning i sent by him to old pan, for i dread lest he should at the months' end deny the warning. the house is his daughter's, but we took it through him, and have paid the rent to his receipts for his daughter's. consult j. if he thinks the warning sufficient. i am very nervous, or have been, about the house; lost my sleep, & expected to be ill; but slumbered gloriously last night golden slumbers. i shall not relapse. you fright me with your inserted slips in the most welcome atlas. they begin to charge double for it, & call it two sheets. how can i confute them by opening it, when a note of yours might slip out, & we get in a hobble? when you write, write real letters. mary's best love & mine to mrs. a. yours ever, c. lamb. [i cannot explain the business part of this letter.] letter charles lamb to edward moxon [p.m. (? january, sunday) .] dear moxon i have to thank you for despatching so much business for me. i am uneasy respecting the enclosed receipts which you sent me and are dated jan. . pray get them chang'd by mr. henshall to _ _. i have been in a very nervous way since i saw you. pray excuse me to the hoods for not answering his very pleasant letter. i am very poorly. the "keepsake" i hope is return'd. i sent it back by mrs. hazlitt on thursday. 'twas blotted outside when it came. the rest i think are mine. my heart bleeds about poor hone, that such an agreeable book, and a book there seem'd no reason should not go on for ever, should be given up, and a thing substituted which in its nature cannot last. don't send me any more "companions," for it only vexes me about the table book. this is not weather to hope to see any body _to day_, but without any particular invitations, pray consider that we are _at any time_ most glad to see you, you (with hunt's "lord byron" or hazlitt's "napoleon" in your hand) or you simply with your switch &c. the night was damnable and the morning is not too bless-able. if you get my dates changed, i will not trouble you with business for some time. best of all rememb'ces to the hoods, with a malicious congratulation on their friend rice's advancem't. yours truly c. lamb. [hone's _table book_ ceased with : it was succeeded by a reprint, in monthly parts, of strutt's _sports and pastimes_. _the companion_ would be the periodical started by leigh hunt in . "hazlitt's 'napoleon.'" of this work the first two volumes appeared in , and the next two in . "their friend rice's advancement." i cannot say to what this would refer. rice was edward rice.] letter charles lamb to edward moxon [p.m. feb. , .] dear m. i had rather thought to have seen you yesterday, or i should have written to thank you for your attentions in the book way &c. hone's address is, _ _ belvidere place, southwark. 'tis near the obelisk. i can only say we shall be most glad to see you, when weather suits, and that it will be a joyful surprisal to see the hoods. i should write to them, but am poorly and nervous. emma is very proud of her valentine. mary does not immediately want books, having a damn'd consignment of novels in ms. from malta: which i wish the mediterranean had in its guts. believe me yours truly c.l. monday. [emma's valentine probably came from moxon, who, i feel sure, in spite of lamb's utterance in a previous letter, had not yet told his love, if it had really budded. "novels in ms."--lady stoddart's, we may suppose (see letter above).] letter charles lamb to charles cowden clarke enfield, feb. [ ]. my dear clarke,--you have been accumulating on me such a heap of pleasant obligations that i feel uneasy in writing as to a benefactor. your smaller contributions, the little weekly rills, are refreshments in the desart, but your large books were feasts. i hope mrs. hazlitt, to whom i encharged it, has taken hunt's lord b. to the novellos. his picture of literary lordship is as pleasant as a disagreeable subject can be made, his own poor man's education at dear christ's is as good and hearty as the subject. hazlitt's speculative episodes are capital; i skip the battles. but how did i deserve to have the book? the _companion_ has too much of madam pasta. theatricals have ceased to be popular attractions. his walk home after the play is as good as the best of the old indicators. the watchmen are emboxed in a niche of fame, save the skaiting one that must be still fugitive. i wish i could send a scrap for good will. but i have been most seriously unwell and nervous a long long time. i have scarce mustered courage to begin this short note, but conscience duns me. i had a pleasant letter from your sister, greatly over-acknowledging my poor sonnet. i think i should have replied to it, but tell her i think so. alas for sonnetting, 'tis as the nerves are; all the summer i was dawdling among green lanes, and verses came as thick as fancies. i am sunk winterly below prose and zero. but i trust the vital principle is only as under snow. that i shall yet laugh again. i suppose the great change of place affects me, but i could not have lived in town, i could not bear company. i see novello flourishes in the del capo line, and dedications are not forgotten. i read the _atlas_. when i pitched on the ded'n i looked for the broom of "_cowden_ knows" to be harmonized, but 'twas summat of rossini's. i want to hear about hone, does he stand above water, how is his son? i have delay'd writing to him, till it seems impossible. break the ice for me. the wet ground here is intolerable, the sky above clear and delusive, but under foot quagmires from night showers, and i am cold-footed and moisture-abhorring as a cat; nevertheless i yesterday tramped to waltham cross; perhaps the poor bit of exertion necessary to scribble this was owing to that unusual bracing. if i get out, i shall get stout, and then something will out --i mean for the _companion_--you see i rhyme insensibly. traditions are rife here of one clarke a schoolmaster, and a runaway pickle named holmes, but much obscurity hangs over it. is it possible they can be any relations? 'tis worth the research, when you can find a sunny day, with ground firm, &c. master sexton is intelligent, and for half-a-crown he'll pick you up a father. in truth we shall be most glad to see any of the novellian circle, middle of the week such as can come, or sunday, as can't. but spring will burgeon out quickly, and then, we'll talk more. you'd like to see the improvements on the chase, the new cross in the market-place, the chandler's shop from whence the rods were fetch'd. they are raised a farthing since the spread of education. but perhaps you don't care to be reminded of the holofernes' days, and nothing remains of the old laudable profession, but the clear, firm, impossible-to-be-mistaken schoolmaster text hand with which is subscribed the ever-welcome name of chas. cowden c. let me crowd in both our loves to all. c.l. let me never be forgotten to include in my rememb'ces my good friend and whilom correspondent master stephen. how, especially, is victoria? i try to remember all i used to meet at shacklewell. the little household, cake-producing, wine-bringing out emma--the old servant, that didn't stay, and ought to have staid, and was always very dirty and friendly, and miss h., the counter-tenor with a fine voice, whose sister married thurtell. they all live in my mind's eye, and mr. n.'s and holmes's walks with us half back after supper. troja fuit! ["_the companion_." leigh hunt's paper lasted only for seven months. madame pasta, of whom too much was written, was giudetta pasta ( - ), a singer of unusual compass, for whom bellini wrote "la somnambula." the following is the account of the sliding watchman in the essay, "walks home by night in bad weather. watchmen":-- but the oddest of all was the _sliding_ watchman. think of walking up a street in the depth of a frosty winter, with long ice in the gutters, and sleet over head, and then figure to yourself a sort of bale of a man in white, coming towards you with a lantern in one hand, and an umbrella over his head. it was the oddest mixture of luxury and hardship, of juvenility and old age! but this looked agreeable. animal spirits carry everything before them; and our invincible friend seemed a watchman for rabelais. time was run at and butted by him like a goat. the slide seemed to bear him half through the night at once; he slipped from out of his box and his common-places at one rush of a merry thought, and seemed to say, "everything's in imagination;--here goes the whole weight of my office." "your sister"--mrs. isabella jane towers, author of _the children's fireside_, , and other books for children, to whom lamb had sent a sonnet (see vol. iv.). "novello... dedications... i read the _atlas_." in _the atlas_ for february was reviewed _select airs from spohr's celebrated opera of faust, arranged as duetts for the pianoforte and inscribed to his friend charles cowden clarke by vincent novello_. holmes was musical critic for _the atlas_. "one clarke a schoolmaster." see note to the letter to clarke in the summer of . "holofernes' days"--holofernes, the schoolmaster, in "love's labour's lost." cowden clarke had assisted his father. "master stephen." i do not identify stephen. "victoria"--mary victoria novello, afterwards mrs. charles cowden clarke. "at shacklewell"--the novellos' old home. they now lived in bedford street, covent garden. "whose sister married thurtell." thurtell, the murderer of mr. weare, i suppose. in the boston bibliophile edition there is also a brief note to clarke.] letter charles lamb to henry crabb robinson [p.m. feb. , .] my dear robinson, it will be a very painful thing to us indeed, if you give up coming to see us, as we fear, on account of the nearness of the poor lady you inquire after. it is true that on the occasion she mentions, which was on her return from last seeing her daughter, she was very heated and feverish, but there seems to be a great amendment in her since, and she has within a day or two passed a quiet evening with us. at the same time i dare not advise any thing one way or another respecting her daughter coming to live with her. i entirely disclaim the least opinion about it. if we named any thing before her, it was erroneously, on the notion that _she_ was the obstacle to the plan which had been suggested of placing her daughter in a private family, _which seem'd your wish_. but i have quite done with the subject. if we can be of any amusement to the poor lady, without self disturbance, we will. but come and see us after circuit, as if she were not. you have no more affect'te friends than c. and m. lamb. ["the poor lady" was, i imagine, the widow of antony robinson.] letter charles lamb to edward moxon march th, . 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 refuse 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 epistle yesterday; besides that, emma has decided objections to her own and her friend's album verses being published; but if she gets over that, they are decidedly hood's. till we meet, farewell. loves to dash. c.l. [moxon seems to have asked lamb for a contribution for one of hurst's annuals, probably the _keepsake_. hood was to edit _the gem_ for . "dash."--moxon seems to have been the present master of the dog. here should come a letter from lamb to edward irving, introducing hone, who in later life became devout and preached at the weigh house chapel in eastcheap.] letter charles lamb to bernard barton [p.m. april , .] dear b.b.--you must excuse my silence. i have been in very poor health and spirits, and cannot write letters. i only write to assure you, as you wish'd, of my existence. all that which mitford tells you of h.'s book is rhodomontade, only h. has written unguardedly about me, and nothing makes a man more foolish than his own foolish panegyric. but i am pretty well cased to flattery, or its contrary. neither affect[s] me a turnip's worth. do you see the author of may you like it? do you write to him? will you give my present plea to him of ill health for not acknowledge a pretty book with a pretty frontispiece he sent me. he is most esteem'd by me. as for subscribing to books, in plain truth i am a man of reduced income, and don't allow myself shillings a-year to buy old books with, which must be my excuse. i am truly sorry for murray's demur, but i wash my hands of all booksellers, and hope to know them no more. i am sick and poorly and must leave off, with our joint kind remembrances to your daughter and friend a.k. c.l. ["h.'s book." in hunt's _lord byron and some of his contemporaries_ lamb was praised very warmly. "the author of may you like it"--the rev. c.b. tayler. the book with a pretty frontispiece was _a fireside book_, , with a frontispiece by george cruikshank. "murray's demur"-an unfavourable reply, possibly to a suggestion of barton's concerning a new volume.] letter charles lamb to thomas allsop [may st, .] dear a.--i am better. mary quite well. we expected to see you before. i can't write long letters. so a friendly love to you all. yours ever, c.l. enfield. this sunshine is healing. letter charles lamb to edward moxon [p.m. may rd, .] dear m.,--my friend patmore, author of the "months," a very pretty publication, [and] of sundry essays in the "london," "new monthly," &c., wants to dispose of a volume or two of "tales." perhaps they might chance to suit hurst; but be that as it may, he will call upon you, _under favor of my recommendation_; and as he is returning 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 fellow, 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. [patmore was the author of _the mirror of the months_, .] letter charles lamb to walter wilson [dated at end: may ( ).] dear walter, the sight of your old name again was like a resurrection. it had passed away into the dimness of a dead friend. we shall be most joyful to see you here next week,--if i understand you right--for your note dated the th arrived only yesterday, friday the _ th_. suppose i name _thursday_ next. if that don't suit, write to say so. a morning coach comes from the bell or bell & crown by leather lane holborn, and sets you down at our house on the chase side, next door to mr. westwood's, whom all the coachmen know. i have four more notes to write, so dispatch this with again assuring you how happy we shall be to see you, & to discuss defoe & old matters. yours truly c. lamb. enf'd. satur'dy. th may. [the last letter to wilson was on feb. , . lamb wrote to hone a few days later: "valter vilson dines with us to-morrow. vell! how i should like to see hone!"] letter charles lamb to thomas noon talfourd [p.m. may , .] my dear talfourd, we propose being with you on wednesday not unearly, mary to take a bed with you, and i with crabbe, if, as i understand, he be of the party. yours ever, ch. lamb. [lamb's future biographer was then living at henrietta street, brunswick square. he had married in . crabb robinson's _diary_ for may tells us that talfourd's party consisted of the lambs, wordsworth, miss anne rutt, three barristers and himself. lamb was in excellent spirits. he slept at robinson's that night.] letter charles lamb to william wordsworth [no date. may, .] dear wordsworth, we had meant to have tried to see mrs. wordsworth and dora next wednesday, but we are intercepted by a violent toothache which mary has got by getting up next morning after parting with you, to be with my going off at / past holborn. we are poor travellers, and moreover we have company (damn 'em) good people, mr. hone and an old crony not seen for years, coming here on tuesday, one stays night with us, and mary doubts my power to get up time enough, and comfort enough, to be so far as you are. will you name a day in the same or coming week that we can come to you in the morning, for it would plague us not to see the other two of you, whom we cannot individualize from you, before you go. it is bad enough not to see your sister dorothy. god bless you sincerely c. lamb. [robinson dates this letter , but this is clearly wrong. it was obviously written after lamb's liberation from the india house. if, as i suppose, the old crony is walter wilson, we get the date from lamb's letters to him and to hone, mentioned above. by "the other two of you" lamb means dora wordsworth and johnny wordsworth. lamb had already seen william. the address of the present letter is w. wordsworth, esq., bryanstone street, portman square. here should come a letter from lamb to cary, dated june , , declining on account of ill-health an invitation to dinner, to meet wordsworth. instead he asks cary to enfield with darley and procter.] letter charles lamb to mrs. morgan enfield, june, . the gentleman who brings this to you has been years principal assistant at the first school in enfield, and bears the highest character for carefulness and scholarship. he is about opening an establishment of his own, a classical and _commercial_ academy at peckham. he has just married a very notable and amiable young person, our next neighbour's daughter, and i do not doubt of their final success, but everything must have a beginning and he wants pupils. it strikes me, that one or two of mr. thompson's sons may be about leaving you,--in that case, if you can recommend my friend's school, you will much oblige me. i can answer for the very excellent manner in which he has conducted himself here as an assistant, for i have talked it over with dr. may's brother and i _know_ him to be very learned. he will explain to you the situation of our cottage, where we hope to see you soon--with mary's kind love. [the gentleman was a mr. sugden.] letter mary lamb to the thomas hoods [no date. ? summer, .] my dear friends,--my brother and emma are to send you a partnership letter, but as i have a great dislike to my stupid scrap at the fag end of a dull letter, and, as i am left alone, i will say my say first; and in the first place thank you for your kind letter; it was a mighty comfort to me. ever since you left me, i have been thinking i know not what, but every possible thing that i could invent, why you should be angry with me for something i had done or left undone during your uncomfortable sojourn with us, and now i read your letter and think and feel all is well again. emma and her sister harriet are gone to theobalds park, and charles is gone to barnet to cure his headache, which a good old lady has talked him into. she came on thursday and left us yesterday evening. i mean she was mrs. paris, with whom emma's aunt lived at cambridge, and she had so much to [tell] her about cambridge friends, and to [tell] us about london ditto, that her tongue was never at rest through the whole day, and at night she took hood's whims and oddities to bed with her and laught all night. bless her spirits! i wish i had them and she were as mopey as i am. emma came on monday, and the week has passed away i know not how. but we have promised all the week that we should go and see the picture friday or saturday, and stay a night or so with you. friday came and we could not turn mrs. paris out so soon, and on friday evening the thing was wholly given up. saturday morning brought fresh hopes; mrs. paris agreed to go to see the picture with us, and we were to walk to edmonton. my hat and my _new gown_ were put on in great haste, and his honor, who decides all things here, would have it that we could not get to edmonton in time; and there was an end of all things. expecting to see you, i did not write. monday evening. charles and emma are taking a second walk. harriet is gone home. charles wishes to know more about the widow. is it to be made to match a drawing? if you could throw a little more light on the subject, i think he would do it, when emma is gone; but his time will be quite taken up with her; for, besides refreshing her latin, he gives her long lessons in arithmetic, which she is sadly deficient in. she leaves in a week, unless she receives a renewal of her holydays, which mrs. williams has half promised to send her. i do verily believe that i may hope to pass the last one, or two, or three nights with you, as she is to go from london to bury. we will write to you the instant we receive mrs. w.'s letter. as to my poor sonnet--and it is a very poor sonnet, only [it] answered very well the purpose it was written for--emma left it behind her, and nobody remembers more than one line of it, which is, i think, sufficient to convince you it would make no great impression in an annual. so pray let it rest in peace, and i will make charles write a better one instead. this shall go to the post to-night. if any [one] chooses to add anything to it they may. it will glad my heart to see you again. yours (both yours) truly and affectionately, m. lamb. becky is going by the post office, so i will send it away. i mean to commence letter-writer to the family. [mr. hazlitt dates this letter april, . the reference to the widow, towards the end, shows that hood was preparing _the gem_, and, what is not generally known, that lamb had been asked to write on that subject. as it happened, hood wrote the essay for him and signed it elia (see note below). mrs. paris we have met. harriet, emma isola's sister, we do not hear of again. i was recently shown a copy of lamb's _works_, , inscribed in his hand to miss isola: this would be harriet isola. emma had just begun her duties at fornham, in suffolk, where she taught the children of a mr. williams, a clergyman. i cannot say what the picture was. the sonnet was probably that printed in the note to the letter to mrs. shelley of july , . charles lamb's and emma's joint letter has not been preserved.] letter charles lamb to b.r. haydon august, . dear haydon,--i have been tardy in telling you that your chairing the member gave me great pleasure;--'tis true broad hogarthian fun, the high sheriff capital. considering, too, that you had the materials imposed upon you, and that you did not select them from the rude world as h. did, i hope to see many more such from your hand. if the former picture went beyond this i have had a loss, and the king a bargain. i longed to rub the back of my hand across the hearty canvas that two senses might be gratified. perhaps the subject is a little discordantly placed opposite to another act of chairing, where the huzzas were hosannahs,--but i was pleased to see so many of my old acquaintances brought together notwithstanding. believe me, yours truly, c. lamb. [haydon's "chairing the member" was exhibited in bond street this year, together with "christ's entry into jerusalem," and other of his works. "the former picture" was his "mock election," which the king had bought for guineas. for "chairing the member" haydon received only half that price. here should come a letter to rickman, dated september , , in which lamb thanks him for a present of nuts and apples, but is surprised that apples should be offered to the owner of a "whole tree, almost an orchard," and "an apple chamber redolent" to boot. here should come a letter from lamb to louisa holcroft, dated october , , in which, so soon after mary lamb's determination to be the letter writer of the family, he says, "mary lamb has written her last letter in this world," adding that he has been left her _writing legatee_. he calls geese "those pretty birds that look like snow in summer, and cackle like ice breaking up." here should come a long latin letter to rickman, dated october , . canon ainger prints the latin. i append an english version:--] letter charles lamb to john rickman (_translation_) [postmark oct. , .] i have been thinking of sending some kind of an answer in latin to your very elaborate letter, but something has arisen every day to hinder me. to begin with our awkward friend m.b. has been with us for a while, and every day and all day we have had such a lecture, you know how he stutters, on legal, mind, nothing but legal notices, that i have been afraid the latin i want to write might prove rather barbaro-forensic than ciceronian. he is swallowed up, body and soul, in law; he eats, drinks, plays (at the card table) law, nothing but law. he acts ignoramus in the play so thoroughly, that you w'd swear that in the inmost marrow of his head (is not this the proper anatomical term?) there have housed themselves not devils but pettifoggers, to bemuddle with their noisy chatter his own and his friends' wits. he brought here, 'twas all his luggage, a book, fearn on contingent remainders. this book he has read so hard, and taken such infinite pains to understand, that the reader's brain has few or no remainders to continge. enough, however, of m.b. and his luggage. to come back to your claims upon me. your return journey, with notes, i read again and again, nor have i done with them yet. you always make something fresh out of a hackneyed theme. our milestones, you say, bristle with blunders, but i must shortly explain why i cannot comply with your directions herein. suppose i were to consult the local magnates about a matter of this kind.--ha! says one of our waywardens or parish overseers,--what business is this of _yours_? do you want to drop the lodger and come out as a householder?--now you must know that i took this house of mine at enfield, by an obvious domiciliary fiction, in my sister's name, to avoid the bother and trouble of parish and vestry meetings, and to escape finding myself one day an overseer or big-wig of some sort. what then w'd be my reply to the above question? leisure i have secured: but of dignity, not a tittle. besides, to tell you the truth, the aforesaid irregularities are, to my thinking, most entertaining, and in fact very touching indeed. here am i, quit of worldly affairs of every kind; for if superannuation does not mean that, what does it mean? the world then, being, as the saying is, beyond my ken, and being myself entirely removed from any accurate distinctions of space or time, these mistakes in road-measure do not seriously offend me. for in the infinite space of the heavens above (which in this contracted sphere of mine i desire to imitate so far as may be) what need is there of milestones? local distance has to do with mortal affairs. in my walks abroad, limited though they must be, i am quite at my own disposal, and on that account i have a good word for our enfield clocks too. their hands generally point without any servile reference to this sun of our world, in his _sub_-empyrean position. they strike too just as it happens, according to their own sweet wiles,--one--two--three--anything they like, and thus to me, a more fortunate whittington, they pleasantly announce, that time, so far as i am concerned, is no more. here you have my reasons for not attending in this matter to the requests of a busy subsolar such as you are. furthermore, when i reach the milestone that counts from the hicks-hall that stands now, i own at once the aulic dignity, and, were i a gaol-bird, i should shake in my shoes. when i reach the next which counts from the site of the old hall, my thoughts turn to the fallen grandeur of the pile, and i reflect upon the perishable condition of the most imposing of human structures. thus i banish from my soul all pride and arrogance, and with such meditations purify my heart from day to day. a wayfarer such as i am, may learn from vincent bourne, in words terser and neater than any of mine, the advantages of milestones properly arranged. the lines are at the end of a little poem of his, called milestones--(do you remember it or shall i write it all out?) how well the milestones' use doth this express, which make the miles [seem] more and way seem less. what do you mean by this--i am borrowing hand and style from this youngster of mine--your son, i take it. the style looks, nay on careful inspection by these old eyes, is most clearly your very own, and the writing too. either r's or the devil's. i will defer your explanation till our next meeting--may it be soon. my latin failing me, as you may infer from erasures above, there is only this to add. farewell, and be sure to give mrs. rickman my kind remembrances. c. lamb. enfield, chase side, th oct., . i can't put this properly into latin. dabam--what is it? letter charles lamb to bernard barton [p.m. october , .] a splendid edition of bunyan's pilgrim--why, the thought is enough to turn one's moral stomach. his cockle hat and staff transformed to a smart cockd beaver and a jemmy cane, his amice gray to the last regent street cut, and his painful palmer's pace to the modern swagger. stop thy friend's sacriligious hand. nothing can be done for b. but to reprint the old cuts in as homely but good a style as possible. the vanity fair, and the pilgrims there--the silly soothness in his setting out countenance--the christian idiocy (in a good sense) of his admiration of the shepherds on the delectable mountains--the lions so truly allegorical and remote from any similitude to pidcock's. the great head (the author's) capacious of dreams and similitudes dreaming in the dungeon. perhaps you don't know _my_ edition, what i had when a child: if you do, can you bear new designs from--martin, enameld into copper or silver plate by--heath, accompanied with verses from mrs. heman's pen o how unlike his own-- wouldst thou divert thyself from melancholy? wouldst thou be pleasant, yet be far from folly? wouldst thou read riddles and their explanation? or else be drowned in thy contemplation? dost thou love picking meat? or wouldst thou see a man i' th' clouds, and hear him speak to thee? wouldst thou be in a dream, and yet not sleep? or wouldst thou in a moment laugh and weep? or wouldst thou lose thyself, and catch no harm, and find thyself again without a charm? wouldst read _thyself_, and read thou knowst not what, and yet know whether thou art blest or not by reading the same lines? o then come hither, and lay my book, thy head and heart together. john bunyan. shew me such poetry in any of the forthcoming combinations of show and emptiness, yclept annuals. let me whisper in your ear that wholesome sacramental bread is not more nutritious than papistical wafer stuff, than these (to head and heart) exceed the visual frippery of mitford's salamander god, baking himself up to the work of creation in a solar oven, not yet by the terms of the context itself existing. blake's ravings made genteel. so there's verses for thy verses; and now let me tell you that the sight of your hand gladdend me. i have been daily trying to write to you, but paralysed. you have spurd me on this tiny effort, and at intervals i hope to hear from and talk to you. but my spirits have been in a deprest way for a long long time, and they are things which must be to you of faith, for who can explain depression? yes i am hooked into the gem, but only for some lines written on a dead infant of the editor's, which being as it were his property, i could not refuse their appearing, but i hate the paper, the type, the gloss, the dandy plates, the names of contributors poked up into your eyes in st page, and whistled thro' all the covers of magazines, the barefaced sort of emulation, the unmodest candidateship, bro't into so little space--in those old londons a signature was lost in the wood of matter--the paper coarse (till latterly, which spoil'd them)--in short i detest to appear in an annual. what a fertile genius (an[d] a quiet good soul withal) is hood. he has things in hand, farces to supply the adelphi for the season, a comedy for one of the great theatres, just ready, a whole entertainment by himself for mathews and yates to figure in, a meditated comic annual for next year, to be nearly done by himself.-- you'd like him very much. wordsworth i see has a good many pieces announced in one of em, not our gem. w. scott has distributed himself like a bribe haunch among 'em. of all the poets, cary has had the good sense to keep quite clear of 'em, with clergy-gentle-manly right notions. don't think i set up for being proud in this point, i like a bit of flattery tickling my vanity as well as any one. but these pompous masquerades without masks (naked names or faces) i hate. so there's a bit of my mind. besides they infallibly cheat you, i mean the booksellers. if i get but a copy, i only expect it from hood's being my friend. coleridge has lately been here. he too is deep among the prophets--the yearservers--the mob of gentlemen annuals. but they'll cheat him, i know. and now, dear b.b., the sun shining out merrily, and the dirty clouds we had yesterday having washd their own faces clean with their own rain, tempts me to wander up winchmore hill, or into some of the delightful vicinages of enfield, which i hope to show you at some time when you can get a few days up to the great town. believe me it would give both of us great pleasure to show you all three (we can lodge you) our pleasant farms and villages.-- we both join in kindest loves to you and yours.-- ch. lamb redivivus. saturday. [the edition of bunyan was that published for barton's friend, john major, and john murray in , with a life of bunyan by southey, and illustrations by john martin and w. harvey, and a prefatory poem not by mrs. hemans but by bernard barton immediately before bunyan's "author's apology for his book," from which lamb quotes. "pidcock's." pidcock showed his lions at bartholomew fair; he was succeeded by polito of exeter change. "heath." this was charles heath ( - ), son of james heath, a great engraver of steel plates for the annuals. "mitford's salamander god." i cannot explain this, except by mr. macdonald's supposition that lamb meant to write "martin's." "the gem." see note below, p. . hood's entertainment for mathews and frederick yates, then joint-managers of the adelphi, i have not identified. authors' names on play-bills were, in those days, unimportant. the play was the thing. cary. the rev. h.f. cary, translator of dante. coleridge and the annuals. for example, coleridge's "names" was in the _keepsake_ for ; his "lines written in the album at elbingerode" in part in the _amulet_ for . he had also contributed previously to the _literary souvenir_, the _amulet_ and the _bijou_. here should come an unprinted note from lamb to charles mathews, dated october , , referring to the farce "the pawnbroker's daughter," which lamb offered to mathews for the adelphi. as i have said, this farce was never acted.] letter charles lamb to charles cowden clarke [enfield, october, .] dear clarke,--we did expect to see you with victoria and the novellos before this, and do not quite understand why we have not. mrs. n. and v. [vincent] promised us after the york expedition; a day being named before, which fail'd. 'tis not too late. the autumn leaves drop gold, and enfield is beautifuller--to a common eye--than when you lurked at the greyhound. benedicks are close, but how i so totally missed you at that time, going for my morning cup of ale duly, is a mystery. 'twas stealing a match before one's face in earnest. but certainly we had not a dream of your appropinquity. i instantly prepared an epithalamium, in the form of a sonata--which i was sending to novello to compose--but mary forbid it me, as too light for the occasion--as if the subject required anything heavy-- so in a tiff with her i sent no congratulation at all. tho' i promise you the wedding was very pleasant news to me indeed. let your reply name a day this next week, when you will come as many as a coach will hold; such a day as we had at dulwich. my very kindest love and mary's to victoria and the novellos. the enclosed is from a friend nameless, but highish in office, and a man whose accuracy of statement may be relied on with implicit confidence. he wants the _exposé_ to appear in a newspaper as the "greatest piece of legal and parliamentary villainy he ever rememb'd," and he has had experience in both; and thinks it would answer afterwards in a cheap pamphlet printed at lambeth in 'o sheet, as , families in that parish are interested. i know not whether the present _examiner_ keeps up the character of exposing abuses, for i scarce see a paper now. if so, you may ascertain mr. hunt of the strictest truth of the statement, at the peril of my head. but if this won't do, transmit it me back, i beg, per coach, or better, bring it with you. yours unaltered, c. lamb. [clarke had married mary victoria novello on july , , and they had spent their honeymoon at the greyhound, enfield, unknown to the lambs. see the next letter. "the enclosed." this has vanished. hunt was leigh hunt.] letter charles lamb to vincent novello [enfield, november , .] my dear novello,--i am afraid i shall appear rather tardy in offering my congratulations, however sincere, upon your daughter's marriage. the truth is, i had put together a little serenata upon the occasion, but was prevented from sending it by my sister, to whose judgment i am apt to defer too much in these kind of things; so that, now i have her consent, the offering, i am afraid, will have lost the grace of seasonableness. such as it is, i send it. she thinks it a little too old-fashioned in the manner, too much like what they wrote a century back. but i cannot write in the modern style, if i try ever so hard. i have attended to the proper divisions for the music, and you will have little difficulty in composing it. if i may advise, make pepusch your model, or blow. it will be necessary to have a good second voice, as the stress of the melody lies there:-- serenata, for two voices, _on the marriage of charles cowden clarke, esqre., to victoria, eldest daughter of vincent novello, esqre._ duetto wake th' harmonious voice and string, love and hymen's triumph sing, sounds with secret charms combining, in melodious union joining, best the wondrous joys can tell, that in hearts united dwell. recitative _first voice_.--to young victoria's happy fame well may the arts a trophy raise, music grows sweeter in her praise. and, own'd by her, with rapture speaks her name. to touch the brave cowdenio's heart, the graces all in her conspire; love arms her with his surest dart, apollo with his lyre. air the list'ning muses all around her think 'tis phoebus' strain they hear; and cupid, drawing near to wound her, drops his bow, and stands to hear. recitative _second voice_.--while crowds of rivals with despair silent admire, or vainly court the fair, behold the happy conquest of her eyes, a hero is the glorious prize! in courts, in camps, thro' distant realms renown'd, cowdenio comes!--victoria, see, he comes with british honour crown'd, love leads his eager steps to thee. air in tender sighs he silence breaks, the fair his flame approves, consenting blushes warm her cheeks, she smiles, she yields, she loves. recitative _first voice_.--now hymen at the altar stands, and while he joins their faithful hands, behold! by ardent vows brought down, immortal concord, heavenly bright, array'd in robes of purest light, descends, th' auspicious rites to crown. her golden harp the goddess brings; its magic sound commands a sudden silence all around, and strains prophetic thus attune the strings. duetto _first voice_.-- the swain his nymph possessing, _second voice_.-- the nymph her swain caressing, _first and second_.-- shall still improve the blessing, for ever kind and true. _both_.-- while rolling years are flying, love, hymen's lamp supplying, with fuel never dying, shall still the flame renew. to so great a master as yourself i have no need to suggest that the peculiar tone of the composition demands sprightliness, occasionally checked by tenderness, as in the second air,-- she smiles,--she yields,--she loves. again, you need not be told that each fifth line of the two first recitatives requires a crescendo. and your exquisite taste will prevent your falling into the error of purcell, who at a passage similar to _that_ in my first air, drops his bow, and stands to hear, directed the first violin thus:-- here the first violin must drop his _bow_. but, besides the absurdity of disarming his principal performer of so necessary an adjunct to his instrument, in such an emphatic part of the composition too, which must have had a droll effect at the time, all such minutiae of adaptation are at this time of day very properly exploded, and jackson of exeter very fairly ranks them under the head of puns. should you succeed in the setting of it, we propose having it performed (we have one very tolerable second voice here, and mr. holmes, i dare say, would supply the minor parts) at the greyhound. but it must be a secret to the young couple till we can get the band in readiness. believe me, dear novello, yours truly, c. lamb. enfield, nov., ' . [mrs. cowden clarke remarks in her notes on this letter that the references to purcell and to jackson of exeter are inventions. for mr. holmes see note above. here should come a letter from lamb to laman blanchard, dated enfield, november , , thanking him for a book and dedication. samuel laman blanchard ( - ), afterwards known as a journalist, had just published, through harrison ainsworth, a little volume entitled _lyric offerings_, which was dedicated to lamb. after lamb's death blanchard contributed to the _new monthly magazine_ some additional popular fallacies.] letter charles lamb to thomas hood late autumn, . enfield. dear lamb--you are an impudent varlet; but i will keep your secret. we dine at ayrton's on thursday, and shall try to find sarah and her two spare beds for that night only. miss m. and her tragedy may be dished: so may not you and your rib. health attend you. yours, t. hood, esq. miss bridget hood sends love. [in _the gem_, , in addition to his poem, "on an infant dying as soon as born," lamb was credited with the following piece of prose, entitled "a widow," which was really the work of hood (see letter above):-- a widow hath always been a mark for mockery:--a standing butt for wit to level at. jest after jest hath been huddled upon her close cap, and stuck, like burrs, upon her weeds. her sables are a perpetual "black joke." satirists--prose and verse--have made merry with her bereavements. she is a stock character on the stage. farce bottleth up her crocodile tears, or labelleth her empty lachrymatories. comedy mocketh her precocious flirtations--tragedy even girdeth at her frailty, and twitteth her with "the funeral baked meats coldly furnishing forth the marriage tables." i confess when i called the other day on my kinswoman g.--then in the second week of her widowhood--and saw her sitting, her young boy by her side, in her recent sables, i felt unable to reconcile her estate with any risible associations. the lady with a skeleton moiety--in the old print, in bowles' old shop window--seemed but a type of her condition. her husband,--a whole hemisphere in love's world--was deficient. one complete side--her left--was death-stricken. it was a matrimonial paralysis, unprovocative of laughter. i could as soon have tittered at one of those melancholy objects that drag their poor dead-alive bodies about the streets. it seems difficult to account for the popular prejudice against lone women. there is a majority, i trust, of such honest, decorous mourners as my kinswoman: yet are widows, like the hebrew, a proverb and a byeword amongst nations. from the first putting on of the sooty garments, they become a stock joke--chimney-sweep or blackamoor is not surer--by mere virtue of their nigritude. are the wanton amatory glances of a few pairs of graceless eyes, twinkling through their cunning waters, to reflect so evil a light on a whole community? verily the sad benighted orbs of that noble relict--the lady rachel russell--blinded through unserene drops for her dead lord,--might atone for such oglings! are the traditional freaks of a dame of ephesus, or a wife of bath, or a queen of denmark, to cast so broad a shadow over a whole sisterhood. there must be, methinks, some more general infirmity--common, probably, to all eve-kind--to justify so sweeping a stigma. does the satiric spirit, perhaps, institute splenetic comparisons between the lofty poetical pretensions of posthumous tenderness and their fulfilment? the sentiments of love especially affect a high heroical pitch, of which the human performance can present, at best, but a burlesque parody. a widow, that hath lived only for her husband, should die with him. she is flesh of his flesh, and bone of his bone; and it is not seemly for a mere rib to be his survivor. the prose of her practice accords not with the poetry of her professions. she hath done with the world,--and you meet her in regent street. earth hath now nothing left for her--but she swears and administers. she cannot survive him--and invests in the _long_ annuities. the romantic fancy resents, and the satiric spirit records, these discrepancies. by the conjugal theory itself there ought to be no widows; and, accordingly, a class, that by our milder manners is merely ridiculed, on the ruder banks of the ganges is literally _roasted_. c. lamb. "miss m. and her tragedy." i fancy miss m. would be miss mitford, and her tragedy "rienzi," produced at drury lane october , . it was a success. hood's rib would probably be the play i have not identified. see letter to barton of october . here, a little out of its order, might come a letter from lamb to hood, december , , which is facsimiled in a privately-printed american bibliography of lamb, the owner of which declines to let not only me but the boston bibliophile society include it with the correspondence. in it lamb expresses regret, not so much that hood had signed "the widow" with lamb's name, but that an unfortunately ambiguous jest, pointed out to him by certain friends, had crept into it. he asks that the subject may never be referred to again. here perhaps should come a note to miss reynolds, hood's sister-in-law, accompanying lamb's essay on hogarth.] letter charles lamb to edward moxon [no date. dec., .] dear m.,--as i see no blood-marks on the green lanes road, i conclude you got in safe skins home. have you thought of inquiring miss wilson's change of abode? of the copies of my drama i want one sent to wordsworth, together with a complete copy of hone's "table book," for which i shall be your debtor till we meet. perhaps longman will take charge of this parcel. the other is for coleridge at mr. gilman's, grove, highgate, which may be sent, or, if you have a curiosity to see him you will make an errand with it to him, & tell him we mean very soon to come & see him, if the gilmans can give or get us a bed. i am ashamed to be so troublesome. pray let hood see the "ecclectic review"--a rogue! the 'd parts of the blackwood you may make waste paper of. yours truly, c.l. [i do not identify miss wilson. lamb's drama was "a wife's trial" in _blackwood_ for december, . the same number of the _eclectic review_ referred to hood's parody of lamb, "the widow," as profaning leslie's picture of the widow by its "heartless ribaldry." by the d parts of _blackwood_ lamb referred, i imagine, to the pages on which his play was not printed.] letter charles lamb to bernard barton [p.m. december , .] dear b.b.--i am ashamed to receive so many nice books from you, and to have none to send you in return; you are always sending me some fruits or wholesome pot-herbs, and mine is the garden of the sluggard, nothing but weeds or scarce they. nevertheless if i knew how to transmit it, i would send you blackwood's of this month, which contains a little drama, to have your opinion of it, and how far i have improved, or otherwise, upon its prototype. thank you for your kind sonnet. it does me good to see the dedication to a christian bishop. i am for a comprehension, as divines call it, but so as that the church shall go a good deal more than halfway over to the silent meeting house. i have ever said that the quakers are the only _professors_ of christianity as i read it in the evangiles; i say _professors_--marry, as to practice, with their gaudy hot types and poetical vanities, they are much at one with the sinful. martin's frontispiece is a very fine thing, let c.l. say what he please to the contrary. of the poems, i like them as a volume better than any one of the preceding; particularly, power and gentleness; the present; lady russell--with the exception that i do not like the noble act of curtius, true or false, one of the grand foundations of old roman patriotism, to be sacrificed to lady r.'s taking notes on her husband's trial. if a thing is good, why invidiously bring it into light with something better? there are too few heroic things in this world to admit of our marshalling them in anxious etiquettes of precedence. would you make a poetn on the story of ruth (pretty story!) and then say, aye, but how much better is the story of joseph and his brethren! to go on, the stanzas to "chalon" want the _name_ of clarkson in the body of them; it is left to inference. the battle of gibeon is spirited again--but you sacrifice it in last stanza to the song at bethlehem. is it quite orthodox to do so. the first was good, you suppose, for that dispensation. why set the word against the word? it puzzles a weak christian. so watts's psalms are an implied censure on david's. but as long as the bible is supposed to be an equally divine emanation with the testament, so long it will stagger weaklings to have them set in opposition. godiva is delicately touch'd. i have always thought it a beautiful story characteristic of old english times. but i could not help amusing myself with the thought--if martin had chosen this subject for a frontispiece, there would have been in some dark corner a white lady, white as the walker on the waves--riding upon some mystical quadruped --and high above would have risen "tower above tower a massy structure high" the tenterden steeples of coventry, till the poor cross would scarce have known itself among the clouds, and far above them all, the distant clint hills peering over chimney pots, piled up, ossa-on-olympus fashion, till the admiring spectator (admirer of a noble deed) might have gone look for the lady, as you must hunt for the other in the lobster. but m. should be made royal architect. what palaces he would pile--but then what parliamentary grants to make them good! ne'ertheless i like the frontispiece. the elephant is pleasant; and i am glad you are getting into a wider scope of subjects. there may be too much, not religion, but too many _good words_ into a book, till it becomes, as sh. says of religion, a rhapsody of words. i will just name that you have brought in the song to the shepherds in four or five if not six places. now this is not good economy. the enoch is fine; and here i can sacrifice elijah to it, because 'tis illustrative only, and not disparaging of the latter prophet's departure. i like this best in the book. lastly, i much like the heron, 'tis exquisite: know you lord thurlow's sonnet to a bird of that sort on lacken water? if not, 'tis indispensable i send it you, with my blackwood, if you tell me how best to send them. fludyer is pleasant. you are getting gay and hood-ish. what is the enigma? money--if not, i fairly confess i am foiled--and sphynx must [_here are words crossed through_] times i've tried to write eat--eat me--and the blotting pen turns it into cat me. and now i will take my leave with saying i esteem thy verses, like thy present, honour thy frontispicer, and right-reverence thy patron and dedicatee, and am, dear b.b. yours heartily, c.l. our joint kindest loves to a.k. and your daughter. [barton's new book was _a new year's eve and other poems_, , dedicated to charles richard sumner, bishop of winchester. this volume contains barton's "fireside quatrains to charles lamb" (quoted in vol. iv.) and also the following "sonnet to a nameless friend," whom i take to be lamb:-- sonnet to a nameless friend in each successive tome that bears _my_ name hast thou, though veiled _thy own_ from public eyes, won from my muse that willing sacrifice which worth and talents such as thine should claim: and i should close my minstrel task with shame, could i forget the indissoluble ties which every grateful thought of thee supplies to one who deems thy friendship more than fame. accept then, thus imperfectly, once more, the homage of thy poet and thy friend; and should thy partial praise my lays commend, versed as thou art in all the gentle lore of english poesy's exhaustless store, whom i most love they never can offend. martin's frontispiece represented christ walking on the water. lamb recalls his remarks in a previous letter about this painter, who though he never became royal architect was the originator of the present thames embankment. macaulay, in his essay on southey's edition of the _pilgrim's progress_, in the _edinburgh_ for december, , makes some very similar remarks about martin and the way in which he would probably paint lear. in the poem "lady rachel russell; or, a roman hero and an english heroine compared," barton compared the act of curtius, who leaped into the gulf in the forum, with lady russell standing beside her lord. chalon was the painter of a portrait of thomas clarkson. the "battle of gibeon" is a poem inspired by martin's picture of joshua; the last stanza runs thus:-- made known by marvels awfully sublime! yet far more glorious in the christian's sight than these stern terrors of the olden time, the gentler splendours of that peaceful night, when opening clouds displayed, in vision bright, the heavenly host to bethlehem's shepherd train, shedding around them more than cloudless light! "glory to god on high!" their opening strain, its chorus, "peace on earth!" its theme messiah's reign! "in the lobster." referring to that part of a lobster which is called eve. "the elephant." some mildly humorous verses "to an elephant." "as sh. says of religion"--shakespeare, i assume, in "hamlet," iii., , , :-- and sweet religion makes a rhapsody of words. i quote in the appendix the poem which lamb liked best. barton had written a poem called "syr heron." this is lord thurlow's sonnet, of which lamb was very fond. he quoted it in a note to his _elia_ essay on the sonnets of sidney in the _london magazine_, and copied it into his album:-- to a bird, that haunted the waters of lacken, in the winter o melancholy bird, a winter's day, thou standest by the margin of the pool, and, taught by god, dost thy whole being school to patience, which all evil can allay. god has appointed thee the fish thy prey; and giv'n thyself a lesson to the fool unthrifty, to submit to moral rule, and his unthinking course by thee to weigh. there need not schools, nor the professor's chair, though these be good, true wisdom to impart: he, who has not enough, for these, to spare, of time, or gold, may yet amend his heart, and teach his soul, by brooks, and rivers fair: nature is always wise in every part. "fludyer" was a poem to sir charles fludyer on the devastation effected on his marine villa at felixstowe by the encroachments of the sea. the answer to the enigma, mrs. fitzgerald (lucy barton) told canon ainger, was not money but an auctioneer's hammer. here should come a letter from lamb to louisa holcroft, dated december , . louisa holcroft was a daughter of thomas holcroft, lamb's friend, whose widow married kenney. a good letter with some excellent nonsense about measles in it.] letter charles lamb to charles cowden clarke [december, .] my dear three c.'s--the way from southgate to colney hatch thro' the unfrequentedest blackberry paths that ever concealed their coy bunches from a truant citizen, we have accidentally fallen upon--the giant tree by cheshunt we have missed, but keep your chart to go by, unless you will be our conduct--at present i am disabled from further flights than just to skirt round clay hill, with a peep at the fine back woods, by strained tendons, got by skipping a skipping-rope at --heu mihi non sum qualis. but do you know, now you come to talk of walks, a ramble of four hours or so--there and back--to the willow and lavender plantations at the south corner of northaw church by a well dedicated to saint claridge, with the clumps of finest moss rising hillock fashion, which i counted to the number of two hundred and sixty, and are called "claridge's covers"--the tradition being that that saint entertained so many angels or hermits there, upon occasion of blessing the waters? the legends have set down the fruits spread upon that occasion, and in the black book of st. albans some are named which are not supposed to have been introduced into this island till a century later. but waiving the miracle, a sweeter spot is not in ten counties round; you are knee deep in clover, that is to say, if you are not above a middling man's height; from this paradise, making a day of it, you go to see the ruins of an old convent at march hall, where some of the painted glass is yet whole and fresh. if you do not know this, you do not know the capabilities of this country, you may be said to be a stranger to enfield. i found it out one morning in october, and so delighted was i that i did not get home before dark, well a-paid. i shall long to show you the clump meadows, as they are called; we might do that, without reaching march hall. when the days are longer, we might take both, and come home by forest cross, so skirt over pennington and the cheerful little village of churchley to forty hill. but these are dreams till summer; meanwhile we should be most glad to see you for a lesser excursion--say, sunday next, you and _another_, or if more, best on a weekday with a notice, but o' sundays, as far as a leg of mutton goes, most welcome. we can squeeze out a bed. edmonton coaches run every hour, and my pen has run out its quarter. heartily farewell. [much of the "lamb country" touched upon in this letter is now built on. in my large edition i give a map of lamb's favourite walking region. "the giant tree by cheshunt" is goff's oak. "the black book of st. albans." the black books exposed abuses in the church.] letter charles lamb to t.n. talfourd [no date. end of .] 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 young chrisom. i have now a motive to be good. i shall not _omnis moriar_;--my name borne down the black gulf of oblivion. i shall survive in eleven letters, five more than caesar. possibly i shall come to be knighted, or more: sir c.l. talfourd, bart.! yet hath it an authorish twang with it, which will wear out my name for poetry. give him a smile from me till i see him. if you do not drop down before, some day in the _week after next_ i will come and take one night's lodging with you, if convenient, before you go hence. you shall name it. we are in town to-morrow _speciali gratia_, but by no arrangement can get up near you. believe us both, with greatest regards, yours and mrs. talfourd's. charles lamb-philo-talfourd i come as near it as i can. [this may be incorrectly dated, but i place it here because in that to hood of december , summarised above, lamb speaks of his godson at brighton. talfourd (who himself dates this letter ) had named his latest child charles lamb talfourd. the boy lived only until . i quote in the appendix the verses which talfourd wrote on his death. another of lamb's name children, charles lamb kenney, grew to man's estate and became a ready writer.] letter charles lamb to george dyer [no date. ? january, .] dear dyer, my very good friend, and charles clarke's father in law, vincent novello, wishes to shake hands with you. make him play you a tune. he is a damn'd fine musician, and what is better, a good man and true. he will tell you how glad we should be to have mrs. dyer and you here for a few days. our young friend, miss isola, has been here holydaymaking, but leaves us tomorrow. yours ever ch. lamb. enfield. [_added in a feminine hand_:] emma's love to mr. and mrs. dyer. [the date of this note is pure conjecture on my part, but is unimportant. novello had become charles clarke's father-in-law in , and emma isola, who was now teaching the children of a clergyman named williams, at fornham, in suffolk, spent her christmas holidays with the lambs that year. here, perhaps, should come an undated letter from lamb to louisa martin. lamb begins "dear monkey," and refers to his "niece," mrs. dowden, and some business which she requires him to transact, mrs. dowden being mrs. john lamb's daughter-in-law. lamb describes himself as "a sick cat that loves to be alone on housetops or at cellar bottoms."] letter charles lamb to b.w. procter [ th jan., .] my dear procter,--i am ashamed to have not taken the drift of your pleasant letter, which i find to have been pure invention. but jokes are not suspected in boeotian enfield. we are plain people; and our talk is of corn, and cattle, and waltham markets. besides, i was a little out of sorts when i received it. the fact is, i am involved in a case which has fretted me to death; and i have no reliance, except on you, to extricate me. i am sure you will give me your best legal advice, having no professional friend besides but robinson and talfourd, with neither of whom at present i am on the best terms. my brother's widow left a will, made during the lifetime of my brother, in which i am named sole executor, by which she bequeaths forty acres of arable property, which it seems she held under covert baron, unknown to my brother, to the heirs of the body of elizabeth dowden, her married daughter by a first husband, in fee-simple, recoverable by fine--_invested_ property, mind; for there is the difficulty--subject to leet and quit-rent; in short, worded in the most guarded terms, to shut out the property from isaac dowden, the husband. intelligence has just come of the death of this person in india, where he made a will, entailing this property (which seem'd entangled enough already) to the heirs of his body, that should not be born of his wife; for it seems by the law in india, natural children can recover. they have put the cause into exchequer process, here removed by certiorari from the native courts; and the question is, whether i should, as executor, try the cause here, or again re-remove it to the supreme sessions at bangalore? (which i understand i can, or plead a hearing before the privy council here). as it involves all the little property of elizabeth dowden, i am anxious to take the fittest steps, and what may be least expensive. pray assist me, for the case is so embarrassed, that it deprives me of sleep and appetite. m. burney thinks there is a case like it in chapt. , sect. , in fearne's contingent remainders. pray read it over with him dispassionately, and let me have the result. the complexity lies in the questionable power of the husband to alienate.... i had another favour to beg, which is the beggarliest of beggings. a few lines of verse for a young friend's album (six will be enough). m. burney will tell you who she is i want 'em for. a girl of gold. six lines--make 'em eight--signed barry c----. they need not be very good, as i chiefly want 'em as a foil to mine. but i shall be seriously obliged by any refuse scrap. we are in the last ages of the world, when st. paul prophesied that women should be "headstrong, lovers of their own wills, having albums." i fled hither to escape the albumean persecution, and had not been in my new house twenty-four hours, when the daughter of the next house came in with a friend's album to beg a contribution, and the following day intimated she had one of her own. two more have sprung up since. if i take the wings of the morning and fly unto the uttermost parts of the earth, there will albums be. new holland has albums. but the age is to be complied with. m.b. will tell you the sort of girl i request the ten lines for. somewhat of a pensive cast, what you admire. the lines may come before the law question, as that can not be determined before hilary term, and i wish your deliberate judgment on that. the other may be flimsy and superficial. and if you have not burnt your returned letter, pray re-send it me, as a monumental token of my stupidity. 'twas a little unthinking of you to touch upon a sore subject. why, by dabbling in those accursed albums, i have become a byword of infamy all over the kingdom. i have sicken'd decent women for asking me to write in albums. there be "dark jests" abroad, master cornwall; and some riddles may live to be clear'd up. and 'tis not every saddle is put on the right steed; and forgeries and false gospels are not peculiar to the age following the apostles. and some tubs don't stand on their right bottoms. which is all i wish to say in these ticklish times--and so your servant, chs. lamb. [we do not know the nature of the "bite" that procter had put upon lamb; but lamb quickly retaliated with the first paragraph of this letter, which is mainly invention. in his _old acquaintance_ mr. fields wrote: "he [procter] told me that the law question raised in this epistle was a sheer fabrication of lamb's, gotten up by him to puzzle his young correspondent, the conveyancer. the coolness referred to between himself and robinson and talfourd, procter said, was also a fiction invented by lamb to carry out his legal mystification." at the end of the first paragraph came some words in another hand: "_in usum_ enfeoffments whereof he was only collaterally seized, &c.," beneath which lamb wrote: "the above is some of m. burney's memoranda which he has left me, and you may cut out and give him." procter's verses for emma isola's album i have not seen, but canon ainger says that they refer to "isola bella, whom all poets love," the island in lago di maggiore. this is a list of the contents of emma isola's album, all autographs (from quaritch's catalogue, september, ):-- charles lamb. "what is an album?" a poem addressed to miss emma isola. "to emma on her twenty-first birthday," may , . "harmony in unlikeness." without date. john keats. "to my brother," a sonnet on the birthday of his brother tom, dated nov. (? or ). william wordsworth. "she dwelt among the untrodden ways," three verses of his poem on lucy, copied in his own hand on march , . "blessings be with them, and enduring praise," five lines of a sonnet dated rydal, . alfred tennyson. "when lazarus left his charnel-cave," four stanzas, undated. thomas moore. "woman gleans but sorrow," and note to moxon, june, . leigh hunt. "apollo's autograph," from an unpublished poem called "the feast of the violets." undated, _circa_ . thomas hood. "dreams," a prose fragment, without date, _circa_ . james hogg. "i'm a' gaen wrang," a song by the ettrick shepherd, _circa_ . joanna baillie. "up! quit thy bower," a song, undated, _circa_ . robert southey. epitaph on himself, in verse, feb. , . thomas campbell. "victoria's sceptre o'er the waves," _circa_ . allan cunningham. "the pirate's song," _circa_ . charles dibdin. "an album's like the dream of hope," _circa_ . bernard barton. "to emma," with a note by charles lamb at foot, . walter savage landor. "to emma isola," _circa_ . barry cornwall. "to the spirit of italy," _circa_ . samuel rogers. two letters, and a poem, "my last," - . frederick locker (afterwards locker-lampson). a quatrain, dated july, . george dyer, j.b. dibdin, george darley, matilda betham, h.f. cary, mrs. piozzi, edward moxon, t.n. talfourd, are the other writers.] letter charles lamb to b.w. procter jan. nd, . don't trouble yourself about the verses. take 'em coolly as they come. any day between this and midsummer will do. ten lines the extreme. there is no mystery in my incognita. she has often seen you, though you may not have observed a silent brown girl, who for the last twelve years has run wild about our house in her christmas holidays. she is italian by name and extraction. ten lines about the blue sky of her country will do, as it's her foible to be proud of it. but they must not be over courtly or lady-fied as she is with a lady who says to her "go and she goeth; come and she cometh." item, i have made her a tolerable latinist. the verses should be moral too, as for a clergyman's family. she is called emma isola. i approve heartily of your turning your four vols. into a lesser compass. 'twill sybillise the gold left. i shall, i think, be in town in a few weeks, when i will assuredly see you. i will put in here loves to mrs. procter and the anti-capulets, because mary tells me i omitted them in my last. i like to see my friends here. i have put my lawsuit into the hands of an enfield practitioner--a plain man, who seems perfectly to understand it, and gives me hopes of a favourable result. rumour tells us that miss holcroft is married; though the varlet has not had the grace to make any communication to us on the subject. who is badman, or bed'em? have i seen him at montacute's? i hear he is a great chymist. i am sometimes chymical myself. a thought strikes me with horror. pray heaven he may not have done it for the sake of trying chymical experiments upon her,--young female subjects are so scarce! louisa would make a capital shot. an't you glad about burke's case? we may set off the scotch murders against the scotch novels--hare, the great un-hanged. martin burney is richly worth your knowing. he is on the top scale of my friendship ladder, on which an angel or two is still climbing, and some, alas! descending. i am out of the literary world at present. pray, is there anything new from the admired pen of the author of the _pleasures of hope_? has mrs. he-mans (double masculine) done anything pretty lately? why sleeps the lyre of hervey, and of alaric watts? is the muse of l.e.l. silent? did you see a sonnet of mine in blackwood's last? curious construction! _elaborata facilitas_! and now i'll tell. 'twas written for the "_gem_;" but the editors declined it, on the plea that it would _shock all mothers_; so they published "the widow" instead. i am born out of time. i have no conjecture about what the present world calls delicacy. i thought "rosamund gray" was a pretty modest thing. hessey assures me that the world would not bear it. i have lived to grow into an indecent character. when my sonnet was rejected, i exclaimed, "damn the age; i will write for antiquity!" _erratum_ in sonnet:--last line but something, for _tender_, read _tend_. the scotch do not know our law terms; but i find some remains of honest, plain, old writing lurking there still. they were not so mealy-mouthed as to refuse my verses. maybe, 'tis their oatmeal. blackwood sent me £ for the drama. somebody cheated me out of it next day; and my new pair of breeches, just sent home, cracking at first putting on, i exclaimed, in my wrath, "all tailors are cheats, and all men are tailors." then i was better. [_rest lost_.] ["your four vols." procter's poetical works, in three volumes, were published in . since then he had issued _the flood of thessaly_, . he was perhaps meditating a new one-volume selection. "anti-capulets"--the basil montagus (montacutes). "badman." louisa holcroft married carlyle's friend badams, a manufacturer and scientific experimentalist of birmingham, with whom the philosopher spent some weeks in in attempting a cure for dyspepsia (see the _early recollections_). "burke's case." william burke and william hare, the body-snatchers and murderers of edinburgh, who killed persons to sell their corpses to knox's school of anatomy. burke was hanged a week later than this letter, on january . hare turned king's evidence and disappeared. a "shot" was a subject in these men's vocabulary. the author of the waverley novels--the great unknown-- had, of course, become known long before this. "m.b."--martin burney. in lamb had dedicated the prose volume of his _works_ to burney, in a sonnet ending with the lines:-- free from self-seeking, envy, low design, i have not found a whiter soul than thine. hervey was thomas kibble hervey ( - ), a great album poet. "a sonnet of mine in blackwood"--in the number for january, (see below). "hessey"--of the firm of taylor & hessey, the late publishers of the _london magazine_. another letter from lamb to procter, repeating the request for verses, was referred to by canon ainger in the preface to his edition of the correspondence. canon ainger printed a delightful passage. it is disappointing not to find it among the letters proper in his latest edition. here (had i permission from its american owner to print it, which i have not) i should place lamb's instructions as to playing whist drawn up for mrs. badams' use and as an introduction to captain burney's treatise on the game. it is a very interesting document and england has never seen it yet. the boston bibliophile edition also gives a letter from lamb to badams apologising for his heatedness yesterday and explaining it by saying that he had been for some hours dissuading a friend from settling at enfield "which friend would have attracted down crowds of literary men, which men would have driven me wild."] letter charles lamb to thomas allsop jan. , . dear allsop--old star is setting. take him and cut him into little stars. nevertheless the extinction of the greater light is not by the lesser light (stella, or mrs. star) apprehended so nigh, but that she will be thankful if you can let young scintillation (master star) twinkle down by the coach on sunday, to catch the last glimmer of the decaying parental light. no news is good news; so we conclude mrs. a. and little a are doing well. our kindest loves, c.l. [i cannot explain the mystery of these stars.] letter charles lamb to b.w. procter [? jan. th, .] when miss ouldcroft (who is now mrs. beddome, and bed--dom'd to her!) was at enfield, which she was in summertime, and owed her health to its sun and genial influences, she wisited (with young lady-like impertinence) a poor man's cottage that had a pretty baby (o the yearnling!), and gave it fine caps and sweetmeats. on a day, broke into the parlour our two maids uproarious. "o ma'am, who do you think miss ouldcroft (they pronounce it holcroft) has been working a cap for?" "a child," answered mary, in true shandean female simplicity. "it's the man's child as was taken up for sheep-stealing." miss ouldcroft was staggered, and would have cut the connection; but by main force i made her go and take her leave of her _protégée_ (which i only spell with a g because i can't make a pretty j). i thought, if she went no more, the abactor or abactor's wife (vide ainsworth) would suppose she had heard something; and i have delicacy for a sheep-stealer. the overseers actually overhauled a mutton-pie at the baker's (his first, last, and only hope of mutton-pie), which he never came to eat, and thence inferred his guilt. _per occasionem cujus_ i framed the sonnet; observe its elaborate construction. i was four days about it. the gypsy's malison suck, baby, suck, mother's love grows by giving, drain the sweet founts that only thrive by wasting; black manhood comes, when riotous guilty living hands thee the cup that shall be death in tasting. kiss, baby, kiss, mother's lips shine by kisses, choke the warm breath that else would fall in blessings; black manhood comes, when turbulent guilty blisses tend thee the kiss that poisons 'mid caressings. hang, baby, hang, mother's love loves such forces, choke the fond neck that bends still to thy clinging; black manhood comes, when violent lawless courses leave thee a spectacle in rude air swinging. so sang a wither'd sibyl energetical, and bann'd the ungiving door with lips prophetical. barry, study that sonnet. it is curiously and perversely elaborate. 'tis a choking subject, and therefore the reader is directed to the structure of it. see you? and was this a fourteener to be rejected by a trumpery annual? forsooth, 'twould shock all mothers; and may all mothers, who would so be shocked, bed dom'd! as if mothers were such sort of logicians as to infer the future hanging of _their_ child from the theoretical hangibility (or capacity of being hanged, if the judge pleases) of every infant born with a neck on. oh b.c., my whole heart is faint, and my whole head is sick (how is it?) at this damned, canting, unmasculine unbawdy (i had almost said) age! don't show this to your child's mother or i shall be orpheusized, scattered into hebras. damn the king, lords, commons, and _specially_ (as i said on muswell hill on a sunday when i could get no beer a quarter before one) all bishops, priests and curates. vale. ["ainsworth." referring to robert ainsworth's _thesaurus_, . _abactor_ (see forcellini), a stealer or driver away of cattle. ainsworth gives only _abactus_--to drive away by force. "the gypsy's malison." this is the sonnet in _blackwood_ for january, .] letter (_fragment_) charles lamb to b.w. procter [no date. early .] the comings in of an incipient conveyancer are not adequate to the receipt of three twopenny post non-paids in a week. therefore, after this, i condemn my stub to long and deep silence, or shall awaken it to write to lords. lest those raptures in this honeymoon of my correspondence, which you avow for the gentle person of my nuncio, after passing through certain natural grades, as love, love and water, love with the chill off, then subsiding to that point which the heroic suitor of his wedded dame, the noble-spirited lord randolph in the play, declares to be the ambition of his passion, a reciprocation of "complacent kindness,"--should suddenly plump down (scarce staying to bait at the mid point of indifference, so hungry it is for distaste) to a loathing and blank aversion, to the rendering probable such counter expressions as this,--"damn that infernal twopenny postman" (words which make the not yet glutted inamorato "lift up his hands and wonder who can use them.") while, then, you are not ruined, let me assure thee, o thou above the painter, and next only under giraldus cambrensis, the most immortal and worthy to be immortal barry, thy most ingenious and golden cadences do take my fancy mightily. they are at this identical moment under the snip and the paste of the fairest hands (bating chilblains) in cambridge, soon to be transplanted to suffolk, to the envy of half of the young ladies in bury. but tell me, and tell me truly, gentle swain, is that isola bella a true spot in geographical denomination, or a floating delos in thy brain? lurks that fair island in verity in the bosom of lake maggiore, or some other with less poetic name, which thou hast cornwallized for the occasion? and what if maggiore itself be but a coinage of adaptation? of this pray resolve me immediately, for my albumess will be catechised on this subject; and how can i prompt her? lake leman, i know, and lemon lake (in a punch bowl) i have swum in, though those lymphs be long since dry. but maggiore may be in the moon. unsphinx this riddle for me, for my shelves have no gazetteer. and mayest thou never murder thy father-in-law in the trivia of lincoln's inn new square passage, where searl street and the street of portugal embrace, nor afterwards make absurd proposals to the widow m. but i know you abhor any such notions. nevertheless so did o-edipus (as admiral burney used to call him, splitting the diphthong in spite or ignorance) for that matter. c.l. ["above the painter"--james barry, r.a., but i do not understand the allusion here. "giraldus cambrensis"--the historian, giraldus de barri. procter's poem for emma isola's album, as we have seen, mentions isola bella, the island in lago de maggiore. delos was the floating island which neptune fixed in order that latona might rest there and apollo and diana be born. oedipus, who solved the riddle of the sphinx, was the murderer of his father. basil montagu was procter's father-in-law. procter's address was lincolns inn, new square. at the end of the letter came a passage which for family reasons cannot be printed.] letter charles lamb to b.w. procter february , . facundissime poeta! quanquam istiusmodi epitheta oratoribus potiùs quam poetis attinere facilè scio--tamen, facundissime! commoratur nobiscum jamdiu, in agro enfeldiense, scilicet, leguleius futurus, illustrissimus martinus burneius, otium agens, negotia nominalia, et officinam clientum vacuam, paululum fugiens. orat, implorat te--nempe, martinus--ut si (quòd dii faciant) fortè fortunâ, absente ipso, advenerit tardus cliens, eum certiorem feceris per literas hûc missas. intelligisne? an me anglicè et barbarice ad te hominem perdoctum scribere oportet? si status de franco tenemento datur avo, et in codem facto si mediate vel immediate datur _haeredibus vel haeredibus corporis dicti avi_, postrema, haec verba sunt limitations, non perquisitionis. dixi. carlagnulus. [mr. stephen gwynn has made the following translation for me:-- "most eloquent poet: though i know well such epithet befits orators rather than poets--and yet, most eloquent! "there has been staying with us this while past at our country seat of enfield to wit, the future attorney, the illustrious martin burney, taking his leisure, flying for a space from his nominal occupations, and his office empty of clients. he--that is, martin--begs and entreats of you that if (heaven send it so!) by some stroke of fortune, in his absence there should arrive a belated client, you would inform him by letter here. do you understand? or must i write in barbarous english to a scholar like you? "if an estate in freehold is given to an ancestor, and if in the same deed directly or indirectly the gift is made to the heir or heirs of the body of the said ancestor, these last words have the force of limitation not of purchase. "i have spoken. charles lamb." the last passage was copied probably direct from some law book of burney's, and is unintelligible except to students of law-latin.] letter charles lamb to charles cowden clarke edmonton, feb. , . dear cowden,--your books are as the gushing of streams in a desert. by the way, you have sent no autobiographies. your letter seems to imply you had. nor do i want any. cowden, they are of the books which i give away. what damn'd unitarian skewer-soul'd things the general biographies turn out. rank and talent you shall have when mrs. may has done with 'em. mary likes mrs. bedinfield much. for me i read nothing but astrea--it has turn'd my brain--i go about with a switch turn'd up at the end for a crook; and lambs being too old, the butcher tells me, my cat follows me in a green ribband. becky and her cousin are getting pastoral dresses, and then we shall all four go about arcadizing. o cruel shepherdess! inconstant yet fair, and more inconstant for being fair! her gold ringlets fell in a disorder superior to order! come and join us. i am called the black shepherd--you shall be cowden with the tuft. prosaically, we shall be glad to have you both,--or any two of you--drop in by surprise some saturday night. this must go off. loves to vittoria. c.l. ["rank and talent"-a novel by w.p. scargill, . mrs. bedinfield wrote _longhollow: a country tale_, . "astrea." probably the romance by honoré d'urfé. "cowden with the tuft." so called from his hair, and from _riquet with the tuft_, the fairy tale. we read in the cowden clarkes' _recollections of writers:_ "the latter name ('cowden with the tuft') slyly implies the smooth baldness with scant curly hair distinguishing the head of the friend addressed, and which seemed to strike charles lamb so forcibly, that one evening, after gazing at it for some time, he suddenly broke forth with the exclamation, ''gad, clarke! what whiskers you have behind your head!'"] letter charles lamb to henry crabb robinson [p.m. february , .] dear r.--expectation was alert on the receit of your strange-shaped present, while yet undisclosed from its fuse envelope. some said,'tis a viol da gamba, others pronounced it a fiddle. i myself hoped it a liquer case pregnant with eau de vie and such odd nectar. when midwifed into daylight, the gossips were at loss to pronounce upon its species. most took it for a marrow spoon, an apple scoop, a banker's guinea shovel. at length its true scope appeared, its drift-- to save the backbone of my sister stooping to scuttles. a philanthropic intent, borrowed no doubt from some of the colliers. you save people's backs one way, and break 'em again by loads of obligation. the spectacles are delicate and vulcanian. no lighter texture than their steel did the cuckoldy blacksmith frame to catch mrs. vulcan and the captain in. for ungalled forehead, as for back unbursten, you have mary's thanks. marry, for my own peculium of obligation, 'twas supererogatory. a second part of pamela was enough in conscience. two pamelas in a house is too much without two mr. b.'s to reward 'em. mary, who is handselling her new aerial perspectives upon a pair of old worsted stockings trod out in cheshunt lanes, sends love. i, great good liking. bid us a personal farewell before you see the vatican. chas. lamb, enfield. [crabb robinson, just starting for rome, had sent lamb a copy of _pamela_ under the impression that he had borrowed one. "two mr. b.'s." in richardson's novel pamela marries the young squire b. and reforms him.] letter charles lamb to samuel rogers chase, enfield: nd mar., . my dear sir,--i have but lately learned, by letter from mr. moxon, the death of your brother. for the little i had seen of him, i greatly respected him. i do not even know how recent your loss may have been, and hope that i do not unseasonably present you with a few lines suggested to me this morning by the thought of him. i beg to be most kindly remembered to your remaining brother, and to miss rogers. your's truly, charles lamb. rogers, of all the men that i have known but slightly, who have died, your brother's loss touched me most sensibly. there came across my mind an image of the cordial tone of your fraternal meetings, where a guest i more than once have sate; and grieve to think, that of that threefold cord one precious link by death's rude hand is sever'd from the rest. of our old gentry he appear'd a stem; a magistrate who, while the evil-doer he kept in terror, could respect the poor, and not for every trifle harass them-- as some, divine and laic, too oft do. this man's a private loss and public too. [daniel rogers, the banker's elder brother, had just died.] letter charles lamb to bernard barton [p.m. march , .] dear b.b.--i send you by desire barley's very poetical poem. you will like, i think, the novel headings of each scene. scenical directions in verse are novelties. with it i send a few _duplicates_, which are _therefore_ no value to me, and may amuse an idle hour. read "christmas," 'tis the production of a young author, who reads all your writings. a good word from you about his little book would be as balm to him. it has no pretensions, and makes none. but parts are pretty. in "field's appendix" turn to a poem called the kangaroo. it is in the best way of our old poets, if i mistake not. 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 aked with lugging it a mile to the stage, but the burden was a pleasure, such as old anchises was to the shoulders of aeneas--or the lady to the lover in old romance, who having to carry her to the top of a high mountain--the price of obtaining her--clamber'd with her to the top, and fell dead with fatigue. o the glorious old schoolmen! there must be something in him. such great names imply 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 cobwebs 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. (what is m. to me?) i do not mean this to go for a letter, only to apprize you, that the parcel is booked for you this march from the four swans bishopsgate. with both our loves to lucy and a.k. yours ever c.l. ["darley's... poem"--_sylvia; or, the may queen_, by george darley. "christmas"--a poem by edward moxon, dedicated to lamb. "field's appendix"--_geographical memoirs on new south wales_, edited by barron field, with his _first-fruits of australian poetry_ as appendix. the old romance, dr. paget toynbee points out, is _les dous amanz_ of marie of france, which lamb had read in miss betham's metrical translation, _the lay of marie_.] letter charles lamb to miss sarah james [no date. ? april, .] we have just got your letter. i think mother reynolds will go on quietly, mrs. scrimpshaw having kittened. the name of the late laureat was henry james pye, and when his st birthday ode came out, which was very poor, somebody being asked his opinion of it, said:-- and when the pye was open'd the birds began to sing, and was not this a dainty dish to set before the king! pye was brother to old major pye, and father to mrs. arnold, and uncle to a general pye, all friends of miss kelly. pye succeeded thos. warton, warton succeeded wm. whitehead, whitehead succeeded colley cibber, cibber succeeded eusden, eusden succeeded thos. shadwell, shadwell succeeded dryden, dryden succeeded davenant, davenant god knows whom. there never was a rogers a poet laureat; there is an old living poet of that name, a banker as you know, author of the "pleasures of memory," where moxon goes to breakfast in a fine house in the green park, but he was never laureat. southey is the present one, and for anything i know or care, moxon may succeed him. we have a copy of "xmas" for you, so you may give your own to mary as soon as you please. we think you need not have exhibited your mountain shyness before m.b. he is neither shy himself, nor patronizes it in others.--so with many thanks, good-bye. emma comes on thursday. c.l. the poet laureat, whom davenant succeeded was rare 'ben jonson,' who i believe was the first regular laureat with the appointment of £ a year and a butt of sack or canary--so add that to my little list.--c.l. [mr. macdonald dates this letter december , , perhaps rightly. i have dated it at a venture april, , because moxon's _christmas_ was published in march of that year. it is the only letter to mary lamb's nurse, miss james, that exists. mrs. reynolds was lamb's aged pensioner, whom we have met. pye died in and was succeeded by southey. the author of the witticism on his first ode was george steevens, the critic. the comment gained point from the circumstance that pye had drawn largely on images from bird life in his verses.] letter charles lamb to h. crabb robinson [p.m. april ? .] dear robinson, we are afraid you will slip from us from england without again seeing us. it would be charity to come and see me. i have these three days been laid up with strong rheumatic pains, in loins, back, shoulders. i shriek sometimes from the violence of them. i get scarce any sleep, and the consequence is, i am restless, and want to change sides as i lie, and i cannot turn without 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 violent 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 temperance, which it is too late for me to pursue. i in my life time have had my good things. hence my frame is brittle--yours 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 enclined to a game at doubly 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 in the wish. c. lamb. letter charles lamb to henry crabb robinson [p.m. april , .] i do confess to mischief. it was the subtlest diabolical piece of malice, heart of man has contrived. i have no more rheumatism than that poker. never was freer from 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 writhing, when you should just receive my congratulations. how 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 exemption. i imagine you howling, and pace across the room, shooting out my free arms legs &c. [illustration: handrawn lines] this way and that way, with 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, distortions, have the merriness of antics. nature meant them for farce--not so pleasant to the actor indeed, but grimaldi cries when we laugh, and 'tis but one that suffers to make thousands rejoyce. you say that shampooing is ineffectual. but _per se_ it is good, to show the introv[ol]utions, extravolutions, of which the animal frame is capable. to show what the creature is receptible of, short of dissolution. you are worst of nights, a'nt you? twill be as good as a sermon to you to lie abed all this night, and meditate the subject of the day. 'tis good friday. how appropriate! think when but your little finger pains you, what endured to white-wash you and the rest of us. nobody will be the more justified for your endurance. you won't save the soul of a mouse. 'tis a pure selfish pleasure. you never was rack'd, was you? i should like an authentic map of those feelings. you seem to have the flying gout. you can scarcely scrue a smile out of your face--can you? i sit at immunity, and sneer _ad libitum._ 'tis now the time for you to make good resolutions. i may go on breaking 'em, for any thing the worse i find myself. your doctor seems to keep you on the long cure. precipitate healings are never good. don't come while you are so bad. i shan't be able to attend to your throes and the dumbee at once. i should like to know how slowly the pain goes off. but 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-- [robinson was the victim of a sudden attack of acute rheumatism. he had a course of turkish baths at brighton to cure him.] letter charles lamb to george dyer enfield, april , . dear dyer--as well as a bad pen can do it, i must thank you for your friendly attention to the wishes of our young friend emma, who was packing up for bury when your sonnet arrived, and was too hurried to express her sense of its merits. i know she will treasure up that and your second communication among her choicest rarities, as from her _grandfather's_ friend, whom not having seen, she loves to hear talked of. the second letter shall be sent after her, with our first parcel to suffolk, where she is, to us, alas dead and bury'd; we solely miss her. should you at any hour think of four or six lines, to send her, addressed to herself simply, naming her grandsire, and to wish she may pass through life as much respected, with your own g. dyer at the end, she would feel rich indeed, for the nature of an album asks for verses that have not been in print before; but this quite at your convenience: and to be less trouble to yourself, four lines would be sufficient. enfield has come out in summer beauty. come when you will and we will give you a bed. emma has left hers, you know. i remain, my dear dyer, your affectionate friend, charles lamb. [from _the mirror_, . lamb made the same pun--bury'd--to george dyer in his letter of december , . his album verses for miss isola i have not seen.] letter charles lamb to thomas hood [no date. ? may, .] dear hood,--we will look out for you on wednesday, be sure, tho' we have not eyes like emma, who, when i made her sit with her back to the window to keep her to her latin, literally saw round backwards every one that past, and, o, [that] she were here to jump up and shriek out "there are the hoods!" we have had two pretty letters from her, which i long to show you--together with enfield in her may beauty. loves to jane. [_here follow rough caricatures of charles and his sister, and_] "i can't draw no better." [i have dated this letter may, , because miss isola had just gone to fornham, in suffolk, whence presumably the two letters had come.] letter charles lamb to edward moxon [no date.] calamy is _good reading_. mary is always thankful for books in her way. i won't trouble you for any in _my way_ yet, having enough to read. young hazlitt lives, at least his father does, at _ _ or _ _ [ i have it down, with the _ _ scratch'd out] bouverie street, fleet street. if not to be found, his mother's address is, mrs. hazlitt, mrs. tomlinson's, potters bar. at one or other he must be heard of. we shall expect you with the full moon. meantime, our thanks. c.l. we go on very quietly &c. ["calamy" would be edmund calamy ( - ), the historian of nonconformity. mr. w.c. hazlitt in his _memoir of hazlitt_ says that his grandfather moved in to bouverie street, and in the beginning of to frith street, soho. young hazlitt was william junior, afterwards mr. registrar hazlitt and then seventeen years of age.] letter charles lamb to walter wilson may , . dear w.,--introduce this, or omit it, as you like. i think i wrote better about it in a letter to you from india h. if you have that, perhaps out of the two i could patch up a better thing, if you'd return both. but i am very poorly, and have been harassed with an illness of my sister's. the ode was printed in the "new times" nearly the end of , and i have only omitted some silly lines. call it a corrected copy. yours ever, c. lamb. put my name to either or both, as you like. [this letter contains lamb's remarks on the secondary novels of defoe, printed in wilson's _life and times of de foe_, chapter xvii. of vol. iii., and also his "ode to the treadmill," which wilson omitted from that work. see vols. i. and iv. of the present edition for both pieces.] letter charles lamb to bernard barton [p.m. june , .] dear b.b.--i am very much grieved indeed for the indisposition of poor lucy. your letter found me in domestic 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 holydays, 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 recovery. 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 her contributors one, almost the flower of it, a most amiable 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. you will be glad to hear that emma, tho' unknown to you, has given the highest satisfaction in her little place of governante in a clergyman's family, which you may believe by the parson and his lady drinking poor mary's health on her birthday, tho' they never saw her, merely because she was a friend of emma's, and the vicar also sent me a brace of partridges. to get out of home themes, have you seen southey's dialogues? his lake descriptions, and the account of his library at keswick, are very fine. but he needed not have called up the ghost of more to hold the conversations with, which might as well have pass'd between a and b, or caius and lucius. it is making too free with a defunct chancellor and martyr. i feel as if i had nothing farther to write about--o! i forget the prettiest letter i ever read, that i have received from "pleasures of memory" rogers, in acknowledgment of a sonnet i sent him on the loss of his brother. it is too long to transcribe, but i hope to shew it you some day, as i hope sometime again to see you, when all of us are well. only it ends thus "we were nearly of an age (he was the elder). he was the only person in the world in whose eyes i always appeared young."-- i will now take my leave with assuring you that i am most interested in hoping to hear favorable accounts from you.-- with kindest regards to a.k. and you yours truly, c.l. ["lucy"--lucy barton. "your ready contribution." i do not find that barton ever printed his lines for emma isola's album. "dibdin"-john bates dibdin died in may, . southey's _sir thomas more; or, colloquies on the progress and prospects of society_, had just been published. this was rogers' letter:-- many, many thanks. the verses are beautiful. i need not say with what feelings they were read. pray accept the grateful acknowledgments of us all, and believe me when i say that nothing could have been a greater cordial to us in our affliction than such a testimony from such a quarter. he was --for none knew him so well--we were born within a year or two of each other--a man of a very high mind, and with less disguise than perhaps any that ever lived. whatever he was, _that_ we saw. he stood before his fellow beings (if i may be forgiven for saying so) almost as before his maker: and god grant that we may all bear as severe an examination. he was an admirable scholar. his dante and his homer were as familiar to him as his alphabets: and he had the tenderest heart. when a flock of turkies was stolen from his farm, the indignation of the poor far and wide was great and loud. to me he is the greatest loss, for we were nearly of an age; and there is now no human being alive in whose eyes i have always been young. under the date june , , mr. macdonald prints a note from lamb to ayrton, which states that he has two young friends in the house. here, therefore, i think, should come a letter from lamb to william hazlitt, junior, in which lamb says that he cannot see mrs. hazlitt this time. he adds that the ladies are very pleasant. emma isola adds a letter which tells us that the ladies are herself and her friend maria. this would be the maria of lamb's sonnet "harmony in unlikeness," evidently written at this time (see vol. iv.).] letter charles lamb to bernard barton enfield chase side saturday july a.d. .-- a.m. there--a fuller plumper juiceier date never dropt from idumean palm. am i in the dateive case now? if not, a fig for dates, which is more than a date is worth. i never stood much affected to these limitary specialities. least of all since the date of my superannuation. what have i with time to do? } dear b.b.--your hand writing has slaves of desks, twas meant for you.} conveyed much pleasure to me in report of lucy's restoration. would i could send you as good news of my poor lucy. but some wearisome weeks i must remain lonely yet. i have had the loneliest time near weeks, broken by a short apparition of emma for her holydays, whose departure only deepend the returning solitude, and by days i have past in town. but town, with all my native hankering after it, is not what it was. the streets, the shops are left, but all old friends are gone. and in london i was frightfully convinced of this as i past houses and places--empty caskets now. i have ceased to care almost about any body. the bodies i cared for are in graves, or dispersed. my old clubs, that lived so long and flourish'd so steadily, are crumbled away. when i took leave of our adopted young friend at charing cross, 'twas heavy unfeeling rain, and i had no where to go. home have i none--and not a sympathising house to turn to in the great city. never did the waters of the heaven pour down on a forlorner head. yet i tried days at a sort of a friend's house, but it was large and straggling--one of the individuals of my old long knot of friends, card players, pleasant companions--that have tumbled to pieces into dust and other things--and i got home on thursday, convinced that i was better to get home to my hole at enfield, and hide like a sick cat in my corner. less than a month i hope will bring home mary. she is at fulham, looking better in her health than ever, but sadly rambling, and scarce showing any pleasure in seeing me, or curiosity when i should come again. but the old feelings will come back again, and we shall drown old sorrows over a game at picquet again. but 'tis a tedious cut out of a life of sixty four, to lose twelve or thirteen weeks every year or two. and to make me more alone, our illtemperd maid is gone, who with all her airs, was yet a home piece of furniture, a record of better days; the young thing that has succeeded her is good and attentive, but she is nothing--and i have no one here to talk over old matters with. scolding and quarreling have something of familiarity and a community of interest--they imply acquaintance--they are of resentment, which is of the family of dearness. i can neither scold nor quarrel at this insignificant implement of household services; she is less than a cat, and just better than a deal dresser. what i can do, and do overdo, is to walk, but deadly long are the days--these summer all-day days, with but a half hour's candlelight and no firelight. i do not write, tell your kind inquisitive eliza, and can hardly read. in the ensuing blackwood will be an old rejected farce of mine, which may be new to you, if you see that same dull medley. what things are all the magazines now! i contrive studiously not to see them. the popular new monthly is perfect trash. poor hessey, i suppose you see, has failed. hunt and clarke too. your "vulgar truths" will be a good name--and i think your prose must please--me at least--but 'tis useless to write poetry with no purchasers. 'tis cold work authorship without something to puff one into fashion. could you not write something on quakerism--for quakers to read--but nominally addrest to non quakers? explaining your dogmas--waiting on the spirit--by the analogy of human calmness and patient waiting on the judgment? i scarcely know what i mean, but to make non quakers reconciled to your doctrines, by shewing something like them in mere human operations--but i hardly understand myself, so let it pass for nothing. i pity you for over-work, but i assure you no-work is worse. the mind preys on itself, the most unwholesome food. i brag'd formerly that i could not have too much time. i have a surfeit. with few years to come, the days are wearisome. but weariness is not eternal. something will shine out to take the load off, that flags me, which is at present intolerable. i have killed an hour or two in this poor scrawl. i am a sanguinary murderer of time, and would kill him inchmeal just now. but the snake is vital. well, i shall write merrier anon.--'tis the present copy of my countenance i send--and to complain is a little to alleviate.--may you enjoy yourself as far as the wicked wood will let you--and think that you are not quite alone, as i am. health to lucia and to anna and kind rememb'ces. yours forlorn. c.l. ["out of a life of sixty-four." mary lamb was born december , . "your kind ... eliza"--eliza barton, bernard's sister. "rejected farce." "the pawnbroker's daughter" was printed in _blackwood_, january, . "i brag'd formerly." referring i think to his sonnet "leisure."] letter charles lamb to thomas allsop [no date. late july, .] my dear allsop--i thank you for thinking of my recreation. but i am best here, i feel i am. i have tried town lately, but came back worse. here i must wait till my loneliness has its natural cure. besides that, though i am not very sanguine, yet i live in hopes of better news from fulham, and can not be out of the way. 'tis ten weeks to-morrow.--i saw mary a week since, she was in excellent bodily health, but otherwise far from well. but a week or so may give a turn. love to mrs. a. and children, and fair weather accomp'y you. c.l. tuesday. letter charles lamb to edward moxon [p.m. sept. , .] dear moxon, if you can oblige me with the garrick papers or ann of gierstien, i shall be thankful. i am almost fearful whether my sister will be able to enjoy any reading at present for since her coming home, after weeks, she has had an unusual relapse into the saddest low spirits that ever poor creature had, and has been some weeks under medical care. she is unable to see any yet. when she is better i shall be very glad to talk over your ramble with you. have you done any sonnets, can you send me any to overlook? i am almost in despair, mary's case seems so hopeless. believe me yours c.l. i do not want mr. jameson or lady morgan. enfield wedn'y ["the garrick papers." lamb refers, i suppose, to the _private correspondence of david garrick_, in some form previous to its publication in . "anne of geierstein." scott's novel was published this year. "mr. jameson." i cannot find any book by a mr. jameson likely to have been offered to lamb; but mrs. jameson's _loves of the poets_ was published this year. probably he meant to write mrs. jameson. lady morgan was the author of _the wild irish girl_ and other novels. her book was _the book of the boudoir_.] letter charles lamb to james gillman chase-side, enfield, th oct., . dear gillman,--allsop brought me your kind message yesterday. how can i account for having not visited highgate this long time? change of place seemed to have changed me. how grieved i was to hear in what indifferent health coleridge has been, and i not to know of it! a little school divinity, well applied, may be healing. i send him honest tom of aquin; that was always an obscure great idea to me: i never thought or dreamed to see him in the flesh, but t'other day i rescued him from a stall in barbican, and brought him off in triumph. he comes to greet coleridge's acceptance, for his shoe-latchets i am unworthy to unloose. yet there are pretty pro's and con's, and such unsatisfactory learning in him. commend me to the question of etiquette-- "_utrum annunciatio debuerit fieri per angelum_"--_quaest. , articilus _. i protest, till now i had thought gabriel a fellow of some mark and livelihood, not a simple esquire, as i find him. well, do not break your lay brains, nor i neither, with these curious nothings. they are nuts to our dear friend, whom hoping to see at your first friendly hint that it will be convenient, i end with begging our very kindest loves to mrs. gillman. we have had a sorry house of it here. our spirits have been reduced till we were at hope's end what to do-- obliged to quit this house, and afraid to engage another, till in extremity i took the desperate resolve of kicking house and all down, like bunyan's pack; and here we are in a new life at board and lodging, with an honest couple our neighbours. we have ridded ourselves of the cares of dirty acres; and the change, though of less than a week, has had the most beneficial effects on mary already. she looks two years and a half younger for it. but we have had sore trials. god send us one happy meeting!--yours faithfully, c. lamb. ["the question of etiquette." see the _summa theologies_, pars tertia, quest. xxx., articulus ii. it would be interesting to know whether lamb remembered an earlier letter in which he had set coleridge some similar "nuts." "in a new life." the lambs moved next door, to the westwoods. the house, altered externally, still stands ( ) and is known as "westwood cottage."] letter charles lamb to vincent novello [p.m. probably nov. , .] dear fugue-ist, or hear'st thou rather contrapuntist--? we expect you four (as many as the table will hold without squeeging) at mrs. westwood's table d'hote on thursday. you will find the white house shut up, and us moved under the wing of the phoenix, which gives us friendly refuge. beds for guests, marry, we have none, but cleanly accomodings at the crown & horseshoe. yours harmonically, c.l. [addressed: vincentio (what ho!) novello, a squire, , great queen street, lincoln's inn fields.] ["the phoenix." mr. westwood was agent for the phoenix insurance company, and the badge of that office was probably on the house.] letter charles lamb to walter wilson enfield, th november, . my dear wilson,--i have not opened a packet of unknown contents for many years, that gave me so much pleasure as when i disclosed your three volumes. i have given them a careful perusal, and they have taken their degree of classical books upon my shelves. de foe was always my darling; but what darkness was i in as to far the larger part of his writings! i have now an epitome of them all. i think the way in which you have done the "life" the most judicious you could have pitched upon. you have made him tell his own story, and your comments are in keeping with the tale. why, i never heard of such a work as "the review." strange that in my stall-hunting days i never so much as lit upon an odd volume of it. this circumstance looks as if they were never of any great circulation. but i may have met with 'em, and not knowing the prize, overpast 'em. i was almost a stranger to the whole history of dissenters in those reigns, and picked my way through that strange book the "consolidator" at random. how affecting are some of his personal appeals! what a machine of projects he set on foot! and following writers have picked his pocket of the patents. i do not understand where-abouts in _roxana_ he himself left off. i always thought the complete-tourist-sort of description of the town she passes through on her last embarkation miserably unseasonable and out of place. i knew not they were spurious. enlighten me as to where the apocryphal matter commences. i, by accident, can correct one a.d. "family instructor," vol. ii. ; you say his first volume had then reached the fourth edition; now i have a fifth, printed for eman. matthews, . so have i plucked one rotten date, or rather picked it up where it had inadvertently fallen, from your flourishing date tree, the palm of engaddi. i may take it for my pains. i think yours a book which every public library must have, and every english scholar should have. i am sure it has enriched my meagre stock of the author's works. i seem to be twice as opulent. mary is by my side just finishing the second volume. it must have interest to divert her away so long from her modern novels. colburn will be quite jealous. i was a little disappointed at my "ode to the treadmill" not finding a place; but it came out of time. the two papers of mine will puzzle the reader, being so akin. odd that, never keeping a scrap of my own letters, with some fifteen years' interval i should nearly have said the same things. but i shall always feel happy in having my name go down any how with de foe's, and that of his historiographer. i promise myself, if not immortality, yet diuternity of being read in consequence. we have both had much illness this year; and feeling infirmities and fretfulness grow upon us, we have cast off the cares of housekeeping, sold off our goods, and commenced boarding and lodging with a very comfortable old couple next door to where you found us. we use a sort of common table. nevertheless, we have reserved a private one for an old friend; and when mrs. wilson and you revisit babylon, we shall pray you to make it yours for a season. our very kindest remembrances to you both. from your old friend and _fellow-journalist_, now in _two instances_, c. lamb. hazlitt is going to make your book a basis for a review of de foe's novels in the "edinbro'." i wish i had health and spirits to do it. hone i have not seen, but i doubt not he will be much pleased with your performance. i very much hope you will give us an account of dunton, &c. but what i should more like to see would be a life and times of bunyan. wishing health to you and long life to your healthy book, again i subscribe me, yours in verity, c.l. [wilson's _memoirs of the life and times of daniel de foe_ had just been published in three volumes, with the date . defoe's _review_ was started in february, , under the title, _a review of the affairs of france.... purged from the errors and partiality of news-writers, and petty-statesmen, of all sides_. it continued until may, . _the consolidator; or, memoirs of sundry transactions from the world in the moon. translated from the lunar language_, was published in , a political satire, which, it has been thought, gave hints to swift for gulliver. lamb had sent wilson his "ode to the treadmill." the substance of his letter of december , , was printed by wilson in chapter xxii. of vol. iii.; the new material which he wrote especially for the book, was printed in chapter xvii. of the same volume. the space dividing them was not fifteen years but seven. "diuternity." spelt "diuturnity." a rare word signifying long duration. "_fellow-journalist_." the other instance would be in connection with the journals of the india house, where wilson had once been a clerk with lamb. hazlitt's review of wilson's book is in the _edinburgh_ for january, , with this reference to lamb's criticisms: "_captain singleton_ is a hardened, brutal desperado, without one redeeming trait, or almost human feeling; and, in spite of what mr. lamb says of his lonely musings and agonies of a conscience-stricken repentance, we find nothing of this in the text." "dunton." this would be john dunton ( - ), the bookseller, and author of _the athenian gazette, dunton's whipping-post_, and scores of pamphlets and satires.] letter (_? fragment_) charles lamb to james gillman [no date. ? november , .] 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 _light of my countenance_. adieu. p.s.--a sister also of mine comes with it. a son of nimshi drives her. their driving will have been furious, impassioned. pray god they have not toppled over the tunnel! i promise you i fear their steed, bred out of the wind without father, semi-melchisedecish, hot, phaetontic. from my country lodgings at enfield. c.l. [the _church history_ and the _worthies_ are by fuller. "light of my countenance." mr. hazlitt says that this was a copy of brook pulham's etching. "the tunnel"--the highgate archway.] letter charles lamb to james gillman nov., . dear g.,--the excursionists reached home, and the good town of enfield a little after four, without slip or dislocation. little has transpired concerning the events of the back-journey, save that on passing the house of 'squire mellish, situate a stone-bow's cast from the hamlet, father westwood, with a good-natured wonderment, exclaimed, "i cannot think what is gone of mr. mellish's rooks. i fancy they have taken flight somewhere; but i have missed them two or three years past." all this while, according to his fellow-traveller's report, the rookery was darkening the air above with undiminished population, and deafening all ears but his with their cawings. but nature has been gently withdrawing such phenomena from the notice of thomas westwood's senses, from the time he began to miss the rooks. t. westwood has passed a retired life in this hamlet of thirty or forty years, living upon the minimum which is consistent with gentility, yet a star among the minor gentry, receiving the bows of the tradespeople and courtesies of the alms' women daily. children venerate him not less for his external show of gentry, than they wonder at him for a gentle rising endorsation of the person, not amounting to a hump, or if a hump, innocuous as the hump of the buffalo, and coronative of as mild qualities. 'tis a throne on which patience seems to sit--the proud perch of a self-respecting humility, stooping with condescension. thereupon the cares of life have sate, and rid him easily. for he has thrid the _angustiae domûs_ with dexterity. life opened upon him with comparative brilliancy. he set out as a rider or traveller for a wholesale house, in which capacity he tells of many hair-breadth escapes that befell him; one especially, how he rode a mad horse into the town of devizes; how horse and rider arrived in a foam, to the utter consternation of the expostulating hostlers, inn-keepers, &c. it seems it was sultry weather, piping hot; the steed tormented into frenzy with gad-flies, long past being roadworthy; but safety and the interest of the house he rode for were incompatible things; a fall in serge cloth was expected; and a mad entrance they made of it. whether the exploit was purely voluntary, or partially; or whether a certain personal defiguration in the man part of this extraordinary centaur (non-assistive to partition of natures) might not enforce the conjunction, i stand not to inquire. i look not with 'skew eyes into the deeds of heroes. the hosier that was burnt with his shop, in field-lane, on tuesday night, shall have past to heaven for me like a marian martyr, provided always, that he consecrated the fortuitous incremation with a short ejaculation in the exit, as much as if he had taken his state degrees of martyrdom _in formâ_ in the market vicinage. there is adoptive as well as acquisitive sacrifice. be the animus what it might, the fact is indisputable, that this composition was seen flying all abroad, and mine host of daintry may yet remember its passing through his town, if his scores are not more faithful than his memory. after this exploit (enough for one man), thomas westwood seems to have subsided into a less hazardous occupation; and in the twenty-fifth year of his age we find him a haberdasher in bow lane: yet still retentive of his early riding (though leaving it to rawer stomachs), and christmasly at night sithence to this last, and shall to his latest christmas, hath he, doth he, and shall he, tell after supper the story of the insane steed and the desperate rider. save for bedlam or luke's no eye could have guessed that melting day what house he rid for. but he reposes on his bridles, and after the ups and downs (metaphoric only) of a life behind the counter--hard riding sometimes, i fear, for poor t.w.--with the scrapings together of the shop, and _one anecdote_, he hath finally settled at enfield; by hard economising, gardening, building for himself, hath reared a mansion, married a daughter, qualified a son for a counting-house, gotten the respect of high and low, served for self or substitute the greater parish offices: hath a special voice at vestries; and, domiciliating us, hath reflected a portion of his house-keeping respectability upon your humble servants. we are greater, being his lodgers, than when we were substantial renters. his name is a passport to take off the sneers of the native enfielders against obnoxious foreigners. we are endenizened. thus much of t. westwood have i thought fit to acquaint you, that you may see the exemplary reliance upon providence with which i entrusted so dear a charge as my own sister to the guidance of a man that rode the mad horse into devizes. to come from his heroic character, all the amiable qualities of domestic life concentre in this tamed bellerophon. he is excellent over a glass of grog; just as pleasant without it; laughs when he hears a joke, and when (which is much oftener) he hears it not; sings glorious old sea songs on festival nights; and but upon a slight acquaintance of two years, coleridge, is as dear a deaf old man to us, as old norris, rest his soul! was after fifty. to him and his scanty literature (what there is of it, _sound_) have we flown from the metropolis and its cursed annualists, reviewers, authors, and the whole muddy ink press of that stagnant pool. now, gillman again, you do not know the treasure of the fullers. i calculate on having massy reading till christmas. all i want here, is books of the true sort, not those things in boards that moderns mistake for books--what they club for at book clubs. i did not mean to cheat you with a blank side; but my eye smarts, for which i am taking medicine, and abstain, this day at least, from any aliments but milk-porridge, the innocent taste of which i am anxious to renew after a half-century's dis-acquaintance. if a blot fall here like a tear, it is not pathos, but an angry eye. farewell, while my _specilla_ are sound. yours and yours, c. lamb. [this letter records the safe return of mary lamb with the fullers. "squire mellish." william mellish, m.p. for middlesex for some years. thomas westwood's son, for whom lamb found an appointment, wrote some excellent articles in _notes and queries_ many years later describing the lambs' life at his father's. "old norris." see letter to crabb robinson, jan. , . _specilla_ is probably a slip for _conspicilla_.] letter charles lamb to bernard barton [p.m. december , .] my dear b.b.--you are very good to have been uneasy about us, and i have the satisfaction to tell you, that we are both in better health and spirits than we have been for a year or two past; i may say, than we have been since we have been at enfield. the cause may not appear quite adequate, when i tell you, that a course of ill health and spirits brought us to the determination of giving up our house here, and we are boarding and lodging with a worthy old couple, long inhabitants of enfield, where everything is done for us without our trouble, further than a reasonable weekly payment. we should have done so before, but it is not easy to flesh and blood to give up an ancient establishment, to discard old penates, and from house keepers to turn house-sharers. (n.b. we are not in the work-house.) dioclesian in his garden found more repose than on the imperial seat of rome, and the nob of charles the fifth aked seldomer under a monk's cowl than under the diadem. with such shadows of assimilation we countenance our degradation. with such a load of dignifyd cares just removed from our shoulders, we can the more understand and pity the accession to yours, by the advancement to an assigneeship. i will tell you honestly b.b. that it has been long my deliberate judgment, that all bankrupts, of what denomination civil or religious whatever, ought to be hang'd. the pity of mankind has for ages run in a wrong channel, and has been diverted from poor creditors (how many i have known sufferers! hazlitt has just been defrauded of £ by his bookseller-friend's breaking) to scoundrel debtors. i know all the topics, that distress may come upon an honest man without his fault, that the failure of one that he trusted was his calamity &c. &c. then let _both_ be hang'd. o how careful it would make traders! these are my deliberate thoughts after many years' experience in matters of trade. what a world of trouble it would save you, if friend * * * * * had been immediately hangd, without benefit of clergy, which (being a quaker i presume) he could not reasonably insist upon. why, after slaving twelve months in your assign-business, you will be enabled to declare seven pence in the pound in all human probabilty. b.b., he should be _hanged_. trade will never re-flourish in this land till such a law is establish'd. i write big not to save ink but eyes, mine having been troubled with reading thro' three folios of old fuller in almost as few days, and i went to bed last night in agony, and am writing with a vial of eye water before me, alternately dipping in vial and inkstand. this may enflame my zeal against bankrupts--but it was my speculation when i could see better. half the world's misery (eden else) is owing to want of money, and all that want is owing to bankrupts. i declare i would, if the state wanted practitioners, turn hangman myself, and should have great pleasure in hanging the first after my salutary law should be establish'd. i have seen no annuals and wish to see none. i like your fun upon them, and was quite pleased with bowles's sonnet. hood is or was at brighton, but a note, prose or rhime, to him, robert street, adelphi, i am sure would extract a copy of _his_, which also i have not seen. wishing you and yours all health, i conclude while these frail glasses are to me--eyes. c.l. ["dioclesian." the emperor diocletian abdicated the throne after twenty-one years' reign, and retired to his garden. charles v. of germany imitated the roman emperor, and after thirty-six years took the cowl. "hazlitt has just been defrauded." the failure of hunt & clarke, the publishers of the _life of napoleon_, cost hazlitt £ . he had received only £ towards this, in a bill which on their insolvency became worthless. "friend * * * * *." not identifiable.] letter charles lamb to william wordsworth [p.m. january , .] and is it a year since we parted from you at the steps of edmonton stage? there are not now the years that there used to be. the tale of the dwindled age of men, reported of successional mankind, is true of the same man only. we do not live a year in a year now. 'tis a punctum stans. the seasons pass us with indifference. spring cheers not, nor winter heightens our gloom, autumn hath foregone its moralities, they are hey-pass re-pass [as] in a show-box. yet as far as last year occurs back, for they scarce shew a reflex now, they make no memory as heretofore--'twas sufficiently gloomy. let the sullen nothing pass. suffice it that after sad spirits prolonged thro' many of its months, as it called them, we have cast our skins, have taken a farewell of the pompous troublesome trifle calld housekeeping, and are settled down into poor boarders and lodgers at next door with an old couple, the baucis and baucida of dull enfield. here we have nothing to do with our victuals but to eat them, with the garden but to see it grow, with the tax gatherer but to hear him knock, with the maid but to hear her scolded. scot and lot, butcher, baker, are things unknown to us save as spectators of the pageant. we are fed we know not how, quietists, confiding ravens. we have the otium pro dignitate, a respectable insignificance. yet in the self condemned obliviousness, in the stagnation, some molesting yearnings of life, not quite kill'd, rise, prompting me that there was a london, and that i was of that old jerusalem. in dreams i am in fleetmarket, but i wake and cry to sleep again. i die hard, a stubborn eloisa in this detestable paraclete. what have i gained by health? intolerable dulness. what by early hours and moderate meals?--a total blank. o never let the lying poets be believed, who 'tice men from the chearful haunts of streets--or think they mean it not of a country village. in the ruins of palmyra i could gird myself up to solitude, or muse to the snorings of the seven sleepers, but to have a little teazing image of a town about one, country folks that do not look like country folks, shops two yards square, half a dozen apples and two penn'orth of overlookd gingerbread for the lofty fruiterers of oxford street--and, for the immortal book and print stalls, a circulating library that stands still, where the shew-picture is a last year's valentine, and whither the fame of the last ten scotch novels has not yet travel'd (marry, they just begin to be conscious of the red gauntlet), to have a new plasterd flat church, and to be wishing that it was but a cathedral. the very blackguards here are degenerate. the topping gentry, stock brokers. the passengers too many to ensure your quiet, or let you go about whistling, or gaping--too few to be the fine indifferent pageants of fleet street. confining, room-keeping thickest winter is yet more bearable here than the gaudy months. among one's books at one's fire by candle one is soothed into an oblivion that one is not in the country, but with the light the green fields return, till i gaze, and in a calenture can plunge myself into saint giles's. o let no native londoner imagine that health, and rest, and innocent occupation, interchange of converse sweet and recreative study, can make the country any thing better than altogether odious and detestable. a garden was the primitive prison till man with promethean felicity and boldness luckily sinn'd himself out of it. thence followd babylon, nineveh, venice, london, haberdashers, goldsmiths, taverns, playhouses, satires, epigrams, puns--these all came in on the town part, and the thither side of innocence. man found out inventions. from my den i return you condolence for your decaying sight, not for any thing there is to see in the country, but for the miss of the pleasure of reading a london newspaper. the poets are as well to listen to, any thing high may, nay must, be read out--you read it to yourself with an imaginary auditor--but the light paragraphs must be glid over by the proper eye, mouthing mumbles their gossamery substance. 'tis these trifles i should mourn in fading sight. a newspaper is the single gleam of comfort i receive here, it comes from rich cathay with tidings of mankind. yet i could not attend to it read out by the most beloved voice. but your eyes do not get worse, i gather. o for the collyrium of tobias inclosed in a whiting's liver to send you with no apocryphal good wishes! the last long time i heard from you, you had knock'd your head against something. do not do so. for your head (i do not flatter) is not a nob, or the top of a brass nail, or the end of a nine pin--unless a vulcanian hammer could fairly batter a recluse out of it, then would i bid the smirch'd god knock and knock lustily, the two-handed skinker. what a nice long letter dorothy has written! mary must squeeze out a line propriâ manu, but indeed her fingers have been incorrigibly nervous to letter writing for a long interval. 'twill please you all to hear that, tho' i fret like a lion in a net, her present health and spirits are better than they have been for some time past: she is absolutely three years and a half younger, as i tell her, since we have adopted this boarding plan. our providers are an honest pair, dame westwood and her husband--he, when the light of prosperity shined on them, a moderately thriving haberdasher within bow bells, retired since with something under a competence, writes himself parcel gentleman, hath borne parish offices, sings fine old sea songs at threescore and ten, sighs only now and then when he thinks that he has a son on his hands about , whom he finds a difficulty in getting out into the world, and then checks a sigh with muttering, as i once heard him prettily, not meaning to be heard, "i have married my daughter however,"--takes the weather as it comes, outsides it to town in severest season, and a' winter nights tells old stories not tending to literature, how comfortable to author-rid folks! and has _one anecdote_, upon which and about forty pounds a year he seems to have retired in green old age. it was how he was a _rider_ in his youth, travelling for shops, and once (not to baulk his employer's bargain) on a sweltering day in august, rode foaming into dunstable upon a _mad horse_ to the dismay and expostulary wonderment of innkeepers, ostlers &c. who declared they would not have bestrid the beast to win the darby. understand the creature gall'd to death and desperation by gad flies, cormorants winged, worse than beset inachus' daughter. this he tells, this he brindles and burnishes on a' winter's eves, 'tis his star of set glory, his rejuvenescence to descant upon. far from me be it (dii avertant) to look a gift story in the mouth, or cruelly to surmise (as those who doubt the plunge of curtius) that the inseparate conjuncture of man and beast, the centaur-phenomenon that staggerd all dunstable, might have been the effect of unromantic necessity, that the horse-part carried the reasoning, willy nilly, that needs must when such a devil drove, that certain spiral configurations in the frame of thomas westwood unfriendly to alighting, made the alliance more forcible than voluntary. let him enjoy his fame for me, nor let me hint a whisper that shall dismount bellerophon. put case he was an involuntary martyr, yet if in the fiery conflict he buckled the soul of a constant haberdasher to him, and adopted his flames, let accident and he share the glory! you would all like thomas westwood. [illustration: hand drawn sketch] how weak is painting to describe a man! say that he stands four feet and a nail high by his own yard measure, which like the sceptre of agamemnon shall never sprout again, still you have no adequate idea, nor when i tell you that his dear hump, which i have favord in the picture, seems to me of the buffalo--indicative and repository of mild qualities, a budget of kindnesses, still you have not the man. knew you old norris of the temple, years ours and our father's friend, he was not more natural to us than this old w. the acquaintance of scarce more weeks. under his roof now ought i to take my rest, but that back-looking ambition tells me i might yet be a londoner. well, if we ever do move, we have encumbrances the less to impede us: all our furniture has faded under the auctioneer's hammer, going for nothing like the tarnishd frippery of the prodigal, and we have only a spoon or two left to bless us. clothed we came into enfield, and naked we must go out of it. i would live in london shirtless, bookless. henry crabb is at rome, advices to that effect have reach'd bury. but by solemn legacy he bequeath'd at parting (whether he should live or die) a turkey of suffolk to be sent every succeeding xmas to us and divers other friends. what a genuine old bachelor's action! i fear he will find the air of italy too classic. his station is in the hartz forest, his soul is _bego'ethed_. miss kelly we never see; talfourd not this half-year; the latter flourishes, but the exact number of his children, god forgive me, i have utterly forgotten, we single people are often out in our count there. shall i say two? one darling i know they have lost within a twelvemonth, but scarce known to me by sight, and that was a second child lost. we see scarce anybody. we have just now emma with us for her holydays; you remember her playing at brag with mr. quillinan at poor monkhouse's! she is grown an agreeable young woman; she sees what i write, so you may understand me with limitations. she was our inmate for a twelvemonth, grew natural to us, and then they told us it was best for her to go out as a governess, and so she went out, and we were only two of us, and our pleasant house-mate is changed to an occasional visitor. if they want my sister to go out (as they call it) there will be only one of us. heaven keep us all from this acceding to unity! can i cram loves enough to you all in this little o? excuse particularizing. c.l. letter mary lamb to dorothy wordsworth (_same letter_) my dear miss wordsworth, charles has left me space to fill up with my own poor scribble; which i must do as well as i can, being quite out of practise, and after he has been reading his queer letter out to us i can hardly put down in a plain style all i had to tell you, how pleasant your handwriting was to me. he has lumped you all together in one rude remembrance at the end, but i beg to send my love individually and by name to mr. and mrs. wordsworth, to miss hutchinson, whom we often talk of, and think of as being with you always, to the dutiful good daughter and patient amanuensis dora, and even to johanna, whom we have not seen, if she will accept it. charles has told you of my long illness and our present settlement, which i assure you is very quiet and comfortable to me, and to him too, if he would own it. i am very sorry we shall not see john, but i never go to town, nor my brother but at his quarterly visits at the india house, and when he does, he finds it melancholy, so many of our old friends being dead or dispersed, and the very streets, he says altering every day. many thanks for your letter and the nice news in it, which i should have replied to more at large than i see he has done. i am sure it deserved it. he has not said a word about your intentions for rome, which i sincerely wish you health one day to accomplish. in that case we may meet by the way. we are so glad to hear dear _little_ william is doing well. if you knew how happy your letters made us you would write i know more frequently. pray think of this. how chearfully should we pay the postage _every week_. your affectionate mary lamb. ["baucis and baucida." a slip, i suppose, for philemon and baucis (ovid, _metamorphoses_). _redgauntlet_ dated from . "in a calenture." a calenture is a form of fever at sea in which the sufferer believes himself to be surrounded by green fields, and often leaps overboard. wordsworth describes one in "the brothers." "a recluse"--wordsworth's promised poem, that was never completed. first printed in . inachus' daughter was io, persecuted by a malignant insect sent by juno. "henry crabb." crabb robinson was a personal friend of goethe's. he had spent some days with him at weimar in the summer of . goethe told robinson that he admired lamb's sonnet "the family name." "mr. quillinan"--edward quillinan, afterwards wordsworth's son-in-law. "johanna." joanna hutchinson, mrs. wordsworth's sister. joanna of the laugh. "john." john wordsworth, wordsworth's eldest son, was now twenty-six; william, wordsworth's second son, no longer little, was nineteen.] letter charles lamb to bernard barton [p.m. february, .] dear b.b.--to reply to you by return of post, i must gobble up my dinner, and dispatch this in propriâ personâ to the office, to be in time. so take it from me hastily, that you are perfectly welcome to furnish a.c. with the scrap, which i had almost forgotten writing. the more my character comes to be known, the less my veracity will come to be suspected. time every day clears up some suspected narrative of herodotus, bruce, and others of us great travellers. why, that joseph paice was as real a person as joseph hume, and a great deal pleasanter. a careful observer of life, bernard, has no need to invent. nature romances it for him. dinner plates rattle, and i positively shall incur indigestion by carrying it half concocted to the post house. let me congratulate you on the spring coming in, and do you in return condole with me for the winter going out. when the old one goes, seldome comes a better. i dread the prospect of summer, with his all day long days. no need of his assistance to make country places dull. with fire and candle light, i can dream myself in holborn. with lightsome skies shining in to bed time, i can not. this meseck, and these tents of kedar--i would dwell in the skirts of jericho rather, and think every blast of the coming in mail a ram's horn. give me old london at fire and plague times, rather than these tepid gales, healthy country air, and purposeless exercise. leg of mutton absolutely on the table. take our hasty loves and short farewell. c.l. [a.c. was allan cunningham, who wanted lamb's letter on blake (see above) for his _lives of the painters_. it was not, however, used there until included in mrs. charles heaton's edition in bohn's library. "bruce"--the abyssinian explorer, whom the christ's hospital boys used to emulate, as lamb tells us in the _elia_ essay on newspapers. "joseph paice"--a director of the south-sea company and lamb's first employer, of whom he writes in the _elia_ essay on "modern gallantry" (see notes to vol. ii.). here should come a letter to moxon, february , , saying that a letter has just arrived from mrs. williams indicating that miss isola was not well and must have a long holiday. the illness increased very rapidly, becoming a serious attack of brain fever.] letter charlcharles to mrs. williams [february , .] dear madam,--may god bless you for your attention to our poor emma! i am so shaken with your sad news i can scarce write. she is too ill to be removed at present; but we can only say that if she is spared, when that can be practicable, we have always a home for her. speak to her of it, when she is capable of understanding, and let me conjure you to let us know from day to day, the state she is in. but one line is all we crave. nothing we can do for her, that shall not be done. we shall be in the terriblest suspense. we had no notion she was going to be ill. a line from anybody in your house will much oblige us. i feel for the situation this trouble places you in. can i go to her aunt, or do anything? i do not know what to offer. we are in great distress. pray relieve us, if you can, by somehow letting us know. i will fetch her here, or anything. your kindness can never be forgot. pray excuse my abruptness. i hardly know what i write. and take our warmest thanks. hoping to hear something, i remain, dear madam, yours most faithfully, c. lamb. our grateful respects to mr. williams. letter charles lamb to mrs. williams enfield, march, . dear madam,--we cannot thank you enough. your two words "much better" were so considerate and good. the good news affected my sister to an agony of tears; but they have relieved us from such a weight. we were ready to expect the worst, and were hardly able to bear the good hearing. you speak so kindly of her, too, and think she may be able to resume her duties. we were prepared, as far as our humble means would have enabled us, to have taken her from all duties. but, far better for the dear girl it is that she should have a prospect of being useful. i am sure you will pardon my writing again; for my heart is so full, that it was impossible to refrain. many thanks for your offer to write again, should any change take place. i dare not yet be quite out of fear, the alteration has been so sudden. but i will hope you will have a respite from the trouble of writing again. i know no expression to convey a sense of your kindness. we were in such a state expecting the post. i had almost resolved to come as near you as bury; but my sister's health does not permit my absence on melancholy occasions. but, o, how happy will she be to part with me, when i shall hear the agreeable news that i may come and fetch her. she shall be as quiet as possible. no restorative means shall be wanting to restore her back to you well and comfortable. she will make up for this sad interruption of her young friend's studies. i am sure she will--she must--after you have spared her for a little time. change of scene may do very much for her. i think this last proof of your kindness to her in her desolate state can hardly make her love and respect you more than she has ever done. o, how glad shall we be to return her fit for her occupation. madam, i trouble you with my nonsense; but you would forgive me, if you knew how light-hearted you have made two poor souls at enfield, that were gasping for news of their poor friend. i will pray for you and mr. williams. give our very best respects to him, and accept our thanks. we are happier than we hardly know how to bear. god bless you! my very kindest congratulations to miss humphreys. believe me, dear madam, your ever obliged servant, c. lamb. letter charles lamb to sarah hazlitt march th, . dear sarah,--i was meditating to come and see you, but i am unable for the walk. we are both very unwell, and under affliction for poor emma, who has had a very dangerous brain fever, and is lying very ill at bury, from whence i expect a summons to fetch her. we are very sorry for your confinement. any books i have are at your service. i am almost, i may say _quite_, sure that letters to india pay no postage, and may go by the regular post office, now in st. martin's le grand. i think any receiving house would take them-- i wish i could confirm your hopes about dick norris. but it is quite a dream. some old bencher of his surname is made _treasurer_ for the year, i suppose, which is an annual office. norris was sub-treasurer, quite a different thing. they were pretty well in the summer, since when we have heard nothing of them. mrs. reynolds is better than she has been for years; she is with a disagreeable woman that she has taken a mighty fancy to out of spite to a rival woman she used to live and quarrel with; she grows quite _fat_, they tell me, and may live as long as i do, to be a tormenting rent-charge to my diminish'd income. we go on pretty comfortably in our new plan. i will come and have a talk with you when poor emma's affair is settled, and will bring books. at present i am weak, and could hardly bring my legs home yesterday after a much shorter stroll than to northaw. mary has got her bonnet on for a short expedition. may you get better, as the spring comes on. she sends her best love with mine. c.l. [addressed to "mrs. hazlitt, mrs. tomlinson's, northaw, near potter's bar, herts." mrs. hazlitt was in later years a sufferer from rheumatism. dick norris was the son of randal norris. he had retired to widford. mrs. reynolds, lamb's old schoolmistress and dependant, we have met.] letter charles lamb to mrs. williams enfield, mar., . dear madam,--i feel greatly obliged by your letter of tuesday, and should not have troubled you again so soon, but that you express a wish to hear that our anxiety was relieved by the assurances in it. you have indeed given us much comfort respecting our young friend, but considerable uneasiness respecting your own health and spirits, which must have suffered under such attention. pray believe me that we shall wait in quiet hope for the time when i shall receive the welcome summons to come and relieve you from a charge, which you have executed with such tenderness. we desire nothing so much as to exchange it with you. nothing shall be wanting on my part to remove her with the best judgment i can, without (i hope) any necessity for depriving you of the services of your valuable housekeeper. until the day comes, we entreat that you will spare yourself the trouble of writing, which we should be ashamed to impose upon you in your present weak state. not hearing from you, we shall be satisfied in believing that there has been no relapse. therefore we beg that you will not add to your troubles by unnecessary, though _most kind_, correspondence. till i have the pleasure of thanking you personally, i beg you to accept these written acknowledgments of all your kindness. with respects to mr. williams and sincere prayers for both your healths, i remain, your ever obliged servant, c. lamb. my sister joins me in respects and thanks. letter charles lamb to james gillman march th, . my dear g.,--your friend battin (for i knew him immediately by the smooth satinity of his style) must excuse me for advocating the cause of his friends in spitalfields. the fact is, i am retained by the norwich people, and have already appeared in their paper under the signatures of "lucius sergius," "bluff," "broad-cloth," "no-trade-to-the-woollen-trade," "anti-plush," &c., in defence of druggets and long camblets. and without this pre-engagement, i feel i should naturally have chosen a side opposite to ----, for in the silken seemingness of his nature there is that which offends me. my flesh tingles at such caterpillars. he shall not crawl me over. let him and his workmen sing the old burthen, "heigh ho, ye weavers!" for any aid i shall offer them in this emergency. i was over saint luke's the other day with my friend tuthill, and mightily pleased with one of his contrivances for the comfort and amelioration of the students. they have double cells, in which a pair may lie feet to feet horizontally, and chat the time away as rationally as they can. it must certainly be more sociable for them these warm raving nights. the right-hand truckle in one of these friendly recesses, at present vacant, was preparing, i understood, for mr. irving. poor fellow! it is time he removed from pentonville. i followed him as far as to highbury the other day, with a mob at his heels, calling out upon ermigiddon, who i suppose is some scotch moderator. he squinted out his favourite eye last friday, in the fury of possession, upon a poor woman's shoulders that was crying matches, and has not missed it. the companion truck, as far as i could measure it with my eye, would conveniently fit a person about the length of coleridge, allowing for a reasonable drawing up of the feet, not at all painful. does he talk of moving this quarter? you and i have too much sense to trouble ourselves with revelations; marry, to the same in greek you may have something professionally to say. tell c. that he was to come and see us some fine day. let it be before he moves, for in his new quarters he will necessarily be confined in his conversation to his brother prophet. conceive the two rabbis foot to foot, for there are no gamaliels there to affect a humbler posture! all are masters in that patmos, where the law is perfect equality--latmos, i should rather say, for they will be luna's twin darlings; her affection will be ever at the full. well; keep _your_ brains moist with gooseberry this mad march, for the devil of exposition seeketh dry places. c.l. [the letter is assigned to the rev. james gillman by some editors; but i think that a mistake. see the reference below to a medical matter. battin was interested in the spitalfields weavers to the detriment of the norwich. major butterworth in a letter to _notes and queries_, march , , thus explains the reference to battin:-- "in lately going over the pages of _the new monthly magazine_ for i came across a paragraph in the june number, extracted from a daily newspaper, in which the following occurs: 'great merit is due to mr. lamb junior for his exertions to relieve the weavers of norwich.'... "as his 'reminiscences of juke judkins, esq.,' was printed in the same number of the _magazine_, lamb's attention would no doubt be arrested by the remarks about his namesake, which would probably be retained in his memory, to be used subsequently, as occasion served, in mystifying his friend." tuthill, whom we have met, was one of the physicians at st. luke's hospital for the insane. "he squinted out...." irving had sight only in one eye, an obliquity caused, it is suggested, by lying when a baby in a wooden cradle, the sides of which prevented the other from gathering light. "to the same in greek." an atrocious pun, which i leave to the reader to discover. gillman was a doctor.] letter charles lamb to william ayrton mr. westwood's, chase side, enfield, th march, . my dear ayrton,--your letter, which was only not so pleasant as your appearance would have been, has revived 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 shoulder (was it not?); mrs. burney's determined questioning of the score, after the game was absolutely gone to the devil, the plain but hospitable cold boiled-beef suppers at sideboard; all which fancies, redolent of middle age and strengthful spirits, come across us ever and anon in this vale of deliberate senectitude, ycleped enfield. you imagine a deep gulf between you and us; and there is a pitiable hiatus in _kind_ 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 down 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 housekeeping; but we have an asylum at the very next door--only twenty-four inches further from town, which is not material in a country expedition--where a _table d'hôte_ is kept for us, without trouble on our parts, and we adjourn after dinner, when one of the old world (old friends) drops casually down among us. come and find us out, and seal our judicious change with your approbation, whenever the whim bites, or the sun prompts. no need of announcement, 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 offer him my acknowledgments and an assurance that i should like at least one of his propositions, as i have so much additional matter for the specimens, as might make two volumes in all, or one (new edition) omitting such better known authors as beaumont and fletcher, jonson, &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 cambridge, 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. ["phillips." this would be edward phillips, who, i think, succeeded rickman as secretary to abbot (afterwards lord colchester), the speaker. colonel erasmus phillips we have also met. the captain was captain burney. mr. murray's propositions. i presume that murray had, through ayrton, suggested either the republication of the _dramatic specimens_, , in one volume, or in two volumes, with the garrick extracts added. the plan came to nothing. moxon published them in the two volume style in . murray had refused lamb's "works" some twelve years before. for the _dramatic specimens_ see vol. iv. of my large edition.] letter charles lamb to mrs. williams [dated at end: march ( ).] dear madam,--once more i have to return you thanks for a very kind letter. it has gladdened us very much to hear that we may have hope to see our young friend so soon, and through your kind nursing so well recovered. i sincerely hope that your own health and spirits will not have been shaken: you have had a sore trial indeed, and greatly do we feel indebted to you for all which you have undergone. if i hear nothing from you in the mean time, i shall secure myself a place in the cornwallis coach for monday. it will not be at all necessary that i shall be met at bury, as i can well find my way to the rectory, and i beg that you will not inconvenience yourselves by such attention. accordingly as i find miss isola able to bear the journey, i intend to take the care of her by the same stage or by chaises perhaps, dividing the journey; but exactly as you shall judge fit. it is our misfortune that long journeys do not agree with my sister, who would else have taken this care upon herself, perhaps more properly. it is quite out of the question to rob you of the services of any of your domestics. i cannot think of it. but if in your opinion a female attendant would be requisite on the journey, and if you or mr. williams would feel _more comfortable_ by her being in charge of two, i will most gladly engage one of her nurses or any young person near you, that you can recommend; for my object is to remove her in the way that shall be most satisfactory to yourselves. on the subject of the young people that you are interesting yourselves about, i will have the pleasure to talk to you, when i shall see you. i live almost out of the world and out of the sphere of being useful; but no pains of mine shall be spared, if but a prospect opens of doing a service. could i do all i wish, and i indeed have grown helpless to myself and others, it must not satisfy the arrears of obligation i owe to mr. williams and yourself for all your kindness. i beg you will turn in your mind and consider in what most comfortable way miss isola can leave your house, and i will implicitly follow your suggestions. what you have done for her can never be effaced from our memories, and i would have you part with her in the way that would best satisfy yourselves. i am afraid of impertinently extending my letter, else i feel i have not said half what i would say. so, dear madam, till i have the pleasure of seeing you both, of whose kindness i have heard so much before, i respectfully take my leave with our kindest love to your poor patient and most sincere regards for the health and happiness of mr. williams and yourself. may god bless you. ch. lamb. enfield, monday, march. letter charles lamb to mrs. williams enfield, apr., . dear madam i have great pleasure in letting you know that miss isola has suffered 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 unpractised traveller. she has had two tolerable nights' sleeps since, and is decidedly not worse than when we left you. i remembered the magnesia according to your directions, and promise that she shall be kept very quiet, never forgetting that she is still an invalid. 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. the incidents of our journey were trifling, but you bade me tell them. we had then in the coach a rather talkative gentleman, but very civil, all the way, and took up a servant maid at stamford, going to a sick mistress. to the _latter_, a participation in the hospitalities of your nice rusks and sandwiches proved agreeable, as it did to my companion, who took merely a sip of the weakest wine and water with them. the _former_ engaged me in a discourse for full twenty miles on the probable advantages of steam carriages, which being merely problematical, i bore my part in with some credit, in spite of my totally un-engineer-like faculties. but when somewhere about stanstead he put an unfortunate question to me as to the "probability of its turning out a good turnip season;" and when i, who am still less of an agriculturist than a steam-philosopher, not knowing a turnip from a potato ground, innocently made answer that i believed it depended very much upon boiled legs of mutton, my unlucky reply set miss isola a laughing to a degree that disturbed her tranquility for the only moment in our journey. i am afraid my credit sank very low with my other fellow-traveller, who had thought he had met with a _well-informed passenger_, which is an accident so desirable in a stage coach. we were rather less communicative, but still friendly, the rest of the way. 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 were 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 _name_. your candour must acknowledge that they are written _strait_. and now dear madam, i have left myself hardly space to express my sense of the friendly reception i found at fornham. mr. williams will tell you that we had the pleasure of a slight meeting with him on the road, where i could almost have told him, but that it seemed ungracious, that such had been your hospitality, that i scarcely missed the good master of the family at fornham, though heartily 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. my sister and miss isola join in respects to mr. williams and yourself, and i beg to be remembered kindly to the miss hammonds and the two gentlemen whom i had the good fortune to meet at your house. i have not forgotten the election in which you are interesting yourself, and the little that i can, i will do immediately. miss isola will have the pleasure of writing to you next week, and we shall hope, at your leisure, to hear of your own health, etc. i am, dear madam, with great respect, your obliged charles lamb. [_added in miss isola's hand:_] i must just add a line to beg you will let us hear from you, my dear mrs. williams. i have just received the forwarded letter. fornham we have talked about constantly, and i felt quite strange at this home the first day. i will attend to all you said, my dear madam. [i do not know which of lamb's acrostics was the one in question. possibly this, on mrs. williams' youngest daughter, louisa clare williams:-- least daughter, but not least beloved, of _grace_! o frown not on a stranger, who from place unknown and distant these few lines hath penn'd. i but report what thy instructress friend so oft hath told us of thy gentle heart. a pupil most affectionate thou art, careful to learn what elder years impart. _louisa_--_clare_--by which name shall i call thee? a prettier pair of names sure ne'er was found, resembling thy own sweetness in sweet sound. ever calm peace and innocence befal thee! see vol. iv. of this edition.] letter charles lamb to mrs. williams enfield, good friday [april , ]. 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. dear madam,--i do assure you that your verses gratified me very much, and my sister is quite _proud_ of them. for the first time in my life i congratulated myself upon the shortness and meanness of my name. had it been schwartzenberg or esterhazy, it would have put you to some puzzle. i am afraid i shall sicken you of acrostics; but this last was written _to order_. i beg you to have inserted in your county paper something like this advertisement. "to the nobility, gentry, and others, about bury.--c. lamb respectfully informs his friends and the public in general, that he is leaving off business in the acrostic line, as he is going into an entirely new line. rebuses and charades done as usual, and upon the old terms. also, epitaphs to suit the memory of any person deceased." i thought i had adroitly escaped the rather unpliable name of "williams," curtailing your poor daughters to their proper surnames; but it seems you would not let me off so easily. if these trifles amuse you, i am paid. tho really 'tis an operation too much like--"a, apple-pye; b, bit it." to make amends, i request leave to lend you the "excursion," and to recommend, in particular, the "churchyard stories," in the seventh book, i think. they will strengthen the tone of your mind after its weak diet on acrostics. 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._ williams than on yourself; but how should i have parted whom a superior power has brought together? i beg you will jointly accept of our best respects, and pardon your obsequious if not troublesome correspondent, c.l. [mr. cecil turner, a grandson of mrs. williams, tells me that her acrostic on lamb ran thus:-- to charles lamb _answer to acrostics on the names of two friends_ charmed with the lines thy hand has sent, honour i feel the compliment, amongst thy products that have won the ear, ranged in thy verse two friends most dear. lay not thy winning pen away, each line thou writest we bid thee stay, still ask to charm us with another lay. long liked, long lived by public fame a friend to misery, whate'er its claim. marvel i must if e'er we find bestowed by heaven a kindlier mind. the two friends were probably edward hogg and cecilia catherine lawton, on whose names lamb wrote acrostics (see vol. iv.). this was lamb's effort:-- go little poem, and present respectful terms of compliment; a gentle lady bids thee speak! courteous is she, tho' thou be weak-- evoke from heaven as thick as manna joy after joy on grace joanna: on fornham's glebe and pasture land a blessing pray. long, long may stand, not touched by time, the rectory blithe; no grudging churl dispute his tithe; at easter be the offerings due with cheerful spirit paid; each pew in decent order filled; no noise loud intervene to drown the voice, learning, or wisdom of the teacher; impressive be the sacred preacher, and strict his notes on holy page; may young and old from age to age salute, and still point out, "the good man's parsonage!"] letter charles lamb to james gillman [? early spring, .] dear gillman,--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 casually, for in this change of climate there is no naming a day for walking. with best loves to mrs. gillman, &c. yours, mopish, but in health, c. lamb. i shall be uneasy till i hear of fuller's safe arrival. [see letter to gillman above. the "dear, fine, silly old angel" was thomas fuller.] letter charles lamb to jacob vale asbury [? april, .] dear sir--some draughts and boluses have been brought here which we conjecture were meant for the young lady whom you saw this morning, though they are labelled for miss isola lamb. no such person is known on the chase side, and she is fearful of taking medicines which may have been made up for another patient. she begs me to say that she was born an _isola_ and christened _emma_. moreover that she is italian by birth, and that her ancestors were from isola bella (fair island) in the kingdom of naples. she has never changed her name and rather mournfully adds that she has no prospect at present of doing so. she is literally i. sola, or single, at present. therefore she begs that the obnoxious monosyllable may be omitted on future phials,--an innocent syllable enough, you'll say, but she has no claim to it. it is the bitterest pill of the seven you have sent her. when a lady loses her good _name_, what is to become of her? well she must swallow it as well as she can, but begs the dose may not be repeated. yours faithfully, charles lamb (not isola). [asbury was a doctor at enfield. i append another letter to him, without date:--] letter charles lamb to jacob vale asbury dear sir, it is an observation of a wise man that "moderation is best in all things." i cannot agree with him "in liquor." there is a smoothness and oiliness in wine that makes it go down by a natural channel, which i am positive was made for that descending. else, why does not wine choke us? could nature have made that sloping lane, not to facilitate the down-going? she does nothing in vain. you know that better than i. you know how often she has helped you at a dead lift, and how much better entitled she is to a fee than yourself sometimes, when you carry off the credit. still there is something due to manners and customs, and i should apologise to you and mrs. asbury for being absolutely carried home upon a man's shoulders thro' silver street, up parson's lane, by the chapels (which might have taught me better), and then to be deposited like a dead log at gaffar westwood's, who it seems does not "insure" against intoxication. not that the mode of conveyance is objectionable. on the contrary, it is more easy than a one-horse chaise. ariel in the "tempest" says "on a bat's back do i fly, after sunset merrily." now i take it that ariel must sometimes have stayed out late of nights. indeed, he pretends that "where the bee sucks, there lurks he," as much as to say that his suction is as innocent as that little innocent (but damnably stinging when he is provok'd) winged creature. but i take it, that ariel was fond of metheglin, of which the bees are notorious brewers. but then you will say: what a shocking sight to see a middle-aged gentleman-and-a-half riding upon a gentleman's back up parson's lane at midnight. exactly the time for that sort of conveyance, when nobody can see him, nobody but heaven and his own conscience; now heaven makes fools, and don't expect much from her own creation; and as for conscience, she and i have long since come to a compromise. i have given up false modesty, and she allows me to abate a little of the true. i like to be liked, but i don't care about being respected. i don't respect myself. but, as i was saying, i thought he would have let me down just as we got to lieutenant barker's coal-shed (or emporium) but by a cunning jerk i eased myself, and righted my posture. i protest, i thought myself in a palanquin, and never felt myself so grandly carried. it was a slave under me. there was i, all but my reason. and what is reason? and what is the loss of it? and how often in a day do we do without it, just as well? reason is only counting, two and two makes four. and if on my passage home, i thought it made five, what matter? two and two will just make four, as it always did, before i took the finishing glass that did my business. my sister has begged me to write an apology to mrs. a. and you for disgracing your party; now it does seem to me, that i rather honoured your party, for every one that was not drunk (and one or two of the ladies, i am sure, were not) must have been set off greatly in the contrast to me. i was the scapegoat. the soberer they seemed. by the way is magnesia good on these occasions? _iii_ pol: med: sum: ante noct: in rub: can:. i am no licentiate, but know enough of simples to beg you to send me a draught after this model. but still you'll say (or the men and maids at your house will say) that it is not a seemly sight for an old gentleman to go home pick-a-back. well, may be it is not. but i have never studied grace. i take it to be a mere superficial accomplishment. i regard more the internal acquisitions. the great object after supper is to get home, and whether that is obtained in a horizontal posture or perpendicular (as foolish men and apes affect for dignity) i think is little to the purpose. the end is always greater than the means. here i am, able to compose a sensible rational apology, and what signifies how i got here? i have just sense enough to remember i was very happy last night, and to thank our kind host and hostess, and that's sense enough, i hope. charles lamb. n.b.--what is good for a desperate head-ache? why, patience, and a determination not to mind being miserable all day long. and that i have made my mind up to. so, here goes. it is better than not being alive at all, which i might have been, had your man toppled me down at lieut. barker's coal-shed. my sister sends her sober compliments to mrs. a. she is not much the worse. yours truly, c. lamb. ["ariel." in two other of his letters, lamb confesses similarly to a similar escapade. and in his _elia_ essay "rejoicings on the new year's coming of age," he sends ash wednesday home in the same manner. lieut. john barker, r.n., was a local character, a coal merchant and a man with a grievance. he had thirteen children, some of whose names probably greatly amused lamb--john thomas, william charles, frederick alexander, marius collins, caius marcius, marcus aurelius antonius, coriolanus aurelius, horatius tertius decimus, elizabeth mary, concordia, lousia clarissa, caroline maria quiroja and volumnia hortensia.] letter charles lamb to mrs. williams enfield, tuesday [april , ]. dear madam,--i have ventured upon some lines, which combine my old acrostic talent (which you first found out) with my new profession of epitaph-monger. as you did not please to say, when you would die, i have left a blank space for the date. may kind heaven be a long time in filling it up. at least you cannot say that these lines are not about you, though not much to the purpose. we were very sorry to hear that you have not been very well, and hope that a little excursion may revive you. miss isola is thankful for her added day; but i verily think she longs to see her young friends once more, and will regret less than ever the end of her holydays. she cannot be going on more quietly than she is doing here, and you will perceive amendment. i hope all her little commissions will all be brought home to your satisfaction. when she returns, we purpose seeing her to epping on her journey. we have had our proportion of fine weather and some pleasant walks, and she is stronger, her appetite good, but less wolfish than at first, which we hold a good sign. i hope mr. wing will approve of its abatement. she desires her very kindest respects to mr. williams and yourself, and wishes to rejoin you. my sister and myself join in respect, and pray tell mr. donne, with our compliments, that we shall be disappointed, if we do not see him. this letter being very neatly written, i am very unwilling that emma should club any of her disproportionate scrawl to deface it. your obliged servant, c. lamb. [addressed to "mrs. williams, w.b. donne, esq., matteshall, east dereham, norfolk." mr. wing was probably miss isola's doctor. mr. donne was william bodham donne ( - ), the friend of edward fitzgerald, and examiner of plays. this was lamb's acrostic-epitaph on mrs. williams:-- grace joanna here doth lie: reader, wonder not that i ante-date her hour of rest. can i thwart her wish exprest, ev'n unseemly though the laugh jesting with an epitaph? on her bones the turf lie lightly, and her rise again be brightly! no dark stain be found upon her-- no, there will not, on mine honour-- answer that at least i can. would that i, thrice happy man, in as spotless garb might rise, light as she will climb the skies, leaving the dull earth behind, in a car more swift than wind. all her errors, all her failings, (many they were not) and ailings, sleep secure from envy's railings. here should come an undated note from lamb to basil montagu, in which lamb asks for help for hone in his coffee-house. "if you can help a worthy man you will have _two worthy men_ obliged to you." hone, having fallen upon bad times, lamb helped in the scheme to establish him in the grasshopper coffee-house, at gracechurch street (see next letter).] letter charles lamb to robert southey may , . dear southey,--my friend hone, whom you would like _for a friend_, i found deeply impressed with your generous notice of him in your beautiful "life of bunyan," which i am just now full of. he has written to you for leave to publish a certain good-natured letter. i write not this to enforce his request, for we are fully aware that the refusal of such publication would be quite consistent with all that is good in your character. neither he nor i expect it from you, nor exact it; but if you would consent to it, you would have me obliged by it, as well as him. he is just now in a critical situation: kind friends have opened a coffee-house for him in the city, but their means have not extended to the purchase of coffee-pots, credit for reviews, newspapers, and other paraphernalia. so i am sitting in the skeleton of a possible divan. what right i have to interfere, you best know. look on me as a dog who went once temporarily insane, and bit you, and now begs for a crust. will you set your wits to a dog? our object is to open a subscription, which my friends of the "times" are most willing to forward for him, but think that a leave from you to publish would aid it. but not an atom of respect or kindness will or shall it abate in either of us if you decline it. have this strongly in your mind. those "every-day" and "table" books will be a treasure a hundred years hence; but they have failed to make hone's fortune. here his wife and all his children are about me, gaping for coffee customers; but how should they come in, seeing no pot boiling! enough of hone. i saw coleridge a day or two since. he has had some severe attack, not paralytic; but, if i had not heard of it, i should not have found it out. he looks, and especially speaks, strong. how are all the wordsworths and all the southeys? whom i am obliged to you if you have not brought up haters of the name of c. lamb. p.s.--i have gone lately into the acrostic line. i find genius (such as i had) declines with me, but i get clever. do you know anybody that wants charades, or such things, for albums? i do 'em at so much a sheet. perhaps an epigram (not a very happy-gram) i did for a school-boy yesterday may amuse. i pray jove he may not get a flogging for any false quantity; but 'tis, with one exception, the only latin verses i have made for forty years, and i did it "to order." suum cuique adsciscit sibi divitias et opes alienas fur, rapiens, spolians, quod mihi, quod-que tibi, proprium erat, temnens haec verba, meum-que, suum-que; omne suum est: tandem cui-que suum tribuit. dat laqueo collum; vestes, vah! carnifici dat; sese diabolo: sic bene: cuique suum. i write from hone's, therefore mary cannot send her love to mrs. southey, but i do. yours ever, c.l. [major's edition of _the pilgrim's progress_, mentioned in a letter to barton above, was issued in with a memoir of bunyan by southey. it was reviewed in _the times_ for may , , i think probably by lamb, in the following terms:-- the public is aware that the unexhausted diligence and unwearied pen of mr. southey have produced a new and excellent edition of the celebrated _pilgrim's progress_, with the life of the author prefixed. this life is, no doubt, an interesting work, though we wish the author, both in that and in the account, which is attributed to him, of the founder of the jesuits, contained in a recent periodical work, had taken more time. the narrative in both is hasty and tumultuary, if we may use the latter expression: there is no time or room for reflection; and when a reflection comes, it is so mixed and jambed in with the story, or with quotations from the works or words of the respective heroes of the history, that it escapes unobserved. could we, without grievous offence, recommend, both to mr. southey and sir walter scott, to recollect the man spoken of by horace?-- quem fama est esse librisque ambustum propriis."--_sat_, i., . yet still, as we said above, the life of bunyan is an interesting work. how different the origin of all the sects and their founders, from that of our sober, staid, and, we trust, permanent establishment, and the learned and pious reformers from whom it sprang! but that for which we chiefly notice this work of mr. southey, is the very last sentence in it, wherein is contained his frank and honourable recommendation (though not more than they deserve) of the works of one whom the iron hand of oppression would have levelled with the dust:-- "in one of the volumes collected from various quarters, which were sent to me for this purpose, i observe the name of w. hone, and notice it that i may take the opportunity of recommending his _every-day book_ and _table book_ to those who are interested in the preservation of our national and local customs. by these very curious publications their compiler has rendered good service in an important department of literature; and he may render yet more, if he obtain the encouragement which he well deserves." not only we, and the person mentioned in this paragraph, but all the friends of pure english literature,--all the curious in old english customs,--in short, all intelligent men, with the hearts of englishmen in them,--owe mr. southey their gratitude for this recommendation: it springs from a just taste and right feeling united. hone wrote to _the times_ at once to thank both the paper and southey for the compliment. a few days later, on may , appeared an article in _the times_ containing correspondence between hone and southey. i quote the introduction, again probably the work of lamb, and southey's letter (see lamb's letter to hone below):-- we alluded some days ago to the handsome notice of mr. hone in mr. southey's _life of bunyan_. the following correspondence has since been sent to us: it displays in an advantageous light the modesty of mr. hone and the amiable and candid disposition of mr. southey. the business, wholly foreign to mr. hone's former pursuits, which is alluded to in the letter, is explained in an advertisement in this day's paper. * * * * * "to mr. hone, , gracechurch-street, "keswick, april . "sir,--your letter has given me both pain and pleasure. i am sorry to learn that you are still, in the worldly sense of the word, an unfortunate man,--that you are withdrawn from pursuits which were consonant to your habits and inclinations, and that a public expression of respect and good-will, made in the hope that it might have been serviceable to you, can have no such effect. "when i observed your autograph in the little book, i wrote to inquire of mr. major whether it had come to his hands from you, directly or indirectly, for my use, that, in that case, i might thank you for it. it proved otherwise, but i would not lose an opportunity which i had wished for. "judging of you (as i would myself be judged) by your works, i saw in the editor of the _every-day_ and _table books_ a man who had applied himself with great diligence to useful and meritorious pursuits. i thought that time, and reflection, and affliction, (of which it was there seen that he had had his share,) had contributed to lead him into this direction, which was also that of his better mind. what alteration had been produced in his opinions it concerned not me to inquire; here there were none but what were unexceptionable,--no feelings but what were to be approved. from all that appeared, i supposed he had become 'a sadder and a wiser man:' i therefore wished him success in his literary undertakings. "the little parcel which you mention i shall receive with pleasure. "i wish you success in your present undertaking, whatever it be, and that you may one day, under happier circumstances, resume a pen which has, of late years, been so meritoriously employed. if your new attempt prosper, you will yet find leisure for intellectual gratification, and for that self-improvement which may be carried on even in the busiest concerns of life. "i remain, sir, yours with sincere good will, "robert southey." in the advertisement columns of the same issue of _the times_ (may ) was the following notice, drawn up, i assume, by lamb:-- the family of william hone, in the course of last winter, were kindly assisted by private friends to take and alter the premises they now reside in, no. , gracechurch-street, for the purpose of a coffeehouse, to be managed by mrs. hone and her elder daughters; but they are in a painful exigency which increases hourly, and renders a public appeal indispensable. the wellwishers to mr. hone throughout the kingdom, especially the gratified readers of his literary productions (in all of which he has long ceased to have an interest, and from none of which can he derive advantage), are earnestly solicited to afford the means of completing the fittings and opening the house in a manner suited to its proposed respectability. if this aid be yielded without loss of time, it will be of indescribable benefit, inasmuch as it will put an end to many grievous anxieties and expenses, inseparable from the lengthened delay which has hitherto been inevitable, and will enable the family to immediately commence the business, which alone they look forward to for support. subscriptions will be received by the following bankers:--messrs. ransom and co., pall-mall east; messrs. dixon, sons, and brookes, chancery-lane; messrs. ladbroke and co., bank-buildings, cornhill; and by mr. clowes, printer, , charing-cross; mr. thomas rodd, bookseller, , great newport-street; mr. griffiths, bookseller, , wellington-street, strand; mr. effingham wilson, bookseller, royal exchange; and messrs. fisher and moxhay, biscuit-bakers, , threadneedle-street. the first list of subscriptions, headed by "charles lamb, esq., enfield, £ ," came to £ . this was monday, may . the next list was published on june , accompanied by the following note in the body of the paper:-- the subscriptions for mr. hone, it will be perceived, are going on favourably. in the list now published is the name of the duke of bedford, who has sent _l_. his cause has been warmly espoused by the provincial journals, more than of which have inserted his appeal gratuitously, with offers to receive and remit subscriptions. the aphorism, "he gives twice who gives quickly," could not receive a more cogent application than in the present instance, for the funds are required to enable mr. hone to commence business in his new undertaking, where he is already placed with his family, liable to rent and taxes, and other claims, but gaining nothing until his outfit is completed. hone, however, did not prosper, in spite of his friends, who were not sufficiently numerous to find the requisite capital. "suum cuique." the boy for whom this epigram was composed was a son of hessey, the publisher, afterwards archdeacon hessey. he was at the merchant taylors' school, where it was a custom to compose latin and english epigrams for speech day, the boys being permitted to get help. archdeacon hessey wrote as follows in the taylorian a few years ago:-- the subjects for were _suum cuique_ and _brevis esse laboro_. after some three or four exercise nights i confess that i was literally "at my wits' end." but a brilliant idea struck me. i had frequently, boy as i was, seen charles lamb at my father's house, and once, in or , i had been taken to have tea with him and his sister, mary lamb, at their little house, colebrook cottage, a whitish-brown tenement, standing by itself, close to the new river, at islington. he was very kind, as he always was to young people, and very quaint. i told him that i had devoured his "roast pig"; he congratulated me on possessing a thorough schoolboy's appetite. and he was pleased when i mentioned my having seen the boys at christ's hospital at their public suppers, which then took place on the sunday evenings in lent. "could this good-natured and humorous old gentleman be prevailed upon to give me an epigram?" "i don't know," said my father, to whom i put the question, "but i will ask him at any rate, and send him the mottoes." in a day or two there arrived from enfield, to which lamb had removed some time in , not one, but two epigrams, one on each subject. that on _suum cuique_ was in latin, and was suggested by the grim satisfaction which had recently been expressed by the public at the capture and execution of some notorious highwayman. see also vol. iv. of this edition for a slightly differing version. lamb had many years before, he says in a letter to godwin, written similar epigrams. "with one exception." perhaps the latin verses on haydon's picture. see vol. iv.] letter charles lamb to edward moxon enfield, tuesday. [p.m. may , .] 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 translator 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 nightingale sonnet, not having heard one. 'tis a good sonnet notwithstanding. you shall have the books shortly. c.l. [samuel rogers had just lent moxon £ on which to commence publisher. moxon had dedicated his first book to rogers. this is moxon's "sonnet to the nightingale," but i cannot explain why rogers laughed:-- lone midnight-soothing melancholy bird, that send'st such music to my sleepless soul, chaining her faculties in fast controul, few listen to thy song; yet i have heard, when man and nature slept, nor aspen stirred, thy mournful voice, sweet vigil of the sleeping and liken'd thee to some angelic mind, that sits and mourns for erring mortals weeping. the genius, not of groves, but of mankind, watch at this solemn hour o'er millions keeping. in eden's bowers, as mighty poets tell, did'st thou repeat, as now that wailing call-- those sorrowing notes might seem, sad philomel, prophetic to have mourned of _man_ the _fall_.] letter charles lamb to vincent novello friday. [p.m. may , .] dear novello, mary hopes you have not forgot you are to spend a day with us on wednesday. that it may be a long one, cannot you secure places now for mrs. novello yourself and the clarkes? we have just table room for four. five make my good landlady fidgetty; six, to begin to fret; seven, to approximate to fever point. but seriously we shall prefer four to two or three; we shall have from / past to six, when the coach goes off, to scent the country. and pray write _now_, to say you do so come, for dear mrs. westwood else will be on the tenters of incertitude. c. lamb. letter charles lamb to vincent novello [may , .] dear n.--pray write immediately to say "the book has come safe." i am anxious, not so much for the autographs, as for that bit of the hair brush. i enclose a cinder, which belonged to _shield_, when he was poor, and lit his own fires. any memorial of a great musical genius, i know, is acceptable; and shield has his merits, though clementi, in my opinion, is far above him in the sostenuto. mr. westwood desires his compliments, and begs to present you with a nail that came out of jomelli's coffin, who is buried at naples. [vincent novello writes on this: "a very characteristic note from dear charles lamb, who always pretended to rate all kinds of memorials and _relics_, and assumed a look of fright and horror whenever he reproached me with being a _papist_, instead of a _quaker_, which sect he pretended to doat upon." the book would be novello's album, with lamb's "free thoughts on eminent composers" in it (see next letter but one). shield was william shield ( - ), the composer. he was buried in westminster abbey in the same grave as clementi. nicolo jomelli ( - ) was a neapolitan composer.] letter charles lamb to william hone may , . dear hone--i thought you would be pleased to see this letter. pray if you have time to, call on novello, no. , great queen st. i am anxious to learn whether he received his album i sent on friday by our nine o'clock morning stage. if not, beg inquire at the _old bell_, holborn. charles lamb. southey will see in the _times_ all we proposed omitting is omitted. [see notes to the letter to southey above.] letter charles lamb to sarah hazlitt [enfield, saturday, may th, .] mary's love? yes. mary lamb quite well. dear sarah,--i found my way to northaw on thursday and a very good woman behind a counter, who says also that you are a very good lady but that the woman who was with you was naught. these things may be so or not. 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 parlour, 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 bury. well, it came, and i found the good parson's lady (he was from home) exceedingly hospitable. poor emma, the first moment we were alone, took me into a corner, and said, "now, pray, don't _drink_; do check yourself after dinner, for my sake, and when we get home to enfield, you 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 occurrence 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 torment 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 clench'd our conversation; and my gentleman, with a face half wise, half in scorn, troubled us with no more conversation, scientific or philosophical, for the remainder of the journey. ayrton was here yesterday, and as _learned_ to the full as my fellow-traveller. what a pity that he will spoil a wit and a devilish pleasant fellow (as he is) by wisdom! he talk'd on music; and by having read hawkins and burney recently i was enabled to talk of names, and show more knowledge than he had suspected i possessed; and in the end he begg'd me to shape my thoughts upon paper, which i did after he was gone, and sent him. free thoughts on some eminent composers some cry up haydn, some mozart, just as the whim bites. for my part, i do not care a farthing candle for either of them, or for handel. cannot a man live free and easy, without admiring pergolesi! or thro' the world with comfort go that never heard of doctor blow! so help me god, i hardly have; and yet i eat, and drink, and shave, like other people, (if you watch it,) and know no more of stave and crotchet than did the un-spaniardised peruvians; or those old ante-queer-diluvians that lived in the unwash'd world with jubal, before that dirty blacksmith tubal, by stroke on anvil, or by summ'at, found out, to his great surprise, the gamut. i care no more for cimerosa than he did for salvator rosa, being no painter; and bad luck be mine, if i can bear that gluck! old tycho brahe and modern herschel had something in them; but who's purcel? the devil, with his foot so cloven, for aught i care, may take beethoven; and, if the bargain does not suit, i'll throw him weber in to boot! there's not the splitting of a splinter to chuse 'twixt _him last named_, and winter. of doctor pepusch old queen dido knew just as much, god knows, as i do. i would not go four miles to visit sebastian bach-or batch-which is it? no more i would for bononcini. as for novello and rossini, i shall not say a word about [to grieve] 'em, because they're living. so i leave 'em. martin burney is 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, harassing 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 deserves one--: may be, he has tired him out. i am----with this long scrawl, 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. ["free thoughts." the version in ayrton's album differs a little from this, the principal difference being in line , "primitive" for "un-spaniardised." lamb's story of the origin of the verses is not necessarily correct. i fancy that he had written them for novello before he produced them in reply to ayrton's challenge. when sending the poem to ayrton in a letter at this time, not available for this edition (written apparently just after novello had paid the visit, referred to above), lamb wrote that it was written to gratify novello. mary lamb (or charles lamb, personating her) appended the following postscript to the verses in novello's album:-- the reason why my brother's so severe, vincentio is--my brother has no ear: and caradori her mellifluous throat might stretch in vain to make him learn a note. of common tunes he knows not anything, nor "rule, britannia" from "god save the king." he rail at handel! he the gamut quiz! i'd lay my life he knows not what it is. his spite at music is a pretty whim-- he loves not it, because it loves not him. m. lamb. "serjeant wilde"-thomas wilde ( - ), afterwards lord truro, a friend of lamb's, who is said to have helped him with squibs in the newark election in , when martin burney was among his supporters (see vol. v. of my large edition, page ). here had i permission, i would print lamb's letter to ayrton, given in the boston bibliophile edition, incorporating the same poem.] letter charles lamb to sarah hazlitt june , . dear sarah,--i named your thought about william to his father, who expressed such horror and aversion to the idea of his singing in public, that i cannot meddle in it directly or indirectly. ayrton is a kind fellow, and if you chuse to consult him by letter, or otherwise, he will give you the best advice, i am sure, very readily. _i have no doubt that m. burney's objection to interfering was the same--with mine._ with thanks for your pleasant long letter, which is not that of an invalid, and sympathy for your sad sufferings, i remain, in haste, yours truly, mary's kindest love. [there was some talk of william hazlitt junr. becoming a pupil of braham and taking up music seriously. he did not do so. here should come a note from lamb to hone, dated enfield, june , , in which lamb offers hone £ per quarter for yesterday's times, after the coffee-house customers have done with it. he ends with the wish, "vivant coffee, coffee-potque!"] letter charles lamb to bernard barton [p.m. june , .] dear b.b.--could you dream of my publishing without sending a copy to you? you will find something new to you in the vol. particularly the translations. moxon will send to you the moment it is out. he is the young poet of xmas, whom the author of the pleasures of memory has set up in the bookvending business with a volunteer'd loan of £ --such munificence is rare to an almost stranger. but rogers, i am told, has done many goodnatured things of this nature. i need not say how glad to see a.k. and lucy we should have been,--and still shall be, if it be practicable. our direction is mr. westwood's, chase side enfield, but alas i know not theirs. we can give them a bed. coaches come daily from the bell, holborn. you will see that i am worn to the poetical dregs, condescending to acrostics, which are nine fathom beneath album verses--but they were written at the request of the lady where our emma is, to whom i paid a visit in april to bring home emma for a change of air after a severe illness, in which she had been treated like a daughter by the good parson and his whole family. she has since return'd to her occupation. i thought on you in suffolk, but was miles from woodbridge. i heard of you the other day from mr. pulham of the india house. long live king william the th. s.t.c. says, we have had wicked kings, foolish kings, wise kings, good kings (but few) but never till now have we had a blackguard king-- charles d was profligate, but a gentleman. i have nineteen letters to dispatch this leisure sabbath for moxon to send about with copies-so you will forgive me short measure--and believe me yours ever c.l. pray do let us see your quakeresses if possible. [lamb's _album verses_ was almost ready. the translations were those from vincent bourne. william iv. came to the throne on june , . "i have nineteen letters." the fact that none of these is forthcoming helps to illustrate the imperfect state of lamb's correspondence as (even among so many differing editions) we now have it. but of course the number may have been an exaggeration. here should come a note from lamb to hone, dated july , , in which lamb asks that the newspaper be kept as he is meditating a town residence (see next letter). here probably should come an undated letter to mrs. john rickman, accompanying a gift of _album verses_. lamb says: "will you re-give, or _lend_ me, by the bearer, the one volume of juvenile poetry? i have tidings of a second at brighton." he proposes that he and mrs. rickman shall some day play old whist for the two.] letter charles lamb to bernard barton [p.m. august, .] dear b.b.--my address is southampton buildings, holborn. for god's sake do not let me [be] pester'd with annuals. they are all rogues who edit them, and something 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 volume, for the critics on which i care [? not] the hundred thousandth 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 unworthily. moxon has a shop without customers, i a book without readers. but what a clamour 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 desolate, and take no interest in any thing, 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. [_the literary gazette_, jerdan's paper, had written offensively of _album verses_ and its author's vanity in the number for july , . southey published in _the times_ of august some lines in praise of lamb and against jerdan. it was southey's first public utterance on lamb since the famous letter by elia to himself, and is the more noble in consequence. the lines ran thus:-- to charles lamb on the reviewal of his _album verses_ in the _literary gazette_ charles lamb, to those who know thee justly dear for rarest genius, and for sterling worth, unchanging friendship, warmth of heart sincere, and wit that never gave an ill thought birth, nor ever in its sport infix'd a sting; to us who have admired and loved thee long, it is a proud as well as pleasant thing to hear thy good report, now borne along upon the honest breath of public praise: we know that with the elder sons of song in honouring whom thou hast delighted still, thy name shall keep its course to after days. the empty pertness, and the vulgar wrong, the flippant folly, the malicious will, which have assailed thee, now, or heretofore, find, soon or late, their proper meed of shame; the more thy triumph, and our pride the more, when witling critics to the world proclaim, in lead, their own dolt incapacity. matter it is of mirthful memory to think, when thou wert early in the field, how doughtily small jeffrey ran at thee a-tilt, and broke a bulrush on thy shield. and now, a veteran in the lists of fame, i ween, old friend! thou art not worse bested when with a maudlin eye and drunken aim, dulness hath thrown a _jerdan_ at thy head. southey. leigh hunt attacked jerdan in the _examiner_ in a number of "rejected epigrams" signed t.a. see later. he also took up the matter in the tatler, in the first number of which the following "inquest extraordinary" was printed:-- last week a porter died beneath his burden; verdict: found carrying a _gazette_ from jerdan. moxon's shop without customers was at new bond street. "the candle of the lord." in my large edition i gave this reference very thoughtlessly to proverbs xx. . it is really to job. xxix. . "the french heroism." the july revolution, in which the bourbons were routed and louis philippe placed on the throne.] letter charles lamb to samuel rogers [dated at end: oct. , .] dear sir,--i know not what hath bewitch'd me that i have delayed acknowledging your beautiful present. but i have been very unwell and nervous of late. the poem was not new to me, tho' i have renewed acquaintance with it. its metre is none of the least of its excellencies. 'tis so far from the stiffness of blank verse--it gallops like a traveller, as it should do--no crude miltonisms in [it]. dare i pick out what most pleases me? it is the middle paragraph in page thirty-four. it is most tasty. though i look on every impression as a _proof_ of your kindness, i am jealous of the ornaments, and should have prized the verses naked on whitybrown paper. i am, sir, yours truly, c. lamb. oct. th. [rogers had sent lamb a copy of his italy, with illustrations by turner and stothard, which was published by moxon with other firms in o. this is the middle paragraph on page :-- here i received from thee, basilico, one of those _courtesies so sweet, so rare!_ when, as i rambled thro' thy vineyard-ground on the hill-side, thou sent'st thy little son, charged with a bunch almost as big as he, to press it on the stranger. may thy vats o'erflow, and he, thy willing gift-bearer, live to become a giver; and, at length, when thou art full of honour and wouldst rest, the staff of thine old age!] letter charles lamb to vincent novello [p.m. november , .] tears are for lighter griefs. man weeps the doom that seals a single victim to the tomb. but when death riots, when with whelming sway destruction sweeps a family away; when infancy and youth, a huddled mass, all in an instant to oblivion pass, and parent's hopes are crush'd; what lamentation can reach the depth of such a desolation? look upward, feeble ones! look up, and trust that he, who lays this mortal frame in dust, still hath the immortal spirit in his keeping. in jesus' sight they are not dead, but sleeping. dear n., will these lines do? i despair of better. poor mary is in a deplorable state here at enfield. love to all, c. lamb. [the four sons and two daughters of john and ann rigg, of york, had been drowned in the ouse. a number of poets were asked for verses, the best to be inscribed on a monument in york minster. those of james montgomery were chosen. it was possibly the death of hazlitt, on september , while the lambs were in their london lodgings, that brought on mary lamb's attack.] letter charles lamb to edward moxon november , . dear moxon,--i have brought my sister to enfield, being sure that she had no hope of recovery in london. 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 neither 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. i 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 my 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. [southey was visiting rickman, then clerk assistant to the house of commons, where he lived.] letter charles lamb to edward moxon [no date. ? dec., .] dear m. something like this was what i meant. but on reading it over, i see no great fun or use in it. it will only stuff up and encroach upon the sheet you propose. do as, and _what_, you please. send proof, or not, as you like. if you send, send me a copy or of the album verses, and the juvenile poetry if _bound_. i am happy to say mary is mending, but not enough to give me hopes of being able to leave her. i sadly regret that i shall possibly not see southey or wordsworth, but i dare not invite either of them here, for fear of exciting my sister, whose only chance is quiet. you don't know in what a sad state we have been. i think the devil may come out without prefaces, but use your discretion. make my kindest remembces to southey, with my heart's thanks for his kind intent. i am a little easier about my will, and as ryle is executor, and will do all a friend can do at the office, and what little i leave will buy an annuity to piece out tolerably, i am much easier. yours ever c.l. to new bond st. [i cannot say to what the opening sentences refer: probably an advertisement for _satan in search of a wife_ ("the devil"), which lamb had just written and moxon was publishing. the reference to the juvenile poetry suggests that moxon had procured some of the sheets of the _poetry for children_ which godwin brought out in , and was binding up a few. this theory is borne out by the statement in the letter to mrs. norris, later, that the book was not to be had for love or money, and the circumstance that in lamb seems to send her a copy. ryle was charles ryle. an india house clerk, and lamb's executor with talfourd.] letter charles lamb to george dyer dec. , . dear dyer,--i would have written before to thank you for your kind letter, written with your own hand. it glads us to see your writing. it will give you pleasure to hear that, after so much illness, we are in tolerable health and spirits once more. miss isola intended to call upon you after her night's lodging at miss buffam's, but found she was too late for the stage. if she comes to town before she goes home, she will not miss paying her respects to mrs. dyer and you, to whom she desires best love. poor enfield, that has been so peaceable hitherto, has caught the inflammatory fever, the tokens are upon her! and a great fire was blazing last night in the barns and haystacks of a farmer, about half a mile from us. where will these things end? there is no doubt of its being the work of some ill-disposed rustic; but how is he to be discovered? they go to work in the dark with strange chemical preparations unknown to our forefathers. there is not even a dark lantern to have a chance of detecting these guy fauxes. we are past the iron age, and are got into the fiery age, undream'd of by ovid. you are lucky in clifford's inn where, i think, you have few ricks or stacks worth the burning. pray keep as little corn by you as you can, for fear of the worst. it was never good times in england since the poor began to speculate upon their condition. formerly, they jogged on with as little reflection as horses: the whistling ploughman went cheek by jowl with his brother that neighed. now the biped carries a box of phosphorus in his leather-breeches; and in the dead of night the half-illuminated beast steals his magic potion into a cleft in a barn, and half a country is grinning with new fires. farmer graystock said something to the touchy rustic that he did not relish, and he writes his distaste in flames. what a power to intoxicate his crude brains, just muddlingly awake, to perceive that something is wrong in the social system!-what a hellish faculty above gunpowder! now the rich and poor are fairly pitted; we shall see who can hang or burn fastest. it is not always revenge that stimulates these kindlings. there is a love of exerting mischief. think of a disrespected clod that was trod into earth, that was nothing, on a sudden by damned arts refined into an exterminating angel, devouring the fruits of the earth and their growers in a mass of fire! what a new existence!--what a temptation above lucifer's! would clod be any thing but a clod, if he could resist it? why, here was a spectacle last night for a whole country!--a bonfire visible to london, alarming her guilty towers, and shaking the monument with an ague fit--all done by a little vial of phosphor in a clown's fob! how he must grin, and shake his empty noddle in clouds, the vulcanian epicure! can we ring the bells backward? can we unlearn the arts that pretend to civilize, and then burn the world? there is a march of science; but who shall beat the drums for its retreat? who shall persuade the boor that phosphor will not ignite? seven goodly stacks of hay, with corn-barns proportionable, lie smoking ashes and chaff, which man and beast would sputter out and reject like those apples of asphaltes and bitumen. the food for the inhabitants of earth will quickly disappear. hot rolls may say: "fuimus panes, fuit quartern-loaf, et ingens gloria apple-pasty-orum." that the good old munching system may last thy time and mine, good un-incendiary george, is the devout prayer of thine, to the last crust, ch. lamb. [incendiarism, the result of agricultural distress and in opposition to the competition of the new machinery, was rife in the country at this time.] letter charles lamb to edward moxon [no date. ? christmas, .] dear m. a thousand thanks for your punctualities. what a cheap book is the last hogarth you sent me! i am pleased now that hunt _diddled_ me out of the old one. speaking of this, only think of the new farmer with his acres. there is a portion of land in lambeth parish called knaves acre. i wonder he overlook'd it. don't show this to the firm of dilk & c'o. i next want one copy of leicester school, and wish you to pay leishman, taylor, blandford place, pall mall, opposite the british institution, £ . . for coat waistcoat &c. and i vehemently thirst for the th no. of nichols's hogarth, to bind 'em up (the books) as "hogarth, and supplement." but as you know the price, don't stay for its appearance; but come as soon as ever you can with your bill of all demands in full, and, as i have none but £ notes, bring with you sufficient change. weather is beautiful. i grieve sadly for miss wordsworth. we are all well again. emma is with us, and we all shall be glad of a sight of you. come on sunday, if you _can_; better, if you come before. perhaps rogers would smile at this.--a pert half chemist half apothecary, in our town, who smatters of literature and is immeasurable unletterd, said to me "pray, sir, may not hood (he of the acres) be reckon'd the prince of wits in the present day?" to which i assenting, he adds "i had always thought that rogers had been reckon'd the prince of wits, but i suppose that now mr. hood has the better title to that appellation." to which i replied that mr. r. had wit with much better qualities, but did not aspire to the principality. he had taken all the puns manufactured in john bull for our friend, in sad and stupid earnest. one more album verses, please. adieu. c.l. ["hunt." this would, i think, be not leigh hunt but his nephew, hunt of hunt & clarke. the diddling i cannot explain. leishman was the husband of mrs. leishman, the lambs' old landlady at enfield. "miss wordsworth"--dorothy wordsworth, who was ill. "perhaps rogers would smile at this." i take the following passage from the _maclise portrait gallery:_-- in the early days of the _john bull_ it was the fashion to lay every foundling witticism at the door of sam rogers; and thus the refined poet and man of letters became known as a sorry jester. _john bull_ was theodore hook's paper. maginn wrote in _fraser's magazine:_-- joe miller vails his bonnet to sam rogers; in all the newspapers, not only of the kingdom but its dependencies,--hindostan, canada, the west indies, the cape, from the tropics,--nay, from the antipodes to the orkneys, sam is godfather-- general to all the bad jokes in existence. the yankees have caught the fancy, and from new orleans to new york it is the same,--rogers is synonymous with a pun. all british-born or descended people,--yea the very negro and the hindoo--father their calembourgs on rogers. quashee, or ramee-samee, who knows nothing of sir isaac newton, john milton, or _fraser's magazine_, grins from ear to ear at the name of the illustrious banker, and with gratified voice exclaims, "him dam funny, dat sam!"] letter charles lamb to edward moxon [p.m. february , .] dear moxon, the snows are ancle 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 thankd you for your offer of the _life_, which we shall very much like to have, and will return duly. i do not know when i shall be in town, but in a week or two at farthest, when i will come as far as you if i can. we are moped to death with confinement within doors. i send you a curiosity of g. dyer's tender-conscience. between and years since, g. published the poet's fate, in which were two very harmless lines about mr. rogers, but mr. r. not quite approving of them, they were left out in a subsequent edition . but g. has been worryting about them ever since; if i have heard him once, i have heard him a hundred times express a remorse proportiond to a consciousness of having been guilty of an atrocious libel. as the devil would have it, a fool they call _barker_, in his parriana has quoted the identical two lines as they stood in some obscure edition anterior to , and the withers of poor g. are again wrung. his letter is a gem--with his poor blind eyes it has been laboured out at six sittings. the history of the couplet is in page of this irregular production, in which every variety of shape and size that letters can be twisted into, is to be found. do _shew_ his part of it to mr. r. some day. if he has bowels, they must melt at the contrition so queerly character'd of a contrite sinner. g. was born i verily think without original sin, but chuses to have a conscience, as every christian gentleman should have. his dear old face is insusceptible of the twist they call a sneer, yet he is apprehensive of being suspected of that ugly appearance. when he makes a compliment, he thinks he has given an affront. a name is personality. but shew (no hurry) this unique recantation to mr. r. 'tis like a dirty pocket handkerchief muck'd with 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. i am heartily sorry my devil does not answer. we must try it a little longer, and after all i think i must insist on taking a portion of the loss upon myself. it is too much you should lose by two adventures. you do not say how your general business goes on, and i should very much like to talk over it with you here. 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 straiten'd every way. where are they? 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 serviceable 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 buffam's, the tales of the castle, and certain vols. retrospective review. the first should be conveyd 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 effort to write this. so, with the _life_, i have cut you out 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 tomorrow, between rains and snows, it would be impossible to expect you, but do not let a practicable 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. ["the _life_." the life which every one was then reading was moore's _life of byron_. "george dyer's." the explanation is that years before, in his _poems_, , dyer had written in a piece called "the poet's fate"-- and rogers, if he shares the town's regard, was first a banker ere he rose a bard. in the second edition dyer altered this to-- and darwin, if he share the town's regard, was first a doctor ere he rose a bard. lamb notes the alteration in his copy of the second edition, now in the british museum. in - appeared _parriana_, by edmund henry barker, which quoted the couplet in its original form, to dyer's distress. _tales of the castle_. by the countess de genlis. translated by thomas holcroft] letter charles lamb to george dyer feb. nd, . dear dyer,--mr. rogers, and mr. rogers's friends, are perfectly assured, that you never intended any harm by an innocent couplet, and that in the revivification of it by blundering barker you had no hand whatever. to imagine that, at this time of day, rogers broods over a fantastic expression of more than thirty years' standing, would be to suppose him indulging his "pleasures of memory" with a vengeance. you never penned a line which for its own sake you need (dying) wish to blot. you mistake your heart if you think you _can_ write a lampoon. your whips are rods of roses. your spleen has ever had for its objects vices, not the vicious-abstract offences, not the concrete sinner. but you are sensitive, and wince as much at the consciousness of having committed a compliment, as another man would at the perpetration of an affront. but do not lug me into the same soreness of conscience with yourself. i maintain, and will to the last hour, that i never writ of you but _con amore_. that if any allusion was made to your near-sightedness, it was not for the purpose of mocking an infirmity, but of connecting it with scholar-like habits: for is it not erudite and scholarly to be somewhat near of sight, before age naturally brings on the malady? you could not then plead the _obrepens senectus_. did i not moreover make it an apology for a certain _absence_, which some of your friends may have experienced, when you have not on a sudden made recognition of them in a casual street-meeting, and did i not strengthen your excuse for this slowness of recognition, by further accounting morally for the present engagement of your mind in worthy objects? did i not, in your person, make the handsomest apology for absent-of-mind people that was ever made? if these things be not so, i never knew what i wrote or meant by my writing, and have been penning libels all my life without being aware of it. does it follow that i should have exprest myself exactly in the same way of those dear old eyes of yours _now_--now that father time has conspired with a hard task-master to put a last extinguisher upon them? i should as soon have insulted the answerer of salmasius, when he awoke up from his ended task, and saw no more with mortal vision. but you are many films removed yet from milton's calamity. you write perfectly intelligibly. marry, the letters are not all of the same size or tallness; but that only shows your proficiency in the _hands_--text, german-hand, court-hand, sometimes law-hand, and affords variety. you pen better than you did a twelvemonth ago; and if you continue to improve, you bid fair to win the golden pen which is the prize at your young gentlemen's academy. but you must beware of valpy, and his printing-house, that hazy cave of trophonius, out of which it was a mercy that you escaped with a glimmer. beware of mss. and variae lectiones. settle the text for once in your mind, and stick to it. you have some years' good sight in you yet, if you do not tamper with it. it is not for you (for _us_ i should say) to go poring into greek contractions, and star-gazing upon slim hebrew points. we have yet the sight of sun, and moon, and star, throughout the year, and man and woman. you have vision enough to discern mrs. dyer from the other comely gentlewoman who lives up at staircase no. ; or, if you should make a blunder in the twilight, mrs. dyer has too much good sense to be jealous for a mere effect of imperfect optics. but don't try to write the lord's prayer, creed, and ten commandments, in the compass of a halfpenny; nor run after a midge or a mote to catch it; and leave off hunting for needles in bushels of hay, for all these things strain the eyes. the snow is six feet deep in some parts here. i must put on jack-boots to get at the post-office with this. it is not good for weak eyes to pore upon snow too much. it lies in drifts. i wonder what its drift is; only that it makes good pancakes, remind mrs. dyer. it turns a pretty green world into a white one. it glares too much for an innocent colour, methinks. i wonder why you think i dislike gilt edges. they set off a letter marvellously. yours, for instance, looks for all the world like a tablet of curious _hieroglyphics_ in a gold frame. but don't go and lay this to your eyes. you always wrote hieroglyphically, yet not to come up to the mystical notations and conjuring characters of dr. parr. you never wrote what i call a schoolmaster's hand, like clarke; nor a woman's hand, like southey; nor a missal hand, like porson; nor an all-of-the-wrong-side-sloping hand, like miss hayes; nor a dogmatic, mede-and-persian, peremptory hand, like rickman; but you ever wrote what i call a grecian's hand; what the grecians write (or used) at christ's hospital; such as whalley would have admired, and boyer have applauded, but smith or atwood (writing-masters) would have horsed you for. your boy-of-genius hand and your mercantile hand are various. by your flourishes, i should think you never learned to make eagles or corkscrews, or flourish the governors' names in the writing-school; and by the tenor and cut of your letters i suspect you were never in it at all. by the length of this scrawl you will think i have a design upon your optics; but i have writ as large as i could out of respect to them--too large, indeed, for beauty. mine is a sort of deputy grecian's hand; a little better, and more of a worldly hand, than a grecian's, but still remote from the mercantile. i don't know how it is, but i keep my rank in fancy still since school-days. i can never forget i was a deputy grecian! and writing to you, or to coleridge, besides affection, i feel a reverential deference as to grecians still. i keep my soaring way above the great erasmians, yet far beneath the other. alas! what am i now? what is a leadenhall clerk or india pensioner to a deputy grecian? how art thou fallen, o lucifer! just room for our loves to mrs. d., &c. c. lamb. ["i never writ of you but _con amore_." lamb refers particularly to the _elia_ essay "oxford in the vacation" in the _london magazine_, where g.d.'s absence of mind and simplicity of character were dwelt upon more intimately than dyer liked (see vol. ii.). dyer was gradually going blind. "the answerer of salmasius"--milton. "comely" mrs. dyer. but in the letter to mrs. shelley, mrs. d. had been "plain"! dyer had been a grecian before lamb was born. clarke would be charles cowden clarke, with whose father dyer had been an usher. miss hayes we have met. the rev. peter whalley was upper grammar master in dyer's day; boyer, lamb and coleridge's master, succeeded him in . smith was writing master at the end of the seventeenth century. lamb had never become a grecian, having an impediment in his speech which made it impossible that he should take orders, the natural fate of grecians, with profit. great erasmus and little erasmus are still the names of classes in the blue-coat school. grecians were the little erasmians. here should come a letter from lamb to p.g. patmore, dated april , , in which lamb says of the publisher of the _new monthly magazine_: "nature never wrote knave upon a face more legible than upon that fellow's--'coal-burn him in beelzebub's deepest pit.' i can promise little help if you mean literary, when i reflect that for years i have been feeling the necessity of scribbling but have never found the power.... _moxon_ is my go between, call on _him_, new bond st., he is a very good fellow and the bookseller is not yet burn'd into him." patmore was seeking a publisher for, i imagine, his _chatsworth_. here should come a letter from lamb, dated april , , which canon ainger considers was written to gary and mr. hazlitt to coleridge. it states that lamb is daily expecting wordsworth.] letter charles lamb to bernard barton april , . vir bone!--recepi literas tuas amicissimas, et in mentem venit responsuro mihi, vel raro, vel nunquam, inter nos intercedisse latinam linguam, organum rescribendi, loquendive. epistolae tuae, plinianis elegantiis (supra quod tremulo deceat) refertae, tam a verbis plinianis adeo abhorrent, ut ne vocem quamquam (romanam scilicet) habere videaris, quam "ad canem," ut aiunt, "rejectare possis." forsan desuetudo latinissandi ad vernaculam linguam usitandam, plusquam opus sit, coegit. per adagia quaedam nota, et in ore omnium pervulgata, ad latinitatis perditae recuperationem revocare te institui. felis in abaco est, et aegrè videt. omne quod splendet nequaquam aurum putes. imponas equo mendicum, equitabit idem ad diabolum. fur commodè a fure prenditur. o maria, maria, valdè contraria, quomodo crescit hortulus tuus? nunc majora canamus. thomas, thomas, de islington, uxorem duxit die nupera dominicâ. reduxit domum posterâ. succedenti baculum emit. postridiè ferit illam. aegrescit ilia subsequenti. proximâ (nempe veneris) est mortua. plurimum gestiit thomas, quòd appropinquanti sabbato efferenda sit. horner quidam johannulus in angulo sedebat, artocreas quasdam deglutiens. inseruit pollices, pruna nana evellens, et magnâ voce exclamavit "dii boni, quàm bonus puer fio!" diddle-diddle-dumkins! meus unicus filius johannes cubitum ivit, integris braccis, caligâ unâ tantum, indutus. diddle-diddle, etc. da capo. hie adsum saltans joannula. cum nemo adsit mihi, semper resto sola. aenigma mihi hoc solvas, et oedipus fies. quâ ratione assimulandus sit equus tremulo? quippe cui tota communicatio sit per hay et neigh, juxta consilium illud dominicum, "fiat omnis communicatio vestra yea et nay." in his nugis caram diem consume, dum invigilo valetudini carioris nostras emmae, quae apud nos jamdudum aegrotat. salvere vos jubet mecum maria mea, ipsa integrâ valetudine. elia. ab agro enfeldiense datum, aprilis nescio quibus calendis-- davus sum, non calendarius. p.s.--perdita in toto est billa reformatura. [mr. stephen gwynn gives me the following translation:-- good sir, i have received your most kind letter, and it has entered my mind as i began to reply, that the latin tongue has seldom or never been used between us as the instrument of converse or correspondence. your letters, filled with plinian elegancies (more than becomes a quaker), are so alien to pliny's language, that you seem not to have a word (that is, a roman word) to throw, as the saying is, at a dog. perchance the disuse of latinising had constrained you more than is right to the use of the vernacular. i have determined to recall you to the recovery of your lost latinity by certain well-known adages common in all mouths. the cat's in the cupboard and she can't see. all that glitters is not gold. set a beggar on horseback and he'll ride to the devil. set a thief to catch a thief. mary, mary, quite contrary, how does your garden grow? now let us sing of weightier matters. tom, tom, of islington, wed a wife on sunday. he brought her home on monday. bought a stick on tuesday. beat her well on wednesday. she was sick on thursday. dead on friday. tom was glad on saturday night to bury his wife on sunday. little jack homer sat in a corner, eating his christmas pie. he put in his thumb and drew out a plum, and cried "good heavens, what a good boy am i!" diddle, diddle, dumkins! my son john went to bed with his breeches on; one shoe off and the other shoe on, diddle, diddle, etc. (da capo.) here am i, jumping joan. when no one's by, i'm all alone. solve me this enigma, you shall be an oedipus. why is a horse like a quaker? because all his communication is by hay and neigh, after the lord's counsel, "let all your communication be yea and nay." in these trifles i waste the precious day, while watching over the health of our more precious emma, who has been sick in our house this long time. my mary sends you greeting with me, she herself in sound health. given from the enfield country seat, on i know not what calends of april--i am davus not an almanac.[l] p.s.--the reform bill is lost altogether. the reform bill was introduced on march , , by lord john russell; the second reading was carried on march by a majority of . on its commitment on april there was a majority of against the government. four days later the government was again defeated by and parliament was dissolved. but later, of course, the reform bill was passed.] [footnote : allusion to the phrase of davus the servant in plautus--"davus sum non oedipus."] letter charles lamb to h.f. cary [dated at end:] datum ab agro enfeldiensi, maii die sextâ, . assidens est mihi bona soror, euripiden evolvens, donum vestrum, carissime cary, pro quo gratias agimus, lecturi atque iterum lecturi idem. pergratus est liber ambobus, nempe "sacerdotis commiserationis," sacrum opus a te ipso humanissimae religionis sacerdote dono datum. lachrymantes gavisuri sumus; est ubi dolor fiat voluptas; nee semper dulce mihi est ridere; aliquando commutandum est he! he! he! cum heu! heu! heu! a musis tragicis me non penitus abhorruisse lestis sit carmen calamitosum, nescio quo autore linguâ prius vernaculi scriptum, et nuperrimè a me ipso latine versum, scilicet, "tom tom of islington." tenuistine? "thomas thomas de islington, uxorem duxit die quâdam solis, abduxit domum sequenti die, emit baculum subsequenti, vapulat ilia posterâ, aegrotat succedenti, mortua fit crastina." et miro gaudio afficitur thomas luce posterâ quod subsequenti (nempe, dominicâ) uxor sit efferenda. "en iliades domesticas! en circulum calamitatum! planè hebdomadalem tragoediam." i nunc et confer euripiden vestrum his luctibus, hâc morte uxoriâ; confer alcesten! hecuben! quasnon antiquas heroinas dolorosas. suffundor genas lachrymis, tantas strages revolvens. quid restat nisi quod tecum tuam caram salutamus ambosque valere jubeamus, nosmet ipsi bene valentes. elia. [mr. stephen gwynn gives me the following translation:-- sitting by me is my good sister, turning over euripides, your gift, dear cary [a pun here, "carissime care"], for which we thank you, and will read and re-read it. most acceptable to both of us is this book of "pity's priest," a sacred work of your bestowing, yourself a priest of the most humane religion. we shall take our pleasure weeping; there are times when pain turns pleasure, and i would not always be laughing: sometimes there should be a change--_heu heu!_ for _he! he!_ that i have not shrunk from the tragic muses, witness this lamentable ballad, first written in the vernacular by i know not what author and lately by myself put into latin t. t. of islington. have you heard it? (_see translation of preceding letter_.) and thomas is possessed with a wondrous joy on the following morning, because on the next day, that is, sunday, his wife must be buried. lo, your domestic iliads! lo, the wheel of calamities the true tragedy of a week. go to now, compare your euripides with these sorrows, this death of a wife! compare alcestis! hecuba! or what not other sorrowing heroines of antiquity. my cheeks are tear-bedewed as i revolve such slaughter. what more to say, but to salute you cary and your cara, and wish you health, ourselves enjoying it. in _mary and charles lamb_, , by w.c. hazlitt, in the catalogue of charles lamb's library, for sale by bartlett and welford, new york, is this item:--"_euripidis tragediae, interp. lat_. vo. oxonii, ". "c. and m. lamb, from h.f. cary," on flyleaf. this must be the book referred to. euripides has been called the priest of pity.] letter charles lamb to edward moxon [p.m. july , .] collier's book would be right acceptable. and also a sixth vol. just publish'd of nichols's illustrations of the literary history of th century. i agree with you, and do yet _not disagree_ with w.w., as to h. it rejoyced my heart to read his friendly spirited mention of your publications. it might be a drawback to my pleasure, that he has tried to decry my "nicky," but on deliberate re- and reperusal of his censure i cannot in the remotest degree understand what he means to say. he and i used to dispute about hell eternities, i taking the affirmative. i love to puzzle atheists, and--parsons. i fancy it runs in his head, that i meant to rivet the idea of a personal devil. then about the glorious three days! there was never a year or day in my past life, since i was pen-worthy, that i should not have written precisely as i have. logic and modesty are not among h.'s virtues. talfourd flatters me upon a poem which "nobody but i could have written," but which i have neither seen nor heard of--"the banquet," or "banqueting something," that has appeared in the tatler. know you of it? how capitally the frenchman has analysed satan! i was hinder'd, or i was about doing the same thing in english, for him to put into french, as i prosified hood's midsummer fairies. the garden of _cabbage_ escap'd him, he turns it into a garden of pot herbs. so local allusions perish in translation. about days before you told me of r.'s interview with the premier, i, at the desire of badams, wrote a letter to him (badams) in the most moving terms setting forth the age, infirmities &c. of coleridge. this letter was convey'd to [by] b. to his friend mr. ellice of the treasury, brother in law to lord grey, who immediately pass'd it on [to] lord grey, who assured him of immediate relief by a grant on the king's bounty, which news e. communicated to b. with a desire to confer with me on the subject, on which i went up to the treasury (yesterday fortnight) and was received by the great man with the utmost cordiality, (shook hands with me coming and going) a fine hearty gentleman, and, as seeming willing to relieve any anxiety from me, promised me an answer thro' badams in or days at furthest. meantime gilman's extraordinary insolent letter comes out in the times! as to _my_ acquiescing in this strange step, i told mr. ellice (who expressly said that the thing was renewable three-yearly) that i consider'd such a grant as almost equivalent to the lost pension, as from c.'s appearance and the representations of the gilmans, i scarce could think c.'s life worth years' purchase. i did not know that the chancellor had been previously applied to. well, after seeing ellice i wrote in the most urgent manner to the gilmans, insisting on an immediate letter of acknowledgment from coleridge, or them _in his name_ to badams, who not knowing c. had come forward so disinterestedly amidst his complicated illnesses and embarrassments, to _use up_ an interest, which he may so well need, in favor of a stranger; and from that day not a letter has b. or even myself, received from highgate, unless _that publish'd one in the times is meant as a general answer to all the friends who have stirr'd to do c. service_! poor c. is not to blame, for he is in leading strings.--i particularly wish you would read this part of my note to mr. rogers. now for home matters--our next sundays will be choked up with all the sugdens. the third will be free, when we hope you will show your sister the way to enfield and leave her with us for a few days. in the mean while, could you not run down some week day (afternoon, say) and sleep at the horse shoe? i want to have my d vol. elias bound specimen fashion, and to consult you about 'em. kenney has just assured me, that he has just touch'd £ from the theatre; you are a damn'd fool if you don't exact your tythe of him, and with that assurance i rest your brother fool c.l. [collier's book would be his _history of english dramatic poetry_, . nichols's _illustrations_ had been begun by john nichols, and six volumes were published between and . it was completed in two more volumes by his son, john bowyer nichols, in and . "h."--leigh hunt. we do not know what w.w., presumably wordsworth, had to say of him; but this is how hunt had referred to moxon's publications and lamb's _satan in search of a wife_ in _the tatler_ for june , , the occasion being a review of "selections from wordsworth" for schools:-- mr. moxon has begun his career as a bookseller in singularly high taste. he has no connection but with the select of the earth. the least thing he does, is to give us a dandy poem, suitable to bond street, and not without wit. we allude to the byronian brochure, entitled "_mischief_." but this is a mere condescension to the elegance of the street he lives in. mr. moxon commenced with some of the primaeval delicacies of _charles lamb_. he then astonished us with mr. rogers' poems on _italy_.... of some of these publications we have already spoken,--mr. lamb's _album verses_ among them. and why (the reader may ask) not have noticed his _satan in search of a wife_? because, to say the truth, we did not think it worthy of him. we rejoice in mr. lamb's accession to the good cause advocated by sterne and burns, refreshed by the wholesome mirth of mr. moncrieff, and finally carried (like a number of other astonished humanities, who little thought of the matter, and are not all sensible of it now) on the triumphant shoulders of the glorious three days. but mr. lamb, in the extreme sympathy of his delight, has taken for granted, that everything that can be uttered on the subject will be held to be worth uttering, purely for its own sake, and because it could not well have been said twelve months ago. he merges himself, out of the pure transport of his good will, into the joyous common-places of others; just as if he had joined a great set of children in tossing over some mighty bowl of snap-dragon, too scalding to bear; and thought that nothing could be so good as to echo their "hurras!" furthermore, we fear that some of his old friends, on the wrong side of the _house_, would think a little of his merriment profane: though for our parts, if we are certain of anything in this world, it is that nothing can be more christian. "the banquet." i cannot find this poem. it is, i think, not in _the tatler_. "how capitally the frenchman ..." i cannot find any french paraphrase of _satan in search of a wife_, nor has a search at the bibliotheque nationale in paris revealed one. "r.'s interview with the premier." r. would be rogers. perhaps the best explanation of this portion of lamb's letter is the following passage from mr. dykes campbell's memoir of coleridge:-- on june , , died george iv., and with him died the pensions of the royal associates. apparently they did not find this out until the following year. in the _englishman's magazine_ for june, , attention was directed to the fact that "intimation had been given to mr. coleridge and his brother associates that they must expect their allowances 'very shortly' to cease"--the allowances having been a personal bounty of the late king. on june , , gillman wrote a letter to the _times_, "in consequence of a paragraph which appeared in the _times_ of this day." he states that on the sudden suppression of the honorarium, representations on coleridge's behalf were made to lord brougham, with the result that the treasury (lord grey) offered a private grant of £ , which coleridge "had felt it his duty most respectfully to decline." stuart, however, wrote to king william's son, the earl of munster, pointing out the hardship entailed on coleridge, "who is old and infirm, and without other means of subsistence." he begs the earl to lay the matter before his royal father. to this a reply came, excusing the king on account of his "very reduced income," but promising that the matter shall be laid before his majesty. to these letters, which are printed in _letters from the lake poets_ (pages - ), the following note is appended: "the annuity ... was not renewed, but a sum of £ was ultimately handed over to coleridge by the treasury." even apart from this bounty, coleridge was not a sufferer by the withdrawal of the king's pension, for frere made it up to him annually. it is interesting to know that lamb played so useful and characteristic a part in this matter. "the sugdens." i do not identify these friends. " d vol. elias." this would refer, i think, to the american volume, published without authority, in , under the title _elia; or, second series_, which lamb told n.p. willis he liked. it contained three pieces not by lamb; the rest made up from the _works_ and the _london magazine_ (see vol. ii., notes).] letter charles lamb to edward moxon pray forward the enclosed, or put it in the post. [no date. early august, .] dear m.--the _r.a_. here memorised was george dawe, whom i knew well and heard many anecdotes of, from daniels and westall, at h. rogers's--_to each of them_ it will be well to send a mag. in my name. it will fly like wild fire among the r. academicians and artists. could you get hold of proctor--his chambers are in lincoln's inn at montagu's--or of janus weathercock?--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 addrest to peter--but a signature forces it to be all characteristic of the one man elia, or the one man peter, which cramped me formerly. i have agreed _not_ for my sister to know the subjects i chuse till the mag. comes out; so beware of speaking of 'em, or writing about 'em, save generally. be particular about this warning. can't you drop in some afternoon, and take a bed? the _athenaeum_ has been hoaxed with some exquisite poetry that was or months ago in hone's book. i like your st no. capitally. but is it not small? come and see us, week day if possible. c.l. [moxon had just acquired _the englishman's magazine_ and lamb contributed to the september number his "recollections of a late royal academician," george dawe (see vol. i. of this edition), under the general title "peter's net." daniels may have been thomas or william daniell, both landscape painters. westall may have been richard westall, the historical painter, or william westall, the topographical painter. h. rogers was henry rogers, brother of the poet. "the _athenaeum_ has been hoaxed." the exquisite poetry was fitzgerald's "meadows in spring" (see next letter).] letter charles lamb to edward moxon [p.m. aug. , .] send, or bring me, hone's no. for august. hunt is a fool, and his critics----the anecdotes of e. and of g.d. are substantially true. what does elia (or peter) care for dates? that _is_ the poem i mean. i do not know who wrote it, but is in hone's book as far back as april. tis a poem i envy--_that_ & montgomery's last man (nothing else of his). i envy the writers, because i feel i could have done something like it. s---- is a coxcomb. w---- is a ---- & a great poet. l. [hone was now editing his _year book_. under the date april had appeared edward fitzgerald's poem, "the meadows in spring," with the following introduction:-- these verses are in the old style; rather homely in expression; but i honestly profess to stick more to the simplicity of the old poets than the moderns, and to love the philosophical good humor of our old writers more than the sickly melancholy of the byronian wits. if my verses be not good, they are good humored, and that is something. the editor of _the athenaeum_, in reprinting the poem, suggested delicately that it was by lamb. there is no such poem by james montgomery as "the last man." campbell wrote a "last man," and so did hood, but i agree with canon ainger that what lamb meant was montgomery's "common lot." i give the two poems in the appendix as illustrations of what lamb envied. "hunt is a fool." in _the tatler_ for august leigh hunt had quoted much of lamb's essay on elliston. i do not, however, find any adverse criticism. "e. and g.d." lamb had written in the august number of _the englishman's magazine_ his "reminiscences of elliston." lamb's article on george dawe did not appear till the september number, but perhaps moxon already had the copy.] letter charles lamb to edward moxon [p.m. sept. , .] dear m., your letter's contents pleased me. i am only afraid of taxing you, yet i want a stimulus, or i think i should drag sadly. i shall keep the monies in trust till i see you fairly over the next january. then i shall look upon 'em as earned. colburn shall be written to. no part of yours gave me more pleasure (no, not the £, , 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 letter's contents was presumably payment for lamb's contribution to _the englishman's magazine_.] letter charles lamb to william hazlitt, jr. [p.m. sept. , .] dear wm--we have a sick house, mrs. westw'ds daughter in a fever, & grandaughter in the meazles, & it is better to see no company just now, but in a week or two we shall be very glad to see you; come at a hazard then, on a week day if you can, because sundays are stuffd up with friends on both parts of this great ill-mix'd family. your second letter, dated d sept'r, came not till sund'y & we staid at home in even'g in expectation of seeing you. i have turned & twisted what you ask'd me to do in my head, & am obliged to say i can not undertake it--but as a composition for declining it, will you accept some verses which i meditate to be addrest to you on your father, & prefixable to your life? write me word that i may have 'em ready against i see you some days hence, when i calculate the house will be uninfected. send your mother's address. if you are likely to be again at cheshunt before that time, on second thoughts, drop in here, & consult-- yours, c.l. not a line is yet written--so say, if i shall do 'em. [this is the only letter extant to the younger hazlitt, who was then nearly twenty. william hazlitt, the essayist, had died september , . lamb was at his bedside. the memoir of him, by his son, was prefixed to the _literary remains_ in , but no verses by lamb accompanied it. when this letter was last sold at sotheby's in june, , a copy of verses was attached beginning-- there lives at winterslow a man of such rare talents and deep learning ... in the handwriting of william hazlitt. they bear more traces of being mary lamb's work than her brother's.] letter charles lamb to edward moxon [p.m. october , .] to address an abdicated monarch 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 damned it, for my pen was warming in my hand at a ludicrous description of a landscape of an r.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 occupation, 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 awkward at re-taking 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 under £ by and by accruing to me _devil's money_. you are sanguine--say £ : s.--that i entirely renounce and abjure all future interest in, i insist upon it, and "by him i will not name" i won't touch a penny of it. that will split your loss one half--and leave me conscientious possessor of what i hold. less than your assent to this, no proposal will i accept of. the rev. mr.------, whose name you have left illegible (is it _sea-gull_?) never sent me any book on christ's hospit. 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 blundering soul! why i am as old a one-goddite as himself. or did he think his cheap publication would bring over the methodists over the way here? 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 him to transmit to the minister, who shakes hand with him out of chapel, and he, in all odds, will ---- with 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 unlook'd for about , stopping bread-n-cheese and gin-and-water, is worth a thousand sundays. i am naturally miserable on a sunday, but a week day evening and supper is like old times. set out _now_, and give no time to deliberation-- _p.s_.--the d vol. of elia is delightful(-ly bound, i mean) and quite cheap. why, man, 'tis a unique-- if i write much more i shall expand into an article, which i cannot afford to let you have so cheap. by the by, to shew the perverseness of human will--while i thought i _must_ furnish one of those accursed things monthly, it seemed a labour above hercules's "twelve" in a year, which were evidently monthly contributions. now i am emancipated, i feel as if i had a thousand essays swelling within me. false feelings both. i have lost mr. aitken's town address--do you know it? is he there? your ex-lampoonist, or lamb-punnist--from enfield, oct. , or "last day but one for receiving articles that can be inserted." [moxon, finding _the englishman's magazine_ unsuccessful, gave it up suddenly after the october number, the third under his direction. his letter to lamb on the subject is not now forthcoming. the ludicrous description of a landscape by an r.a. is, i imagine, that of the garden of the hesperides in the _elia_ essay on the "barrenness of the imaginative faculty in the production of modern art" (see vol. ii.). probably turner's "garden of the hesperides" in the national gallery. by "devil's money" lamb means money due for _satan in search of a wife_. i do not identify * * * * * *. "the rev. mr. ----." i have not identified this gentleman. "g.d.... penny tract." i have not found dyer's tract. "mr. aitken." john aitken, editor of _constable's miscellany_, whom moxon would have known at hurst & co.'s.] letter charles lamb to edward moxon [p.m. dec. , .] dear m. +s. i know, has an aversion, amounting almost to horror, of h. he _would not_ lend his name. the other i might wring a guinea from, but he is _very properly_ shy of his guineas. it would be improper in me to apply to him, and impertinent to the other. i hope this will satisfy you, but don't give my reason to h.'s friend, simply, say i decline it. i am very much obliged to you for thinking of gary. put me down seven shillings (wasn't it?) in your books, and i set you down for more in my good ones. one copy will go down to immortality _now_, the more lasting as the less its leaves are disturbed. this letter will cost you d.--but i did not like to be silent on the above +. nothing with my name will sell, a blast is upon it. do not think of such a thing, unless ever you become rich enough to speculate. being praised, and being bought, are different things to a book. fancy books sell from fashion, not from the number of their real likers. do not come at so long intervals. here we are sure to be. [s. and h. i do not identify--perhaps southey and hunt. hunt's need of guineas was chronic. the reference to gary is not very clear. lamb seems to suggest that he is giving gary a copy of a book that gary will not read, but will preserve. "nothing with my name." moxon may perhaps have just suggested publishing a second series of _elia_.] letter charles lamb to joseph hume's daughters [no date. .] many thanks for the wrap-rascal, but how delicate the insinuating in, into the pocket, of that - / d., in paper too! who was it? amelia, caroline, julia, augusta, or "scots who have"? as a set-off to the very handsome present, which i shall lay out in a pot of ale certainly to _her_ health, i have paid sixpence for the mend of two button-holes of the coat now return'd. she shall not have to say, "i don't care a button for her." adieu, très aimables! buttons d. gift - / due from ---- - / which pray accept ... from your foolish coatforgetting c.l. [joseph hume we have met. mr. hazlitt writes: "amelia hume became mrs. bennett, julia mrs. todhunter. the latter personally informed me in that her aunt augusta perfectly recollected all the circumstances [of the present note]. the incident seems to have taken place at the residence of mr. hume, in percy street, bloomsbury, and it was amelia who found the three-pence-halfpenny in the coat which lamb left behind him, and who repaired the button-holes. the sister who is described as 'scots wha ha'e' was louisa hume; it was a favourite song with her." mrs. todhunter supplied the date, .] letter charles lamb to charles wentworth dilke [p.m. march , .] d'r sir, my friend aders, a german merchant, german born, has opend to the public at the suffolk st. gallery his glorious collection of old dutch and german pictures. pray see them. you have only to name my name, and have a ticket--if you have not received one already. you will possibly notice 'em, and might lug in the inclosed, which i wrote for hone's year book, and has appear'd only there, when the pictures were at home in euston sq. the fault of this matchless set of pictures is, _the admitting a few italian pictures with 'em_, which i would turn out to make the collection unique and pure. those old albert durers have not had their fame. i have tried to illustrate 'em. if you print my verses, a copy, please, for me. [the first letter to charles wentworth dilke ( - ), a friend of keats, hunt and hood, editor of dodsley and at this time editor of _the athenaeum_. lamb's verses ran thus:-- to c. aders, esq. _on his collection of paintings by the old german masters_ friendliest of men, aders, i never come within the precincts of this sacred room, but i am struck with a religious fear, which says "let no profane eye enter here." with imagery from heav'n the walls are clothed, making the things of time seem vile and loathed. spare saints, whose bodies seem sustain'd by love with martyrs old in meek procession move. here kneels a weeping magdalen, less bright to human sense for her blurr'd cheeks; in sight of eyes, new-touch'd by heaven, more winning fair than when her beauty was her only care. a hermit here strange mysteries doth unlock in desart sole, his knees worn by the rock. there angel harps are sounding, while below palm-bearing virgins in white order go. madonnas, varied with so chaste design. while all are different, each seems genuine, and hers the only jesus: hard outline, and rigid form, by dürer's hand subdued to matchless grace, and sacro-sanctitude; dürer, who makes thy slighted germany vie with the praise of paint-proud italy. whoever enter'st here, no more presume to name a parlour, or a drawing room; but, bending lowly to each, holy story, make this thy chapel, and thine oratory.] letter charles lamb to s.t. coleridge april th, . my dear coleridge,--not an unkind thought has passed in my brain about you. but i have been wofully neglectful of you, so that i do not deserve to announce to you, that if i do not hear from you before then, i will set out on wednesday morning to take you by the hand. i would do it this moment, but an unexpected visit might flurry you. i shall take silence for acquiescence, and come. i am glad you could write so long a letter. old loves to, and hope of kind looks from, the gilmans, when i come. yours _semper idem_ c.l. if you ever thought an offence, much more wrote it, against me, it must have been in the times of noah; and the great waters swept it away. mary's most kind love, and maybe a wrong prophet of your bodings!--here she is crying for mere love over your letter. i wring out less, but not sincerer, showers. my direction is simply, enfield. [mr. dykes campbell's comment upon this note is that it was written to remove some mistaken sick-man's fancy.] letter charles lamb to james sheridan knowles [no date. ? april, .] dear kn.--i will not see london again without seeing your pleasant play. in meanwhile, pray, send three or four orders to a lady who can't afford to pay: miss james, no. grove road, lisson grove, paddington, a day or two before--and come and see us some _evening_ with my hitherto uncorrupted and honest bookseller moxon. c. lamb. [i have dated this april, , because it may refer to knowles' play "the hunchback," produced april , . it might also possibly refer to "the wife" of a year later, but i think not.] letter charles lamb to john forster [? late april, .] one day in my life do come. c.l. i have placed poor mary at edmonton-- i shall be very glad to see the hunch back and straitback the st even'g they can come. i am very poorly indeed. i have been cruelly thrown out. come and don't let me drink too much. i drank more yesterday than i ever did any one day in my life. c.l. do come. cannot your sister come and take a half bed--or a whole one? which, alas, we have to spare. [mary lamb would have been taken to walden house, edmonton, where mental patients were received. a year later the lambs moved there altogether. the hunchback would be knowles; the straitback i do not recognise. john forster ( - ), whom we now meet for the first time, one of lamb's last new friends, was the author, later, of _lives of the statesmen of the commonwealth_ and the lives also of goldsmith and of landor and dickens, whose close friend he was. his _life of pym_, which was in vol. ii. of the _statesman_, did not appear until , but i assume that he had ridden the hobby for some years.] letter charles lamb to edward moxon (?) [p.m. june , .] i am a little more than half alive-- i was more than half dead-- the ladies are very agreeable-- i flatter myself i am less than disagreeable-- convey this to mr. forster-- whom, with you, i shall just be able to see some days hence and believe me ever yours c.l. i take forster's name to be john, but you know whom i mean, the pym-praiser not pimp-raiser. [this letter possibly is not to moxon at all, as the wrapper (on which is the postmark) may belong to another letter.] letter charles lamb to thomas allsop july , . at midsummer or soon after (i will let you know the previous day), i will take a day with you in the purlieus of my old haunts. no offence has been taken, any more than meant. my house is full at present, but empty of its chief pride. she is dead to me for many months. but when i see you, then i will say, come and see me. with undiminished friendship to you both, your faithful but queer c.l. how you frighted me! never write again, "coleridge is dead," at the end of a line, and tamely come in with "to his friends" at the beginning of another. love is quicker, and fear from love, than the transition ocular from line to line. letter charles lamb to walter wilson [dated at end: aug., .] my dear wilson, i cannot let my old friend mrs. hazlitt (sister in law to poor wm. hazlitt) leave enfield, without endeavouring to introduce her to you, and to mrs. wilson. her daughter has a school in your neighbourhood, and for her talents and by [for] her merits i can _answer_. if it lies in your power to be useful to them in any way, the obligation to your old office-fellow will be great. i have not forgotten mrs. wilson's album, and if you, or she, will be the means of procuring but one pupil for miss hazlitt, i will rub up my poor poetic faculty to the best. but you and she will one day, i hope, bring the album with you to enfield-- poor mary is ill, or would send her love-- yours very truly c. lamb. news.--collet is dead, du puy is dead. i am _not_.--hone! is turned believer in irving and his unknown tongues. in the name of dear defoe which alone might be a bond of union between us, adieu! [mrs. hazlitt was the wife of john hazlitt, the miniature painter, who died in . i have been unable to trace her daughter's history. collet i do not recognise. probably an old fellow-clerk at the india house, as was du puy. it is true that hone was converted by irving, and became himself a preacher.] letter charles lamb to henry crabb robinson [no date. ? early october, .] for lander's kindness i have just esteem. i shall tip him a letter, when you tell me how to address him. give emma's kindest regrets that i could not entice her good friend, your nephew, here. her warmest love to the bury robinsons--our all three to h. crab. c.l. [mr. macdonald's transcript adds: "accompanying copy of lander's verses to emma isola, and others, contributed to miss wordsworth's album, and poem written at wast-water. c.l." the bury robinsons were crabb robinson's brother and other relatives, whom miss isola had met when at fornham.] letter charles lamb to walter savage landor [no date. october, .] dear sir, pray accept a little volume. 'tis a legacy from elia, you'll see. silver and gold had he none, but such as he had, left he you. i do not know how to thank you for attending to my request about the album. i thought you would never remember it. are not you proud and thankful, emma? yes, _very, both_-- emma isola. many things i had to say to you, which there was not time for. _one_ why should i forget? 'tis for rose aylmer, which has a charm i cannot explain. i lived upon it for weeks.-- next i forgot to tell you i knew all your welch annoyancers, the measureless beethams. i knew a quarter of a mile of them. brothers and sisters, as they appear to me in memory. there was one of them that used to fix his long legs on my fender, and tell a story of a shark, every night, endless, immortal. how have i grudged the salt sea ravener not having had his gorge of him! the shortest of the daughters measured foot eleven without her shoes. well, some day we may confer about them. but they were tall. surely i have discover'd the longitude-- sir, if you can spare a moment, i should be happy to hear from you--that rogue robinson detained your verses, till i call'd for them. don't entrust a bit of prose to the rogue, but believe me your obliged c.l. my sister sends her kind regards. [crabb robinson took landor to see lamb on september , . the following passage in forster's _life of landor_ describes the visit and explains this letter:-- the hour he passed with lamb was one of unalloyed enjoyment. a letter from crabb robinson before he came over had filled him with affection for that most lovable of men, who had not an infirmity to which his sweetness of nature did not give something of kinship to a virtue. "i have just seen charles and mary lamb," crabb robinson had written ( th october, ), "living in absolute solitude at enfield. i find your poems lying open before lamb. both tipsy and sober he is ever muttering _rose aylmer_. but it is not those lines only that have a curious fascination for him. he is always turning to _gebir_ for things that haunt him in the same way." their first and last hour was now passed together, and before they parted they were old friends. i visited lamb myself (with barry cornwall) the following month, and remember the boyish delight with which he read to us the verses which landor has written in the album of emma isola. he had just received them through robinson, and had lost little time in making rich return by sending landor his last essays of elia. these were landor's verses:-- to emma isola etrurian domes, pelasgian walls, live fountains, with their nymphs around terraced and citron-scented halls, skies smiling upon sacred ground-- the giant alps, averse to france, point with impatient pride to those, calling the briton to advance, amid eternal rocks and snows-- i dare not bid him stay behind, i dare not tell him where to see the fairest form, the purest mind, ausonia! that e'er sprang from thee, and this is "rose aylmer";-- ah what avails the sceptred race! ah what the form divine! what every virtue, every grace! rose aylmer, all were thine. rose aylmer, whom these wakeful eyes may weep, but never see, a night of memories and of sighs i consecrate to thee. of the measureless bethams lamb wrote in similar terms, but more fully, in an article in the _new times_ in , entitled "many friends" (see vol. i.). on april , , landor wrote to lady blessington:-- i do not think that you ever knew charles lamb, who is lately dead. robinson took me to see him. "once, and once only, have i seen thy face, elia! once only has thy tripping tongue run o'er my heart, yet never has been left impression on it stronger or more sweet. cordial old man! what youth was in thy years, what wisdom in thy levity, what soul in every utterance of thy purest breast! of all that ever wore man's form,'tis thee i first would spring to at the gate of heaven." i say _tripping_ tongue, for charles lamb stammered and spoke hurriedly. he did not think it worth while to put on a fine new coat to come down and see me in, as poor coleridge did, but met me as if i had been a friend of twenty years' standing; indeed, he told me i had been so, and shewed me some things i had written much longer ago, and had utterly forgotten. the world will never see again two such delightful volumes as "the essays of elia;" no man living is capable of writing the worst twenty pages of them. the continent has zadig and gil bias, we have elia and sir roger de coverly. mrs. fields, writing in the _atlantic monthly_ for april, , on landor, says that landor told her of his visit to lamb and said that lamb read to him some poetry and asked his opinion of it. landor said it was very good, whereupon lamb laughed and called landor the vainest of men, for it was his own. in a letter to southey the lines differed, ending thus: few are the spirits of the glorified i'd spring to earlier at the gate of heaven.] letter charles lamb to edward moxon [late .] a poor mad usher (and schoolfellow of mine) has been pestering me _through you_ with poetry and petitions. i have desired him to call upon you for a half sovereign, which place to my account. i have buried mrs. reynolds at last, who has _virtually at least_ bequeath'd me a legacy of £ per ann., to which add that my other pensioner is safe housed in the workhouse, which gets me £ . richer by both legacies £ per ann. for a loss of a loss is as good as a gain of a gain. but let this be _between ourselves_, specially keep it from a----- or i shall speedily have candidates for the pensions. mary is laid up with a cold. will you convey the inclosed by hand? when you come, if you ever do, bring me one _devil's visit_, i mean _southey's_; also the hogarth which is complete, noble's i think. six more letters to do. bring my bill also. c.l. [i do not identify the usher. mrs. reynolds, lamb's first schoolmistress, we have met. the other pensioner i do not positively identify; presumably it was morgan, coleridge's old friend, to whom lamb and southey had each given ten pounds annually from . a----- i cannot positively identify. perhaps the philanthropic allsop. southey's "devil's visit" was a new edition of _the devil's walk_ illustrated by thomas landseer. noble's "hogarth." noble was the engraver.] letter charles lamb to edward moxon [no date. winter, .] thank you for the books. i am ashamed to take tythe thus of your press. i am worse to a publisher than the two universities and the brit. mus. a[llan] c[unningham] i will forthwith read. b[arry] c[ornwall] (i can't get out of the a, b, c) i have more than read. taken altogether, 'tis too lovey; but what delicacies! i like most "king death;" glorious 'bove all, "the lady with the hundred rings;" "the owl;" "epistle to what's his name" (here may be i'm partial); "sit down, sad soul;" "the pauper's jubilee" (but that's old, and yet 'tis never old); "the falcon;" "felon's wife;" damn "madame pasty" (but that is borrowed); apple-pie is very good, and so is apple-pasty; but-- o lard! 'tis very nasty: but chiefly the dramatic fragments,--scarce three of which should have escaped my specimens, had an antique name been prefixed. they exceed his first. so much for the nonsense of poetry; now to the serious business of life. up a court (blandford court) in pall mall (exactly at the back of marlbro' house), with iron gate in front, and containing two houses, at no. did lately live leishman my taylor. he is moved somewhere in the neighbourhood, devil knows where. pray find him out, and give him the opposite. i am so much better, tho' my hand shakes in writing it, that, after next sunday, i can well see f[orster] and you. can you throw b.c. in? why tarry the wheels of my hogarth? charles lamb. ["i am worse to a publisher." there is a rule by which a publisher must present copies of every book to the stationers' hall, to be distributed to the british museum, the bodleian, and cambridge university library. "a.c.... b.c." allan cunningham's _maid of elvar_ and barry cornwall's _english songs_, both published by moxon. this is barry cornwall's "king death":-- king death king death was a rare old fellow! he sate where no sun could shine; and he lifted his hand so yellow, and poured out his coal-black wine. _hurrah! for the coal-black wine!_ there came to him many a maiden, whose eyes had forgot to shine; and widows, with grief o'erladen, for a draught of his sleepy wine. _hurrah! for the coal-black wine!_ the scholar left all his learning; the poet his fancied woes; and the beauty her bloom returning, like life to the fading rose. _hurrah! for the coal-black wine!_ all came to the royal old fellow, who laugh'd till his eyes dropped brine, as he gave them his hand so yellow, and pledged them in death's black wine. _hurrah!--hurrah!_ _hurrah! for the coal-black wine!_ by the "epistle to what's his name" lamb refers to some lines to himself which had been printed first in the _london magazine_ in , entitled "the epistle to charles lamb." see in the appendix. "madame pasty." procter had some lines on madame pasta. "my specimens." lamb's _dramatic specimens_, which very likely suggested to procter the idea of "dramatic fragments." under the date november , , an unsigned letter endorsed "from charles lamb to professor wilson" is printed in mrs. gordon's _"christopher north:" a memoir of john wilson_. although in its first paragraph it might be lamb's, there is evidence to the contrary in the remainder, and i have no doubt that the endorsement was a mistake. it is therefore not printed here.] letter charles lamb to edward moxon [dated by forster at end: dec., .] this is my notion. wait till you are able to throw away a round sum (say £ ) upon a speculation, and then --don't do it. for all your loving encouragem'ts--till this final damp came in the shape of your letter, thanks--for books also--greet the fosters and proctors--and come singly or conjunctively as soon as you can. johnson and fare's sheets have been wash'd--unless you prefer danby's _last_ bed--at the horseshoe. [i assume lamb's advice to refer to moxon's intention of founding a paper called _the reflector_, which forster was to edit. all trace of this periodical has vanished, but it existed in december, , for three numbers, and was then withdrawn. lamb contributed to it. johnson and fare had just murdered--on december l --a mr. danby, at enfield. they had met him in the crown and horseshoes (see note to next letter). mr. w.c. hazlitt prints a note to moxon in his bohn edition in which lamb advises the withdrawal of _the reflector_ at once. this would be december, .] letter charles lamb to john forster to messrs. bradbury & evans, bouverie street, fleet street. for the editor of the reflector from c. lamb. [p.m. dec. , .] i am very sorry the poor reflector is abortive. twas a child of good promise for its _weeks_. but if the chances are so much against it, withdraw immediately. it is idle up hill waste of money to spend another stamp on it. [around the seal of this note are the words in lamb's hand: "obiit edwardus reflector armiger, dec., . natus tres hebdomidas. pax animae ejus." the newspaper stamp at that time was fourpence (less per cent.). here should come a letter from lamb to louisa badams (_née_ holcroft), dated december , , not available for this edition, in which, after some plain speaking about the westwoods, lamb refers to the murder of mr. danby at enfield by fare and two other men on the night of december , and says that he had been in their company at the inn a little before, and the next morning was asked to give his evidence. canon ainger says that lamb's story is a hoax, but it reads reasonably enough and might as easily have happened as not.] letter charles lamb to edward moxon [no date. jan., .] i have a proof from dilke. _that_ serves for next saturday. what forster had, will serve a second. i sent you a _third_ concluding article for _him_ and _us_ (a capital hit, i think, about cervantes) of which i leave you to judge whether we shall not want it to print _before_ a third or even second week. in that case beg d. to clap them in all at once; and keep the atheneums to print from. what i send is the concluding article of the painters. soften down the title in the book to "defect of the imaginative faculty in artists." consult dilke. [lamb's _elia_ essay "barrenness of the imaginative faculty in the production of modern art," intended originally for _the englishman's magazine_, was partly printed by forster in _the reflector_ and finally printed in full in _the athenaeum_ in january and february, . the reference to don quixote is at the end. moxon was already printing the _last essays of elia_. "consult dilke" was a favourite phrase with lamb and hood and, long before, with keats.] letter charles lamb to edward moxon [p.m. jan. ( ).] be sure and let me have the atheneum--or, if they don't appear, the copy back again. i have no other. i am glad you are introduced to rickman, _cultivate the introduction_. i will not forget to write to him. i want to see blackwood, but _not without you_. we are yet emma-less. and so that is all i can remember. this is a corkscrew. [_here is a florid corkscrew._] c. lamb, born flourished about the year . c.l. fecit.-- [lamb refers still to the "barrenness of imagination" series. there are several scraps addressed by lamb to forster in the south kensington museum; but they are undated and of little importance. i append one or two here:--] letter charles lamb to john forster [no date.] orders. go to dilke's, or let mockson, and ax him to add this to what i sent him a few days since, or to continue it the week after. the plantas &c. are capital. requests. come down with m. and _dante_ and l.e.l. on sunday. elia. i don't mean at his house, but the atheneum office. send it there. hand shakes. [the plantas would probably be a reference to the family of joseph plantas of the british museum. m. and dante and l.e.l. would be moxon, cary and letitia landon, the poetess, to whom forster was for a while engaged. this letter, up to a certain point, was repeated as follows. it also is at south kensington:--] letter charles lamb to john forster [no date.] i wish youd go to dilke's, or let mockson, and ax him to add this to what i sent him a few days since, or to continue it the week after. the plantas &c. are capital. come down with procter and dante on sunday. i send you the last proof--not of my friendship. i knew you would like the title. i do thoroughly. the last essays of elia keeps out any notion of its being a second volume. letter charles lamb to john forster [no date.] there was a talk of richmond on sunday but we were hampered with an unavoidable engagement that day, besides that i wish to show it you when the woods are in full leaf. can you have a quiet evening here to night or tomorrow night? we are certainly at home. yours c. lamb. friday. letter charles lamb to edward moxon [p.m. jan. , .] dear murray! _moxon_ i mean.--i am not to be making you pay postage every day, but cannot let pass the congratulations of sister, brother, and "silk cloak," _all most cordial_ on your change of place. rogers approving, who can demur? tell me when you get into dover st. and what the _no_. is--that i may change foolscap for gilt, and plain mr. for esqr. i shall _mister_ you while you stay-- if you are not too great to attend to it, i wish us to do without the sonnets of sydney: will take up as many pages, and be too palpable a fill up. perhaps we may leave them out, retaining the article, but that is not worth saving. i hope you liked my cervantes article which i sent you yesterday. not an inapt quotation, for your fallen predecessor in albemarle street, to whom you must give the _coup du main_-- murray, long enough his country's pride. _pope._ [_then, written at the bottom of the page_] there's [_and written on the next page_] there's nothing over here. [moxon was moving from new bond street to dover street. "silk cloak" would, i imagine, probably be a name for emma isola. "the sonnets of sydney"--lamb's _elia_ essay on this subject. it was not omitted from the _last essay_, which moxon was to publish, and eleven sonnets were quoted. "your fallen predecessor." it is hardly needful to say that moxon made very little difference to murray's business. the line is from pope's sixth epistle of the first book of horace. to mr. murray, who afterwards was earl of mansfield.] letter charles lamb to edward moxon [feb. . p.m. feby. , .] i wish you would omit "by the author of elia," _now_, in advertising that damn'd "devil's wedding." i had sneaking hopes you would have dropt in today--tis my poor birthday. don't stay away so. give forster a hint--you are to bring your brother some day--_sisters_ in better weather. pray give me one line to say if you receiv'd and forwarded emma's pacquet to miss adams, and how dover st. looks. adieu. is there no blackwood this month? [_added on cover_:--] what separation will there be between the friend's preface, and the essays? should not "last essays &c." head them? if 'tis too late, don't mind. i don't care a farthing about it. ["what separation"--the _last essays of elia_ were preceded by "a character of the late elia." here should come a letter from lamb to louisa badams, dated february , . lamb begins with a further reference to the enfield murder. he says that his sister and himself have got through the _inferno_ with the help of cary, and mary is beginning tasso.] letter charles lamb to edward moxon [no date. feb., .] my dear m.--i send you the last proof--not of my friendship-- pray see to the finish. i think you will see the necessity of adding those words after "preface"--and "preface" should be in the "contents-table"-- i take for granted you approve the title. i do thoroughly-- perhaps if you advertise it in full, as it now stands, the title page might have simply the last essays of elia, to keep out any notion of its being a second vol.-- well, i wish us luck heartily for your sake who have smarted by me.-- letter charles lamb to t.n. talfourd february, . 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 _chitty_ling, (let the leathern apron be apocryphal) do more 'specially plead to the jury court of old memory. the costume (will he agnize it?) was as of a desk-fellow or socius plutei. methought i spied a brother! that familiarity is extinct for ever. curse me if i can call him mr. serjeant--except, mark me, in _company_. honour where honour 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_,--my 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--wouldn't, or couldn't, understand it. a serjeant? she thought mr. t. was in the law. didn't know that he ever 'listed. emma alone truly sympathised. _she_ had a silk gown come home that very day, and has precedence before 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. [talfourd, who had been pupil of joseph chitty, had just become a serjeant. "h.c.r."--crabb robinson. "my old friends." stoddart and tuthill were knighted; barron field was a judge; talfourd was to become both a knight and a judge. "mrs. w----." mrs. westwood, i suppose.] letter charles lamb to edward moxon [no date. .] d'r m. let us see you & your brother on sunday--the elias are beautifully got up. be cautious how you name the _probability_ of bringing 'em ever out complete--till these are gone off. everybody'd say "o i'll wait then." an't we to have a copy of the sonnets-- mind, i shall _insist_ upon having no more copies: only i shall take or more of you at trade price. i am resolute about this. yours ever-- letter charles lamb to c.w. dilke [p.m. feb., .] christian names of women (to edith s-----) in christian world mary the garland wears! rebecca sweetens on a hebrew's ear; quakers for pure priscilla are more clear; and the light gaul by amorous ninon swears. among the lesser lights how lucy shines! what air of fragrance rosamund throws round! how like a hymn doth sweet cecilia sound! of marthas, and of abigails, few lines have bragg'd in verse. of coarsest household stuff should homely joan be fashioned. but can you barbara resist, or marian? and is not clare for love excuse enough? yet, by my faith in numbers, i profess, these all, than saxon edith, please me less. many thanks for the life you have given us--i am perfectly satisfied. but if you advert to it again, i give you a delicate hint. barbara s---- shadows under that name miss kelly's early life, and i had the anecdote beautifully from her. [the sonnet, addressed to edith southey, was printed in _the athenaeum_ for march , . for "barbara s----" see vol. ii. of the present edition.] letter charles lamb to edward moxon [no date. early .] no _writing_, and no _word_, ever passed between taylor, or hessey, and me, respecting copy right. this i can swear. they made a volume at their own will, and volunteerd me a third of profits, which came to £ , which came to _bilk_, and never came back to me. proctor has acted a friendly part--when did he otherwise? i am very sorry to hear mrs. p---- _as i suppose_ is not so well. i meditated a rallying epistle to him on his gemini--his two sosias, accusing him of having acted a notable piece of duplicity. but if his partner in the double dealing suffers--it would be unseasonable. you cannot rememb'r me to him too kindly. your chearful letter has relieved us from the dumps; all may be well. i rejoice at your letting your house so magnificently. talfourd's letter may be directed to him "on the western circuit."* that is the way, send it. with blackwood pray send piozziana and a literary gazette if you have one. the piozzi and that shall be immed'tly return'd, and i keep mad. darblay for you eventually, a longwinded reader at present having use of it. the weather is so queer that i will not say i _expect_ you &c.--but am prepared for the pleasure of seeing you when you can come. we had given you up (the post man being late) and emma and i have times this morning been to the door in the rain to spy for him coming. well, i know it is not all settled, but your letter is chearful and cheer-making. we join in triple love to you. elia & co. i am settled _in any case_ to take at bookseller's price any copies i have more. therefore oblige me by sending a copy of elia to coleridge and b. barton, and enquire (at your leisure of course) how i can send one, with a letter, to walter savage landor. these put in your next bill on me. i am peremptory that it shall be so. these are all i can want. *is it the western? he goes to reading &c. [john taylor, representing the firm of taylor & hessey, seems to have set up a claim of copyright in those essays in the _last essays of elia_ that were printed in the _london magazine_. for procter's part, see next letter. _piozziana; or, recollections of the late mrs. piozzi_ (johnson's mrs. thrale), was published in . it was by the rev. e. mangin. mad. darblay would be _the memoirs of dr. burney_, , by his daughter madame d'arblay (admiral burney's niece). the book was severely handled in the _quarterly_ for april, . the following letter, which is undated, seems to refer to the difficulty mentioned above:--] letter charles lamb to b.w. procter enfield, monday. dear p----, i have more than £ in my house, and am independent of quarter-day, not having received my pension. pray settle, i beg of you, the matter with mr. taylor. i know nothing of bills, but most gladly will i forward to you that sum for him, for mary is very anxious that m[oxon] may not get into any litigation. the money is literally rotting in my desk for want of use. i should not interfere with m----, tell m---- when you see him, but mary is really uneasy; so lay it to that account, not mine. yours ever and two evers, c.l. do it smack at once, and i will explain to m---- why i did it. it is simply done to ease her mind. when you have settled, write, and i'll send the bank notes to you twice, in halves. deduct from it your share in broken bottles, which, you being capital in your lists, i take to be two shillings. do it as you love mary and me. then elia's himself again. letter charles lamb to william hone [march , .] dear friend--thee hast sent a christian epistle to me, and i should not feel clear if i neglected to reply to it, which would have been sooner if that vain young man, to whom thou didst intrust it, had not kept it back. we should rejoice to see thy outward man here, especially on a day which should not be a first day, being liable to worldly callers in on that day. our little book is delayed by a heathenish injunction, threatened by the man taylor. canst thou copy and send, or bring with thee, a vanity in verse which in my younger days i wrote on friend aders' pictures? thou wilt find it in the book called the table book. tryphena and tryphosa, whom the world calleth mary and emma, greet you with me. ch. lamb. th of d month th day. [on this letter is written by hone in pencil: "this acknowledges a note from me to c.l. written in january preceding and sent by young will hazlitt. received in my paralysis. march, ." on this day lamb gave hone two books with the same inscription in each--very tipsily written.] letter charles lamb to edward moxon [p.m. march , .] i shall _expect_ forster and two moxons on sunday, and _hope_ for procter. i am obliged to be in town next monday. could we contrive to make a party (paying or not is immaterial) for miss kelly's that night, and can you shelter us after the play, i mean emma and me? i fear, i cannot persuade mary to join us. n.b. _i can sleep at a public house._ send an elia (mind, i _insist_ on buying it) to t. manning esq. at sir g. tuthill's cavendish square. do write. [miss kelly was then giving an entertainment called "dramatic recollections" at the strand theatre.] letter charles lamb to edward moxon [no date. ? spring, .] one o clock. this instant receiv'd, this instant i answer your's--dr. cresswell has one copy, which i cannot just now re-demand, because at his desire i have sent a "satan" to him, which when he ask'd for, i frankly told him, was imputed a lampoon on him!!! i have sent it him, and cannot, till we come to explanation, go to him or send-- but on the faith of a gentleman, you shall have it back some day _for another_. the i send. i think of the blunders perfectly immaterial. but your feelings, and i fear _pocket_, is every thing. i have just time to pack this off by the o clock stage. yours till me meet at all events i behave more gentlemanlike than emma did, in returning the copies. yours till we meet--do come. bring the sonnets-- why not publish 'em?--or let another bookseller? [dr. cresswell was vicar of edmonton. having married the daughter of a tailor--or so mr. fuller russell states in his account of a conversation with lamb in _notes and queries_--he was in danger of being ribaldly associated with satan's matrimonial adventures in lamb's ballad. i cannot explain to what book lamb refers: possibly to the _last essays of elia_, which moxon, having found errors in, wished to withdraw, substituting another. the point probably cannot be cleared up. the sonnets would be moxon's own, which he had printed privately (see a later letter).] letter charles lamb to edward moxon [p.m. march , .] d'r m. emma and we are _delighted_ with the sonnets, and she with her nice walton. mary is deep in the novel. come as early as you can. i stupidly overlookd your proposal to meet you in green lanes, for in some strange way i _burnt my leg_, shin-quarter, at forster's;* it is laid up on a stool, and asbury attends. you'll see us all as usual, about taylor, when you come. yours ever c.l. *or the night i came home, for i felt it not bad till yesterday. but i scarce can hobble across the room. i have secured places for night: in haste. mary and e. do not dream of any thing we have discussed. [i fancy that the last sentence refers to an offer for miss isola's hand which moxon had just made to lamb.] letter charles lamb to edward moxon [no date. spring, .] dear m. many thanks for the books; the _faust_ i will acknowledge to the author. 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 has 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 picking and stealing is no ways referable to his acquists. i doubt whether bearing false witness against thy neighbor at all contemplated this possible scrub. could moses have seen the speck in vision? an ex post facto law alone could relieve him, and we are taught to expect no eleventh commandment. the out-law to the mosaic dispensation!--unworthy to have seen moses' behind--to lay his desecrating hands upon elia! has the irriverent 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 couldn't you go off in the morning, that we may have a daylong curse at him, if curses are not dis-hallowed by descending so low? amen. maledicatur in extremis. [abraham hayward's translation of faust was published by moxon in february, . lamb's letter of thanks was said by the late edmund yates to be a very odd one. i have not seen it. we may perhaps assume that moxon's reply to lamb's letter stating that taylor's claim had been paid contained the "immortal sentence." "not a ninth." a tailor (taylor) is only a ninth of a man. "the less flea." remembering swift's lines in "on poetry, a rhapsody":-- so, naturalists observe, a flea has smaller fleas that on him prey; and these have smaller still to bite 'em, and so proceed _ad infinitum_.] letter charles lamb to john forster [no date. ? march, .] swallow your damn'd dinner and your brandy and water fast-- & come immediately i want to take knowles in to emma's only female friend for minutes only, and we are free for the even'g. i'll do a prologue. [the prologue was for sheridan knowles' play "the wife." lamb wrote both prologue and epilogue (see vol. iv.).] letter charles lamb to edward moxon [no date. ? april , .] dear m. the first oak sonnet, and the nightingale, may show their faces in any annual unblushing. some of the others are very good. the sabbath too much what you have written before. you are destined to shine in sonnets, i tell you. shall we look for you sunday, we did in vain good friday [april ]. [_a signature was added by mrs. moxon for mr. frederick locker-lampson, evidently from another letter_:--] your truest friend c. lamb. letter charles lamb to c.w. dilke [no date. april, .] d'r sir, i read your note in a moment of great perturbation with my landlady and chuck'd it in the fire, as i should have done an epistle of paul, but as far as my sister recalls the import of it, i reply. the sonnets ( of them) have never been printed, much less published, till the other day,* save that a few of 'em have come out in annuals. two vols., of poetry of m.'s, have been publish'd, but they were not these. the "nightingale" has been in one of the those gewgaws, the annuals; whether the other i sent you has, or not, penitus ignoro. but for heaven's sake do with 'em what you like. yours c.l. *the proof sheets only were in my hand about a fortnight ago. [moxon's sonnets were reviewed, probably by lamb, in _the athenaeum_ for april , . the sonnet to the nightingale (see above) was quoted. this review will be found in vol. i. of the present edition.] letter charles lamb to mrs. william ayrton [p.m. april ( ), .] dear mrs. ayrton, i do not know which to admire most, your kindness, or your patience, in copying out that intolerable rabble of panegryc from over the atlantic. by the way, now your hand is in, i wish you would copy out for me the l th l th and th of barrow's sermons in folio, and all of tillotson's (folio also) except the first, which i have in manuscript, and which, you know, is ayrton's favorite. then--but i won't trouble you any farther just now. why does not a come and see me? can't he and henry crabbe concert it? 'tis as easy as lying is to me. mary's kindest love to you both. elia. [the letter is accompanied by a note in the writing of william scrope ayrton, the son of william ayrton, copied from mrs. ayrton's diary:-- "march , .--copied a critique upon elia's works from the mirror of america a sort of news paper."] letter charles lamb to edward moxon [p.m. april , .] my dear moxon, we perfectly agree in your arrangement. _it has quite set my sister's mind at rest._ she will come with you on sunday, and return at eve, and i will make comfortable arrangem'ts with the buffams. we desire to have you here dining unwestwooded, and i will try and get you a bottle of choice port. i have transferr'd the stock i told you to emma. the plan of the buffams steers admirably between two niceties. tell emma we thoroughly approve it. as our damnd times is a day after the fair, i am setting off to enfield highway to see in a morning paper (alas! the publican's) how the play ran. pray, bring orders for mr. asbury--undated. in haste (not for neglect) yours ever c. lamb. thursday. [lamb evidently refers to moxon's engagement to miss isola being now settled. the play was sheridan knowles' "the wife," produced on april . the buffams were the landladies of the house in southampton buildings, where lamb lodged in town.] letter charles lamb to edward moxon [p.m. april , .] dear m. mary and i are very poorly. asbury says tis nothing but influenza. mr. w. appears all but dying, he is delirious. mrs. w. was taken so last night, that mary was obliged at midnight to knock up mrs. waller to come and sit up with her. 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 in a bed. domestic arrangem'ts (blue butcher and all) devolve on mary. don't come yet to this house of pest and age. we propose when e. and you agree on the time, to come up and meet her at the buffams', say a week hence, but do you make the appointm't. the lachlans send her their love. i do sadly want those last hogarths--and an't i to have the play? mind our spirits are good and we are happy in your happiness_es_. c.l. our old and ever loves to dear em. ["mr. w." was mr. westwood.--i know nothing of the lachlans.--the play would be "the wife" probably.--miss isola was, i imagine, staying with the moxons.] letter charles lamb to the rev. james gillman may , . by a strange occurrence we have quitted enfield for ever. oh! the happy eternity! who is vicar or lecturer for that detestable place concerns us not. but asbury, surgeon and a good fellow, has offered to get you a mover and seconder, and you may use my name freely to him. except him and dr. creswell, i have no respectable acquaintance in the dreary village. at least my friends are all in the _public_ line, and it might not suit to have it moved at a special vestry by john gage at the crown and horseshoe, licensed victualler, and seconded by joseph horner of the green dragon, ditto, that the rev. j.g. is a fit person to be lecturer, &c. my dear james, i wish you all success, but am too full of my own emancipation almost to congratulate anyone else. with both our loves to your father and mother and glorious s.t.c. yours, c. lamb. [the rev. james gillman was the eldest son of coleridge's physician and friend. he was born in and ordained in . he thought in of standing as candidate for the vicarship of enfield, but did not obtain it. after acting as under master of highgate grammar school he became in rector of barfreystone, in kent. in he became vicar of holy trinity, lambeth. he died in . mary lamb having become ill again had been moved to edmonton, to a private home for mental patients. lamb followed her soon after, and settled in the same house. it still stands ( ) almost exactly as in the lambs' day.] letter charles lamb to john forster [no date. may, .] d'r f. can you oblige me by sending box orders undated for the olympic theatre? i suppose knowles can get 'em. it is for the waldens, with whom i live. the sooner, the better, that they may not miss the "wife"--i meet you at the talfourds' saturday week, and if they can't, perhaps you can, give me a bed. yours ratherish unwell c. lamb. mr. walden's, church street, edmonton. or write immediately to say if you can't get em. [knowles' play "the wife," produced at covent garden, was moved to the olympic on may .] letter charles lamb to john forster [p.m. may , .] dear boy, i send you the original elias, complete. when i am a little composed, i shall hope to see you and proctor here; may be, may see you first in london. c.l. [in the dyce and forster collection, at south kensington, are preserved some of these mss. here should come a letter to miss rickman, dated may , . "perhaps, as miss kelly is just now in notoriety, it may amuse you to know that 'barbara s.' is _all_ of it true of _her_, being all communicated to me from her own mouth. the 'wedding' you of course found out to be sally burney's."] letter charles lamb to william wordsworth end of may nearly, [ ]. dear wordsworth, your letter, save in what respects your dear sister's health, chear'd me in my new solitude. mary is ill again. her illnesses encroach yearly. the last was three months, followed by two of depression most dreadful. i look back upon her earlier attacks with longing. 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 forward to the next shock. with such prospects, it seem'd to me necessary that she should no longer live with me, and be fluttered with continual 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 lachrymae rerum--and you and i must bear it-- to lay a little more load on it, a circumstance has happen'd, _cujus pars magna fui_, and which at another crisis i should have more rejoiced in. i am about to lose my old and only walk-companion, whose 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 under 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 aug'st. so "perish the roses and the flowers"--how is it? now to the brighter side, i am emancipated from most _hated_ and _detestable_ people, the westwoods. i am with attentive people, and younger--i am or miles nearer the great city, coaches half-price less, and going always, of which i will avail myself. i have few friends left there, one or two tho' most beloved. but london streets and faces cheer me inexpressibly, tho' of the latter not one known one were remaining. thank you for your cordial reception of elia. inter nos the ariadne is not a darling with me, several incongruous 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 chearful in this my genial hot weather,--walk'd miles yesterd'y. i can't read much in summer time. with very kindest love to all and prayers for dear dorothy, i remain most attachedly yours c. lamb. at mr. walden's, church street, _edmonton_, middlesex. moxon has introduced emma to rogers, and he smiles 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 wrapper is written_:--] d'r m[oxon], inclose this in a better-looking paper, and get it frank'd, and good by'e till sund'y. come early-- c.l. ["the ariadne." see the essay on "barrenness of the imaginative faculty," where titian's "bacchus and ariadne" in the national gallery is highly praised (see vol. ii.). wordsworth's favourite essays in this volume were "the wedding" and "old china." "my milton." against the reference to the portrait of milton, in the postscript, some one, possibly wordsworth, has pencilled a note, now only partially legible. it runs thus: "it had been proposed by l. that w.w. should be the possessor of [? this picture] his friend and that afterwards it was to be bequeathed to christ's coll. cambridge." lamb had given wordsworth in a copy of _paradise regained_, , with this inscription: "c. lamb to the best knower of milton, and therefore the worthiest occupant of this pleasant edition. june 'd ."] letter charles lamb to sarah hazlitt [dated at end:] mr. walden's, church street, edmonton, may , . dear mrs. hazlitt,--i will assuredly come, and find you out, when i am better. i am driven from house and home by mary's illness. i took a sudden resolution to take my sister to edmonton, where she was under medical treatment last time, and have arranged to board and lodge with the people. thank god, i have repudiated enfield. i have got out of hell, despair of heaven, and must sit down contented in a half-way purgatory. thus ends this strange eventful history-- but i am nearer town, and will get up to you somehow before long-- i repent not of my resolution. 'tis late, and my hand unsteady, so good b'ye till we meet. your old c.l. letter charles lamb to mary betham june , . dear mary betham,--i remember you all, and tears come out when i think on the years that have separated us. that dear anne should so long have remembered us affects me. my dear mary, my poor sister is not, nor will be for two months perhaps capable of appreciating the _kind old long memory_ of dear anne. but not a penny will i take, and i can answer for my mary when she recovers, if the sum left can contribute in any way to the comfort of matilda. we will halve it, or we will take a bit of it, as a token, rather than wrong her. so pray consider it as an amicable arrangement. i write in great haste, or you won't get it before you go. _we do not want the money_; but if dear matilda does not much want it, why, we will take our thirds. god bless you. c. lamb. [miss betham's sister, anne, who had just died, had left thirty pounds to mary lamb. mr. ernest betham allows me to take this note from _a house of letters_.] letter charles lamb to matilda betham [june , .] dear miss betham,--i sit down, very poorly, to write to you, being come to _mr. walden's, church street, edmonton_, to be altogether with poor mary, who is very ill, as usual, only that her illnesses are now as many months as they used to be weeks in duration--the reason your letter only just found me. i am saddened with the havoc death has made in your family. i do not know how to appreciate the kind regard of dear anne; mary will understand it two months hence, i hope; but neither she nor i would rob you, if the legacy will be of use to, or comfort to you. my hand shakes so i can hardly write. on saturday week i must come to town, and will call on you in the morning before one o'clock. till when i take kindest leave. your old friend, c. lamb. [here should come a note from lamb to mrs. randal norris, postmarked july , , which encloses a note from joseph jekyll, the old bencher, thanking lamb for a presentation copy of the _last essays of elia_ ("i hope not the last essays of elia") and asking him to accompany mrs. norris and her daughters on a visit to him. jekyll adds that "poor george dyer, blind, but as usual chearful and content, often gives ... good accounts of you." here should come notes to allsop, declining an invitation to highgate, and to a mr. tuff, warning him to be quick to use some theatre tickets which lamb had sent him.] letter charles lamb to edward moxon [p.m. july , .] dear m. the hogarths are _delicate_. perhaps it will amuse emma to tell her, that, a day or two since, miss norris (betsy) call'd to me on the road from london from a gig conveying her to widford, and engaged me to come down this afternoon. i think i shall stay only one night; she would have been glad of e's accompaniment, but i would not disturb her, and mrs. n. is coming to town on monday, so it would not have suited. also, c.v. le grice gave me a dinner at johnny gilpin's yesterday, where we talk'd of what old friends were taken or left in the years since we had met. i shall hope to see her on tuesd'y. to bless you both c.l. friday. [le grice we have met. "johnny gilpin's" was the bell at edmonton. here should come another note from lamb to mrs. randal norris, in which lamb says that he reached home safely and thanks her for three agreeable days. also he sends some little books, which were, i take it, copies of moxon's private reissue of _poetry for children_. mr. w.c. hazlitt records that a letter from lamb to miss norris was in existence in which the writer gave "minute and humorous instructions for his own funeral, even specifying the number of nails which he desired to be inserted in his coffin."] letter charles lamb to edward moxon [p.m. july , .] for god's sake, give emma no more watches. _one_ has turn'd her head. she is arrogant, and insulting. she said something very unpleasant to our old clock in the passage, 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 what's a clock," and she answers them punctually. she loses all her time looking "what the time is." i overheard her whispering, "just so many hours, minutes &c. to tuesday--i think st. george's goes too slow"--this little present of time, why, 'tis eternity to her-- what can make her so fond of a gingerbread watch? she has spoil'd some of the movements. between ourselves, she has kissed away "half past ," which i suppose to be the canonical hour in hanover sq. well, if "love me, love my watch," answers, she will keep time to you-- it goes right by the horse guards-- [_on the next page_:--] emma hast kist this yellow wafer--a hint. dearest m. never mind opposite nonsense. she does not love you for the watch, but the watch for you. i will be at the wedding, and keep the july as long as my poor months last me, as a festival gloriously. your _ever elia._ we have not heard from cambridge. i will write the moment we do. edmonton, th july, . post mer. minutes instants by emma's watch. [there used to be preserved at rowfant (it is now in america) a letter from lamb to moxon, postmarked july , , mentioning lamb's anxiety about martin burney. it is unnecessary to print this.] letter charles and mary lamb to edward and emma moxon [no date. ? july , .] dear mr. and mrs. moxon-- time very short. i wrote to miss fryer, and had the sweetest letter about you, emma, 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 fry[er] into the little time after dinner before post time. so with congratulations, yours, c.l. i am calm, sober, happy. turn over for the reason. i got home from dover st., by evens, _half as sober as a judge_. i am turning over a new leaf, as i hope you will now. [_on the next leaf mary lamb wrote_:--] my dear emma and edward 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 ventured 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, begged 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 charles lamb added_:--] wednesday. dears again your letter interrupted a seventh game at picquet which _we_ were having, after walking to _wright's_ and purchasing shoes. we pass our time in cards, walks, and reading. we attack tasso soon. c.l. never was such a calm, or such a recovery. 'tis her own words, undictated. [the marriage of edward moxon and emma isola was celebrated on july . they afterwards went to paris. "mrs. w."--mrs. walden, i imagine. here should come an amusing but brief account of the wedding sent by lamb to louisa badams on august (printed by canon ainger). "i am not fit for weddings or burials. both incite a chuckle:" a sentiment which lamb more than once expresses. here should come a note thanking matilda betham for some bridal verses written for the wedding of edward moxon and emma isola. "in haste and headake."] letter charles lamb to h.f. cary sept. th, . dear sir,--your packet i have only just received, owing, i suppose, to the absence of moxon, who is flaunting it about _à 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 repetition) glad to see you here or anywhere. i will take my time with 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 typography. yours, most truly, c. lamb. p.s.--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 in some places; but it merely observes the number of stanzas; as for images, similes, &c., he finds 'em himself, and never "troubles peter for the matter." in haste, dear gary, yours ever, c. lamb. has moxon sent you "elia," second volume? if not, he shall. taylor and we are at law about it. ["darley's act." not now identifiable, i think. "taylor and we." the case had apparently not been settled by procter. i have not found any report of a law-suit.] letter charles and mary lamb to edward moxon [p.m. sept. , .] thursday. we shall be most happy to see emma, dear to every body. mary's spirits are much better, and she longs to see again our twelve years' friend. you shall afternoon sip with me a bottle of superexcellent port, after deducting a dinner-glass for them. we rejoyce to have e. come, the _first visit_, without miss ----, who, i trust, will yet behave well; but she might perplex mary with questions. pindar sadly wants preface and notes. pray, e., get to snow hill before , for we dine before . we will make it . by mistake i gave you miss betham's letter, with the exquisite verses, which pray return to me, or if it be an improved copy, give me the other, and albumize mine, keeping the signature. it is too pretty a family portrait, for you not to cherish. your loving friends c. lamb. m. lamb. [pindar was cary's edition, which moxon had just published. miss betham's verses i am sorry not to be able to give; but the following poem was addressed to moxon by lamb and printed in _the athenaeum_ for december , :-- to a friend on his marriage what makes a happy wedlock? what has fate not given to thee in thy well-chosen mate? good sense--good humour;--these are trivial things, dear m-----, that each trite encomiast sings. but she hath these, and more. a mind exempt from every low-bred passion, where contempt, nor envy, nor detraction, ever found a harbour yet; an understanding sound; just views of right and wrong; perception full of the deformed, and of the beautiful, in life and manners; wit above her sex, which, as a gem, her sprightly converse decks; exuberant fancies, prodigal of mirth, to gladden woodland walk, or winter hearth; a noble nature, conqueror in the strife of conflict with a hard discouraging life, strengthening the veins of virtue, past the power of those whose days have been one silken hour, spoil'd fortune's pamper'd offspring; a keen sense alike of benefit, and of offence, with reconcilement quick, that instant springs from the charged heart with nimble angel wings; while grateful feelings, like a signet sign'd by a strong hand, seem burnt into her mind. if these, dear friend, a dowry can confer richer than land, thou hast them all in her; and beauty, which some hold the chiefest boon, is in thy bargain for a make-weight thrown.] letter charles lamb to edward moxon [p.m. oct. , .] dear m.--get me shirley (there's a dear fellow) and send it soon. we sadly want books, and this will be readable again and again, and pay itself. tell emma i grieve for the poor self-punishing self-baffling lady; with all our hearts we grieve for the pain and vexation she has encounterd; but we do not swerve a pin's-thought from the propriety of your measures. god comfort her, and there's an end of a painful necessity. but i am glad she goes to see her. let her keep up all the kindness she can between them. in a week or two i hope mary will be stout enough to come among ye, but she is not now, and i have scruples of coming alone, as she has no pleasant friend to sit with her in my absence. we are lonely. i fear the visits must be mostly from you. by the way omnibuses are 's/ 'd and coach _insides_ sunk to l/ --a hint. without disturbance to yourselves, or upsetting the economy of the dear new mistress of a family, come and see us as often as ever you can. we are so out of the world, that a letter from either of you now and then, detailing any thing, book or town news, is as good as a newspaper. i have desperate colds, cramps, megrims &c., but do not despond. my fingers are numb'd, as you see by my writing. tell e. i am _very good_ also. but we are poor devils, that's the truth of it. i won't apply to dilke-- just now at least--i sincerely hope the pastoral air of dover st. will recruit poor harriet. with best loves to all. yours ever c.l. ryle and lowe dined here on sunday; the manners of the latter, so gentlemanly! have attracted the special admiration of our landlady. she guest r. to be nearly of my age. he always had an old head on young shoulders. i fear i shall always have the opposite. tell me any thing of foster [forster] or any body. write any thing you think will amuse me. i do dearly hope in a week or two to surprise you with our appearance in dover st.... [shirley would be dyce's edition of james shirley, the dramatist, in six volumes, . harriet was harriet isola. "ryle and lowe." ryle we have met, but i do not identify lowe. i have omitted some lines about family matters at the end of the letter.] letter charles lamb to edward and emma moxon nov. th, . 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 myself to transpose a word in the third line. sacred shall it be for 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 how 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 character 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 _shall_ finish it, and i'll be damn'd if i furnish a line towards it. so much for that. the next best is to the ocean "ye gallant winds, if e'er your lusty cheeks blew longing lover to his mistress' side, o, puff your 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! perhaps "o ocean" (though 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-gadding. 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 cogitation a map of the dear london in prospect, thinking to traverse wardour-street, &c., when diabolically i was 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 (o march of intellect!) plenty of literary conversation, and more acquaintance 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 letter, and glimpsed at your beautiful sonnet, "fair art them as the morning, my young bride," and dwelt upon it in a confused brain, but determined not to open them till 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. why can't you! do. we are thankful to your sister for being of the party. come, 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 wrote for the pawnbrokeress's album. she is a miss brown, engaged to a mr. white. one of the lines was (i forget the rest--but she had them at twenty-four hours' notice; she is going out to india with her husband):-- "may your fame and fortune, frances, whiten with your name!" not bad as a pun. i _wil_ expect you before two on tuesday. i am well and happy, tell e. [moxon subsequently published his _sonnets_, in two parts, one of which was dedicated to his brother and one to wordsworth. there are several to his wife, so that it is difficult to identify that in which the last lines were to be altered. mrs. moxon's first album was an extract book in which lamb had copied a number of old ballads and other poems. i quote one of moxon's many sonnets to emma moxon:-- fair art thou as the morning, my young bride! her freshness is about thee; like a river to the sea gliding with sweet murmur ever thou sportest; and, wherever thou dost glide, humanity a livelier aspect wears. fair art thou as the morning of that land where tuscan breezes in his youth have fanned thy grandsire oft. thou hast not many tears, save such as pity from the heart will wring, and then there is a smile in thy distress! meeker thou art than lily of the spring, yet is thy nature full of nobleness! and gentle ways, that soothe and raise me so, that henceforth i no worldly sorrow know! "heigh-ho! little barrow!" i cannot identify this acquaintance. "knowles's play"--"the wife." prologued by lamb too. "at chatteris." i cannot say who were the teetotal, or abstinent, philistines. "mary's birthday." mary lamb would be sixty-nine on december , . lamb's verses to miss brown seem to be no longer preserved. mr. hazlitt prints a letter to a miss frances brown, wherein lamb offers the verses, adding "i hope your sweetheart's name is white. else it would spoil all. may be 'tis black. then we must alter it. and may your fortunes blacken with your name."] letter charles lamb to charles wentworth dilke [no date. middle dec., .] i hoped r. would like his sonnet, but i fear'd s. that _fine old man_, might not quite like the turn of it. this last was penn'd almost literally extempore. your laureat. is s.'s christian name thomas? if not, correct it. ["r."--rogers; "s."--stothard. see next letter.] letter charles lamb to samuel rogers [no date. probably saturday, december , .] my dear sir,--your book, by the unremitting punctuality of your publisher, has reached me thus early. i have not opened it, nor will till to-morrow, when i promise myself a thorough reading of it. "the pleasures of memory" was the first school present i made to mrs. moxon, it had those nice wood-cuts; 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 agreeable to your artist. i met that dear old man at poor henry's--with you--and again at cary's--and it was sublime 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 as 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 "shakespeare gallery" do me with shakespeare?--to have opie's shakespeare, northcote's shakespeare, light-headed fuseli's shakespeare, heavy-headed romney's shakespeare, wooden-headed west's shakespeare (though he did the best in "lear"), deaf-headed reynolds's shakespeare, instead of my, and everybody's shakespeare. to be tied down to an authentic face of juliet! to have imogen's portrait! to confine the illimitable! 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 letter 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 parcel. it was a little tantalizing to me to receive a letter from landor, _gebir_ landor, from florence, to say he was 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 carriages in dover street on the morn of publication do not barricade me out. with many thanks, and most respectful remembrances 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! [moxon published a superb edition of rogers' _poems_ illustrated by turner and stothard. lamb had received an advance copy. the sonnet to rogers in _the times_ was printed on december , . it ran thus:-- to samuel rogers, esq., on the new edition of his "pleasures of memory" when thy gay book hath paid its proud devoirs, poetic friend, and fed with luxury the eye of pampered aristocracy in glittering drawing-rooms and gilt boudoirs, o'erlaid with comments of pictorial art, however rich and rare, yet nothing leaving of healthful action to the soul-conceiving of the true reader--yet a nobler part awaits thy work, already classic styled. cheap-clad, accessible, in homeliest show the modest beauty through the land shall go from year to year, and render life more mild; refinement to the poor man's hearth shall give, and in the moral heart of england live. c. lamb. thomas stothard, then in his seventy-ninth year, lamb had met at henry rogers', who had died at christmas, . the following was the copy of verses printed in _the athenaeum_, december , ("that most romantic tale" was _peter wilkins_):-- to t. stothard, esq. _on his illustrations of the poems of mr. rogers_ consummate artist, whose undying name with classic rogers shall go down to fame, be this thy crowning work! in my young days how often have i with a child's fond gaze pored on the pictured wonders thou hadst done: clarissa mournful, and prim grandison! all fielding's, smollett's heroes, rose to view; i saw, and i believed the phantoms true. but, above all, that most romantic tale did o'er my raw credulity prevail, where glums and gawries wear mysterious things, that serve at once for jackets and for wings. age, that enfeebles other men's designs, but heightens thine, and thy free draught refines. in several ways distinct you make us feel-- _graceful_ as raphael, as watteau _genteel_. your lights and shades, as titianesque, we praise; and warmly wish you titian's length of days. "short of the theatres." the injury done by the theatres is of course the subject of lamb's _reflector_ essay on shakespeare's tragedies (see vol. i.). "boydell's 'shakespeare gallery'"--the series of illustrations to shakespeare by leading artists of the day projected by alderman boydell in . "coleridge's... exemplification." lamb quoted incorrectly. the lines had just appeared in _friendship's offering_ for :-- in the hexameter rises the fountain's silvery column; in the pentameter aye falling in melody back. coleridge took the lines from schiller. at dr. williams' library is a note from thos. robinson to crabb robinson, dated december , , concerning lamb's christmas turkey, which went first to crabb robinson at the temple and was then sent on to lamb, presumably with the note in the hamper. lamb adds at the foot of the note:-- "the parcel coming thro' _you_, i open'd this note, but find no treason in it. with thanks c. lamb." i give here three other notes to dilke, belonging probably to the early days of . the first refers to the proof of one of lamb's contributions to the athenaeum.] letter charles lamb to charles wentworth dilke [no date.] may i now claim of you the benefit of the loan of some books. do not fear sending too many. but do not if it be irksome to yourself,--such as shall make you say, 'damn it, here's lamb's box come again.' dog's leaves ensured! any light stuff: no natural, history or useful learning, such as pyramids, catacombs, giraffes, adventures in southern africa, &c. &c. with our joint compliments, yours, c. lamb. church street, edmonton. novels for the last two years, or further back-nonsense of any period. letter charles lamb to charles wentworth dilke [no date. spring, .] dear sir, i return volumes by tate. if they are not all your own, and some of mine have slipt in, i do not think you will lose much. shall i go on with the table talk? i will, if you like it, when the culinary article has appear'd. _robins_, the carrier, from the _swan_, snow hill, will bring any more contributions, thankfully to be receiv'd--i pay backwards and forwards. c. lamb. ["table talk by the late elia" appeared in _the athenaeum_ on january , may , june and july , . the culinary article is the paragraph that now closes the "table talk" (see vol. i.).] letter charles lamb to the printer of the _athenaeum_ [no date.] i have read the enclosed five and forty times over. i have submitted it to my edmonton friends; at last (o argus' penetration), i have discovered a dash that might be dispensed with. pray don't trouble yourself with such useless courtesies. i can well trust your editor, when i don't use queer phrases which prove themselves wrong by creating a distrust in the sober compositor. letter charles lamb to mary betham january , , church street, edmonton. dear mary betham--i received the bill, and when it is payable, some ten or twelve days hence, will punctually do with the overplus as you direct: i thought you would like to know it came to hand, so i have not waited for the uncertainty of when your nephew sets out. i suppose my receipt will serve, for poor mary is not in a capacity to sign it. after being well from the end of july to the end of december, she was taken ill almost on the first day of the new year, and is as bad as poor creature can be. i expect her fever to last or weeks--if she gets well at all, which every successive illness puts me in fear of. she has less and less strength to throw it off, and they leave a dreadful depression after them. she was quite comfortable a few weeks since, when matilda came down here to see us. you shall excuse a short letter, for my hand is unsteady. indeed, the situation i am in with her shakes me sadly. she was quite able to appreciate the kind legacy while she was well. imagine her kindest love to you, which is but buried awhile, and believe all the good wishes for your restoration to health from c. lamb. [this letter refers to the legacy mentioned above. it had now been paid.] letter charles lamb to edward moxon [p.m. jan. , .] i met with a man at my half way house, who told me many anecdotes of kean's younger life. he knew him thoroughly. his name is wyatt, living near the bell, edmonton. also he referred me to west, a publican, opposite st. georges church, southwark, who knew him _more_ intimately. is it worth forster's while to enquire after them? c.l. [edmund kean had died in the previous may. forster, who was at this time theatrical critic of _the examiner_, was probably at work upon a biographical article. here should come a note from lamb to matilda betham, dated january , . "my poor mary is terribly ill again." here also, dated february , should come a letter to william hone, in which lamb, after mentioning his sister's illness, urges upon hone the advisability of applying to the literary fund for some relief, and offers to support him in his appeal.] letter charles lamb to miss fryer feb. , . 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 heretofore. your admonitions are not lost upon me. your kindness has sunk into my heart. have faith in me! it is no new 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 discern 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 thousands from the ten years she lived before me. what took place from early girlhood to her coming of age principally 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 walton 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 learning, 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. [miss fryer was a school-fellow of mrs. moxon's. i append another letter, undated, to the same lady. it belongs obviously to an earlier period, but the exact position is unimportant:--] letter charles lamb to miss fryer [no date.] my dear miss fryer, by desire of emma i have attempted new words to the old nonsense of tartar drum; but _with_ the nonsense the sound and spirit of the tune are unaccountably gone, and _we_ have agreed to discard the new version altogether. as _you_ may be more fastidious in singing mere silliness, and a string of well-sounding images without sense or coherence--drums of tartars, who use _none_, and tulip trees ten foot high, not to mention spirits in sunbeams &c,--than we are, so you are at liberty to sacrifice an enspiriting movement to a little sense, tho' i like little-sense less than his vagarying younger sister no-sense--so i send them---- the th line of st stanza is from an old ballad. emma is looking weller and handsomer (as you say) than ever. really, if she goes on thus improving, by the time she is nine and thirty she will be a tolerable comely person. but i may not live to see it.--i take beauty to be _catching_-- a cholera sort of thing--now, whether the constant presence of a handsome object--for there's only two of us--may not have the effect------but the subject is delicate, and as my old great ant* used to say--"andsome is as andsome duzz"--that was my great ant's way of spelling---- most and best kind things say to yourself and dear mother for all your kindnesses to our em., tho' in truth i am a little tired with her everlasting repetition of 'em. yours very truly, chs lamb. * emma's way of spelling miss _umfris_, as i spell her _aunt_. love will come _tune: "the tartar drum"_ i guard thy feelings, pretty vestal, from the smooth intruder free; cage thine heart in bars of chrystal, lock it with a golden key; thro' the bars demurely stealing-- noiseless footstep, accent dumb, his approach to none revealing-- watch, or watch not, love will come. his approach to none revealing-- watch, or watch not, love will come--love, watch, or watch not, love will come. ii scornful beauty may deny him-- he hath spells to charm disdain; homely features may defy him-- both at length must wear the chain. haughty youth in courts of princes-- hermit poor with age oercome-- his soft plea at last convinces; sooner, later, love will come-- his soft plea at length convinces; sooner, later, love will come--love, sooner, later, love will come. letter charles lamb to william wordsworth church s't, edmonton, feb. [ ]. dear wordsworth, i write from a house of mourning. 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 louisa martin, her address 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 behaviour i would stake my soul. o 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, you 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 mary is ill again, after a short lucid interval of or months. in short, i may call her half dead to me. good you are to me. yours with fervor of friendship; for ever turn over if you want references, the bishop of carlisle may be one. louisa's sister, (as good as she, she cannot be better tho' 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. the present lord carnarvon married howard of graystock's sister. [wordsworth has written on the wrapper, "lamb's last letter." we met the martins in the early correspondence. it was louisa whom, many years, before, lamb used to call "monkey." here should come lamb's last letter to thomas manning, dated may , . mary has, he says, been ill for nigh twenty weeks; "she is, i hope, recovering." "i struggle to town rarely, and then to see london, with little other motive--for what is left there hardly? the streets and shops entertaining ever, else i feel as in a desert, and get me home to my cave." once a month, he adds, he passes a day with cary at the museum. when mary was getting better in the previous year she would read all the auctioneers' advertisements on the walk. "these are _my_ play-bills," she said. "i walk or miles a day, always up the road, dear londonwards." addressed to manning at puckeridge. manning lived on, an eccentric recluse, until . here perhaps should come the following melancholy letter to talfourd, which mr. dobell permits me to print:--] letter charles lamb to t.n. talfourd [no date. early ?] d'r t.--[ ]moxon & knowles are coming to enfield on sunday _afternoon_. my poor shaken head cannot at present let me ask any dinner company; for two drinkings in a day, which must ensue, would incapacity me. i am very poorly. they can only get an edmont'n stage, from which village 'tis but a miles walk, & i have only _inn beds_ to offer. _pray_, join 'em if you can. our first morning stage to london is / past . if that won't suit your avocations, arrange with ryle (or without him)--but how can i separate him morally?--logically and legally, poetically and critically i can,--from you? no disparagement (for a better christian exists not)--well arrange _cum_ or _absque illo_--this is latin-- the first sunday you can, _morning_. i am poorly, but i always am on these occasions, a week or two. then i get sober,--i mean less insober. yours till death; you are mine _after_. don't mind a touch of pathos. love to mrs. talfourd. the edmonton stages come almost every hour from snow hill. [footnote : erratum, for m. & k. read k. & m. booksellers _after_ authors.] [ryle, as i have already said, was lamb's executor, with talfourd. hence the phrase to talfourd, "you are mine after."] letter (_fragment_) charles lamb to charles cowden clarke [no date. end of june, .] we heard the music in the abbey at winchmore hill! and the notes were incomparably soften'd by the distance. novello's chromatics were distinctly audible. clara was faulty in b flat. otherwise she sang like an angel. the trombone, and beethoven's walzes, were the best. who played the oboe? [the letter refers to the performance of handel's "creation" at the musical festival in westminster abbey on june , , when novello and atwood were the organists, and clara novello one of the singers.] letter charles lamb to john forster [p.m. june , .] d'r f.--i simply sent for the miltons because alsop has some books of mine, and i thought they might travel with them. but keep 'em as much longer as you like. i never trouble my head with other people's quarrels, i do not always understand my own. i seldom see them in dover street. i know as little as the man in the moon about your joint transactions, and care as little. if you have lost a little portion of my "good will," it is that you do not come and see me. arrange with procter, when you have done with your moving accidents. yours, ambulaturus, c.l. letter charles lamb to j. fuller russell [summer, .] m'r lamb's compt's and shall be happy to look over the lines as soon as ever mr. russell shall send them. he is at mr. walden's, church, _not bury_--st, edm'd. _line_ . "ween," and "wist," and "wot," and "eke" are antiquated frippery, and unmodernize a poem rather than give it an antique air, as some strong old words may do. "i guess," "i know," "i knew," are quite as significant. . why "ee"--barbarous scoticism!--when "eye" is much better and chimes to "cavalry"? a sprinkling of dis-used words where all the style else is after the approved recent fashion teases and puzzles. . [anon the storm begins to slake, the sullen clouds to melt away, the moon becalmed in a blue lake looks down with melancholy ray.] the moon becalmed in a blue lake would be more apt to _look up_. i see my error--the sky is the lake--and beg you to laugh at it. . what is a maiden's "een," south of the tweed? you may as well call her prettily turned ears her "lugs." "on the maiden's lugs they fall" (verse ). . "a coy young miss" will never do. for though you are presumed to be a modern, writing only of days of old, yet you should not write a word purely unintelligible to your heroine. some understanding should be kept up between you. "miss" is a nickname not two centuries old; came in at about the restoration. the "king's misses" is the oldest use of it i can remember. it is mistress anne page, not miss page. modern names and usages should be kept out of sight in an old subject. w. scott was sadly faulty in this respect. . [tear of sympathy.] pity's sacred dew. sympathy is a young lady's word, rife in modern novels, and is almost always wrongly applied. to sympathize is to feel--_with_, not simply _for_ another. i write verses and _sympathize_ with you. you have the tooth ache, i have not; i feel for you, i cannot sympathize. . what is "sheen"? has it more significance than "bright"? richmond in its old name was shene. would you call an omnibus to take you to shene? how the "all's right" man would stare! . [the violet nestled in the shade, which fills with perfume all the glade, yet bashful as a timid maid thinks to elude the searching eye of every stranger passing by, might well compare with emily.] a strangely involved simile. the maiden is likend [_sic_] to a _violet_ which has been just before likened to a _maid_. yet it reads prettily, and i would not have it alter'd. . "een" come again? in line you speak it out "eye," bravely like an englishman. . sorceresses do not entice by wrinkles, but, being essentially aged, appear in assumed beauty. [this communication and that which follows (with trifling omissions) were sent to _notes and queries_ by the late mr. j. fuller russell, f.s.a., with this explanation: "i was residing at enfield in the cambridge long vacation, , and--perhaps to the neglect of more improving pursuits--composed a metrical novel, named 'emily de wilton,' in three parts. when the first of them was completed, i ventured to introduce myself to charles lamb (who was living at edmonton at the time), and telling him what i had done, and that i had 'scarcely heart to proceed until i had obtained the opinion of a competent judge respecting my verses,' i asked him to 'while away an idle hour in their perusal,' adding, 'i fear you will think me very rude and very intrusive, but i am one of the most nervous souls in christendom.' moved, possibly, by this diffident (not to say unusual) confession, elia speedily gave his consent." the poem was never printed. lamb's pains in this matter serve to show how kindly disposed he was in these later years to all young men; and how exact a sense of words he had. in the british museum is preserved a sheet of similar comments made by lamb upon a manuscript of p.g. patmore's, from which i have quoted a few passages above. in _charles lamb and the lloyds_ will also be found a number of interesting criticisms on a translation of homer.] letter charles lamb to j. fuller russell [summer, .] sir,--i hope you will finish "emily." the story i cannot at this stage anticipate. some looseness of diction i have taken liberty to advert to. it wants a little more severity of style. there are too many prettinesses, but parts of the poem are better than pretty, and i thank you for the perusal. your humble servt. c. lamb. perhaps you will favour me with a call while you stay. line . "the old abbaye" (if abbey _was_ so spelt) i do not object to, because it does not seem your own language, but humoursomely adapted to the "how folks called it in those times." . "flares"! think of the vulgarism "flare up;" let it be "burns." . [in her pale countenance is blent the majesty of high intent with meekness by devotion lent, and when she bends in prayer before the virgin's awful shrine,-- the rapt enthusiast might deem the seraph of his brightest dream, were meekly kneeling there.] "was" decidedly, not "were." the deeming or supposition, is of a reality, not a contingency. the enthusiast does not deem that a thing may be, but that it _is_. . [when first young vernon's flight she knew, the lady deemed the tale untrue.] "deemed"! this word is just repeated above; say "thought" or "held." "deem" is half-cousin to "ween" and "wot." . [by pure intent and soul sincere sustained and nerved, i will not fear reproach, shame, scorn, the taunting jeer, and worse than all, a father's sneer.] a father's "sneer"? would a high-born man in those days _sneer_ at a daughter's disgrace--would he _only_ sneer? reproach, and biting shame, and--worse than all--the estranged father's curse. i only throw this hint out in a hurry. . "stern and _sear_"? i see a meaning in it, but no word is good that startles one at first, and then you have to make it out: "drear," perhaps. then why "to minstrel's glance"? "to fancy's eye," you would say, not "to fiddler's eye." . a knight thinks, he don't "trow." . "mayhap" is vulgarish. perchance. . "sensation" is a philosophic prose word. feeling. . [the hill, where ne'er rang woodman's stroke, was clothed with elm and spreading oak, through whose black boughs the moon's mild ray as hardly strove to win a way, as pity to a miser's heart.] natural illustrations come more naturally when by _them_ we expound mental operations than when we deduce from natural objects similes of the mind's workings. the miser's struggle thus compared is a beautiful image. but the storm and clouds do not inversely so readily suggest the miser. . [havock and wrath, his maniac bride, wheel o'er the conflict, &c.] these personified gentry i think are not in taste. besides, fear has been pallid any time these , years. it is mixing the style of aeschylus and the _last minstrel_. . bracy is a good rough vocative. no better suggests itself, unless grim, baron grimm, or grimoald, which is saxon, or grimbald! tracy would obviate your objection [that the name bracy occurs in _ivanhoe_] but bracy is stronger. . [the frown of night conceals him, and bewrays their sight.] betrays. the other has an _unlucky association_. . [the glinting moon's half-shrouded ray.] why "glinting," scotch, when "glancing" is english? . [then solemnly the monk did say, (the abbot of saint mary's gray,) the leman of a wanton youth perhaps may gain her father's _ruth_, but _never_ on his injured breast may lie, caressing and caressed. bethink you of the vow you made when your light daughter, all distraught, from yonder slaughter-plain was brought, that if in some secluded cell she might till death securely dwell, the house of god should share her wealth.] holy abbots surely never so undisguisedly blurted out their secular aims. i think there is so much of this kind of poetry, that it would not be _very taking_, but it is well worthy of pleasing a private circle. one blemish runs thro', the perpetual accompaniment of natural images. seasons of the year, times of day, phases of the moon, phenomena of flowers, are quite as much your _dramatis personae_ as the warriors and the ladies. this last part is as good as what precedes. letter charles lamb to charles wentworth dilke [no date. end of july, .] dear sir, i am totally incapable of doing what you suggest at present, and think it right to tell you so _without delay_. it would shock me, who am shocked enough already, to sit down to _write_ about it. i have no letters of poor c. by and bye what scraps i have shall be yours. pray excuse me. it is not for want of obliging you, i assure you. for your box we most cordially feel thankful. i shall be your debtor in my poor way. i do assure you i am incapable. again, excuse me yours sincerely c.l. [coleridge's death had occurred on july , in his sixty-second year; and dilke had written to lamb asking for some words on that event, for _the athenaeum_. a little while later a request was made by john forster that lamb would write something for the album of a mr. keymer. it was then that lamb wrote the few words that stand under the title "on the death of coleridge" (see vol. i.). forster wrote thus of the effect of coleridge's death upon lamb:-- he thought of little else (his sister was but another portion of himself) until his own great spirit joined his friend. he had a habit of venting his melancholy in a sort of mirth. he would, with nothing graver than a pun, "cleanse his bosom of the perilous stuff that weighed" upon it. in a jest, or a few light phrases, he would lay open the last recesses of his heart. so in respect of the death of coleridge. some old friends of his saw him two or three weeks ago, and remarked the constant turning and reference of his mind. he interrupted himself and them almost every instant with some play of affected wonder, or astonishment, or humorous melancholy, on the words, "_coleridge is dead_." nothing could divert him from that, for the thought of it never left him. wordsworth said that coleridge's death hastened lamb's.] letter charles lamb to rev. james gillman mr. walden's, church street, edmonton, august , . my dear sir,--the sad week being over, i must write to you to say, that i was glad of being spared from attending; i have no words to express my feeling with you all. i can only say that when you think a short visit from me would be acceptable, when your father and mother shall be able to see me _with comfort_, i will come to the bereaved house. express to them my tenderest regards and hopes that they will continue our friends still. we both love and respect them as much as a human being can, and finally thank them with our hearts for what they have been to the poor departed. god bless you all, c. lamb. [talfourd writes: "shortly after, assured that his presence would be welcome, lamb went to highgate. there he asked leave to see the nurse who had attended upon coleridge; and being struck and affected by the feeling she manifested towards his friend, insisted on her receiving five guineas from him." here should come a letter to j.h. green dated august , , thanking him for a copy of coleridge's will and offering to send all letters, etc., and "fragments of handwriting from leaves of good old books."] letter charles and mary lamb to h.f. cary sept. , . "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 botargoes of altona. but perhaps you have seen nor tasted any of these things. yours, very glad to claim you back again to your proper centre, books and bibliothecae, c. and m. lamb. i have only got your note just now _per negligentiam per iniqui moxoni_. [charles and mary lamb at this time were supposed to dine at cary's on the third wednesday in every month. when the plan was suggested by cary, lamb was for declining, but mary lamb said, "ah, when we went to edmonton, i told charles that something would turn up, and so it did, you see."] letter charles lamb to h.f. cary oct., . i protest i know not in what words to invest my sense of the shameful violation of hospitality, which i was guilty of on that fatal wednesday. let it be blotted from the calendar. had it been committed at a layman's house, say a merchant's or manufacturer's, a cheesemonger's' or greengrocer's, or, to go higher, a barrister's, a member of parliament's, a rich banker's, i should have felt alleviation, a drop of self-pity. but to be seen deliberately to go out of the house of a clergyman drunk! a clergyman of the church of england too! not that alone, but of an expounder of that dark italian hierophant, an exposition little short of _his_ who dared unfold the apocalypse: divine riddles both and (without supernal grace vouchsafed) arks not to be fingered without present blasting to the touchers. and, then, from what house! not a common glebe or vicarage (which yet had been shameful), but from a kingly repository of sciences, human and divine, with the primate of england for its guardian, arrayed in public majesty, from which the profane vulgar are bid fly. could all those volumes have taught me nothing better! with feverish eyes on the succeeding dawn i opened upon the faint light, enough to distinguish, in a strange chamber not immediately to be recognised, garters, hose, waistcoat, neckerchief, arranged in dreadful order and proportion, which i knew was not mine own. 'tis the common symptom, on awaking, i judge my last night's condition from. a tolerable scattering on the floor i hail as being too probably my own, and if the candlestick be not removed, i assoil myself. but this finical arrangement, this finding everything in the morning in exact diametrical rectitude, torments me. by whom was i divested? burning blushes! not by the fair hands of nymphs, the buffam graces? remote whispers suggested that i _coached_ it home in triumph--far be that from working pride in me, for i was unconscious of the locomotion; that a young mentor accompanied a reprobate old telemachus; that, the trojan like, he bore his charge upon his shoulders, while the wretched incubus, in glimmering sense, hiccuped drunken snatches of flying on the bats' wings after sunset. an aged servitor was also hinted at, to make disgrace more complete: one, to whom my ignominy may offer further occasions of revolt (to which he was before too fondly inclining) from the true faith; for, at a sight of my helplessness, what more was needed to drive him to the advocacy of independency? occasion led me through great russell street yesterday. i gazed at the great knocker. my feeble hands in vain essayed to lift it. i dreaded that argus portitor, who doubtless lanterned me out on that prodigious night. i called the elginian marbles. they were cold to my suit. i shall never again, i said, on the wide gates unfolding, say without fear of thrusting back, in a light but a peremptory air, "i am going to mr. cary's." i passed by the walls of balclutha. i had imaged to myself a zodiac of third wednesdays irradiating by glimpses the edmonton dulness. i dreamed of highmore! i am de-vited to come on wednesdays. villanous old age that, with second childhood, brings linked hand in hand her inseparable twin, new inexperience, which knows not effects of liquor. where i was to have sate for a sober, middle-aged-and-a-half gentleman, literary too, the neat-fingered artist can educe no notions but of a dissolute silenus, lecturing natural philosophy to a jeering chromius or a mnasilus. pudet. from the context gather the lost name of ----. ["the buffam graces." lamb's landladies at southampton buildings. "i passed by the walls of balclutha." from ossian. lamb uses this quotation in his _elia_ essay on the south-sea house. "highmore." i cannot explain this reference. not long before mrs. procter's death a letter from charles lamb to mrs. basil montagu was sold, in which lamb apologised for having become intoxicated while visiting her the night before. some one mentioned the letter in mrs. procter's presence. "ah," she said, "but they haven't seen the second letter, which i have upstairs, written next day, in which he said that my mother might ask him again with safety as he never got drunk twice in the same house." unhappily, a large number of lamb's and other letters were burned by mrs. procter.] letter charles lamb to h.f. cary [oct. , .] dear sir,--the unbounded range of munificence presented to my choice staggers me. what can twenty votes do for one hundred and two widows? i cast my eyes hopeless among the viduage. n.b.--southey might be ashamed of himself to let his aged mother stand at the top of the list, with his £ a year and butt of sack. sometimes i sigh over no. , mrs. carve-ill, some poor relation of mine, no doubt. no. has my wishes; but then she is a welsh one. i have ruth upon no. . i'd tug hard for no. . no. is an anomaly: there can be no mrs. hogg. no. ensnares me. no. should not have met so foolish a person. no. may bob it as she likes; but she catches no cherry of me. so i have even fixed at hap-hazard, as you'll see. yours, every third wednesday, c.l. [talfourd states that the note is in answer to a letter enclosing a list of candidates for a widow's fund society, for which he was entitled to vote. a mrs. southey headed the list. here, according to mr. hazlitt's dating, should come a note from lamb to mrs. randal norris, belonging to november, in which lamb says that he found mary on his return no worse and she is now no better. he sends all his nonsense that he can scrape together and hopes the young ladies will like "amwell" (_mrs. leicester's school_).] letter charles lamb to mr. childs monday. church street, edmonton (not enfield, as you erroneously direct yours). [? dec., .] dear sir,--the volume which you seem to want, is not to be had for love or money. i with difficulty procured a copy for myself. yours is gone to enlighten the tawny hindoos. what a supreme felicity to the author (only he is no traveller) on the ganges or hydaspes (indian streams) to meet a smutty gentoo ready to burst with laughing at the tale of bo-bo! for doubtless it hath been translated into all the dialects of the east. i grieve the less, that europe should want it. i cannot gather from your letter, whether you are aware that a second series of the essays is published by moxon, in dover-street, piccadilly, called "the last essays of elia," and, i am told, is not inferior to the former. shall i order a copy for you, and will you accept it? shall i _lend_ you, at the same time, my sole copy of the former volume (oh! return it) for a month or two? in return, you shall favour me with the loan of one of those norfolk-bred grunters that you laud so highly; i promise not to keep it above a day. what a funny name bungay is! i never dreamt of a correspondent thence. i used to think of it as some utopian town or borough in gotham land. i now believe in its existence, as part of merry england! [_some lines scratched out._] the part i have scratched out is the best of the letter. let me have your commands. ch. lamb, _alias_ elia. [talfourd thus explains this letter: "in december, , mr. lamb received a letter from a gentleman, a stranger to him--mr. childs of bungay, whose copy of _elia_ had been sent on an oriental voyage, and who, in order to replace it, applied to mr. lamb." mr. childs was a printer. his business subsequently became that of messrs. r.&r. clark, which still flourishes. this letter practically disposes of the statement made by more than one bibliographer that a second edition of elia was published in . the tale of bo-bo is in the "dissertation on roast pig." lamb sent mr. childs a copy of _john woodvil_, in which he wrote:--] letter from the author in great haste, the pig was _faultless_,--we got decently merry after it and chirpt and sang "heigh! bessy bungay!" in honour of the sender. pray let me have a line to say you got the books; keep the _ st vol._--two or three months, so long as it comes home at last. letter charles lamb to mrs. george dyer dec. nd, . dear mrs. dyer,--i am very uneasy about a _book_ 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 theatrum poetarum; but it is an english book. i think i left it in the parlour. it is mr. cary's book, and i would not lose it for the world. pray, if you find it, book it at the swan, snow hill, by an edmonton stage immediately, directed 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. [in the life of h.f. cary by his son we read: "he [lamb] had borrowed of my father phillips's _theatrum poetarum anglicanorum_, which was returned by lamb's friend, mr. moxon, with the leaf folded down at the account of sir philip sydney." mr. cary acknowledged the receipt of the book by the following lines to the memory of charles lamb so should it be, my gentle friend; thy leaf last closed at sydney's end. thou too, like sydney, wouldst have given the water, thirsting and near heaven; nay were it wine, fill'd to the brim, thou hadst look'd hard, but given, like him. and art thou mingled then among those famous sons of ancient song? and do they gather round, and praise thy relish of their nobler lays? waxing in mirth to hear thee tell with what strange mortals thou didst dwell! at thy quaint sallies more delighted, than any's long among them lighted! 'tis done: and thou hast join'd 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. this is the last letter of charles lamb, who tripped and fell in church street, edmonton, on december , and died of erysipelas on december . at the time of his death lamb was very nearly sixty. his birthday was february . mary lamb, with occasional lapses into sound health, survived him until may , . at first she continued to live at edmonton, but a few years later moved to the house of mrs. parsons, sister of her old nurse, miss james, in st. john's wood. i append three letters, two written and one inspired, by her, to miss jane norris, one of the daughters of randal norris. of the friends mentioned therein i might add that edward moxon lived until ; mrs. edward moxon until ; james kenney until ; thomas hood until ; and barron field until .] letter mary lamb to jane norris [ alpha road, regent's park] christmas day [ ]. my dear jane,--many thanks for your kind presents--your michalmas goose. i thought mr. moxon had written to thank you--the turkeys and nice apples came yesterday. give my love to your dear mother. i was unhappy to find your note in the basket, for i am always thinking of you all, and wondering when i shall ever see any of you again. i long to shew you what a nice snug place i have got into--in the midst of a pleasant little garden. i have a room for myself and my old books on the ground floor, and a little bedroom up two pairs of stairs. when you come to town, if you have not time to go [to] the moxons, an omnibus from the bell and crown in holborn would [bring] you to our door in [a] quarter of an hour. if your dear mother does not venture so far, i will contrive to pop down to see [her]. love and all seasonable wishes to your sister and mary, &c. i am in the midst of many friends--mr. & mrs. kenney, mr. & mrs. hood, bar[r]on field & his brother frank, & their wives &c., all within a short walk. if the lodger is gone, i shall have a bedroom will hold two! heaven bless & preserve you all in health and happiness many a long year. yours affectionately, m.a. lamb. letter mary lamb to jane norris oct. , . my dear jane norris,--thanks, many thanks, my dear friend, for your kind remembrances. what a nice goose! that, and all its accompaniments in the basket, we all devoured; the two legs fell to my share!!! your chearful [letter,] my jane, made me feel "almost as good as new." your mother and i _must meet again_. do not be surprized if i pop in again for a half-hour's call some fine frosty morning. thank you, dear jane, for the happy tidings that my _old_ friend miss bangham is alive, an[d] that mary is still with you, unmarried. heaven bless you all. love to mother, _betsey_, mary, &c. how i do long to see you. i am always your affecately grateful friend, mary ann lamb. last letter miss james to jane norris alpha road, regent's park, london, july , . madam,--miss lamb, having seen the death of your dear mother in the times news paper, is most anxious to hear from or to see one of you, as she wishes to know how you intend settling yourselves, and to have a full account of your dear mother's last illness. she was much shocked on reading of her death, and appeared very vexed that she had not been to see her, [and] wanted very much to come down and see you both; but we were really afraid to let her take the journey. if either of you are coming up to town, she would be glad if you would call upon her, but should you not be likely to come soon, she would be very much pleased if one of you would have the goodness to write a few lines to her, as she is most anxious about you. she begs you to excuse her writing to you herself, as she don't feel equal to it; she asked me yesterday to write for her. i am happy to say she is at present pretty well, although your dear mother's death appears to dwell much upon her mind. she desires her kindest love to you both, and hopes to hear from you very soon, if you are equal to writing. i sincerely hope you will oblige her, and am, madam, your obedient, &c., sarah james. pray don't invite her to come down to see you. appendix consisting of the longer passages from books referred to by lamb in his letters bernard barton's "the spiritual law" from devotional verses, (_see_ letter , _page_ ) "but the word is very nigh unto thee, in thy mouth, and in thy heart, that them mayest do it."--deut. xxx. . say not the law divine is hidden from thee, or far remov'd: that law within would shine, if there its glorious light were sought and lov'd. soar not on high, nor ask who thence shall bring it down to earth; that vaulted sky hath no such star, didst thou but know its worth. nor launch thy bark in search thereof upon a shoreless sea, which has no ark, no dove to bring this olive-branch to thee. then do not roam in search of that which wandering cannot win; at home! at home! that word is plac'd, thy mouth, thy heart within. oh! seek it there, turn to its teachings with devoted will; watch unto prayer, and in the power of faith this law fulfil. barton's "the translation of enoch" from _new year's eve_, (_see letter_ , _page_ ) "and enoch walked with god: and he was not; for god took him." genesis. through proudly through the vaulted sky was borne elisha's sire, and dazzling unto mortal eye his car and steeds of fire: to me as glorious seems the change accorded to thy worth; as instantaneous and as strange thy exit from this earth. something which wakes a deeper thrill, these few brief words unfold, than all description's proudest skill could of that hour have told. fancy's keen eye may trace the course elijah held on high: the car of flame, each fiery horse, her visions may supply;-- but thy transition mocks each dream framed by her wildest power, nor can her mastery supreme _conceive_ thy parting hour. were angels, with expanded wings, as guides and guardians given? or did sweet sounds from seraphs' strings waft thee from earth to heaven? 'twere vain to ask: we know but this-- thy path from grief and time unto eternity and bliss, mysterious and sublime! with god thou walkedst: and wast not! and thought and fancy fail further than this to paint thy lot, or tell thy wondrous tale. talfourd's "verses in memory of a child named after charles lamb" from the final memorials of charles lamb (_see_ letter , _page_ ) our gentle charles has pass'd away from earth's short bondage free, and left to us its leaden day and mist-enshrouded sea. here, by the restless ocean's side, sweet hours of hope have flown, when first the triumph of its tide seem'd omen of our own. that eager joy the sea-breeze gave, when first it raised his hair, sunk with each day's retiring wave, beyond the reach of prayer. the sun-blink that through drizzling mist, to flickering hope akin, lone waves with feeble fondness kiss'd, no smile as faint can win; yet not in vain, with radiance weak, the heavenly stranger gleams-- not of the world it lights to speak, 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 aw'd, and quiver'd into heaven. a year made slow by care and toil 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 than mightier bards embraced. still 'twas a mournful joy to think our darling might supply for years to us, a living link, to name that cannot die. and though such fancy gleam no more on earthly sorrow's night, truth's nobler torch unveils the shore which lends to both its light. the nurseling there that hand may take, none ever grasp'd in vain, and smiles of well-known sweetness wake, without their tinge of pain. though,'twixt the child and child-like bard, late seemed 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 uncrush'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; that calm and unforgotten look a kindred love reveals, with his who never friend forsook, or hurt a thing that feels. in thought profound, in wildest glee, in sorrows dark and strange, the soul of lamb's bright infancy endured no spot or change. from traits of each our love receives for comfort, nobler scope; while light, which child-like genius leaves. confirms the infant's hope; and in that hope with sweetness fraught be aching hearts beguiled, to blend in one delightful thought the poet and the child! edward fitzgerald's "the meadows in spring" from hone's _year book_ (_see letter_ , _page_ ) 'tis a sad sight to see the year dying; when autumn's last wind sets the yellow wood sighing; sighing, oh sighing! when such a time cometh, i do retire into an old room, beside a bright fire; oh! pile a bright fire! and there i sit reading old things of knights and ladies, while the wind sings: oh! drearily sings! i never look out, nor attend to the blast; for, all to be seen, is the leaves falling fast: falling, falling! but, close at the hearth, like a cricket, sit i; reading of summer and chivalry: gallant chivalry! then, with an old friend, i talk of our youth; how 'twas gladsome, but often foolish, forsooth, but gladsome, gladsome. or, to get merry, we sing an old rhyme that made the wood ring again in summer time: sweet summer time! then take we to smoking, silent and snug: naught passes between us, save a brown jug; sometimes! sometimes! and sometimes a tear will rise in each eye, seeing the two old friends, so merrily; so merrily! and ere to bed go we, go we, down by the ashes we kneel on the knee; praying, praying! thus then live i, till, breaking the gloom of winter, the bold sun is with me in the room! shining, shining! then the clouds part, swallows soaring between: the spring is awake, and the meadows are green,-- i jump up like mad; break the old pipe in twain; and away to the meadows, the meadows again! epsilon. james montgomery's "the common lot" (_see letter_ , _page_ ) a birth-day meditation, during a solitary winter walk of seven miles, between a village in derbyshire and sheffield, when the ground was covered with snow, the sky serene, and the morning air intensely pure. once in the flight of ages past, there lived a man:--and who was he? --mortal! howe'er thy lot be cast, that man resembled thee. unknown the region of his birth, the land in which he died unknown: his name has perish'd from the earth; this truth survives alone:-- that joy and grief, and hope and fear, alternate triumph'd in his breast; his bliss and woe,--a smile, a tear!-- oblivion hides the rest. the bounding pulse, the languid limb, the changing spirits' rise and fall; we know that these were felt by him, for these are felt by all. he suffer'd,--but his pangs are o'er; enjoy'd,--but his delights are fled; had friends,--his friends are now no more; and foes,--his foes are dead. he loved,--but whom he loved, the grave hath lost in its unconscious womb: o. she was fair!--but nought could save her beauty from the tomb. he saw whatever thou hast seen; encounter'd all that troubles thee: he was--whatever thou hast been; he is--what thou shalt be. the rolling seasons, day and night, sun, moon, and stars, the earth and main, erewhile his portion, life and light, to him exist in vain. the clouds and sunbeams, o'er his eye that once their shades and glory threw, have left in yonder silent sky no vestige where they flew. the annals of the human race, their ruins, since the world began, of him afford no other trace than this,--there lived a man! november , . barry cornwall's "epistle to charles lamb; on his emancipation from clerkship" (written over a flask of sherris) from _english songs_ (_see letter_ , _page_ ) dear lamb! i drink to thee,--to _thee_ married to sweet liberty! what, old friend, and art thou freed from the bondage of the pen? free from care and toil indeed? free to wander amongst men when and howsoe'er thou wilt? _all_ thy drops of labour spilt, on those huge and figured pages, which will sleep unclasp'd for ages, little knowing who did wield the quill that traversed their white field? come,--another mighty health! thou hast earn'd thy sum of wealth,-- countless ease,--immortal leisure,-- days and nights of boundless pleasure, checquer'd by no dreams of pain, such as hangs on clerk-like brain like a night-mare, and doth press the happy soul from happiness. oh! happy thou,--whose all of time (day and eve, and morning prime) is fill'd with talk on pleasant themes,-- or visions quaint, which come in dreams such as panther'd bacchus rules, when his rod is on "the schools," mixing wisdom with their wine;-- or, perhaps, thy wit so fine strayeth in some elder book, whereon our modern solons look with severe ungifted eyes, wondering what thou seest to prize. happy thou, whose skill can take pleasure at each turn, and slake thy thirst by every fountain's brink, where less wise men would pause to shrink: sometimes, 'mid stately avenues with cowley thou, or marvel's muse, dost walk; or gray, by eton's towers; or pope, in hampton's chesnut bowers; or walton, by his loved lea stream: or dost thou with our milton dream, of eden and the apocalypse, and hear the words from his great lips? speak,--in what grove or hazel shade, for "musing meditation made," dost wander?--or on penshurst lawn, where sidney's fame had time to dawn and die, ere yet the hate of men could envy at his perfect pen? or, dost thou, in some london street, (with voices fill'd and thronging feet,) loiter, with mien 'twixt grave and gay?-- or take along some pathway sweet, thy calm suburban way? happy beyond that man of ross, whom mere content could ne'er engross, art thou,--with hope, health, "learned leisure;" friends, books, thy thoughts, an endless pleasure! --yet--yet,--(for when was pleasure made sunshine all without a shade?) thou, perhaps, as now thou rovest through the busy scenes thou lovest, with an idler's careless look, turning some moth-pierced book, feel'st a sharp and sudden woe for visions vanished long ago! and then thou think'st how time has fled over thy unsilvered head, snatching many a fellow mind away, and leaving--what?--behind! nought, alas! save joy and pain mingled ever, like a strain of music where the discords vie with the truer harmony. so, perhaps, with thee the vein is sullied ever,--so the chain of habits and affections old, like a weight of solid gold, presseth on thy gentle breast, till sorrow rob thee of thy rest. ay: so't must be!--ev'n i, (whose lot the fairy love so long forgot,) seated beside this sherris wine, and near to books and shapes divine, which poets, and the painters past have wrought in lines that aye shall last,-- ev'n i, with shakspeare's self beside me, and one whose tender talk can guide me through fears, and pains, and troublous themes, whose smile doth fall upon my dreams like sunshine on a stormy sea,-- want _something_--when i think of thee! list of letters alphabetically arranged aders, charles, to jan. , ainsworth, w. harrison, to may , dec. , dec. , -- aitken, j., to july , allsop, thomas, to july , ? ? -- march , -- oct. , -- july, sept. , -- sept. , -- sept. , -- sept. -- ? oct. -- jan. , sept. , -- sept. , -- dec. , -- ? middle dec., dec. , -- jan. , may , -- jan. , late july, -- july , mrs. thomas, to april , arnold, s.j., to (from charles and mary lamb) no date. asbury, jacob vale, to ? april, no date. _athenaeum_, printer of, to no date. ayrton, william, to may , oct. , march , mrs. william, to jan. , march , -- (from mary lamb) no date. april , barton, bernard, to sept. , oct. , -- dec. , -- jan. , feb. , -- march , -- april , -- may , -- july , -- sept. , -- sept. , -- nov. , -- jan. , jan. , -- feb. , -- march , -- early spring, -- may , -- july , -- aug. , -- sept. , -- dec. , -- feb. , march , -- april , -- july , -- aug. , -- feb. , march , -- may , -- sept. , -- no date. -- no date. june , -- aug. , -- aug. , -- late -- dec. , -- end of -- april , oct. , -- dec. , -- march , june , -- july , -- dec. , -- feb. , june , -- aug. , -- april , lucy, to (p.s. to letter to b.b.) dec. , betham, barbara, to (from mary lamb) nov. , mary, to june , june , -- jan. , matilda, to no date. no date. -- (from mary lamb) ? ? late summer, no date. -- no date. -- june , june, cary, rev. h.f., to oct. , april , may , sept. , (from charles and mary lamb) sept. , oct. -- oct. , -- chambers, charles, to ? may, childs, mr., to ? dec., no date. -- clare, john, to aug. , clarke, charles cowden, to summer, feb. , oct., -- dec., -- feb. , end of june, clarkson, thomas and catherine, to june, clarkson, mrs. thomas, to (from mary lamb) dec. , dec. , -- colburn (?), henry, to june , (? ) sept. , coleridge, s.t., to may , end of may -- june , -- june , -- july , -- july , -- july , -- sept. , -- oct. , -- oct. , -- oct. , -- oct. , -- nov. , -- nov. , -- dec. , -- dec. , -- dec. , -- dec. , -- jan. , jan. , -- jan. , -- feb. , -- feb. , -- april , -- april , -- june , -- june , -- ? june , -- late july -- aug. , -- about sept. , -- jan. , early summer, -- ? jan. , ? april or , -- ? spring, -- may , -- coleridge, s.t., to ? late july, -- aug. , -- aug. , -- aug. , -- sept. , oct. , -- oct. , -- oct. , -- nov. , -- april , may , -- march , april , -- (from mary lamb) no date. june , oct. , -- aug. , aug. , -- dec. , ? summer, jan , ? autumn, -- may , march , ? june, july , -- march , june , -- april , mrs. s.t., to (from mary lamb) oct. , collier, john dyer, to no date. mr. and mrs. j.d., to jan. , mrs. j.d., to (from mary lamb) no date. nov. , john payne, to dec , may , cottle, joseph, to nov. , ? late -- ? may , dibdin, john bates, to ? may , -- oct , -- july , jan. , june , july , -- sept. , -- sept. , sept. , -- sept. -- oct. , -- dilke, charles wentworth, to march , feb., april, -- middle dec -- no date. ? no date. -- end of july -- dyer, george, to dec. , ? jan., april , -- dec. , feb. , mrs. george, to dec. , elton, c.a., to aug. , field, barren, to aug. , aug. , sept. , oct. , forster, john, to ? late april, dec. , -- no date. no date. no date. ? march, may, -- may , -- june , fryer, miss, to feb. , -- no date. gillman, james, to may , oct. , ? nov. , -- nov. -- march , ? early spring, -- gillman, rev. james, to may , aug. , godwin, william, to dec. , no date. autumn, -- dec. , -- dec. , -- june , sept. , -- sept. , -- nov. , nov. , -- ? march , ? may , mrs., to no date. gutch, john mathew, to no date. april , haydon, benjamin robert, to dec. , oct. , oct. , -- march, aug., hazlitt, william, to nov. , jan. , feb. , -- march , -- aug. , nov. , -- oct. , mrs. w. _see_ stoddart, sarah jr., william, to sept. , rev. w., to feb. , hill, thomas, to no date. holcroft, jr., thomas, to autumn, hone, william, to april, may , oct. , -- april, end of may, -- june, -- early july, -- oct., -- dec. , -- may , march , hood, thomas, to aug. , may, sept. , -- no date. ?-- late autumn, ? ? may, ? hoods, the thomas, to (from mary lamb) ? summer, hume, joseph, to no date. his daughters, to no date. mrs., to no date. humphreys, miss, to jan. hunt, leigh, to april , -- ? nov., dec., hutchinson, sarah, to (from mary lamb) aug. aug. , -- oct. , -- (from mary lamb) middle of nov., ? late -- april , (?) no date. nov. , jan. , march , -- april , -- james, miss sarah, to ? april, kelly, fanny, to july , july , -- kenny, james and louisa, to oct., mrs. james, to (from mary lamb) ? early dec., knowles, james sheridan, to ? april, lamb, mrs. john, to may , mary, to august, -- landor, walter savage, to oct., lloyd, charles, to autumn, manning, thomas, to dec., dec. , -- feb. , march , -- march , -- april , -- may , -- ? may , -- aug. , -- aug. , -- aug. , -- aug. , -- sept. , -- oct. , -- nov. , -- nov. , -- dec. , -- dec. , -- end of dec.,-- dec. , -- feb. , late feb., -- april, -- ? april, -- aug., -- aug. , -- ? feb. , ? april, -- sept. , -- nov., -- feb. , march, -- feb. , july , -- nov. , -- may , dec. , -- feb. , march , jan. , dec. , dec. , -- may , ? feb marter, w., to july , montagu, basil, to july , mrs. basil, to summer, morgan, john, to march , mrs., to june , moxon, edward, to no date. ? sept., -- july , ? sept. , -- dec. , -- ? jan., feb. , -- march , -- may , -- dec., -- no date. sept. , -- may , nov. , -- ? dec., -- ? dec. , -- feb. , july , -- early august, -- aug. , -- sept. , -- oct. , -- dec. , -- june , late -- winter, -- dec., -- jan., jan. , -- jan. , -- feb. , -- feb., -- no date. -- early -- march , -- ? spring, -- march , -- spring, -- ? april , -- april , -- april , -- july , -- july , -- and emma (from mary and charles lamb) ? july , -- (from mary and charles lamb) sept. , -- oct. , -- nov. , -- jan. , norris, jane, to (from mary lamb) dec. , oct. , (from miss james) july , mrs. randal, to (from mary lamb) june , novello, vincent, to jan. , may , nov. , ? nov. , may , nov. , -- mrs. vincent, to (from mary lamb) spring, ollier, charles, to ? dec., early march , -- charles and james, to june , patmore, p.g., to july , sept., -- payne, j.h., to autumn, oct. , -- nov. , -- jan., jan. , -- feb. [ ], -- poole, thomas, to feb. , may , -- may , -- proctor, b.w., to ? summer, april , nov. , jan. , jan. , -- ? jan , -- no date. -- feb. , -- no date. rickman, john, to ? nov., april , july , jan. , march, -- oct. , robinson, h.c., to march , may, feb. , nov. , march , jan. , jan. , -- jan. , -- jan., -- june , -- oct. , -- feb. , feb. , ? april, -- april , -- ? early oct., thomas, to nov. , rogers, samuel, to march , oct. , ? dec. , russell, j. fuller, to summer, sargus, mr., to feb. , scott, john, to ? feb., dec. , -- sir walter, to oct. , shelley, mrs. percy bysshe, to july , southey, robert, to july , oct. , -- oct. , -- nov. , -- nov. , -- ? nov., -- nov. , -- dec. , -- jan. , late jan. or early feb., -- march , -- march , -- oct. , -- nov. , may , aug. , -- oct. , nov. , aug. , may , stoddart, sir john, to aug. , -- lady, to (from mary lamb) aug. , sarah (later mrs. hazlitt), to (from mary lamb) sept. , (from mary lamb) ? march, late july, -- late july, -- (from mary lamb) ? sept. , early nov., -- nov. and , -- ? feb. , and , march, -- june , -- ? july , -- oct , -- dec. , -- (from mary lamb) oct., dec. , -- feb. , march , -- dec. , -- dec. , -- (from mary lamb) june , nov. , -- ? end of oct. , early nov., march , may , -- june , -- may , talfourd, t.n., to aug., may , end of -- feb., no date. taylor, john, to june , july , -- dec. , williams, mrs., to feb. , march , -- march , -- march , -- april , -- april , -- april , -- wilson, walter, to aug. , dec. , feb. , may , may , nov. , -- aug., wordsworth, dorothy, to (from mary lamb) july , june , (from mary lamb) oct. , -- may , june , -- (from mary lamb) aug. , nov. , nov. , -- (from mary lamb) nov. , -- nov. , -- (from mary lamb) nov. , nov. , -- nov. , may , jan. , (from mary lamb) jan. , mrs., to feb. , william, to jan. , march , oct. , feb. , feb. , -- march , -- march , -- april , -- (and dorothy) sept. , -- feb. , june , -- dec. , -- wordsworth, william, to jan. , oct. , aug. , sept. , -- dec. , -- ? early jan., april , -- april , -- aug. , -- april , april , -- sept. , -- april , june , -- march , jan., april , may, -- sept. , may, jan. , end of may, feb. , index a acrostics aders, charles his pictures, lamb's poem to _adventures of ulysses_ "after blenheim," by southey agricultural depression, lamb on ainsworth, w.h. _see_ letters. his dedication to lamb his gift of _syrinx_ and "faust" aitken, john. _see_ letters. his _cabinet_ _albion_, lamb and the albums, lamb on _album verses_ "ali pacha," by howard payne allen, robert allsop, thomas. _see_ letters. alsager, t.m. "amicus redivivus" "ancient mariner, the" anderson, dr. "angel help" angerstein, john julius angling, lamb and animal poetry "anna." _see_ simmons. _annual anthology, the_ _anti-jacobin, the_ "antonio," by godwin appendix: passages from books referred to by lamb aquinas, thomas "ariadne," by titian ariel, lamb as arnold, samuel james. _see_ letters. "arthur's bower" asbury, j.v. _see_ letters. and emma isola and lamb as ariel asses, old poem on _astrea_ australia, lamb on authors and publishers, lamb on ayrton, william. _see_ letters. mrs. _see_ letters. b badams, carlyle's friend mrs., _née_ louisa holcroft. _see_ letters. baldwin the publisher ball, sir alexander "ballad," by lamb bankrupts, lamb on "barbara s." barbauld, mrs. barker, lieut. john barnes, thomas bartholomew fair barton, bernard. _see_ letters. first mention his suggested retirement from the bank his testimonial lamb on his poems _poetic vigils_ "sonnet to elia" _poems_, th edition his _devotional verses_ his _widow's tale_ extracts from his poems lamb sends him a picture his step-grandfather his _new year's eve_ sonnet to lamb his "spiritual law" his "translation of enoch" lucy, verses to note to at islington baskerville, john battle, mrs. beaumont and fletcher beaumont, sir george bellows shakespeare "belshazzar's feast" benger, miss berkleyans betham, anne, her legacy barbara. _see_ letters. mary matilda. _see_ letters. bethams, the, their tallness betty, master _bijou, the_ binding, the perfect "bites," lamb's blake, william blakesware blanchard, laman bland, mrs. _blank verse_, by lamb and lloyd blenheim, its pictures bloomfield, his _farmer's boy_ bloxam, samuel blue-stockings, lamb among bodleian library book-binder, lamb's poor relation book-borrowing, lamb on "borderers, the," by wordsworth bourne, vincent bowles, william lisle his allegory, "hope" his "elegiac stanzas" boyer, james braham, john brawn, lamb on brighton, the lambs at british museum, lamb at brown, miss, her album verses brutons, the lambs' cousins buchan, the earl of _buncle, john_ bungay, lamb on bunyan burke and hare burke, edmund burnet, bishop, his _own times_ burnett, george and dyer burney, captain martin sarah burns, robert burrell, miss burton, lamb's imitations of butterworth, major button, emma, lamb's acrostic button snap, lamb's cottage bye, thomas byron, lord c _cabinet, the_ callers, lamb on calne, the lambs at cambridge, the lambs' visit in lamb at "cambridge brawn" campbell, j. dykes on coleridge in on coleridge's pension capital punishment, lamb on carlisle, sir antony caroline of brunswick cary, h.f. _see_ letters. a model parson his career at the museum and miss isola's latin and moxon his _euripides_ his translation of dante at the museum his verses on lamb catalani and coleridge cellini, his autobiography chambers, charles. _see_ letters. and lamb's praise of fish his family john. _see_ letters. _champion, the_ "chapel bell, the," by southey chapman's _homer_ _chatsworth_, by patmore chaucer, godwin's _life_ cheshire cats _chessiad, the_ children's books, lamb on childs, mr. _see_ letters. chimney-sweepers china, manning's intentions lamb on _christabel_ "christian names of women" christ's hospital christy, dr. clare, john. _see_ letters. clarke, charles cowden. _see_ letters. his career and novello his marriage his tuft mary anne mary victoria (_née_ novello) clarkson, thomas and catherine. _see_ letters. coe, mrs. elizabeth _caelebs in search of a wife_ colburn, henry. _see_ letters. lamb on zerah cold in the head, lamb on colebrooke cottage coleridge, derwent rev. edward. _see_ letters. hartley henry nelson, his _six months in the west indies_ samuel taylor. _see_ letters. and religion, i in and southey his poems his share of _joan of arc_ alters lamb's sonnets his letter of consolation and opium and the volume and john lamb, jr. his baby song his ode on the departing year as a husbandman his joan of arc verses and rogers on lamb his refusal to write his "osorio" and the stowey visit his "lime-tree bower" and lamb's greatcoat and c. lloyd the wedgwood annuity and lamb's "theses qusaedam theologicae" the quarrel with lamb and lloyd his letter of remonstrance to lamb with wordsworth in germany in buckingham street his articles in the morning post with lamb in his translation of schiller his books his affection for the lambs his anthology poems on wordsworth at keswick his chamounix hymn suggests collaboration with lamb on mary lamb's illness his poems, rd edition his malta plans at malta, and the wordsworths in italy returns home and his wife, the friend neglects the lambs his potations his difference with wordsworth and catalani in his "remorse" and the translation of "faust" his biographia literaria his sibylline leaves a characteristic end his "zapolya" at a chemist's recites "kubla khan" puts himself under gillman attacked by hazlitt at highgate his statesman's manual his lectures at gillman's on peter bell the third his "fancy in nubibus" in lloyd's poem his book-borrowing and allsop his dying message in at monkhouse's dinner and mrs. gillman and irving and the prize essay and hood's _odes_ his _aids to reflection_ on lamb and herbert his joke on summer and the albums for st. luke's on william iv. and the pension imagines an affront his death sara the younger collier, john dyer. _see_ letters. mrs. john dyer. _see_ letters. john payne. _see_ letters. _colonel jack_ "common lot, the," by montgomery _companion, the_ _conciones ad populum_ "confessions of a drunkard" congreve and voltaire cooke, g.f. cooper, samuel cornwall, barry. _see also_ b.w. procter. his _english songs_ his "king death," his "epistle to charles lamb" cottle, joseph. _see_ letters. his "monody on henderson," his epic his brother's death his _malvern hills_ his _alfred_ his portrait his _messiah_ his _fall of cambria_ cotton on "winter" on "old age" coulson, walter country, lamb on the coutts, mrs. covent garden, lamb's love for cowes, the lambs and burneys there cowper, william and milton _the royal george_ cresswell, dr., vicar of edmonton croly, rev. george cromwell and napoleon cromwell, cooper's portrait of cruelty to animals, john lamb's pamphlet cunningham, allan _curse of kehama_ curtis, alderman d dalston, the lambs at danby, the murder of daniel, george samuel darley, george dash, lamb's dog dawe, george "deathbed, a" "decay of imagination," lamb's essay on dedications to lamb defoe, daniel de quincey, thomas dermody, thomas despard, colonel de staël, madame, on germany _desultory thoughts in london_ "dialogue between a mother and child" dibdin, charles john bates. _see_ letters. his meeting with lamb his death "dick strype" dilke, charles wentworth. _see_ letters "dissertation on roast pig" dobell, mr. bertram dodd, dr. dodwell, h., lamb's letters to "don giovanni" "douglas," by home dowden, mrs. _see_ mrs. john lamb. _dramatic specimens_ drink, lamb on druitt, mary duddon sonnets duncan, miss dupuy, p.s., his translation dyer, george. _see_ letters and horne tooke his poetry his twin volumes his many "veins" his critical preface and the epic on shakespeare his phrenesis his fallacy his _poems_ and burnett his hunger-madness as the hero of a novel and the earl of buchan his autobiography his annuity his disappearance and earl stanhope and lord stanhope on other people's poetry his "poetic sympathies" his immersion his novel way with dead books his marriage and novello and emma isola's album and rogers his unitarian tract his blindness mrs. george. _see_ letters "dying lover, the" e _earl of abergavenny_ east india house _edinburgh review_ and wordsworth edmonton, the lambs' home there _edmund oliver_ "edward, edward" elia, f. augustus death of the original "elia, sonnet to" _elia_, dedication of the american second series _last essays of_ elton, sir c.a. enfield, lamb at lamb settles there lamb's house there and neighbourhood _english bards and scotch reviewers_ _english songs_, by procter _englishman's magazine_ "enviable," lamb on epic poetry and george dyer "epitaph on ensign peacock" "--on mary druitt" "--on the rigg children" epitaphs, lamb on wordsworth on evans, william examiner, the, references to miss kelly and lamb's _album verses_ _excursion_, the exeter change f fairfax's _tasso_ _falstaffs letters_ "fancy in nubibus" "farewell to tobacco" farmer, priscilla, lloyd's grandmother "faulkener," godwin's play fauntleroy, the forger "faust," by goethe fawcetts, the two fell, lamb's friend fénélon fenwick, john field, barron. _see_ letters. mary, lamb's grandmother fireworks, lamb on first-fruits of australian poetry fitzgerald, edward, his "meadows in spring" his memoir of barton fitzgerald, mrs., at islington fleet prison fletcher, john, lamb on ford, john fornham forster, john. _see_ letters. fox, george, his journal franklin, marmaduke _fraser's magazine_ "free thoughts on some eminent composers" frenchmen, lamb on frend, william _friend, the_ fryer, miss. _see_ letters. lamb's song for fuller, thomas g gardener, lamb as a _garrick extracts_ _gebir_, by landor _gem, the_ "gentle giantess, the" "gentle-hearted charles" george iii. ghoul, the gilford, william gigliucci, countess. _see_ novello, clara. gillman, james. _see_ letters. and coleridge rev. james. _see_ letters. gilray, his caricature of coleridge and co. goddard house school, lamb at godiva, lady, and john martin godwin, william. _see_ letters. and allen first meeting and coleridge in ireland and mary lamb's appetite his "antonio" his pride his persian play his courtship, lamb on his "faulkener" his dulness his _chaucer_ and hazlitt lamb's apology to and the _tales from shakespear_ his shop and the adventures of ulysses his letter of criticism to lamb on sepulchres and mrs. godwin his "tomb" his disrespect his difficulties mrs. _see_ letters. goethe, lamb on gould, mrs. _see_ miss burrell. "grandame, the" "grandpapa," the, by j. howard payne great russell street, lamb's home in grecians, lamb on green, j.h. greg, mr., lamb's tenant gregory, dr. grenville, lord, and coleridge gum-boil and tooth-ache gutch, john mathew gwynn, mr. stephen, his translations of lamb's latin letters "gypsy's malison, the" h hancock, his drawing of lamb handwriting, lamb on harley, j.p. harrow church, lamb in hastings, the lambs at hood at, lamb on, dibdin at haydon, b.r. _see_ letters. his career his party and godwin's difficulties subjects for pictures his "chairing the member" hayes, mary, and charles lloyd hayward, a., his _faust_ hazlitt, john mrs. john mary sarah. _see_ sarah stoddart rev. w. _see_ letters. william. _see_ letters. on lamb his portrait of lamb his first meeting with lamb and ned search the misogynist and lamb scolded woos sarah stoddart his love affair the joke of his death plans for his wedding his wedding missed in london his _grammar_ and the _political register_ his son born his post on the _chronicle_ misunderstanding with lamb his review of the _excursion_ his lake country "scapes" on coleridge his conversation his borrowings from lamb knocked down by john lamb his lectures in his "conversation of authors" on lamb's letter to southey on bodily pain on shelley on lamb his _spirit of the age_ his second marriage in paris his portrait of lamb on defoe and lamb his losses his death jr. _see_ letters. "helen repentant too late" hell-fire dick hemans, mrs. henderson, cottle's monody on henshaw, william, lamb's godfather herbert, george, lamb on hesiod, lamb on "hester" hetty, the lambs' servant hicks' hall higginbottom sonnet hill, thomas. _see_ letters. hissing, lamb on holcroft, fanny harwood louisa thomas mrs. thomas. _see_ mrs. kenney. tom. _see_ letter. hollingdon rural church hollingshead, mr. john holmes, edward homer, lamb on hone, alfred matilda william. _see_ letters. first letter to _every-day book_ lamb's lines to and the garrick plays his _table book_ stops and his difficulties and the _times_ hood, thomas. _see_ letters. his _odes and addresses_ lamb on his "very deaf indeed" his still-born child frames picture with lamb his picture of mary lamb and dash his _plea of the midsummer fairies_ his genius his parody of lamb hoole, john hopkins, dick, the swearing scullion howell, james, his _familiar letters_ quoted mrs. _hudibras_ quoted hudson, mr. hugo, victor, and lamb hume, joseph, m.p. _see_ letters. mrs. the misses humphreys, miss. _see_ letters. hunt, john hunt, leigh. _see_ letters. on lamb's books and the lambs a lost letter to his need of friends in italy and freethinking his handwriting his _lord byron_ his _companion_ and lamb's _album verses_ and lamb's _satan_ hunt, thornton hurst and robinson's failure hyde park, the jubilation in i imagination, lamb on imlay, fanny incendiarism at enfield india, lamb on inner temple lane "innocence," lamb's sonnet irving, edward, and coleridge his watch chain with coleridge at st. luke's his squint isle of wight, the lambs in isola, emma her latin to become a governess her reading of milton her album her engagement at pornham her illness and her physic and her watch her marriage a sonnet to her appearance harriet italian, the lambs read j james, sarah, _see_ letters. jameson, r.s., hartley coleridge's sonnets jameson, r.s., and miss isola "janus weathercock," _see also_ wainewright, t.g. jekyll, joseph jerdan, william, and lamb _joan of arc_, and coleridge _john bull_ and rogers _john buncle_ john-dory, lamb on _john woodvil_ johnson, dr. joshua, martin's picture k "kais," the opera keats, john, at haydon's kelly, fanny h. maria. _see_ letters. her divine plain face lamb's proposal to her lamb's sonnet to her letter to lamb learns latin from mary lamb and "barbara s." at the strand theatre kenney family mrs. james. _see_ letters. mrs. louisa (afterwards mrs. badams). _see_ letters. sophy, lamb's wife keymer, mr., his album kew palace, the lambs at "king death," by barry cornwall _king and queen of hearts, the_ "kirkstone pass" kitchener, doctor knight, anne knowles, j.s. kosciusko, thaddeus "kubla khan" l "lady blanche," verses by mary lamb lakes, the lambs among the lamb family in charles, his temporary madness his love sonnets on priestley and coleridge in on his sonnets on old plays on hope and fear and the bristol holiday on the tragedy of sept. on his sister's virtues his salary on his love his share of coleridge's _poems_, on simplicity on bowles and his mother on coleridge's nd edition his "tomb of douglas" on cowper and milton on burns his second sonnet to his sister on his share of the _poems_ he exhorts coleridge to attempt an epic on friendship his first poem to lloyd on a subject for coleridge on cowper on quakerism his "vision of repentance" on the _poems_ at stowey leaves little queen street at southey's his lines on his mother's death his second poem to c. lloyd and lloyd and white his sarcastic propositions for coleridge the quarrel with coleridge on wither and quarles on _rosamund gray_ on southey's "eclogues" on marlowe on the "ancient mariner" and his tailor his appeal for a poor friend on his mind on poems on dumb creatures his epitaph on ensign peacock on blakesware on alcoholic beverages and mathematics on lloyd and mary hayes on bishop burnet on _falstaff's letters_ among the blue-stockings as a linguist on hetty's death on lake society on narrow means on oxford his joke against gutch on the "gentle charles" the use of the final "e" by punch-light as a consoler and the snakes his praise of london he takes in manning and godwin's supper his epilogue for "antonio" on the failure of "antonio" on his cambridge plans on the _lyrical ballads_ his move to mitre court buildings his namesake on his religious state in at margate on godwin's courtship his dramatic suggestions on napoleon his spare figure at the lakes his project for collaborating with coleridge on children's books on napoleon and cromwell on chapman's _homer_ on milton's prose on cellini on independent tartary on coleridge's _poems_, rd edition his holiday his adventure at sea his difficulties as a reviewer ceases to be a journalist his miserliness on old books his motto his portrait by hazlitt on john wordsworth's death on brawn on his sister his portrait by hancock on pictures on nelson in unsettled state on manning's departure for china on "mr. h." and hazlitt scolded reconciled to godwin and hazlitt's "death" his difference with godwin at hazlitt's wedding on painter-authors and the sheridans on moving on critics on the choice of a wife criticises mr. lloyd's _homer_ visits hazlitt his books on titles of honour a list of friends on wither on epitaphs his aquavorousness a servant difficulty and hazlitt's _chronicle_ appointment on the _excursion_ and _the champion_ blown up by hazlitt his new book room and gifford a landed proprietor on wordsworth's poems on vincent bourne his office work on presents on the india house shackles his diffidence as a critic on his sister's illnesses he lies to manning on coleridge and wordsworth on _christabel_ his borrowed good things on australia on distant correspondents as matter-of-lie man his hogarths on the plague of friends his after-dinner speeches on _peter bell_ on mackery end on _the waggoner_ on two inks his proposal to miss kelly at cambridge on william wordsworth on other c l.'s on lord byron on book-borrowing at haydon's and leigh hunt and his aunt's cake in praise of pig on death his efforts for godwin his directions for seeing paris and his child-wife on india house on shelley on godwin's case and scott on moore on defoe his epigram on wadd on george fox as _elia_ on the advantages of routine on publishers his propensity to lie on fox on quakers on india house in parnassus, his after-dinner speeches on fox on colebrooke cottage makes his will at the mansion house on physiology on marlowe and goethe his cold not a good man on monetary gifts and thackeray on booksellers breaking hazlitt on resignation his release his pension on fish ill on magazine payment on puns on hood's _odes_ on signor velluti on the death of children lines to hone his last _london_ article on hood on quarles and herbert on stationery on manning on a cold on brook pulham's etching on hastings on fletcher's play on publishers his autobiography on sunday his savings on randal norris at goddard house school and mrs. norris's pension his criticism of patmores chatsworth his difficulties with the drama on cary on memorials on albums on mad dogs his house at enfield and mathew's picture his epigram on the edward crosses portraits of him on milestones on the pilgrim's progress his serenata for cowden clarke's marriage his favourite walk his namesake will write for antiquity his "gypsy's malison" his sonnet on daniel rogers on thomas aquinas on the laureates his joke upon robinson in london in and mary lamb's absence and the burden of leisure moves to the westwoods on defoe on thomas westwood on bankrupts on town and country asked to collect his _specimens_ the journey from fornham his turnip joke his skill at acrostics on an escapade and merchant taylors' boys and the hone subscription on music on martin burney visits london in on his critics and his will on incendiarism on dyer's blindness on christ's hospital days on coleridge's pension on montgomery's "common lot" and the _englishman's magazine_ on fitzgerald's "meadows in spring" on unitarians on his unsaleability on coleridge's imagined affront on "rose aylmer" his pensioners his advice on speculation spurious letter of mistaken for a murderer his sonnet on women's names and the _elia_ lawsuit injury to his leg on john taylor, . leaves enfield for edmonton on the _last essays of elia_ his gift of milton to wordsworth at widford his coffin nails on emma isola's marriage reads the _inferno_ his london holiday his request for books on mr. fuller russell's poetry on coleridge's death on his excesses at gary's his jokes on widows his name child procter's "epistle" to elizabeth, her death and her daughter and john lamb, jr. and her sister-in-law john, his querulousness his death the younger, his accident and the tragedy on coleridge his pamphlet his portrait of milton knocks down hazlitt death of mrs. john. _see_ letters. mary. _see_ letters. her frenzy and her mother her recovery dedication to lamb's second sonnet to removed from confinement, her relapse invited to stowey her first poem her appetite taken ill on her brother on secrecy on her mother and her aunt two poems on john wordsworth's death two other poems by her calligraphy projecting literary work on marriage plans for new books on coleridge in her silk dress on presents on coleridge her water cure on marriage appeals for miss fricker her letter to a child discovers a room her article on needlework her first joke on the cambridge excursion on roadside churches at the window on the death of a child teaches miss kelly latin and learns french ill in france as a smuggler her illness drawn by hood her sonnet to emma isola her illness her illness her verses on her brother moved to edmonton and emma isola's marriage lamb's praise of her death on mrs. norris's death sarah (aunt hetty) and the rich relative her death her funeral and her sister-in-law landon, letitia e. landor, walter savage. _see_ letters. his _julian_ his _imaginary conversations_ and _elia_ his visit to lamb his verses for emma isola his "rose aylmer" his verses on lamb _last essays of elia_ latin letters by lamb laureates, lamb on the _lay of marie, the legal joke, a le grice, c.v. samuel leishman, mrs. leonardo da vinci "leonora," by bürger letters in verse "letter to an old gentleman" "lewti," by coleridge lies "lime-tree bower," coleridge's poem lincolnshire and the lambs liston, john _literary gazette, the_ "living without god in the world" livingston, mr. luther s. lloyd, charles, the elder, described by robert lloyd the elder, lamb's letters to the younger. _see_ letters. his career to his sonnets on "priscilla farmer" lamb's lines to on lamb his illness and coleridge at southey's and sophia pemberton lamb's lines on a quarrel averted the quarrel with coleridge letter to cottle and _the anti-jacobin_ and mary hayes his first-born an "american" described by robert lloyd a lost letter to his illness in in london, in his _desultory thoughts in london_ his _poems_, olivia priscilla robert, lamb's first letter to with lamb advice from his sister advice from lamb in london, lamb's letters to on his father his marriage in london his death sophia lockhart, j.g. lofft, capell logan quoted london, lamb's praise of _london magazine, the_ london tavern dinner "londoner, the," by lamb lord chief justice, lamb on lord mayor of london and leviathan lottery puffs tickets "love will come," by lamb love sonnets, lamb's lovell, robert luther in the warteburg lyrical ballads m mackery end, lamb on mackintosh, sir james, lamb's epigram macready and lamb magazines, lamb on man, henry, his epigram "man of ross" manning, thomas. _see_ letters. his career to his grimaces his letters to lamb unpublished setters from lamb first news of china in paris and napoleon his chinese project he leaves for china thibet and china his return to england on wordsworth and fanny holcroft at the lambs lamb on his last days mansion house, lamb at marlowe, christopher marriage, lamb on mary lamb on marshall, godwin's friend marter, william. _see_ letters. martin, john louisa, viii. marvell quoted mary of buttermere maseres, baron massinger, philip mathematics and lamb mathews, charles, his picture mrs. charles, and the lambs mathias' _pursuits of literature_ "matter-of-lie man," lamb as may, john william, i. "meadows in spring," by fitzgerald mellish, mr. mellon, harriet merchant taylors' epigrams meyer, henry, "the young catechist" his portrait of lamb milestones, lamb on milton, john, and cowper milton, john, his defence john lamb's portrait lamb's gift to wordsworth mitchell, thomas mitford, rev. john mary russell monkhouse, thomas "monody on chatterton" montagu, basil. _see_ letters. mrs. basil. _see_ letters. montgomery, james, and chimney-sweepers his "common lot" moore, thomas, and lamb morgan, john mrs. john _morning chronicle_ _morning post_ moving, lamb on moxon, edward. _see_ letters. first mention his career to lamb's first letter to his early poems his _christmas_ his nightingale sonnet and rogers his _reflector_ small commissions for lamb and murray his proposal to miss isola his oak sonnet his marriage his sonnets "mr. h." _mrs. leicester's school_ _mrs. leslie and her grandchildren_ murray, john music, lamb on n napoleon and manning and cromwell his height nayler, james necessarianism nelson, his death _new monthly magazine_ new river, lamb on "new year's eve" _new year's eve, a_, by barton "newspapers," lamb's essay on norris, miss jane. _see_ letters. randal mrs. randal. _see_ letters. richard nott, dr. john novello, clara (countess gigliucci) vincent. _see_ letters. mrs. vincent. _see_ letters. novellos, the o _ode on the departing year_ "ode to the treadmill" _odes and addresses_, by hood and reynolds office work, lamb on "old actors, the" "old familiar faces, the" oilier, c. and j. _see_ letters. "on an infant dying as soon as born" "osorio," coleridge's drama oxford, lamb at p paice, joseph palmerston, lord pantisocracy, ii. pardo, father paris, lamb on mrs. park, judge parr, dr., and lamb parsons, mrs. pasta, madame patmore, coventry p.g. _see_ letters. john scott's second a nonsense letter to his _chatsworth_ his imitation of lamb seeking a publisher paul, c. kegan, and the "theses" "pawnbroker's daughter, the" payne, john howard. _see_ letters. peacock, ensign pemberton, sophia penn, william, his _no cross, no crown_ persian ambassador _peter bell_, by wordsworth _peter bell the third_ "peter's net" _philip quarll_ phillips, colonel ned sir richard phillips's _theatrum poetarum_ physiology, lamb on pictures, lamb on pig, lamb's praise of _pilgrims progress_ pindar, peter "pipos." _see_ derwent coleridge "pizarro," sheridan's play plantus, joseph _plea of the midsummer fairies_ plumer family plura, a mysterious woman "poetic sympathies," by george dyer _poetry for children_ poets' dinner party "poet's epitaph," by wordsworth _political decameron, the_ pompey, lamb's dog poole, john thomas. _see_ letters. "poor susan, reverie of" pope, alexander "popular fallacies" postage rates in presentation copies, lamb on presents, lamb on "pride's cure." _see john woodvil._ priestley, joseph procter, b.w. _see_ letters. _see also_ barry cornwall. in his marriage and lamb's will and pulham's etching mrs., and lamb _prometheus unbound_ story pry, tom publishers, lamb on pulham, brook, his etching of lamb pun at salisbury puns, lamb on _purchas, his pilgrimage_ pye, henry james q quakers quarles, lamb on _quarterly review_, lamb's review for and lamb quillinan, edward r _recreations in agriculture_, etc. _reflector, the_, moxon's paper reform bill _rejected addresses_ _rejected articles_ "religion of actors" "religious musings" rembrandt "remorse," by coleridge reynolds, john hamilton miss mrs., lamb's schoolmistress rheumatism, lamb on "richard ii.," lamb's epilogue to richmond, the lambs at rickman, john. _see_ letters. miss mrs. rigg children, lamb's verses on _rimini_, leigh hunt's poem "road to ruin, the" _robinson crusoe_ robinson, anthony mrs. anthony henry crabb. _see_ letters. he meets lamb lamb on and "peter bell," his admiration of wordsworth his presents to lamb at monkhouse's dinner his present to mary lamb his rheumatism. thomas. _see_ letters. _roderick_, by southey rogers, daniel, lamb's sonnet on rogers, samuel. _see_ letters. and coleridge and wordsworth's "force of prayer" at monkhouse's dinner his letter to lamb and moxon his _italy_ and _john bull_ and g. dyer lamb's sonnet to romilly, sir samuel _rosamund gray_ "rose aylmer," by landor _roxana_ russell, j. fuller. _see_ letters. and _satan in search of a wife_ his poem criticised ryle, charles s sadler's wells "saint charles" "st. crispin to mr. gifford" st. luke's hospital salisbury, lamb's pun at salt-water soap salutation and cat sargus, mr. _see_ letters. lamb's tenant _satan in search of a wife_ savage, richard savory, hester scott, john. _see_ letters. sir walter. _see_ letters. sentiment, lamb on settle, elkanah shakespeare, george dyer on the bellows portrait and _elia_ his illustrations "she dwelt among the untrodden ways" sheep-stealing, lamb on shelley, p.b. death of lamb on hazlitt on, "lines to a reviewer" mrs. p.b. _see_ letters. sheridan and lamb simmons, ann simonds, the ghoul _six months in the west indies_ skeffington, sir lumley skiddaw, lamb on smith, charlotte mrs. smoking, lamb on snakes, lamb visits "soldier's daughter, the," by j. howard payne sonnet to elia on "work" "sonnet to a nameless friend" southampton buildings southey, edith sonnet to dr. robert, his _joan of arc_ and cowper his daetyl and coleridge his _madoc_ entertains lamb and lloyd and the "sonnet to simplicity" his _joan of arc_ his "eclogues" on "the ancient mariner" his _poems_, nd edition his description of manning in dublin on the perfect household his _curse of kehama_ his _roderick_ death of his son the lapidary style his fortune his criticism of _elia_ lamb's letter to his reply to lamb his _tale of paraguay_ his _book of the church_ his "vesper bell" his "chapel bell" his _life of bunyan_ and hone his defence of lamb spenser, edmund, and mr. spencer his sonnet to harvey _spirit of the age, the_ "spiritual law," by barton stamps, comptroller of stationery, lamb on stoddart, john. _see_ letters. lady. _see_ letters. sarah (afterwards sarah hazlitt). _see_ letters. her love affairs her mother's illness plans for her wedding her wedding stoke newington, the lambs at stothard, thomas, lamb's lines to stowey, lamb at stuart, daniel, on lamb sunday, lamb on "superannuated man" "supersedeas," by wither "suum cuique," by lamb swift, dean swinburne, a.c., and lamb, and hugo on lamb's dramatic suggestions sydney, sir philip, and lamb _sylvia_, by george darley t _table book_, lamb's fable tailors, lamb on _tales from shakespear_ talfourd, thomas noon. _see_ letters. made a serjeant his "verses in memory of a child" talma and lamb "tartar drum," lamb's version tartary, lamb on _tatler, the_, and jerdan tayler, c.b. taylor, jeremy john. _see_ letters. editor of the _london magazine_ and the _elia_ lawsuit temple finally left thackeray and lamb _thanksgiving ode_, by wordsworth thekla's song in "wallenstein" thelwall, john "theses quaedam theologicae" thievery in australia thurlow, lord thurtell the murderer titian, mary lamb's verses the music piece titles of honour, lamb on "to a bird that haunted the waters of lacken" "to emma learning latin and desponding" "to a friend on his marriage" "to the poet cowper" "to sarah and her samuel" "to my sister," sonnet "to a young lady going out to india" tobin, james webbe john "tomb of douglas, the" "tooth-ache and gum-boil" towers, mrs., lamb's sonnet to town and country, lamb on toynbee, dr. paget "translation of enoch," by barton travels, lamb on trelawney, e.j. trimmer, mrs. tunbridge wells, the lambs at turbot, lamb on turnips and legs of mutton tuthill, sir george twiss, horace u unitarianism v velluti, signer "vindictive man, the" virgin and child, mary lamb's verses "vision of horns" "vision of judgment," by byron "vision of repentance, a" voltaire and congreve voltaire and wordsworth lamb on w wadd, lamb's colleague waggoner, the wainewright, t.g., _see also_ "janus weathercock" walton, isaak warner's _syrinx_ watch, emma isola's _watchman, the_ webster, his "vittoria corombona" wednesdays, lamb's evening wesley, miss westwood, thomas cottage wharry, dr. whist "white devil, the" _white doe of rylstone_ white, edward james widford "widow, the" _widow's tale, the_, by barton widows, a list of "wife, the," by sheridan knowles "wife's trial, the," by lamb wilde, serjeant william iv. williams, mrs. _see_ letters and emma isola and the acrostics wilson, john, his biography wilson, walter. _see_ letters. and lamb's apology lamb's fellow-clerk visits lamb his _life of defoe_ windham, william winterslow the lambs at "witch, the," by lamb wither, george, and quarles lamb on his "supersedeas" woolman, john wordsworth, dorothy. _see_ letters. at stowey a letter from her poems wordsworth, william, _see_ letters. at stowey and coleridge in germany his economy _lyrical ballads_, nd edition at bartholomew fair his marriage his £ worth of books and shakespeare his difference with coleridge _the excursion_ and voltaire his _poems_, edition his illegible hand on burns and _peter bell the third_ _the waggoner_ his duddon sonnets at haydon's wordsworth, william, at monkhouse's dinner in london his milton, a gift from lamb john, his death william, jr. "work," lamb's sonnet _works_, lamb's worsley, lady frances wortley, lady mary wroughton, richard, his letter about "mr. h." y "yarrow visited" "yew trees," wordsworth's poem "young catechist, the" z "zapolya" de quincey's writings. the "confessions of an english opium eater," and "suspiria de profundis," form the first volume of this series of mr. de quincey's writings. a third volume will shortly be issued, containing some of his most interesting papers contributed to the english magazines. biographical essays. by thomas de quincey, author of "confessions of an english opium-eater," etc. etc. shakspeare. [endnote: ] william shakspeare, the protagonist on the great arena of modern poetry, and the glory of the human intellect, was born at stratford-upon-avon, in the county of warwick, in the year , and upon some day, not precisely ascertained, in the month of april. it is certain that he was baptized on the th; and from that fact, combined with some shadow of a tradition, malone has inferred that he was born on the d. there is doubtless, on the one hand, no absolute necessity deducible from law or custom, as either operated in those times, which obliges us to adopt such a conclusion; for children might be baptized, and were baptized, at various distances from their birth: yet, on the other hand, the d is as likely to have been the day as any other; and more likely than any earlier day, upon two arguments. first, because there was probably a tradition floating in the seventeenth century, that shakspeare died upon his birthday: now it is beyond a doubt that he died upon the d of april. secondly, because it is a reasonable presumption, that no parents, living in a simple community, tenderly alive to the pieties of household duty, and in an age still clinging reverentially to the ceremonial ordinances of religion, would much delay the adoption of their child into the great family of christ. considering the extreme frailty of an infant's life during its two earliest years, to delay would often be to disinherit the child of its christian privileges; privileges not the less eloquent to the feelings from being profoundly mysterious, and, in the english church, forced not only upon the attention, but even upon the eye of the most thoughtless. according to the discipline of the english church, the unbaptized are buried with "maimed rites," shorn of their obsequies, and sternly denied that "sweet and solemn farewell," by which otherwise the church expresses her final charity with all men; and not only so, but they are even _locally_ separated and sequestrated. ground the most hallowed, and populous with christian burials of households, "that died in peace with one another. father, sister, son, and brother," opens to receive the vilest malefactor; by which the church symbolically expresses her maternal willingness to gather back into her fold those even of her flock who have strayed from her by the most memorable aberrations; and yet, with all this indulgence, she banishes to unhallowed ground the innocent bodies of the unbaptized. to them and to suicides she turns a face of wrath. with this gloomy fact offered to the very external senses, it is difficult to suppose that any parents would risk their own reproaches, by putting the fulfilment of so grave a duty on the hazard of a convulsion fit. the case of royal children is different; their baptisms, it is true, were often delayed for weeks but the household chaplains of the palace were always at hand, night and day, to baptize them in the very agonies of death. [endnote: ] we must presume, therefore, that william shakspeare was born on some day very little anterior to that of his baptism; and the more so because the season of the year was lovely and genial, the d of april in , corresponding in fact with what we now call the d of may, so that, whether the child was to be carried abroad, or the clergyman to be summoned, no hindrance would arise from the weather. one only argument has sometimes struck us for supposing that the d might be the day, and not the d; which is, that shakspeare's sole granddaughter, lady barnard, was married on the d of april, , ten years exactly from the poet's death; and the reason for choosing this day _might_ have had a reference to her illustrious grandfather's birthday, which, there is good reason for thinking, would be celebrated as a festival in the family for generations. still this choice _may_ have been an accident, or governed merely by reason of convenience. and, on the whole, it is as well perhaps to acquiesce in the old belief, that shakspeare was born and died on the d of april. we cannot do wrong if we drink to his memory on both d and d. on a first review of the circumstances, we have reason to feel no little perplexity in finding the materials for a life of this transcendent writer so meagre and so few; and amongst them the larger part of doubtful authority. all the energy of curiosity directed upon this subject, through a period of one hundred and fifty years, (for so long it is since betterton the actor began to make researches,) has availed us little or nothing. neither the local traditions of his provincial birthplace, though sharing with london through half a century the honor of his familiar presence, nor the recollections of that brilliant literary circle with whom he lived in the metropolis, have yielded much more than such an outline of his history, as is oftentimes to be gathered from the penurious records of a grave-stone. that he lived, and that he died, and that he was "a little lower than the angels;"--these make up pretty nearly the amount of our undisputed report. it may be doubted, indeed, whether at this day we arc as accurately acquainted with the life of shakspeare as with that of chaucer, though divided from each other by an interval of two centuries, and (what should have been more effectual towards oblivion) by the wars of the two roses. and yet the traditional memory of a rural and a sylvan region, such as warwickshire at that time was, is usually exact as well as tenacious; and, with respect to shakspeare in particular, we may presume it to have been full and circumstantial through the generation succeeding to his own, not only from the curiosity, and perhaps something of a scandalous interest, which would pursue the motions of one living so large a part of his life at a distance from his wife, but also from the final reverence and honor which would settle upon the memory of a poet so predominently successful; of one who, in a space of five and twenty years, after running a bright career in the capital city of his native land, and challenging notice from the throne, had retired with an ample fortune, created by his personal efforts, and by labors purely intellectual. how are we to account, then, for that deluge, as if from lethe, which has swept away so entirely the traditional memorials of one so illustrious? such is the fatality of error which overclouds every question connected with shakspeare, that two of his principal critics, steevens and malone, have endeavored to solve the difficulty by cutting it with a falsehood. they deny in effect that he _was_ illustrious in the century succeeding to his own, however much he has since become so. we shall first produce their statements in their own words, and we shall then briefly review them. steevens delivers _his_ opinion in the following terms: "how little shakspeare was once read, may be understood from tate, who, in his dedication to the altered play of king lear, speaks of the original as an obscure piece, recommended to his notice by a friend; and the author of the tatler, having occasion to quote a few lines out of macbeth, was content to receive them from davenant's alteration of that celebrated drama, in which almost every original beauty is either awkwardly disguised or arbitrarily omitted." another critic, who cites this passage from steevens, pursues the hypothesis as follows: "in fifty years after his death, dryden mentions that he was then become _a little obsolete_. in the beginning of the last century, lord shaftesbury complains of his _rude unpolished style, and his antiquated phrase and wit_. it is certain that, for nearly a hundred years after his death, partly owing to the immediate revolution and rebellion, and partly to the licentious taste encouraged in charles ii's time, and perhaps partly to the incorrect state of his works, he was almost entirely neglected." this critic then goes on to quote with approbation the opinion of malone,--"that if he had been read, admired, studied, and imitated, in the same degree as he is now, the enthusiasm of some one or other of his admirers in the last age would have induced him to make some inquiries concerning the history of his theatrical career, and the anecdotes of his private life." after which this enlightened writer re-affirms and clenches the judgment he has quoted, by saying,--"his admirers, however, _if he had admirers in that age_, possessed no portion of such enthusiasm." it may, perhaps, be an instructive lesson to young readers, if we now show them, by a short sifting of these confident dogmatists, how easy it is for a careless or a half-read man to circulate the most absolute falsehoods under the semblance of truth; falsehoods which impose upon himself as much as they do upon others. we believe that not one word or illustration is uttered in the sentences cited from these three critics, which is not _virtually_ in the very teeth of the truth. to begin with mr. nahum tate. this poor grub of literature, if he did really speak of lear as "an _obscure_ piece, recommended to his notice by a friend," of which we must be allowed to doubt, was then uttering a conscious falsehood. it happens that lear was one of the few shakspearian dramas which had kept the stage unaltered. but it is easy to see a mercenary motive in such an artifice as this. mr. nahum tate is not of a class of whom it can be safe to say that they are "well known:" they and their desperate tricks are essentially obscure, and good reason he has to exult in the felicity of such obscurity; for else this same vilest of travesties, mr. nahum's lear, would consecrate his name to everlasting scorn. for himself, he belonged to the age of dryden rather than of pope: he "flourished," if we can use such a phrase of one who was always withering, about the era of the revolution; and his lear, we believe, was arranged in the year . but the family to which he belongs is abundantly recorded in the dunciad, and his own name will be found amongst its catalogues of heroes. with respect to _the author of the tatler_, a very different explanation is requisite. steevens means the reader to understand addison; but it does not follow that the particular paper in question was from his pen. nothing, however, could be more natural than to quote from the common form of the play as then in possession of the stage. it was _there_, beyond a doubt, that a fine gentleman living upon town, and not professing any deep scholastic knowledge of literature, (a light in which we are always to regard the writers of the spectator, guardian, &c.,) would be likely to have learned anything he quoted from macbeth. this we say generally of the writers in those periodical papers; but, with reference to addison in particular, it is time to correct the popular notion of his literary character, or at least to mark it by severer lines of distinction. it is already pretty well known, that addison had no very intimate acquaintance with the literature of his own country. it is known, also, that he did not think such an acquaintance any ways essential to the character of an elegant scholar and _litterateur_. quite enough he found it, and more than enough for the time he had to spare, if he could maintain a tolerable familiarity with the foremost latin poets, and a very slender one indeed with the grecian. _how_ slender, we can see in his "travels." of modern authors, none as yet had been published with notes, commentaries, or critical collations of the text; and, accordingly, addison looked upon all of them, except those few who professed themselves followers in the retinue and equipage of the ancients, as creatures of a lower race. boileau, as a mere imitator and propagator of horace, he read, and probably little else amongst the french classics. hence it arose that he took upon himself to speak sneeringly of tasso. to this, which was a bold act for his timid mind, he was emboldened by the countenance of boileau. of the elder italian authors, such as ariosto, and, _a fortiori_, dante, be knew absolutely nothing. passing to our own literature, it is certain that addison was profoundly ignorant of chaucer and of spenser. milton only,--and why? simply because he was a brilliant scholar, and stands like a bridge between the christian literature and the pagan,--addison had read and esteemed. there was also in the very constitution of milton's mind, in the majestic regularity and planetary solemnity of its _epic_ movements, something which he could understand and appreciate. as to the meteoric and incalculable eccentricities of the _dramatic_ mind, as it displayed itself in the heroic age of our drama, amongst the titans of - , they confounded and overwhelmed him. in particular, with regard to shakspeare, we shall now proclaim a discovery which we made some twenty years ago. we, like others, from seeing frequent references to shakspeare in the spectator, had acquiesced in the common belief, that although addison was no doubt profoundly unlearned in shakspeare's language, and thoroughly unable to do him justice, (and this we might well assume, since his great rival pope, who had expressly studied shakspeare, was, after all, so memorably deficient in the appropriate knowledge,)--yet, that of course he had a vague popular knowledge of the mighty poet's cardinal dramas. accident only led us into a discovery of our mistake. twice or thrice we had observed, that if shakspeare were quoted, that paper turned out not to be addison's; and at length, by express examination, we ascertained the curious fact, that addison has never in one instance quoted or made any reference to shakspeare. but was this, as steevens most disingenuously pretends, to be taken as an exponent of the public feeling towards shakspeare? was addison's neglect representative of a general neglect? if so, whence came rowe's edition, pope's, theobald's, sir thomas hanmer's, bishop warburton's, all upon the heels of one another? with such facts staring him in the face, how shameless must be that critic who could, in support of such a thesis, refer to " _the author of the tatler_" contemporary with all these editors. the truth is, addison was well aware of shakspeare's hold on the popular mind; too well aware of it. the feeble constitution of the poetic faculty, as existing in himself, forbade his sympathizing with shakspeare; the proportions were too colossal for his delicate vision; and yet, as one who sought popularity himself, he durst not shock what perhaps he viewed as a national prejudice. those who have happened, like ourselves, to see the effect of passionate music and "deep-inwoven harmonics" upon the feeling of an idiot, we may conceive what we mean. such music does not utterly revolt the idiot; on the contrary, it has a strange but a horrid fascination for him; it alarms, irritates, disturbs, makes him profoundly unhappy; and chiefly by unlocking imperfect glimpses of thoughts and slumbering instincts, which it is for his peace to have entirely obscured, because for him they can be revealed only partially, and with the sad effect of throwing a baleful gleam upon his blighted condition. do we mean, then, to compare addison with an idiot? not generally, by any means. nobody can more sincerely admire him where he was a man of real genius, viz., in his delineations of character and manners, or in the exquisite delicacies of his humor. but assuredly addison, as a poet, was amongst the sons of the feeble; and between the authors of cato and of king lear there was a gulf never to be bridged over. [endnote: ] but dryden, we are told, pronounced shakspeare already in his day _"a little obsolete."_ here now we have wilful, deliberate falsehood. _obsolete_, in dryden's meaning, does not imply that he was so with regard to his popularity, (the question then at issue,) but with regard to his diction and choice of words. to cite dryden as a witness for any purpose against shakspeare,--dryden, who of all men had the most ransacked wit and exhausted language in celebrating the supremacy of shakspeare's genius, does indeed require as much shamelessness in feeling as mendacity in principle. but then lord shaftesbury, who may be taken as half way between dryden and pope, (dryden died in , pope was then twelve years old, and lord s. wrote chiefly, we believe, between and ,) "complains," it seems, "of his rude unpolished style, and his antiquated phrase and wit." what if he does? let the whole truth be told, and then we shall see how much stress is to be laid upon such a judgment. the second lord shaftesbury, the author of the characteristics, was the grandson of that famous political agitator, the chancellor shaftesbury, who passed his whole life in storms of his own creation. the second lord shaftesbury was a man of crazy constitution, querulous from ill health, and had received an eccentric education from his eccentric grandfather. he was practised daily in _talking_ latin, to which afterwards he added a competent study of the greek; and finally he became unusually learned for his rank, but the most absolute and undistinguishing pedant that perhaps literature has to show. he sneers continually at the regular built academic pedant; but he himself, though no academic, was essentially the very impersonation of pedantry. no thought however beautiful, no image however magnificent, could conciliate his praise as long as it was clothed in english; but present him with the most trivial common-places in greek, and he unaffectedly fancied them divine; mistaking the pleasurable sense of his own power in a difficult and rare accomplishment for some peculiar force or beauty in the passage. such was the outline of his literary taste. and was it upon shakspeare only, or upon him chiefly, that he lavished his pedantry? far from it. he attacked milton with no less fervor; he attacked dryden with a thousand times more. jeremy taylor he quoted only to ridicule; and even locke, the confidential friend of his grandfather, he never alludes to without a sneer. as to shakspeare, so far from lord shaftesbury's censures arguing his deficient reputation, the very fact of his noticing him at all proves his enormous popularity; for upon system he noticed those only who ruled the public taste. the insipidity of his objections to shakspeare may be judged from this, that he comments in a spirit of absolute puerility upon the name _desdemona_, as though intentionally formed from the greek word for _superstition_. in fact, he had evidently read little beyond the list of names in shakspeare; yet there is proof enough that the irresistible beauty of what little he _had_ read was too much for all his pedantry, and startled him exceedingly; for ever afterwards he speaks of shakspeare as one who, with a little aid from grecian sources, really had something great and promising about him. as to modern authors, neither this lord shaftesbury nor addison read any thing for the latter years of their lives but bayle's dictionary. and most of the little scintillations of erudition, which may be found in the notes to the characteristics, and in the essays of addison, are derived, almost without exception, and uniformly without acknowledgment, from bayle. [endnote: ] finally, with regard to the sweeping assertion, that "for nearly a hundred years after his death shakspeare was almost entirely neglected," we shall meet this scandalous falsehood, by a rapid view of his fortunes during the century in question. the tradition has always been, that shakspeare was honored by the especial notice of queen elizabeth, as well as by that of james i. at one time we were disposed to question the truth of this tradition; but that was for want of having read attentively the lines of ben jonson to the memory of shakspeare, those generous lines which have so absurdly been taxed with faint praise. jonson could make no mistake on this point; he, as one of shakspeare's familiar companions, must have witnessed at the very time, and accompanied with friendly sympathy, every motion of royal favor towards shakspeare. now he, in words which leave no room for doubt, exclaims, "sweet swan of avon, what a sight it were to see thee in our waters yet appear; and make those flights upon the banks of thames, _that so did take eliza and our james."_ these princes, then, _were_ taken, were fascinated, with some of shakspeare's dramas. in elizabeth the approbation would probably be sincere. in james we can readily suppose it to have been assumed; for he was a pedant in a different sense from lord shaftesbury; not from undervaluing modern poetry, but from caring little or nothing for any poetry, although he wrote about its mechanic rules. still the royal _imprimatur_ would be influential and serviceable no less when offered hypocritically than in full sincerity. next let us consider, at the very moment of shakspeare's death, who were the leaders of the british youth, the _principes juventutis_, in the two fields, equally important to a great poet's fame, of rank and of genius. the prince of wales and john milton; the first being then about sixteen years old, the other about eight. now these two great powers, as we may call them, these presiding stars over all that was english in thought and action, were both impassioned admirers of shakspeare. each of them counts for many thousands. the prince of wales [endnote: ] had learned to appreciate shakspeare, not originally from reading him, but from witnessing the court representations of his plays at whitehall. afterwards we know that he made shakspeare his closet companion, for he was reproached with doing so by milton. and we know also, from the just criticism pronounced upon the character and diction of caliban by one of charles's confidential counsellors, lord falkland, that the king's admiration of shakspeare had impressed a determination upon the court reading. as to milton, by double prejudices, puritanical and classical, his mind had been preoccupied against the full impressions of shakspeare. and we know that there is such a thing as keeping the sympathies of love and admiration in a dormant state, or state of abeyance; an effort of self-conquest realized in more cases than one by the ancient fathers, both greek and latin, with regard to the profane classics. intellectually they admired, and would not belie their admiration; but they did not give their hearts cordially, they did not abandon themselves to their natural impulses. they averted their eyes and weaned their attention from the dazzling object. such, probably, was milton's state of feeling towards shakspeare after , when the theatres were suppressed, and the fanatical fervor in its noontide heat. yet even then he did not belie his reverence intellectually for shakspeare; and in his younger days we know that he had spoken more enthusiastically of shakspeare, than he ever did again of any uninspired author. not only did he address a sonnet to his memory, in which he declares that kings would wish to die, if by dying they could obtain such a monument in the hearts of men; but he also speaks of him in his _il penseroso_, as the tutelary genius of the english stage. in this transmission of the torch (greek: lampadophoria) dryden succeeds to milton; he was born nearly thirty years later; about thirty years they were contemporaries; and by thirty years, or nearly, dryden survived his great leader. dryden, in fact, lived out the seventeenth century. and we have now arrived within nine years of the era, when the critical editions started in hot succession to one another. the names we have mentioned were the great influential names of the century. but of inferior homage there was no end. how came betterton the actor, how came davenant, how came rowe, or pope, by their intense (if not always sound) admiration for shakspeare, unless they had found it fuming upwards like incense to the pagan deities in ancient times, from altars erected at every turning upon all the paths of men? but it is objected that inferior dramatists were sometimes preferred to shakspeare; and again, that vile travesties of shakspeare were preferred to the authentic dramas. as to the first argument, let it be remembered, that if the saints of the chapel are always in the same honor, because _there_ men are simply discharging a duty, which once due will be due for ever; the saints of the theatre, on the other hand, must bend to the local genius, and to the very reasons for having a theatre at all. men go thither for amusement. this is the paramount purpose, and even acknowledged merit or absolute superiority must give way to it. does a man at paris expect to see moliere reproduced in proportion to his admitted precedency in the french drama? on the contrary, that very precedency argues such a familiarization with his works, that those who are in quest of relaxation will reasonably prefer any recent drama to that which, having lost all its novelty, has lost much of its excitement. we speak of ordinary minds; but in cases of _public_ entertainments, deriving part of their power from scenery and stage pomp, novelty is for all minds an essential condition of attraction. moreover, in some departments of the comic, beaumont and fletcher, when writing in combination, really had a freedom and breadth of manner which excels the comedy of shakspeare. as to the altered shakspeare as taking precedency of the genuine shakspeare, no argument can be so frivolous. the public were never allowed a choice; the great majority of an audience even now cannot be expected to carry the real shakspeare in their mind, so as to pursue a comparison between that and the alteration. their comparisons must be exclusively amongst what they have opportunities of seeing; that is, between the various pieces presented to them by the managers of theatres. further than this, it is impossible for them to extend their office of judging and collating; and the degenerate taste which substituted the caprices of davenant, the rants of dryden, or the filth of tate, for the jewellery of shakspeare, cannot with any justice be charged upon the public, not one in a thousand of whom was furnished with any means of comparing, but exclusively upon those (viz., theatrical managers,) who had the very amplest. yet even in excuse for _them_ much may be said. the very length of some plays compelled them to make alterations. the best of shakspeare's dramas, king lear, is the least fitted for representation; and, even for the vilest alteration, it ought in candor to be considered that possession is nine points of the law. he who would not have introduced, was often obliged to retain. finally, it is urged, that the small number of editions through which shakspeare passed in the seventeenth century, furnishes a separate argument, and a conclusive one against his popularity. we answer, that, considering the bulk of his plays collectively, the editions were _not_ few. compared with any known case, the copies sold of shakspeare were quite as many as could be expected under the circumstances. ten or fifteen times as much consideration went to the purchase of one great folio like shakspeare, as would attend the purchase of a little volume like waller or donne. without reviews, or newspapers, or advertisements, to diffuse the knowledge of books, the progress of literature was necessarily slow, and its expansion narrow. but this is a topic which has always been treated unfairly, not with regard to shakspeare only, but to milton, as well as many others. the truth is, we have not facts enough to guide us; for the number of editions often tells nothing accurately as to the number of copies. with respect to shakspeare it is certain, that, had his masterpieces been gathered into small volumes, shakspeare would have had a most extensive sale. as it was, there can be no doubt, that from his own generation, throughout the seventeenth century, and until the eighteenth began to accommodate, not any greater popularity in _him_, but a greater taste for reading in the public, his fame never ceased to be viewed as a national trophy of honor; and the most illustrious men of the seventeenth century were no whit less fervent in their admiration than those of the eighteenth and the nineteenth, either as respected its strength and sincerity, or as respected its open profession. [endnote: ] it is therefore a false notion, that the general sympathy with the merits of shakspeare ever beat with a languid or intermitting pulse. undoubtedly, in times when the functions of critical journals and of newspapers were not at hand to diffuse or to strengthen the impressions which emanated from the capital, all opinions must have travelled slowly into the provinces. but even then, whilst the perfect organs of communication were wanting, indirect substitutes were supplied by the necessities of the times, or by the instincts of political zeal. two channels especially lay open between the great central organ of the national mind, and the remotest provinces. parliaments were occasionally summoned, (for the judges' circuits were too brief to produce much effect,) and during their longest suspensions, the nobility, with large retinues, continually resorted to the court. but an intercourse more constant and more comprehensive was maintained through the agency of the two universities. already, in the time of james i., the growing importance of the gentry, and the consequent birth of a new interest in political questions, had begun to express itself at oxford, and still more so at cambridge. academic persons stationed themselves as sentinels at london, for the purpose of watching the court and the course of public affairs. these persons wrote letters, like those of the celebrated joseph mede, which we find in ellis's historical collections, reporting to their fellow-collegians all the novelties of public life as they arose, or personally carried down such reports, and thus conducted the general feelings at the centre into lesser centres, from which again they were diffused into the ten thousand parishes of england; for, (with a very few exceptions in favor of poor benefices, welch or cumbrian,) every parish priest must unavoidably have spent his three years at one or other of the english universities. and by this mode of diffusion it is, that we can explain the strength with which shakspeare's thoughts and diction impressed themselves from a very early period upon the national literature, and even more generally upon the national thinking and conversation.[endnote: ] the question, therefore, revolves upon us in threefold difficulty--how, having stepped thus prematurely into this inheritance of fame, leaping, as it were, thus abruptly into the favor alike of princes and the enemies of princes, had it become possible that in his native place, (honored still more in the final testimonies of his preference when founding a family mansion,) such a man's history, and the personal recollections which cling so affectionately to the great intellectual potentates who have recommended themselves by gracious manners, could so soon and so utterly have been obliterated? malone, with childish irreflection, ascribes the loss of such memorials to the want of enthusiasm in his admirers. local researches into private history had not then commenced. such a taste, often petty enough in its management, was the growth of after ages. else how came spenser's life and fortunes to be so utterly overwhelmed in oblivion? no poet of a high order could be more popular. the answer we believe to be this: twenty-six years after shakspeare's death commenced the great parliamentary war. this it was, and the local feuds arising to divide family from family, brother from brother, upon which we must charge the extinction of traditions and memorials, doubtless abundant up to that era. the parliamentary contest, it will be said, did not last above three years; the king's standard having been first raised at nottingham in august, , and the battle of naseby (which terminated the open warfare) having been fought in june, . or even if we extend its duration to the surrender of the last garrison, that war terminated in the spring of . and the brief explosions of insurrection or of scottish invasion, which occurred on subsequent occasions, were all locally confined, and none came near to warwickshire, except the battle of worcester, more than five years after. this is true; but a short war will do much to efface recent and merely personal memorials. and the following circumstances of the war were even more important than the general fact. first of all, the very mansion founded by shakspeare became the military headquarters for the queen in , when marching from the eastern coast of england to join the king in oxford; and one such special visitation would be likely to do more serious mischief in the way of extinction, than many years of general warfare. secondly, as a fact, perhaps, equally important, birmingham, the chief town of warwickshire, and the adjacent district, the seat of our hardware manufactures, was the very focus of disaffection towards the royal cause. not only, therefore, would this whole region suffer more from internal and spontaneous agitation, but it would be the more frequently traversed vindictively from without, and harassed by flying parties from oxford, or others of the king's garrisons. thirdly, even apart from the political aspects of warwickshire, this county happens to be the central one of england, as regards the roads between the north and south; and birmingham has long been the great central axis, [endnote: ] in which all the radii from the four angles of england proper meet and intersect. mere accident, therefore, of local position, much more when united with that avowed inveteracy of malignant feeling, which was bitter enough to rouse a re-action of bitterness in the mind of lord clarendon, would go far to account for the wreck of many memorials relating to shakspeare, as well as for the subversion of that quiet and security for humble life, in which the traditional memory finds its best _nidus_. thus we obtain one solution, and perhaps the main one, of the otherwise mysterious oblivion which had swept away all traces of the mighty poet, by the time when those quiet days revolved upon england, in which again the solitary agent of learned research might roam in security from house to house, gleaning those personal remembrances which, even in the fury of civil strife, might long have lingered by the chimney corner. but the fierce furnace of war had probably, by its _local_ ravages, scorched this field of natural tradition, and thinned the gleaner's inheritance by three parts out of four. this, we repeat, may be one part of the solution to this difficult problem. and if another is still demanded, possibly it may be found in the fact, hostile to the perfect consecration of shakspeare's memory, that after all he was a player. many a coarse-minded country gentleman, or village pastor, who would have held his town glorified by the distinction of having sent forth a great judge or an eminent bishop, might disdain to cherish the personal recollections which surrounded one whom custom regarded as little above a mountebank, and the illiberal law as a vagabond. the same degrading appreciation attached both to the actor in plays and to their author. the contemptuous appellation of "play-book," served as readily to degrade the mighty volume which contained lear and hamlet, as that of "play-actor," or "player-man," has always served with the illiberal or the fanatical to dishonor the persons of roscius or of garrick, of talma or of siddons. nobody, indeed, was better aware of this than the noble-minded shakspeare; and feelingly he has breathed forth in his sonnets this conscious oppression under which he lay of public opinion, unfavorable by a double title to his own pretensions; for, being both dramatic author and dramatic performer, he found himself heir to a twofold opprobrium, and at an era of english society when the weight of that opprobrium was heaviest. in reality, there was at this period a collision of forces acting in opposite directions upon the estimation of the stage and scenical art, and therefore of all the ministers in its equipage. puritanism frowned upon these pursuits, as ruinous to public morals; on the other hand, loyalty could not but tolerate what was patronized by the sovereign; and it happened that elizabeth, james, and charles i., were _all_ alike lovers and promoters of theatrical amusements, which were indeed more indispensable to the relief of court ceremony, and the monotony of aulic pomp, than in any other region of life. this royal support, and the consciousness that any brilliant success in these arts implied an unusual share of natural endowments, did something in mitigation of a scorn which must else have been intolerable to all generous natures. but whatever prejudice might thus operate against the perfect sanctity of shakspeare's posthumous reputation, it is certain that the splendor of his worldly success must have done much to obliterate that effect; his admirable colloquial talents a good deal, and his gracious affability still more. the wonder, therefore, will still remain, that betterton, in less than a century from his death, should have been able to glean so little. and for the solution of this wonder, we must throw ourselves chiefly upon the explanations we have made as to the parliamentary war, and the local ravages of its progress in the very district, of the very town, and the very house. if further arguments are still wanted to explain this mysterious abolition, we may refer the reader to the following succession of disastrous events, by which it should seem that a perfect malice of misfortune pursued the vestiges of the mighty poet's steps. in , the globe theatre, with which he had been so long connected, was burned to the ground. soon afterwards a great fire occurred in stratford; and next, (without counting upon the fire of london, just fifty years after his death, which, however, would consume many an important record from periods far more remote,) the house of ben jonson, in which probably, as mr. campbell suggests, might be parts of his correspondence, was also burned. finally, there was an old tradition that lady barnard, the sole grand-daughter of shakspeare, had carried off many of his papers from stratford, and these papers have never since been traced. in many of the elder lives it has been asserted, that john shakspeare, the father of the poet, was a butcher, and in others that he was a woolstapler. it is now settled beyond dispute that he was a glover. this was his professed occupation in stratford, though it is certain that, with this leading trade, from which he took his denomination, he combined some collateral pursuits; and it is possible enough that, as openings offered, he may have meddled with many. in that age, and in a provincial town, nothing like the exquisite subdivision of labor was attempted which we now see realized in the great cities of christendom. and one trade is often found to play into another with so much reciprocal advantage, that even in our own days we do not much wonder at an enterprising man, in country places, who combines several in his own person. accordingly, john shakspeare is known to have united with his town calling the rural and miscellaneous occupations of a farmer. meantime his avowed business stood upon a very different footing from the same trade as it is exercised in modern times. gloves were in that age an article of dress more costly by much, and more elaborately decorated, than in our own. they were a customary present from some cities to the judges of assize, and to other official persons; a custom of ancient standing, and in some places, we believe, still subsisting; and in such cases it is reasonable to suppose, that the gloves must originally have been more valuable than the trivial modern article of the same name. so also, perhaps, in their origin, of the gloves given at funerals. in reality, whenever the simplicity of an age makes it difficult to renew the parts of a wardrobe, except in capital towns of difficult access, prudence suggests that such wares should be manufactured of more durable materials; and, being so, they become obviously susceptible of more lavish ornament. but it will not follow, from this essential difference in the gloves of shakspeare's age, that the glover's occupation was more lucrative. doubtless he sold more costly gloves, and upon each pair had a larger profit, but for that very reason he sold fewer. two or three gentlemen "of worship" in the neighborhood might occasionally require a pair of gloves, but it is very doubtful whether any inhabitant of stratford would ever call for so mere a luxury. the practical result, at all events, of john shakspeare's various pursuits, does not appear permanently to have met the demands of his establishment, and in his maturer years there are indications still surviving that he was under a cloud of embarrassment. he certainly lost at one time his social position in the town of stratford; but there is a strong presumption, in _our_ construction of the case, that he finally retrieved it; and for this retrieval of a station, which he had forfeited by personal misfortunes or neglect, he was altogether indebted to the filial piety of his immortal son. meantime the earlier years of the elder shakspeare wore the aspect of rising prosperity, however unsound might be the basis on which it rested. there can be little doubt that william shakspeare, from his birth up to his tenth or perhaps his eleventh year, lived in careless plenty, and saw nothing in his father's house but that style of liberal house-keeping, which has ever distinguished the upper yeomanry and the rural gentry of england. probable enough it is, that the resources for meeting this liberality were not strictly commensurate with the family income, but were sometimes allowed to entrench, by means of loans or mortgages, upon capital funds. the stress upon the family finances was perhaps at times severe; and that it was borne at all, must be imputed to the large and even splendid portion which john shakspeare received with his wife. this lady, for such she really was in an eminent sense, by birth as well as by connections, bore the beautiful name of mary arden, a name derived from the ancient forest district [endnote: ] of the country; and doubtless she merits a more elaborate notice than our slender materials will furnish. to have been _the mother of shakspeare, _--how august a title to the reverence of infinite generations, and of centuries beyond the vision of prophecy. a plausible hypothesis has been started in modern times, that the facial structure, and that the intellectual conformation, may be deduced more frequently from the corresponding characteristics in the mother than in the father. it is certain that no very great man has ever existed, but that his greatness has been rehearsed and predicted in one or other of his parents. and it cannot be denied, that in the most eminent men, where we have had the means of pursuing the investigation, the mother has more frequently been repeated and reproduced than the father. we have known cases where the mother has furnished all the intellect, and the father all the moral sensibility; upon which assumption, the wonder ceases that _cicero,_ lord chesterfield, and other brilliant men, who took the utmost pains with their sons, should have failed so conspicuously; for possibly the mothers had been women of excessive and even exemplary stupidity. in the case of shakspeare, each parent, if we had any means of recovering their characteristics, could not fail to furnish a study of the most profound interest; and with regard to his mother in particular, if the modern hypothesis be true, and if we are indeed to deduce from her the stupendous intellect of her son, in that case she must have been a benefactress to her husband's family, beyond the promises of fairy land or the dreams of romance; for it is certain that to her chiefly this family was also indebted for their worldly comfort. mary arden was the youngest daughter and the heiress of robert arden, of wilmecote, esq., in the county of warwick. the family of arden was even then of great antiquity. about one century and a quarter before the birth of william shakspeare, a person bearing the same name as his maternal grandfather had been returned by the commissioners in their list of the warwickshire gentry; he was there styled robert arden, esq., of bromich. this was in , or the th year of henry vi. in henry vii.'s reign, the ardens received a grant of lands from the crown; and in , four years after the birth of william shakspeare, edward arden, of the same family, was sheriff of the county. mary arden was, therefore, a young lady of excellent descent and connections, and an heiress of considerable wealth. she brought to her husband, as her marriage portion, the landed estate of asbies, which, upon any just valuation, must be considered as a handsome dowry for a woman of her station. as this point has been contested, and as it goes a great way towards determining the exact social position of the poet's parents, let us be excused for sifting it a little more narrowly than might else seem warranted by the proportions of our present life. every question which it can be reasonable to raise at all, it must be reasonable to treat with at least so much of minute research, as may justify the conclusions which it is made to support. the estate of asbies contained fifty acres of arable land, six of meadow, and a right of commonage. what may we assume to have been the value of its fee-simple? malone, who allows the total fortune of mary arden to have been l s d., is sure that the value of asbies could not have been more than one hundred pounds. but why? because, says he, the "average" rent of land at that time was no more than three shillings per acre. this we deny; but upon that assumption, the total yearly rent of fifty-six acres would be exactly eight guineas. [endnote: ] and therefore, in assigning the value of asbies at one hundred pounds, it appears that malone must have estimated the land at no more than twelve years' purchase, which would carry the value to l. s. "even at this estimate," as the latest annotator [endnote: ] on this subject _justly_ observes, "mary arden's portion was a larger one than was usually given to a landed gentleman's daughter." but this writer objects to malone's principle of valuation. "we find," says he, "that john shakspeare also farmed the meadow of tugton, containing sixteen acres, at the rate of eleven shillings per acre. now what proof has mr. malone adduced, that the acres of asbies were not as valuable as those of tugton? and if they were so, the former estate must have been worth between three and four hundred pounds." in the main drift of his objections we concur with mr. campbell. but as they are liable to some criticism, let us clear the ground of all plausible cavils, and then see what will be the result. malone, had he been alive, would probably have answered, that tugton was a farm specially privileged by nature; and that if any man contended for so unusual a rent as eleven shillings an acre for land not known to him, the _onus probandi_ would lie upon _him_. be it so; eleven shillings is certainly above the ordinary level of rent, but three shillings is below it. we contend, that for tolerably good land, situated advantageously, that is, with a ready access to good markets and good fairs, such as those of coventry, birmingham, gloucester, worcester, shrewsbury,. &c., one noble might be assumed as the annual rent; and that in such situations twenty years' purchase was not a valuation, even in elizabeth's reign, very unusual. let us, however, assume the rent at only five shillings, and land at sixteen years' purchase. upon this basis, the rent would be l, and the value of the fee simple l. now, if it were required to equate that sum with its present value, a very operose [endnote: ] calculation might be requisite. but contenting ourselves with the gross method of making such equations between and the current century, that is, multiplying by five, we shall find the capital value of the estate to be eleven hundred and twenty pounds, whilst the annual rent would be exactly seventy. but if the estate had been sold, and the purchase-money lent upon mortgage, (the only safe mode of investing money at that time,) the annual interest would have reached l, equal to l of modern money; for mortgages in elizabeth's age readily produced ten per cent. a woman who should bring at this day an annual income of l to a provincial tradesman, living in a sort of _rus in urbe_, according to the simple fashions of rustic life, would assuredly be considered as an excellent match. and there can be little doubt that mary arden's dowry it was which, for some ten or a dozen years succeeding to his marriage, raised her husband to so much social consideration in stratford. in john shakspeare is supposed to have first settled in stratford, having migrated from some other part of warwickshire. in he married mary arden; in , the year subsequent to the birth of his son william, his third child, he was elected one of the aldermen; and in the year he became first magistrate of the town, by the title of high bailiff. this year we may assume to have been that in which the prosperity of this family reached its zenith; for in this year it was, over and above the presumptions furnished by his civic honors, that he obtained a grant of arms from clarencieux of the heralds' college. on this occasion he declared himself worth five hundred pounds derived from his ancestors. and we really cannot understand the right by which critics, living nearly three centuries from his time, undertake to know his affairs better than himself, and to tax him with either inaccuracy or falsehood. no man would be at leisure to court heraldic honors, when he knew himself to be embarrassed, or apprehended that he soon might be so. a man whose anxieties had been fixed at all upon his daily livelihood would, by this chase after the armorial honors of heraldry, have made himself a butt for ridicule, such as no fortitude could enable him to sustain. in , therefore, when his son william would be moving through his fifth year, john shakspeare, (now honored by the designation of _master_,) would be found at times in the society of the neighboring gentry. ten years in advance of this period he was already in difficulties. but there is no proof that these difficulties had then reached a point of degradation, or of memorable distress. the sole positive indications of his decaying condition are, that in he received an exemption from the small weekly assessment levied upon the aldermen of stratford for the relief of the poor; and that in the following year, , he is found enrolled amongst the defaulters in the payment of taxes. the latter fact undoubtedly goes to prove that, like every man who is falling back in the world, he was occasionally in arrears. paying taxes is not like the honors awarded or the processions regulated by clarencieux; no man is ambitious of precedency there; and if a laggard pace in that duty is to be received as evidence of pauperism, nine tenths of the english people might occasionally be classed as paupers. with respect to his liberation from the weekly assessment, that may bear a construction different from the one which it has received. this payment, which could never have been regarded as a burthen, not amounting to five pounds annually of our present money, may have been held up as an exponent of wealth and consideration; and john shakspeare may have been required to resign it as an honorable distinction, not suitable to the circumstances of an embarrassed man. finally, the fact of his being indebted to robert sadler, a baker, in the sum of five pounds, and his being under the necessity of bringing a friend as security for the payment, proves nothing at all. there is not a town in europe, in which opulent men cannot be found that are backward in the payment of their debts. and the probability is, that master sadler acted like most people who, when they suppose a man to be going down in the world, feel their respect for him sensibly decaying, and think it wise to trample him under foot, provided only in that act of trampling they can squeeze out of him their own individual debt. like that terrific chorus in spohr's oratorio of st. paul, _" stone him to death "_ is the cry of the selfish and the illiberal amongst creditors, alike towards the just and the unjust amongst debtors. it was the wise and beautiful prayer of agar, "give me neither poverty nor riches;" and, doubtless, for quiet, for peace, and the _latentis semita vita_, that is the happiest dispensation. but, perhaps, with a view to a school of discipline and of moral fortitude, it might be a more salutary prayer, "give me riches _and_ poverty, and afterwards neither." for the transitional state between riches and poverty will teach a lesson both as to the baseness and the goodness of human nature, and will impress that lesson with a searching force, such as no borrowed experience ever can approach. most probable it is that shakspeare drew some of his powerful scenes in the timon of athens, those which exhibit the vileness of ingratitude and the impassioned frenzy of misanthropy, from his personal recollections connected with the case of his own father. possibly, though a cloud of two hundred and seventy years now veils it, this very master sadler, who was so urgent for his five pounds, and who so little apprehended that he should be called over the coals for it in the encyclopaedia britannica, may have compensate for the portrait of that lucullus who says of timon: "alas, good lord! a noble gentleman 'tis, if he would not keep so good a house. many a time and often i have dined with him, and told him on't; and come again to supper to him, of purpose to have him spend less; and yet he would embrace no counsel, take no warning by my coming. every man has his fault, and honesty is his; i have told him on't, but i could never get him from it." for certain years, perhaps, john shakspeare moved on in darkness and sorrow: "his familiars from his buried fortunes slunk all away; left their false vows with him, like empty purses pick'd; and his poor self, a dedicated beggar to the air, with his disease of all-shunn'd poverty, walk'd, like contempt, alone." we, however, at this day, are chiefly interested in the case as it bears upon the education and youthful happiness of the poet. now if we suppose that from , the high noon of the family prosperity, to , the first year of their mature embarrassments, one half the interval was passed in stationary sunshine, and the latter half in the gradual twilight of declension, it will follow that the young william had completed his tenth year before he heard the first signals of distress; and for so long a period his education would probably be conducted on as liberal a scale as the resources of stratford would allow. through this earliest section of his life he would undoubtedly rank as a gentleman's son, possibly as the leader of his class, in stratford. but what rank he held through the next ten years, or, more generally, what was the standing in society of shakspeare until he had created a new station for himself by his own exertions in the metropolis, is a question yet unsettled, but which has been debated as keenly as if it had some great dependencies. upon this we shall observe, that could we by possibility be called to settle beforehand what rank were best for favoring the development of intellectual powers, the question might wear a face of deep practical importance; but when the question is simply as to a matter of fact, what _was_ the rank held by a man whose intellectual development has long ago been completed, this becomes a mere question of curiosity. the tree has fallen; it is confessedly the noblest of all the forest; and we must therefore conclude that the soil in which it flourished was either the best possible, or, if not so, that any thing bad in its properties had been disarmed and neutralized by the vital forces of the plant, or by the benignity of nature. if any future shakspeare were likely to arise, it might be a problem of great interest to agitate, whether the condition of a poor man or of a gentleman were best fitted to nurse and stimulate his faculties. but for the actual shakspeare, since what he was he was, and since nothing greater can be imagined, it is now become a matter of little moment whether his course lay for fifteen or twenty years through the humilities of absolute poverty, or through the chequered paths of gentry lying in the shade. whatever _was_, must, in this case at least, have been the best, since it terminated in producing shakspeare: and thus far we must all be optimists. yet still, it will be urged, the curiosity is not illiberal which would seek to ascertain the precise career through which shakspeare ran. this we readily concede; and we are anxious ourselves to contribute any thing in our power to the settlement of a point so obscure. what we have wished to protest against, is the spirit of partisanship in which this question has too generally been discussed. for, whilst some with a foolish affectation of plebeian sympathies overwhelm us with the insipid commonplaces about birth and ancient descent, as honors containing nothing meritorious, and rush eagerly into an ostentatious exhibition of all the circumstances which favor the notion of a humble station and humble connections; others, with equal forgetfulness of true dignity, plead with the intemperance and partiality of a legal advocate for the pretensions of shakspeare to the hereditary rank of gentleman. both parties violate the majesty of the subject. when we are seeking for the sources of the euphrates or the st. lawrence, we look for no proportions to the mighty volume of waters in that particular summit amongst the chain of mountains which embosoms its earliest fountains, nor are we shocked at the obscurity of these fountains. pursuing the career of mahommed, or of any man who has memorably impressed his own mind or agency upon the revolutions of mankind, we feel solicitude about the circumstances which might surround his cradle to be altogether unseasonable and impertinent. whether he were born in a hovel or a palace, whether he passed his infancy in squalid poverty, or hedged around by the glittering spears of bodyguards, as mere questions of fact may be interesting; but, in the light of either accessories or counteragencies to the native majesty of the subject, are trivial and below all philosophic valuation. so with regard to the creator of lear and hamlet, of othello and macbeth; to him from whose golden urns the nations beyond the far atlantic, the multitude of the isles, and the generations unborn in australian climes, even to the realms of the rising sun (the greek: anatolai haedlioio,) must in every age draw perennial streams of intellectual life, we feel that the little accidents of birth and social condition are so unspeakably below the grandeur of the theme, are so irrelevant and disproportioned to the real interest at issue, so incommensurable with any of its relations, that a biographer of shakspeare at once denounces himself as below his subject if he can entertain such a question as seriously affecting the glory of the poet. in some legends of saints, we find that they were born with a lambent circle or golden aureola about their heads. this angelic coronet shed light alike upon the chambers of a cottage or a palace, upon the gloomy limits of a dungeon, or the vast expansion of a cathedral; but the cottage, the palace, the dungeon, the cathedral, were all equally incapable of adding one ray of color or one pencil of light to the supernatural halo. having, therefore, thus pointedly guarded ourselves from misconstruction, and consenting to entertain the question as one in which we, the worshippers of shakspeare, have an interest of curiosity, but in which he, the object of our worship, has no interest of glory, we proceed to state what appears to us the result of the scanty facts surviving when collated with each other. by his mother's side, shakspeare was an authentic gentleman. by his father's he would have stood in a more dubious position; but the effect of municipal honors to raise and illustrate an equivocal rank, has always been acknowledged under the popular tendencies of our english political system. from the sort of lead, therefore, which john shakspeare took at one time amongst his fellow-townsmen, and from his rank of first magistrate, we may presume that, about the year , he had placed himself at the head of the stratford community. afterwards he continued for some years to descend from this altitude; and the question is, at what point this gradual degradation may be supposed to have settled. now we shall avow it as our opinion, that the composition of society in stratford was such that, even had the shakspeare family maintained their superiority, the main body of their daily associates must still have been found amongst persons below the rank of gentry. the poet must inevitably have mixed chiefly with mechanics and humble tradesmen, for such people composed perhaps the total community. but had there even been a gentry in stratford, since they would have marked the distinctions of their rank chiefly by greater reserve of manners, it is probable that, after all, shakspeare, with his enormity of delight in exhibitions of human nature, would have mostly cultivated that class of society in which the feelings are more elementary and simple, in which the thoughts speak a plainer language, and in which the restraints of factitious or conventional decorum are exchanged for the restraints of mere sexual decency. it is a noticeable fact to all who have looked upon human life with an eye of strict attention, that the abstract image of womanhood, in. its loveliness, its delicacy, and its modesty, nowhere makes itself more impressive or more advantageously felt than in the humblest cottages, because it is there brought into immediate juxtaposition with the grossness of manners, and the careless license of language incident to the fathers and brothers of the house. and this is more especially true in a nation of unaffected sexual gallantry, [endnote: ] such as the english and the gothic races in general; since, under the immunity which their women enjoy from all servile labors of a coarse or out-of-doors order, by as much lower as they descend in the scale of rank, by so much more do they benefit under the force of contrast with the men of their own level. a young man of that class, however noble in appearance, is somewhat degraded in the eyes of women, by the necessity which his indigence imposes of working under a master; but a beautiful young woman, in the very poorest family, unless she enters upon a life of domestic servitude, (in which case her labors are light, suited to her sex, and withdrawn from the public eye,) so long in fact as she stays under her father's roof, is as perfectly her own mistress and _sui juris_ as the daughter of an earl. this personal dignity, brought into stronger relief by the mercenary employments of her male connections, and the feminine gentleness of her voice and manners, exhibited under the same advantages of contrast, oftentimes combine to make a young cottage beauty as fascinating an object as any woman of any station. hence we may in part account for the great event of shakspeare's early manhood, his premature marriage. it has always been known, or at least traditionally received for a fact, that shakspeare had married whilst yet a boy, and that his wife was unaccountably older than himself. in the very earliest biographical sketch of the poet, compiled by rowe, from materials collected by betterton the actor, it was stated, (and that statement is now ascertained to have been correct,) that he had married anne hathaway, "the daughter of a substantial yeoman." further than this nothing was known. but in september, , was published a very remarkable document, which gives the assurance of law to the time and fact of this event, yet still, unless collated with another record, does nothing to lessen the mystery which had previously surrounded its circumstances. this document consists of two parts; the first, and principal, according to the logic of the case, though second according to the arrangement, being a _license_ for the marriage of william shakspeare with anne hathaway, under the condition "of _once_ asking of the bannes of matrimony," that is, in effect, dispensing with two out of the three customary askings; the second or subordinate part of the document being a _bond_ entered into by two sureties, viz.: fulke sandells and john rychardson, both described as _agricolae_ or yeomen, and both marksmen, (that is, incapable of writing, and therefore subscribing by means of _marks,_) for the payment of forty pounds sterling, in the event of shakspeare, yet a minor, and incapable of binding himself, failing to fulfil the conditions of the license. in the bond, drawn up in latin, there is no mention of shakspeare's name; but in the license, which is altogether english, _his_ name, of course, stands foremost; and as it may gratify the reader to see the very words and orthography of the original, we here extract the _operative_ part of this document, prefacing only, that the license is attached by way of explanation to the bond. "the condition of this obligation is suche, that if hereafter there shall not appere any lawfull lett or impediment, by reason of any precontract, &c., but that willm. shagspere, one thone ptie," [on the one party,] "and anne hathwey of stratford, in the diocess of worcester, maiden, may lawfully solemnize matrimony together; and in the same afterwards remaine and continew like man and wiffe. and, moreover, if the said willm. shagspere do not proceed to solemnization of mariadg with the said anne hathwey, without the consent of hir frinds;--then the said obligation" [viz., to pay forty pounds]" to be voyd and of none effect, or els to stand & abide in full force and vertue." what are we to think of this document? trepidation and anxiety are written upon its face. the parties are not to be married by a special license; not even by an ordinary license; in that case no proclamation of banns, no public asking at all, would have been requisite. economical scruples are consulted; and yet the regular movement of the marriage "through the bell-ropes" [endnote: ] is disturbed. economy, which retards the marriage, is here evidently in collision with some opposite principle which precipitates it. how is all this to be explained? much light is afforded by the date when illustrated by another document. the bond bears date on the th day of november, in the th year of our lady the queen, that is, in . now the baptism of shakspeare's eldest child, susanna, is registered on the th of may in the year following. suppose, therefore, that his marriage was solemnized on the st day of december; it was barely possible that it could be earlier, considering that the sureties, drinking, perhaps, at worcester throughout the th of november, would require the th, in so dreary a season, for their return to stratford; after which some preparation might be requisite to the bride, since the marriage was _not_ celebrated at stratford. next suppose the birth of miss susanna to have occurred, like her father's, two days before her baptism, viz., on the th of may. from december the st to may the th, both days inclusively, are one hundred and seventy-five days; which, divided by seven, gives precisely twenty-five weeks, that is to say, six months short by one week. oh, fie, miss susanna, you came rather before you were wanted. mr. campbell's comment upon the affair is, that "_if_ this was the case, "viz., if the baptism were really solemnized on the th of may," the poet's first child would _appear_ to have been born only six months and eleven days after the bond was entered into. "and he then concludes that, on this assumption," miss susanna shakspeare came into the world a little prematurely." but this is to doubt where there never was any ground for doubting; the baptism was _certainly_ on the th of may; and, in the next place, the calculation of six months and eleven days is sustained by substituting lunar months for calendar, and then only by supposing the marriage to have been celebrated on the very day of subscribing the bond in worcester, and the baptism to have been coincident with the birth; of which suppositions the latter is improbable, and the former, considering the situation of worcester, impossible. strange it is, that, whilst all biographers have worked with so much zeal upon the most barren dates or most baseless traditions in the great poet's life, realizing in a manner the chimeras of laputa, and endeavoring "to extract sunbeams from cucumbers," such a story with regard to such an event, no fiction of village scandal, but involved in legal documents, a story so significant and so eloquent to the intelligent, should formerly have been dismissed without notice of any kind, and even now, after the discovery of , with nothing beyond a slight conjectural insinuation. for our parts, we should have been the last amongst the biographers to unearth any forgotten scandal, or, after so vast a lapse of time, and when the grave had shut out all but charitable thoughts, to point any moral censures at a simple case of natural frailty, youthful precipitancy of passion, of all trespasses the most venial, where the final intentions are honorable. but in this case there seems to have been something more in motion than passion or the ardor of youth. "i like not," says parson evans, (alluding to falstaff in masquerade,) "i like not when a woman has a great peard; i spy a great peard under her muffler." neither do we like the spectacle of a mature young woman, five years past her majority, wearing the semblance of having been led astray by a boy who had still two years and a half to run of his minority. shakspeare himself, looking back on this part of his youthful history from his maturest years, breathes forth pathetic counsels against the errors into which his own inexperience had been insnared. the disparity of years between himself and his wife he notices in a beautiful scene of the twelfth night. the duke orsino, observing the sensibility which the pretended cesario had betrayed on hearing some touching old snatches of a love strain, swears that his beardless page must have felt the passion of love, which the other admits. upon this the dialogue proceeds thus: duke. what kind of woman is't? viola. of your complexion. duke. she is not worth thee then. what years? viola. i' faith, about your years, my lord. duke. too old, by heaven. _let still the woman take an elder than herself: so wears she to him, so sways she level in her husband's heart._ for, boy, however we do praise ourselves, our fancies are more giddy and unfirm, more longing, wavering, sooner lost and worn, than women's are. viola. i think it well, my lord. duke. _then let thy love be younger than thyself, or thy affection cannot hold the bent;_ for women are as roses, whose fair flower, being once display'd, doth fall that very hour. these counsels were uttered nearly twenty years after the event in his own life, to which they probably look back; for this play is supposed to have been written in shakspeare's thirty-eighth year. and we may read an earnestness in pressing the point as to the _inverted_ disparity of years, which indicates pretty clearly an appeal to the lessons of his personal experience. but his other indiscretion, in having yielded so far to passion and opportunity as to crop by prelibation, and before they were hallowed, those flowers of paradise which belonged to his marriage day; this he adverts to with even more solemnity of sorrow, and with more pointed energy of moral reproof, in the very last drama which is supposed to have proceeded from his pen, and therefore with the force and sanctity of testamentary counsel. the tempest is all but ascertained to have been composed in , that is, about five years before the poet's death; and indeed could not have been composed much earlier; for the very incident which suggested the basis of the plot, and of the local scene, viz., the shipwreck of sir george somers on the bermudas, (which were in consequence denominated the somers' islands,) did not occur until the year . in the opening of the fourth act, prospero formally betrothes his daughter to ferdinand; and in doing so he pays the prince a well-merited compliment of having "worthily purchas'd" this rich jewel, by the patience with which, for her sake, he had supported harsh usage, and other painful circumstances of his trial. but, he adds solemnly, "if thou dost break her virgin knot before all sanctimonious ceremonies may with full and holy rite be minister'd;" in that case what would follow? "no sweet aspersion shall the heavens let fall, to make this contract grow; _but barren hate, sour-ey'd disdain and discord, shall bestrew the union of your bed with weeds so loathly that you shall hate it both._ therefore take heed, as hymen's lamps shall light you." the young prince assures him in reply, that no strength of opportunity, concurring with the uttermost temptation, not "the murkiest den, the most opportune place, the strong'st suggestion our worser genius can----," should ever prevail to lay asleep his jealousy of self-control, so as to take any advantage of miranda's innocence. and he adds an argument for this abstinence, by way of reminding prospero, that not honor only, but even prudential care of his own happiness, is interested in the observance of his promise. any unhallowed anticipation would, as he insinuates, "take away the edge of that day's celebration, when i shall think, or phoebus' steeds are founder'd, or night kept chain'd below;" that is, when even the winged hours would seem to move too slowly. even thus prospero is not quite satisfied. during his subsequent dialogue with ariel, we are to suppose that ferdinand, in conversing apart with miranda, betrays more impassioned ardor than the wise magician altogether approves. the prince's caresses have not been unobserved; and thus prospero renews his warning: "look thou be true: do not give dalliance too much the rein: the strongest oaths are straw to the fire i' the blood: be more abstemious, or else--good night your vow." the royal lover reassures him of his loyalty to his engagements; and again the wise father, so honorably jealous for his daughter, professes himself satisfied with the prince's pledges. now in all these emphatic warnings, uttering the language "of that sad wisdom folly leaves behind," who can avoid reading, as in subtle hieroglyphics, the secret record of shakspeare's own nuptial disappointments? we, indeed, that is, universal posterity through every age, have reason to rejoice in these disappointments; for to them, past all doubt, we are indebted for shakspeare's subsequent migration to london, and his public occupation, which, giving him a deep pecuniary interest in the productions of his pen, such as no other literary application of his powers could have approached in that day, were eventually the means of drawing forth those divine works which have survived their author for our everlasting benefit. our own reading and deciphering of the whole case is as follows. the shakspeares were a handsome family, both father and sons. this we assume upon the following grounds: first, on the presumption arising out of john shakspeare's having won the favor of a young heiress higher in rank than himself; secondly, on the presumption involved in the fact of three amongst his four sons having gone upon the stage, to which the most obvious (and perhaps in those days a _sine qua non_) recommendation would be a good person and a pleasing countenance; thirdly, on the direct evidence of aubrey, who assures us that william shakspeare was a handsome and a well-shaped man; fourthly, on the implicit evidence of the stratford monument, which exhibits a man of good figure and noble countenance; fifthly, on the confirmation of this evidence by the chandos portrait, which exhibits noble features, illustrated by the utmost sweetness of expression; sixthly, on the selection of theatrical parts, which it is known that shakspeare personated, most of them being such as required some dignity of form, viz., kings, the athletic (though aged) follower of an athletic young man, and supernatural beings. on these grounds, direct or circumstantial, we believe ourselves warranted in assuming that william shakspeare was a handsome and even noble looking boy. miss anne hathaway had herself probably some personal attractions; and, if an indigent girl, who looked for no pecuniary advantages, would probably have been early sought in marriage. but as the daughter of "a substantial yeoman," who would expect some fortune in his daughter's suitors, she had, to speak coarsely, a little outlived her market. time she had none to lose. william shakspeare pleased her eye; and the gentleness of his nature made him an apt subject for female blandishments, possibly for female arts. without imputing, however, to this anne hathaway any thing so hateful as a settled plot for insnaring him, it was easy enough for a mature woman, armed with such inevitable advantages of experience and of self-possession, to draw onward a blushing novice; and, without directly creating opportunities, to place him in the way of turning to account such as naturally offered. young boys are generally flattered by the condescending notice of grown-up women; and perhaps shakspeare's own lines upon a similar situation, to a young boy adorned with the same natural gifts as himself, may give us the key to the result: "gentle thou art, and therefore to be won; beauteous thou art, therefore to be assail'd; and, when a woman woos, what woman's son will sourly leave her till he have prevail'd?" once, indeed, entangled in such a pursuit, any person of manly feelings would be sensible that he had no retreat; _that_ would be--to insult a woman, grievously to wound her sexual pride, and to insure her lasting scorn and hatred. these were consequences which the gentle-minded shakspeare could not face. he pursued his good fortunes, half perhaps in heedlessness, half in desperation, until he was roused by the clamorous displeasure of her family upon first discovering the situation of their kinswoman. for such a situation there could be but one atonement, and that was hurried forward by both parties; whilst, out of delicacy towards the bride, the wedding was not celebrated in stratford, (where the register contains no notice of such an event); nor, as malone imagined, in weston-upon-avon, that being in the diocese of gloucester; but in some parish, as yet undiscovered, in the diocese of worcester. but now arose a serious question as to the future maintenance of the young people. john shakspeare was depressed in his circumstances, and he had other children besides william, viz., three sons and a daughter. the elder lives have represented him as burdened with ten; but this was an error, arising out of the confusion between john shakspeare the glover, and john shakspeare a shoemaker. this error has been thus far of use, that, by exposing the fact of two john shakspeares (not kinsmen) residing in stratford-upon-avon, it has satisfactorily proved the name to be amongst those which are locally indigenous to warwickshire. meantime it is now ascertained that john shakspeare the glover had only eight children, viz., four daughters and four sons. the order of their succession was this: joan, margaret, william, gilbert, a second joan, anne, richard, and edmund. three of the daughters, viz., the two eldest of the family, joan and margaret, together with anne, died in childhood. all the rest attained mature ages, and of these william was the eldest. this might give him some advantage in his father's regard; but in a question of pecuniary provision precedency amongst the children of an insolvent is nearly nominal. for the present john shakspeare could do little for his son; and, under these circumstances, perhaps the father of anne hathaway would come forward to assist the new-married couple. this condition of dependency would furnish matter for painful feelings and irritating words. the youthful husband, whose mind would be expanding as rapidly as the leaves and blossoms of spring-time in polar latitudes, would soon come to appreciate the sort of wiles by which he had been caught. the female mind is quick, and almost gifted with the power of witchcraft, to decipher what is passing in the thoughts of familiar companions. silent and forbearing as william shakspeare might be, anne, his staid wife, would read his secret reproaches; ill would she dissemble her wrath, and the less so from the consciousness of having deserved them. it is no uncommon case for women to feel anger in connection with one subject, and to express it in connection with another; which other, perhaps, (except as a serviceable mask,) would have been a matter of indifference to their feelings. anne would, therefore, reply to those inevitable reproaches which her own sense must presume to be lurking in her husband's heart, by others equally stinging, on his inability to support his family, and on his obligations to her father's purse. shakspeare, we may be sure, would be ruminating every hour on the means of his deliverance from so painful a dependency; and at length, after four years' conjugal discord, he would resolve upon that plan of solitary emigration to the metropolis, which, at the same time that it released him from the humiliation of domestic feuds, succeeded so splendidly for his worldly prosperity, and with a train of consequences so vast for all future ages. such, we are persuaded, was the real course of shakspeare's transition from school-boy pursuits to his public career. and upon the known temperament of shakspeare, his genial disposition to enjoy life without disturbing his enjoyment by fretting anxieties, we build the conclusion, that had his friends furnished him with ampler funds, and had his marriage been well assorted or happy, we--the world of posterity--should have lost the whole benefit and delight which we have since reaped from his matchless faculties. the motives which drove him _from_ stratford are clear enough; but what motives determined his course _to_ london, and especially to the stage, still remains to be explained. stratford-upon-avon, lying in the high road from london through oxford to birmingham, (or more generally to the north,) had been continually visited by some of the best comedians during shakspeare's childhood. one or two of the most respectable metropolitan actors were natives of stratford. these would be well known to the elder shakspeare. but, apart from that accident, it is notorious that mere legal necessity and usage would compel all companies of actors, upon coming into any town, to seek, in the first place, from the chief magistrate, a license for opening a theatre, and next, over and above this public sanction, to seek his personal favor and patronage. as an alderman, therefore, but still more whilst clothed with the official powers of chief magistrate, the poet's father would have opportunities of doing essential services to many persons connected with the london stage. the conversation of comedians acquainted with books, fresh from the keen and sparkling circles of the metropolis, and filled with racy anecdotes of the court, as well as of public life generally, could not but have been fascinating, by comparison with the stagnant society of stratford. hospitalities on a liberal scale would be offered to these men. not impossibly this fact might be one principal key to those dilapidations which the family estate had suffered. these actors, on _their_ part, would retain a grateful sense of the kindness they had received, and would seek to repay it to john shakspeare, now that he was depressed in his fortunes, as opportunities might offer. his eldest son, growing up a handsome young man, and beyond all doubt from his earliest days of most splendid colloquial powers, (for assuredly of _him_ it may be taken for granted), "nec licuit populis parvum te, nile, videre," would be often reproached in a friendly way for burying himself in a country life. these overtures, prompted alike by gratitude to the father, and a real selfish interest in the talents of the son, would at length take a definite shape; and, upon, some clear understanding as to the terms of such an arrangement, william shakspeare would at length, (about , according to the received account, that is, in the fifth year of his married life, and the twenty-third or twenty-fourth of his age,) unaccompanied by wife or children, translate himself to london. later than it could not well be; for already in it has been recently ascertained that he held a share in the property of a leading theatre. we must here stop to notice, and the reader will allow us to notice with summary indignation, the slanderous and idle tale which represents shakspeare as having fled to london in the character of a criminal, from the persecutions of sir thomas lucy of charlecot. this tale has long been propagated under two separate impulses. chiefly, perhaps, under the vulgar love of pointed and glaring contrasts; the splendor of the man was in this instance brought into a sort of epigrammatic antithesis with the humility of his fortunes; secondly, under a baser impulse, the malicious pleasure of seeing a great man degraded. accordingly, as in the case of milton, [endnote: ] it has been affirmed that shakspeare had suffered corporal chastisement, in fact, (we abhor to utter such words,) that he had been judicially whipped. now, first of all, let us mark the inconsistency of this tale. the poet was whipped, that is, he was punished most disproportionately, and yet he fled to avoid punishment. next, we are informed that his offence was deer-stealing, and from the park of sir thomas lucy. and it has been well ascertained that sir thomas had no deer, and had no park. moreover, deer-stealing was regarded by our ancestors exactly as poaching is regarded by us. deer ran wild in all the great forests; and no offence was looked upon as so venial, none so compatible with a noble robin-hood style of character, as this very trespass upon what were regarded as _ferae naturae_, and not at all as domestic property. but had it been otherwise, a trespass was not punishable with whipping; nor had sir thomas lucy the power to irritate a whole community like stratford-upon-avon, by branding with permanent disgrace a young man so closely connected with three at least of the best families in the neighborhood. besides, had shakspeare suffered any dishonor of that kind, the scandal would infallibly have pursued him at his very heels to london; and in that case greene, who has left on record, in a posthumous work of , his malicious feelings towards shakspeare, could not have failed to notice it. for, be it remembered, that a judicial flagellation contains a twofold ignominy. flagellation is ignominious in its own nature, even though unjustly inflicted, and by a ruffian; secondly, any judicial punishment is ignominous, even though not wearing a shade of personal degradation. now a judicial flagellation includes both features of dishonor. and is it to be imagined that an enemy, searching with the diligence of malice for matter against shakspeare, should have failed, six years after the event, to hear of that very memorable disgrace which had exiled him from stratford, and was the very occasion of his first resorting to london; or that a leading company of players in the metropolis, _one of whom_, and a chief one, _was his own townsman_, should cheerfully adopt into their society, as an honored partner, a young man yet flagrant from the lash of the executioner or the beadle? this tale is fabulous, and rotten to its core; yet even this does less dishonor to shakspeare's memory than the sequel attached to it. a sort of scurrilous rondeau, consisting of nine lines, so loathsome in its brutal stupidity, and so vulgar in its expression, that we shall not pollute our pages by transcribing it, has been imputed to shakspeare ever since the days of the credulous rowe. the total point of this idiot's drivel consists in calling sir thomas "an asse;" and well it justifies the poet's own remark, "let there be gall enough in thy ink, no matter though thou write with a goose pen." our own belief is, that these lines were a production of charles ii.'s reign, and applied to a sir thomas lucy, not very far removed, if at all, from the age of him who first picked up the pecious filth. the phrase "parliament _member_" we believe to be quite unknown in the colloquial use of queen elizabeth's reign. but, that we may rid ourselves once and for ever of this outrageous calumny upon shakspeare's memory, we shall pursue the story to its final stage. even malone has been thoughtless enough to accredit this closing chapter, which contains, in fact, such a superfetation of folly as the annals of human dullness do not exceed. let us recapitulate the points of the story. a baronet, who has no deer and no park, is supposed to persecute a poet for stealing these aerial deer out of this aerial park, both lying in _nephelococcygia_. the poet sleeps upon this wrong for eighteen years; but at length, hearing that his persecutor is dead and buried, he conceives bloody thoughts of revenge. and this revenge he purposes to execute by picking a hole in his dead enemy's coat-of-arms. is this coat-of-arms, then, sir thomas lucy's? why, no; malone admits that it is not. for the poet, suddenly recollecting that this ridicule would settle upon the son of his enemy, selects another coat-of-arms, with which his dead enemy never had any connection, and he spends his thunder and lighting upon this irrelevant object; and, after all, the ridicule itself lies in a welchman's mispronouncing one single heraldic term--a welchman who mispronounces all words. the last act of the poet's malice recalls to us a sort of jest-book story of an irishman, the vulgarity of which the reader will pardon in consideration of its relevancy. the irishman having lost a pair of silk stockings, mentions to a friend that he has taken steps for recovering them by an advertisement, offering a reward to the finder. his friend objects that the costs of advertising, and the reward, would eat out the full value of the silk stockings. but to this the irishman replies, with a knowing air, that he is not so green as to have overlooked _that_; and that, to keep down the reward, he had advertised the stockings as worsted. not at all less flagrant is the bull ascribed to shakspeare, when he is made to punish a dead man by personalities meant for his exclusive ear, through his coat-of-arms, but at the same time, with the express purpose of blunting and defeating the edge of his own scurrility, is made to substitute for the real arms some others which had no more relation to the dead enemy than they had to the poet himself. this is the very sublime of folly, beyond which human dotage cannot advance. it is painful, indeed, and dishonorable to human nature, that whenever men of vulgar habits and of poor education wish to impress us with a feeling of respect for a man's talents, they are sure to cite, by way of evidence, some gross instance of malignity. power, in their minds, is best illustrated by malice or by the infliction of pain. to this unwelcome fact we have some evidence in the wretched tale which we have just dismissed; and there is another of the same description to be found in all lives of shakspeare, which we will expose to the contempt of the reader whilst we are in this field of discussion, that we may not afterwards have to resume so disgusting a subject. this poet, who was a model of gracious benignity in his manners, and of whom, amidst our general ignorance, thus much is perfectly established, that the term _gentle_ was almost as generally and by prescriptive right associated with his name as the affix of _venerable_ with bede, or _judicious_ with hooker, is alleged to have insulted a friend by an imaginary epitaph beginning "_ten in the hundred_" and supposing him to be damned, yet without wit enough (which surely the stratford bellman could have furnished) for devising any, even fanciful, reason for such a supposition; upon which the comment of some foolish critic is," the _sharpness of the satire_ is said to have stung the man so much that he never forgave it. "we have heard of the sting in the tail atoning for the brainless head; but in this doggerel the tail is surely as stingless as the head is brainless. for, st, _ten in the hundred_ could be no reproach in shakspeare's time, any more than to call a man _three-and-a-half-per-cent_. in this present year, ; except, indeed, amongst those foolish persons who built their morality upon the jewish ceremonial law. shakspeare himself took ten per cent. _ dly_, it happens that john combe, so far from being the object of the poet's scurrility, or viewing the poet as an object of implacable resentment, was a stratford friend; that one of his family was affectionately remembered in shakspeare's will by the bequest of his sword; and that john combe himself recorded his perfect charity with shakspeare by leaving him a legacy of l sterling. and in this lies the key to the whole story. for, _ dly_, the four lines were written and printed before shakspeare was born. the name combe is a common one; and some stupid fellow, who had seen the name in shakspeare's will, and happened also to have seen the lines in a collection of epigrams, chose to connect the cases by attributing an identity to the two john combes, though at war with chronology. finally, there is another specimen of doggerel attributed to shakspeare, which is not equally unworthy of him, because not equally malignant, but otherwise equally below his intellect, no less than his scholarship; we mean the inscription on his grave-stone. this, as a sort of _siste viator_ appeal to future sextons, is worthy of the grave-digger or the parish-clerk, who was probably its author. or it may have been an antique formula, like the vulgar record of ownership in books-- "anthony timothy dolthead's hook, god give him grace therein to look." thus far the matter is of little importance; and it might have been supposed that malignity itself could hardly have imputed such trash to shakspeare. but when we find, even in this short compass, scarcely wider than the posy of a ring, room found for traducing the poet's memory, it becomes important to say, that the leading sentiment, the horror expressed at any disturbance offered to his bones, is not one to which shakspeare could have attached the slightest weight; far less could have outraged the sanctities of place and subject, by affixing to any sentiment whatever (and, according to the fiction of the case, his farewell sentiment) the sanction of a curse. filial veneration and piety towards the memory of this great man, have led us into a digression that might have been unseasonable in any cause less weighty than one, having for its object to deliver his honored name from a load of the most brutal malignity. never more, we hope and venture to believe, will any thoughtless biographer impute to shakspeare the asinine doggerel with which the uncritical blundering of his earliest biographer has caused his name to be dishonored. we now resume the thread of our biography. the stream of history is centuries in working itself clear of any calumny with which it has once been polluted. most readers will be aware of an old story, according to which shakspeare gained his livelihood for some time after coming to london by holding the horses of those who rode to the play. this legend is as idle as any one of those which we have just exposed. no custom ever existed of riding on horseback to the play. gentlemen, who rode valuable horses, would assuredly not expose them systematically to the injury of standing exposed to cold for two or even four hours; and persons of inferior rank would not ride on horseback in the town. besides, had such a custom ever existed, stables (or sheds at least) would soon have arisen to meet the public wants; and in some of the dramatic sketches of the day, which noticed every fashion as it arose, this would not have been overlooked. the story is traced originally to sir william davenant. betterton the actor, who professed to have received it from him, passed it onwards to rowe, he to pope, pope to bishop newton, the editor of milton, and newton to dr. johnson. this pedigree of the fable, however, adds nothing to its credit, and multiplies the chances of some mistake. another fable, not much less absurd, represents shakspeare as having from the very first been borne upon the establishment of the theatre, and so far contradicts the other fable, but originally in the very humble character of _call-boy_ or deputy prompter, whose business it was to summon each performer according to his order of coming upon the stage. this story, however, quite as much as the other, is irreconcileable with the discovery recently made by mr. collier, that in shakspeare was a shareholder in the important property of a principal london theatre. it seems destined that all the undoubted facts of shakspeare's life should come to us through the channel of legal documents, which are better evidence even than imperial medals; whilst, on the other hand, all the fabulous anecdotes, not having an attorney's seal to them, seem to have been the fictions of the wonder maker. the plain presumption from the record of shakspeare's situation in , coupled with the fact that his first arrival in london was possibly not until , but according to the earliest account not before , a space of time which leaves but little room for any remarkable changes of situation, seems to be, that, either in requital of services done to the players by the poet's family, or in consideration of money advanced by his father-in-law, or on account of shakspeare's personal accomplishments as an actor, and as an adapter of dramatic works to the stage; for one of these reasons, or for all of them united, william shakspeare, about the d year of his age, was adopted into the partnership of a respectable histrionic company, possessing a first-rate theatre in the metropolis. if were the year in which he came up to london, it seems probable enough that his immediate motive to that step was the increasing distress of his father; for in that year john shakspeare resigned the office of alderman. there is, however, a bare possibility that shakspeare might have gone to london about the time when he completed his twenty-first year, that is, in the spring of , but not earlier. nearly two years after the birth of his eldest daughter susanna, his wife lay in for a second and a _last_ time; but she then brought her husband twins, a son and a daughter. these children were baptized in february of the year ; so that shakspeare's whole family of three children were born and baptized two months before he completed his majority. the twins were baptized by the names of hamnet and judith, those being the names of two amongst their sponsors, viz., mr. sadler and his wife. hamnet, which is a remarkable name in itself, becomes still more so from its resemblance to the immortal name of hamlet [endnote: ] the dane; it was, however, the real baptismal name of mr. sadler, a friend of shakspeare's, about fourteen years older than himself. shakspeare's son must then have been most interesting to his heart, both as a twin child and as his only boy. he died in , when he was about eleven years old. both daughters survived their father; both married; both left issue, and thus gave a chance for continuing the succession from the great poet. but all the four grandchildren died without offspring. of shakspeare personally, at least of shakspeare the man, as distinguished from the author, there remains little more to record. already in , greene, in his posthumous groat's-worth of wit, had expressed the earliest vocation of shakspeare in the following sentence: "there is an upstart crow, beautified with our feathers; in his own conceit the only _shakscene_ in a country!" this alludes to shakspeare's office of recasting, and even recomposing, dramatic works, so as to fit them for representation; and master greene, it is probable, had suffered in his self-estimation, or in his purse, by the alterations in some piece of his own, which the duty of shakspeare to the general interests of the theatre had obliged him to make. in it has been supposed that shakspeare wrote his first drama, the two gentlemen of verona; the least characteristically marked of all his plays, and, with the exception of love's labors lost, the least interesting. from this year, to that of , are just twenty years, within which space lie the whole dramatic creations of shakspeare, averaging nearly one for every six months. in was written the tempest, which is supposed to have been the last of all shakspeare's works. even on that account, as mr. campbell feelingly observes, it has "a sort of sacredness;" and it is a most remarkable fact, and one calculated to make a man superstitious, that in this play the great enchanter prospero, in whom," _as if conscious_, "says mr. campbell," _that this would be his last work_, the poet has been _inspired to typify himself as_ a wise, potent, and _benevolent magician_" of whom, indeed, as of shakspeare himself, it may be said, that "within that circle" (the circle of his own art)" none durst tread but he, "solemnly and for ever renounces his mysterious functions, symbolically breaks his enchanter's wand, and declares that he will bury his books, his science, and his secrets, "deeper than did ever plummet sound." nay, it is even ominous, that in this play, and from the voice of prospero, issues that magnificent prophecy of the total destruction which should one day swallow up "the solemn temples, the great globe itself, yea all which it inherit." and this prophecy is followed immediately by a most profound ejaculation, gathering into one pathetic abstraction the total philosophy of life: "we are such stuff as dreams are made of; and our little life is rounded by a sleep;" that is, in effect, our life is a little tract of feverish vigils, surrounded and islanded by a shoreless ocean of sleep--sleep before birth, sleep after death. these remarkable passages were probably not undesigned; but if we suppose them to have been thrown off without conscious notice of their tendencies, then, according to the superstition of the ancient grecians, they would have been regarded as prefiguring words, prompted by the secret genius that accompanies every man, such as insure along with them their own accomplishment. with or without intention, however, it is believed that shakspeare wrote nothing more after this exquisite romantic drama. with respect to the remainder of his personal history, dr. drake and others have supposed, that during the twenty years from to , he visited stratford often, and latterly once a year. in he had possessed some share in a theatre; in he had a considerable share. through lord southampton, as a surviving friend of lord essex, who was viewed as the martyr to his scottish politics, there can be no doubt that shakspeare had acquired the favor of james i.; and accordingly, on the th of may, , about two months after the king's accession to the throne of england, a patent was granted to the company of players who possessed the globe theatre; in which patent shakspeare's name stands second. this patent raised the company to the rank of his majesty's servants, whereas previously they are supposed to have been simply the servants of the lord chamberlain. perhaps it was in grateful acknowledgment of this royal favor that shakspeare afterwards, in , paid that sublime compliment to the house of stuart, which is involved in the vision shown to macbeth. this vision is managed with exquisite skill. it was impossible to display the whole series of princes from macbeth to james i.; but he beholds the posterity of banquo, one "gold-bound brow" succeeding to another, until he comes to an eighth apparition of a scottish king, "who bears a glass which shows him many more; and some he sees who twofold balls and treble sceptres carry;" thus bringing down without tedium the long succession to the very person of james i., by the symbolic image of the two crowns united on one head. about the beginning of the century shakspeare had become rich enough to purchase the best house in stratford, called _the great house_, which name he altered to _new place_; and in he bought one hundred and seven acres adjacent to this house for a sum ( l) corresponding to about guineas of modern money. malone thinks that he purchased the house as early as ; and it is certain that about that time he was able to assist his father in obtaining a renewed grant of arms from the herald's college, and therefore, of course, to re-establish his father's fortunes. ten years of well-directed industry, viz., from to , and the prosperity of the theatre in which he was a proprietor, had raised him to affluence; and after another ten years, improved with the same success, he was able to retire with an income of l, or (according to the customary computations) in modern money of l, per annum. shakspeare was in fact the first man of letters, pope the second, and sir walter scott the third, who, in great britain, has ever realized a large fortune by literature; or in christendom, if we except voltaire, and two dubious cases in italy. the four or five latter years of his life shakspeare passed in dignified ease, in profound meditation, we may be sure, and in universal respect, at his native town of stratford; and there he died, on the d of april, . [endnote: ] his daughter susanna had been married on the th of june of the year , to dr. john hall, [endnote: ] a physician in stratford. the doctor died in november, , aged sixty; his wife, at the age of sixty-six, on july , . they had one child, a daughter, named elizabeth, born in , married april , , to thomas nashe, esq., left a widow in , and subsequently remarried to sir john barnard; but this lady barnard, the sole grand-daughter of the poet, had no children by either marriage. the other daughter, judith, on february , , (about ten weeks before her father's death,) married mr. thomas quincy of stratford, by whom she had three sons, shakspeare, richard, and thomas. judith was about thirty-one years old at the time of her marriage; and living just forty-six years afterwards, she died in february, , at the age of seventy-seven. her three sons died without issue; and thus, in the direct lineal descent, it is certain that no representative has survived of this transcendent poet, the most august amongst created intellects. after this review of shakspeare's life, it becomes our duty to take a summary survey of his works, of his intellectual powers, and of his station in literature, a station which is now irrevocably settled, not so much (which happens in other cases) by a vast overbalance of favorable suffrages, as by acclamation; not so much by the _voices_ of those who admire him up to the verge of idolatry, as by the _acts_ of those who everywhere seek for his works among the primal necessities of life, demand them, and crave them as they do their daily bread; not so much by eulogy openly proclaiming itself, as by the silent homage recorded in the endless multiplication of what he has bequeathed us; not so much by his own compatriots, who, with regard to almost every other author, [endnote: ] compose the total amount of his _effective_ audience, as by the unanimous "all hail!" of intellectual christendom; finally, not by the hasty partisanship of his own generation, nor by the biassed judgment of an age trained in the same modes of feeling and of thinking with himself,--but by the solemn award of generation succeeding to generation, of one age correcting the obliquities or peculiarities of another; by the verdict of two hundred and thirty years, which have now elapsed since the very _latest_ of his creations, or of two hundred and forty-seven years if we date from the earliest; a verdict which has been continually revived and re-opened, probed, searched, vexed, by criticism in every spirit, from the most genial and intelligent, down to the most malignant and scurrilously hostile which feeble heads and great ignorance could suggest when cooperating with impure hearts and narrow sensibilities; a verdict, in short, sustained and countersigned by a longer series of writers, many of them eminent for wit or learning, than were ever before congregated upon any inquest relating to any author, be he who he might, ancient [endnote: ] or modern, pagan or christian. it was a most witty saying with respect to a piratical and knavish publisher, who made a trade of insulting the memories of deceased authors by forged writings, that he was "among the new terrors of death." but in the gravest sense it may be affirmed of shakspeare, that he is among the modern luxuries of life; that life, in fact, is a new thing, and one more to be coveted, since shakspeare has extended the domains of human consciousness, and pushed its dark frontiers into regions not so much as dimly descried or even suspected before his time, far less illuminated (as now they are) by beauty and tropical luxuriance of life. for instance,--a single instance, indeed one which in itself is a world of new revelation, --the possible beauty of the female character had not been seen as in a dream before shakspeare called into perfect life the radiant shapes of desdemona, of imogene, of hermione, of perdita, of ophelia, of miranda, and many others. the una of spenser, earlier by ten or fifteen years than most of these, was an idealized portrait of female innocence and virgin purity, but too shadowy and unreal for a dramatic reality. and as to the grecian classics, let not the reader imagine for an instant that any prototype in this field of shakspearian power can be looked for there. the _antigone_ and the _electra_ of the tragic poets are the two leading female characters that classical antiquity offers to our respect, but assuredly not to our impassioned love, as disciplined and exalted in the school of shakspeare. they challenge our admiration, severe, and even stern, as impersonations of filial duty, cleaving to the steps of a desolate and afflicted old man; or of sisterly affection, maintaining the rights of a brother under circumstances of peril, of desertion, and consequently of perfect self-reliance. iphigenia, again, though not dramatically coming before us in her own person, but according to the beautiful report of a spectator, presents us with a fine statuesque model of heroic fortitude, and of one whose young heart, even in the very agonies of her cruel immolation, refused to forget, by a single indecorous gesture, or so much as a moment's neglect of her own princely descent, and that she herself was "a lady in the land." these are fine marble groups, but they are not the warm breathing realities of shakspeare; there is "no speculation" in their cold marble eyes; the breath of life is not in their nostrils; the fine pulses of womanly sensibilities are not throbbing in their bosoms. and besides this immeasurable difference between the cold moony reflexes of life, as exhibited by the power of grecian art, and the true sunny life of shakspeare, it must he observed that the antigones, &c. of the antique put forward but one single trait of character, like the aloe with its single blossom. this solitary feature is presented to us as an abstraction, and as an insulated quality; whereas in shakspeare all is presented in the _concrete_; that is to say, not brought forward in relief, as by some effort of an anatomical artist; but embodied and imbedded, so to speak, as by the force of a creative nature, in the complex system of a human life; a life in which all the elements move and play simultaneously, and with something more than mere simultaneity or co-existence, acting and re-acting each upon the other, nay, even acting by each other and through each other. in shakspeare's characters is felt for ever a real _organic_ life, where each is for the whole and in the whole, and where the whole is for each and in each. they only are real incarnations. the greek poets could not exhibit any approximations to _female_ character, without violating the truth of grecian life, and shocking the feelings of the audience. the drama with the greeks, as with us, though much less than with us, was a picture of human life; and that which could not occur in life could not wisely be exhibited on the stage. now, in ancient greece, women were secluded from the society of men. the conventual sequestration of the hareem, or female apartment [endnote: ] of the house, and the mahommedan consecration of its threshold against the ingress of males, had been transplanted from asia into greece thousands of years perhaps before either convents or mahommed existed. thus barred from all open social intercourse, women could not develop or express any character by word or action. even to _have_ a character, violated, to a grecian mind, the ideal portrait of feminine excellence; whence, perhaps, partly the too generic, too little individualized, style of grecian beauty. but prominently to _express_ a character was impossible under the common tenor of grecian life, unless when high tragical catastrophes transcended the decorums of that tenor, or for a brief interval raised the curtain which veiled it. hence the subordinate part which women play upon the greek stage in all but some half dozen cases. in the paramount tragedy on that stage, the model tragedy, the (_oedipus tyrannus_ of sophocles), there is virtually no woman at all; for jocasta is a party to the story merely as the dead laius or the self-murdered sphinx was a party, viz., by her contributions to the fatalities of the event, not by anything she does or says spontaneously. in fact, the greek poet, if a wise poet, could not address himself genially to a task in which he must begin by shocking the sensibilities of his countrymen. and hence followed, not only the dearth of female characters in the grecian drama, but also a second result still more favorable to the sense of a new power evolved by shakspeare. whenever the common law of grecian life did give way, it was, as we have observed, to the suspending force of some great convulsion or tragical catastrophe. this for a moment (like an earthquake in a nunnery) would set at liberty even the timid, fluttering grecian women, those doves of the dove-cot, and would call some of them into action. but which? precisely those of energetic and masculine minds; the timid and feminine would but shrink the more from public gaze and from tumult. thus it happened, that such female characters as _were_ exhibited in greece, could not but be the harsh and the severe. if a gentle ismene appeared for a moment in contest with some energetic sister antigone, (and chiefly, perhaps, by way of drawing out the fiercer character of that sister,) she was soon dismissed as unfit for scenical effect. so that not only were female characters few, but, moreover, of these few the majority were but repetitions of masculine qualities in female persons. female agency being seldom summoned on the stage, except when it had received a sort of special dispensation from its sexual character, by some terrific convulsions of the house or the city, naturally it assumed the style of action suited to these circumstances. and hence it arose, that not woman as she differed from man, but woman as she resembled man--woman, in short, seen under circumstances so dreadful as to abolish the effect of sexual distinction, was the woman of the greek tragedy. [endnote: ] and hence generally arose for shakspeare the wider field, and the more astonishing by its perfect novelty, when he first introduced female characters, not as mere varieties or echoes of masculine characters, a medea or clytemnestra, or a vindictive hecuba, the mere tigress of the tragic tiger, but female characters that had the appropriate beauty of female nature; woman no longer grand, terrific, and repulsive, but woman "after her kind"--the other hemisphere of the dramatic world; woman, running through the vast gamut of womanly loveliness; woman, as emancipated, exalted, ennobled, under a new law of christian morality; woman, the sister and coequal of man, no longer his slave, his prisoner, and sometimes his rebel." it is a far cry to loch awe; "and from the athenian stage to the stage of shakspeare, it may be said, is a prodigious interval. true; but prodigious as it is, there is really nothing between them. the roman stage, at least the tragic stage, as is well known, was put out, as by an extinguisher, by the cruel amphitheatre, just as a candle is made pale and ridiculous by daylight. those who were fresh from the real murders of the bloody amphitheatre regarded with contempt the mimic murders of the stage. stimulation too coarse and too intense had its usual effect in making the sensibilities callous. christian emperors arose at length, who abolished the amphitheatre in its bloodier features. but by that time the genius of the tragic muse had long slept the sleep of death. and that muse had no resurrection until the age of shakspeare. so that, notwithstanding a gulf of nineteen centuries and upwards separates shakspeare from euripides, the last of the surviving greek tragedians, the one is still the nearest successor of the other, just as connaught and the islands in clew bay are next neighbors to america, although three thousand watery columns, each of a cubic mile in dimensions, divide them from each other. a second reason, which lends an emphasis of novelty and effective power to shakspeare's female world, is a peculiar fact of contrast which exists between that and his corresponding world of men. let us explain. the purpose and the intention of the grecian stage was not primarily to develop human _character_, whether in men or in women: human _fates_ were its object; great tragic situations under the mighty control of a vast cloudy destiny, dimly descried at intervals, and brooding over human life by mysterious agencies, and for mysterious ends. man, no longer the representative of an august _will_, man the passion-puppet of fate, could not with any effect display what we call a character, which is a distinction between man and man, emanating originally from the will, and expressing its determinations, moving under the large variety of human impulses. the will is the central pivot of character; and this was obliterated, thwarted, cancelled, by the dark fatalism which brooded over the grecian stage. that explanation will sufficiently clear up the reason why marked or complex variety of character was slighted by the great principles of the greek tragedy. and every scholar who has studied that grand drama of greece with feeling,--that drama, so magnificent, so regal, so stately,--and who has thoughtfully investigated its principles, and its difference from the english drama, will acknowledge that powerful and elaborate character, character, for instance, that could employ the fiftieth part of that profound analysis which has been applied to hamlet, to falstaff, to lear, to othello, and applied by mrs. jamieson so admirably to the full development of the shakspearian heroines, would have been as much wasted, nay, would have been defeated, and interrupted the blind agencies of fate, just in the same way as it would injure the shadowy grandeur of a ghost to individualize it too much. milton's angels are slightly touched, superficially touched, with differences of character; but they are such differences, so simple and general, as are just sufficient to rescue them from the reproach applied to virgil's "_fortemque gyan, forlemque cloanthem;_" just sufficient to make them knowable apart. pliny speaks of painters who painted in one or two colors; and, as respects the angelic characters, milton does so; he is _monochromatic_. so, and for reasons resting upon the same ultimate philosophy, were the mighty architects of the greek tragedy. they also were monochromatic; they also, as to the characters of their persons, painted in one color. and so far there might have been the same novelty in shakspeare's men as in his women. there _might_ have been; but the reason why there is _not_, must be sought in the fact, that history, the muse of history, had there even been no such muse as melpomene, would have forced us into an acquaintance with human character. history, as the representative of actual life, of real man, gives us powerful delineations of character in its chief agents, that is, in men; and therefore it is that shakspeare, the absolute creator of female character, was but the mightiest of all painters with regard to male character. take a single instance. the antony of shakspeare, immortal for its execution, is found, after all, as regards the primary conception, in history. shakspeare's delineation is but the expansion of the germ already preexisting, by way of scattered fragments, in cicero's philippics, in cicero's letters, in appian, &c. but cleopatra, equally fine, is a pure creation of art. the situation and the scenic circumstances belong to history, but the character belongs to shakspeare. in the great world, therefore, of woman, as the interpreter of the shifting phases and the lunar varieties of that mighty changeable planet, that lovely satellite of man, shakspeare stands not the first only, not the original only, but is yet the sole authentic oracle of truth. woman, therefore, the beauty of the female mind, _this_ is one great field of his power. the supernatural world, the world of apparitions, _that_ is another. for reasons which it would be easy to give, reasons emanating from the gross mythology of the ancients, no grecian, [endnote: ] no roman, could have conceived a ghost. that shadowy conception, the protesting apparition, the awful projection of the human conscience, belongs to the christian mind. and in all christendom, who, let us ask, who, who but shakspeare has found the power for effectually working this mysterious mode of being? in summoning back to earth "the majesty of buried denmark," how like an awful necromancer does shakspeare appear! all the pomps and grandeurs which religion, which the grave, which the popular superstition had gathered about the subject of apparitions, are here converted to his purpose, and bend to one awful effect. the wormy grave brought into antagonism with the scenting of the early dawn; the trumpet of resurrection suggested, and again as an antagonist idea to the crowing of the cock, (a bird ennobled in the christian mythus by the part he is made to play at the crucifixion;) its starting "as a guilty thing" placed in opposition to its majestic expression of offended dignity when struck at by the partisans of the sentinels; its awful allusions to the secrets of its prison-house; its ubiquity, contrasted with its local presence; its aerial substance, yet clothed in palpable armor; the heart-shaking solemnity of its language, and the appropriate scenery of its haunt, viz., the ramparts of a capital fortress, with no witnesses but a few gentlemen mounting guard at the dead of night,--what a mist, what a _mirage_ of vapor, is here accumulated, through which the dreadful being in the centre looms upon us in far larger proportions, than could have happened had it been insulated and left naked of this circumstantial pomp! in the _tempest_, again, what new modes of life, preternatural, yet far as the poles from the spiritualities of religion! ariel in antithesis to caliban! what is most ethereal to what is most animal! a phantom of air, an abstraction of the dawn and of vesper sun-lights, a bodiless sylph on the one hand; on the other a gross carnal monster, like the miltonic asmodai, "the fleshliest incubus" among the fiends, and yet so far ennobled into interest by his intellectual power, and by the grandeur of misanthropy! [endnote: ] in the _midsummer-night's dream_, again, we have the old traditional fairy, a lovely mode of preternatural life, remodified by shakspeare's eternal talisman. oberon and titania remind us at first glance of ariel. they approach, but how far they recede. they are like--"like, but, oh, how different!" and in no other exhibition of this dreamy population of the moonlight forests and forest-lawns, are the circumstantial proprieties of fairy life so exquisitely imagined, sustained, or expressed. the dialogue between oberon and titania is, of itself, and taken separately from its connection, one of the most delightful poetic scenes that literature affords. the witches in macbeth are another variety of supernatural life, in which shakspeare's power to enchant and to disenchant are alike portentous. the circumstances of the blasted heath, the army at a distance, the withered attire of the mysterious hags, and the choral litanies of their fiendish sabbath, are as finely imagined in their kind as those which herald and which surround the ghost in hamlet. there we see the _positive_ of shakspeare's superior power. but now turn and look to the _negative_. at a time when the trials of witches, the royal book on demonology, and popular superstition (all so far useful, as they prepared a basis of undoubting faith for the poet's serious use of such agencies) had degraded and polluted the ideas of these mysterious beings by many mean associations, shakspeare does not fear to employ them in high tragedy, (a tragedy moreover which, though not the very greatest of his efforts as an intellectual whole, nor as a struggle of passion, is _among_ the greatest in any view, and positively _the_ greatest for scenical grandeur, and in that respect makes the nearest approach of all english tragedies to the grecian model;) he does not fear to introduce, for the same appalling effect as that for which aeschylus introduced the eumenides, a triad of old women, concerning whom an english wit has remarked this grotesque peculiarity in the popular creed of that day,--that although potent over winds and storms, in league with powers of darkness, they yet stood in awe of the constable,--yet relying on his own supreme power to disenchant as well as to enchant, to create and to uncreate, he mixes these women and their dark machineries with the power of armies, with the agencies of kings, and the fortunes of martial kingdoms. such was the sovereignty of this poet, so mighty its compass! a third fund of shakspeare's peculiar power lies in his teeming fertility of fine thoughts and sentiments. from his works alone might be gathered a golden bead-roll of thoughts the deepest, subtilest, most pathetic, and yet most catholic and universally intelligible; the most characteristic, also, and appropriate to the particular person, the situation, and the case, yet, at the same time, applicable to the circumstances of every human being, under all the accidents of life, and all vicissitudes of fortune. but this subject offers so vast a field of observation, it being so eminently the prerogative of shakspeare to have thought more finely and more extensively than all other poets combined, that we cannot wrong the dignity of such a theme by doing more, in our narrow limits, than simply noticing it as one of the emblazonries upon shakspeare's shield. fourthly, we shall indicate (and, as in the last case, _barely_ indicate, without attempting in so vast a field to offer any inadequate illustrations) one mode of shakspeare's dramatic excellence, which hitherto has not attracted any special or separate notice. we allude to the forms of life, and natural human passion, as apparent in the structure of his dialogue. among the many defects and infirmities of the french and of the italian drama, indeed, we may say of the greek, the dialogue proceeds always by independent speeches, replying indeed to each other, but never modified in its several openings by the momentary effect of its several terminal forms immediately preceding. now, in shakspeare, who first set an example of that most important innovation, in all his impassioned dialogues, each reply or rejoinder seems the mere rebound of the previous speech. every form of natural interruption, breaking through the restraints of ceremony under the impulses of tempestuous passion; every form of hasty interrogative, ardent reiteration when a question has been evaded; every form of scornful repetition of the hostile words; every impatient continuation of the hostile statement; in short, all modes and formulae by which anger, hurry, fretfulness, scorn, impatience, or excitement under any movement whatever, can disturb or modify or dislocate the formal bookish style of commencement, --these are as rife in shakspeare's dialogue as in life itself; and how much vivacity, how profound a verisimilitude, they add to the scenic effect as an imitation of human passion and real life, we need not say. a volume might be written illustrating the vast varieties of shakspeare's art and power in this one field of improvement; another volume might be dedicated to the exposure of the lifeless and unnatural result from the opposite practice in the foreign stages of france and italy. and we may truly say, that were shakspeare distinguished from them by this single feature of nature and propriety, he would on that account alone have merited a great immortality. the dramatic works of shakspeare generally acknowledged to be genuine consist of thirty-five pieces. the following is the chronological order in which they are supposed to have been written, according to mr. malone, as given in his second edition of shakspeare, and by mr. george chalmers in his supplemental apology for the believers in the shakspeare papers: chalmers. malone. . the comedy of errors, . love's labors lost, . romeo and juliet, . henry vi., the first part, . henry vi., the second part, . henry vl, the third part, . the two gentlemen of verona, . richard iii., . richard ii, . the merry wives of windsor, . henry iv., the first part, . henry iv., the second part, . henry v., . the merchant of venice, . hamlet, . king john, . a midsummer-night's dream, . the taming of the shrew, . all's well that ends well, . much ado about nothing, . as you like it, . troilus and cressida, . timon of athens, . the winter's tale, . measure for measure, . king lear, . cymbeline, . macbeth, . julius caesar, . antony and cleopatra, . coriolanus, . the tempest, . the twelfth night, . henry viii., . othello, pericles and titus andronicus, although inserted in all the late editions of shakspeare's plays, are omitted in the above list, both by malone and chalmers, as not being shakspeare's. the first edition of the works was published in , in a folio volume, entitled mr. william shakspeare's comedies, histories, and tragedies. the second edition was published in , the third in , and the fourth in , all in folio; but the edition of is considered the most authentic. rowe published an edition in seven vols. vo, in . editions were published by pope, in six vols. to, in ; by warburton, in eight vols. vo, in ; by dr. johnson, in eight vols. vo, in ; by stevens, in four vols. vo, in ; by malone, in ten vols. vo, in ; by alexander chalmers, in nine vols. vo, in ; by johnson and stevens, revised by isaac reed, in twenty-one vols. vo, in ; and the plays and poems, with notes by malone, were edited by james boswell, and published in twenty-one vols. vo, in . besides these, numerous editions have been published from time to time. notes. note . mr. campbell, the latest editor of shakspeare's dramatic works, observes that "the poet's name has been variously written shax-peare, shackspeare, shakspeare, and shakspere;" to which varieties might be added shagspere, from the worcester marriage license, published in . but the fact is, that by combining with all the differences in spelling the first syllable, all those in spelling the second, more than twenty-five distinct varieties of the name may be expanded, (like an algebraic series,) for the choice of the curious in mis-spelling. above all things, those varieties which arise from the intercalation of the middle _e, _(that is, the _e_ immediately before the final syllable _spear,_) can never be overlooked by those who remember, at the opening of the dunciad, the note upon this very question about the orthography of shakspeare's name, as also upon the other great question about the title of the immortal satire, whether it ought not to have been the dunceiade, seeing that dunce, its great author and progenitor, cannot possibly dispense with the letter _e._ meantime we must remark, that the first three of mr. campbell's variations are mere caprices of the press; as is shagspere; or, more probably, this last euphonious variety arose out of the gross clownish pronunciation of the two hiccuping _"marksmen"_ who rode over to worcester for the license; and one cannot forbear laughing at the bishop's secretary for having been so misled by two varlets, professedly incapable of signing their own names. the same drunken villains had cut down the bride's name _hathaway_ into _hathwey._ finally, to treat the matter with seriousness, sir frederick madden has shown, in his recent letter to the society of antiquaries, that the poet himself in all probability _wrote_ the name uniformly _shakspere._ orthography, both of proper names, of appellatives, and of words universally, was very unsettled up to a period long subsequent to that of shakspeare. still it must usually have happened that names written variously and laxly by others, would be written uniformly by the owners; especially by those owners who had occasion to sign their names frequently, and by literary people, whose attention was often, as well as consciously, directed to the proprieties of spelling. _shakspeare_ is now too familiar to the eye for any alteration to be attempted; but it is pretty certain that sir frederick madden is right in stating the poet's own signature to have been uniformly _shakspere._ it is so written twice in the course of his will, and it is so written on a blank leaf of florio's english translation of montaigne's essays; a book recently discovered, and sold, on account of its autograph, for a hundred guineas. note . but, as a proof that, even in the case of royal christenings, it was not thought pious to "tempt god," as it were, by delay, edward vi., the only son of henry viii., was born on the th day of october in the year . and there was a delay on account of the sponsors, since the birth was not in london. yet how little that delay was made, may be seen by this fact: the birth took place in the dead of the night, the day was friday; and yet, in spite of all delay, the christening was most pompously celebrated on the succeeding monday. and prince arthur, the elder brother of henry viii., was christened on the very next sunday succeeding to his birth, notwithstanding an inevitable delay, occasioned by the distance of lord oxford, his godfather, and the excessive rains, which prevented the earl being reached by couriers, or himself reaching winchester, without extraordinary exertions. note . a great modern poet refers to this very case of music entering "the mouldy chambers of the dull idiot's brain;" but in support of what seems to us a baseless hypothesis. note . probably addison's fear of the national feeling was a good deal strengthened by his awe of milton and of dryden, both of whom had expressed a homage towards shakspeare which language cannot transcend. amongst his political friends also were many intense admirers of shakspeare. note . he who is weak enough to kick and spurn his own native literature, even if it were done with more knowledge than is shown by lord shaftesbury, will usually be kicked and spurned in his turn; and accordingly it has been often remarked, that the characteristics are unjustly neglected in our days. for lord shaftesbury, with all his pedantry, was a man of great talents. leibnitz had the sagacity to see this through the mists of a translation. note . perhaps the most bitter political enemy of charles i. will have the candor to allow that, for a prince of those times, he was truly and eminently accomplished. his knowledge of the arts was considerable; and, as a patron of art, he stands foremost amongst all british sovereigns to this hour. he said truly of himself, and wisely as to the principle, that he understood english law as well as a gentleman ought to understand it; meaning that an attorney's minute knowledge of forms and technical niceties was illiberal. speaking of him as an author, we must remember that the _eikon basilike_ is still unappropriated; that question is still open. but supposing the king's claim negatived, still, in his controversy with henderson, in his negotiations at the isle of wight and elsewhere, he discovered a power of argument, a learning, and a strength of memory, which are truly admirable; whilst the whole of his accomplishments are recommended by a modesty and a humility as rare as they are unaffected. note . the necessity of compression obliges us to omit many arguments and references by which we could demonstrate the fact, that shakspeare's reputation was always in a progressive state; allowing only for the interruption of about seventeen years, which this poet, in common with all others, sustained, not so much from the state of war, (which did not fully occupy four of those years,) as from the triumph of a gloomy fanaticism. deduct the twenty-three years of the seventeenth century, which had elapsed before the first folio appeared, to this space add seventeen years of fanatical madness, during fourteen of which _all_ dramatic entertainments were suppressed, the remainder is sixty years. and surely the sale of four editions of a vast folio in that space of time was an expression of an abiding interest. _no other poet, except spenser, continued to sell throughout the century_. besides, in arguing the case of a _dramatic_ poet, we must bear in mind, that although readers of learned books might be diffused over the face of the land, the readers of poetry would be chiefly concentred in the metropolis; and such persons would have no need to buy what they heard at the theatres. but then comes the question, whether shakspeare kept possession of the theatres. and we are really humiliated by the gross want of sense which has been shown, by malone chiefly, but also by many others, in discussing this question. from the restoration to , says malone, no more than four plays of shakspeare's were performed by a principal company in london. "such was the lamentable taste of those times, that the plays of fletcher, jonson, and shirley, were much oftener exhibited than those of our author." what cant is this! if that taste were "lamentable," what are we to think of our own times, when plays a thousand times below those of fletcher, or even of shirley, continually displace shakspeare? shakspeare would himself have exulted in finding that he gave way only to dramatists so excellent. and, as we have before observed, both then and now, it is the very familiarity with shakspeare, which often banishes him from audiences honestly in quest of relaxation and amusement. novelty is the very soul of such relaxation; but in our closets, when we are _not_ unbending, when our minds are in a state of tension from intellectual cravings, then it is that we resort to shakspeare; and oftentimes those who honor him most, like ourselves, are the most impatient of seeing his divine scenes disfigured by unequal representation, (good, perhaps, in a single personation, bad in all the rest;) or to hear his divine thoughts mangled in the recitation; or, (which is worst of all,) to hear them dishonored and defeated by imperfect apprehension in the audience, or by defective sympathy. meantime, if one theatre played only four of shakspeare's dramas, another played at least seven. but the grossest folly of malone is, in fancying the numerous alterations so many insults to shakspeare, whereas they expressed as much homage to his memory as if the unaltered dramas had been retained. the substance _was_ retained. the changes were merely concessions to the changing views of scenical propriety; sometimes, no doubt, made with a simple view to the revolution effected by davenant at the restoration, in bringing _scenes_(in the painter's sense) upon the stage; sometimes also with a view to the altered fashions of the audience during the suspensions of the action, or perhaps to the introduction of _after-pieces,_ by which, of course, the time was abridged for the main performance. a volume might be written upon this subject. meantime let us never be told, that a poet was losing, or had lost his ground, who found in his lowest depression, amongst his almost idolatrous supporters, a great king distracted by civil wars, a mighty republican poet distracted by puritanical fanaticism, the greatest successor by far of that great poet, a papist and a bigoted royalist, and finally, the leading actor of the century, who gave and reflected the ruling impulses of his age. note . one of the profoundest tests by which we can measure the congeniality of an author with the national genius and temper, is the degree in which his thoughts or his phrases interweave themselves with our daily conversation, and pass into the currency of the language. _few french authors, if any, have imparted one phrase to the colloquial idiom;_ with respect to shakspeare, a large dictionary might be made of such phrases as "win golden opinions," "in my mind's eye," "patience on a monument," "o'erstep the modesty of nature," "more honor'd in the breach than in the observance," "palmy state," "my poverty and not my will consents, "and so forth, without end. this reinforcement of the general language, by aids from the mintage of shakspeare, had already commenced in the seventeenth century. note . in fact, by way of representing to himself the system or scheme of the english roads, the reader has only to imagine one great letter x, or a st. andrew's cross, laid down from north to south, and decussating at birmingham. even coventry, which makes a slight variation for one or two roads, and so far disturbs this decussation, by shifting it eastwards, is still in warwickshire. note . and probably so called by some remote ancestor who had emigrated from the forest of ardennes, in the netherlands, and _now_ for ever memorable to english ears from its proximity to waterloo. note . let not the reader impute to us the gross anachronism of making an estimate for shakspeare's days in a coin which did not exist until a century, within a couple of years, after shakspeare's birth, and did not settle to the value of twenty-one shillings until a century after his death. the nerve of such an anachronism would lie in putting the estimate into a mouth of that age. and this is precisely the blunder into which the foolish forger of vortigern, &c., has fallen. he does not indeed directly mention guineas; but indirectly and virtually he does, by repeatedly giving us accounts imputed to shakspearian contemporaries, in which the sum total amounts to l s.; or to l s.; or, again, to l s. d. a man is careful to subscribe l s. and so forth. but how could such amounts have arisen unless under a secret reference to guineas, which were not in existence until charles ii.'s reign; and, moreover, to guineas at their final settlement by law into twenty-one shillings each, which did not take place until george i. 's reign. note . thomas campbell, the poet, in his eloquent remarks on the life and writings of william shakspeare, prefixed to a popular edition of the poet's dramatic works. london, . note . after all the assistance given to such equations between different times or different places by sir george shuckborough's tables, and other similar investigations, it is still a very difficult problem, complex, and, after all, merely tentative in the results, to assign the true value in such cases; not only for the obvious reason, that the powers of money have varied in different directions with regard to different objects, and in different degrees where the direction has on the whole continued the same, but because the very objects to be taken into computation are so indeterminate, and vary so much, not only as regards century and century, kingdom and kingdom, but also, even in the same century and the same kingdom, as regards rank and rank. that which is a mere necessary to one, is a luxurious superfluity to another. and, in order to ascertain these differences, it is an indispensable qualification to have studied the habits and customs of the several classes concerned, together with the variations of those habits and customs. note . never was the _esse quain videri_ in any point more strongly discriminated than in this very point of gallantry to the female sex, as between england and france. in france, the verbal homage to woman is so excessive as to betray its real purpose, viz. that it is a mask for secret contempt. in england, little is said; but, in the mean time, we allow our sovereign ruler to be a woman; which in france is impossible. even that fact is of some importance, but less so than what follows. in every country whatsoever, if any principle has a deep root in the moral feelings of the people, we may rely upon its showing itself, by a thousand evidences amongst the very lowest ranks, and in their daily intercourse, and their _undress_ manners. now in england there is, and always has been, a manly feeling, most widely diffused, of unwillingness to see labors of a coarse order, or requiring muscular exertions, thrown upon women. pauperism, amongst other evil effects, has sometimes locally disturbed this predominating sentiment of englishmen; but never at any time with such depth as to kill the root of the old hereditary manliness. sometimes at this day a gentleman, either from carelessness, or from overruling force of convenience, or from real defect of gallantry, will allow a female servant to carry his portmanteau for him; though, after all, that spectacle is a rare one. and everywhere women of all ages engage in the pleasant, nay elegant, labors of the hay field; but in great britain women are never suffered to mow, which is a most athletic and exhausting labor, nor to load a cart, nor to drive a plough or hold it. in france, on the other hand, before the revolution, (at which period the pseudo-homage, the lip-honor, was far more ostentatiously professed towards the female sex than at present,) a frenchman of credit, and vouching for his statement by the whole weight of his name and personal responsibility, (m simond, now an american citizen,) records the following abominable scene as one of no uncommon occurrence. a woman was in some provinces yoked side by side with an ass to the plough or the harrow; and m. simond protests that it excited no horror to see the driver distributing his lashes impartially between the woman and her brute yoke-fellow. so much for the wordy pomps of french gallantry. in england, we trust, and we believe, that any man, caught in such a situation, and in such an abuse of his power, (supposing the case, otherwise a possible one,) would be killed on the spot. note . amongst people of humble rank in england, who only were ever asked in church, until the new-fangled systems of marriage came up within the last ten or fifteen years, during the currency of the three sundays on which the banns were proclaimed by the clergyman from the reading desk, the young couple elect were said jocosely to le "hanging in the bell-ropes;" alluding perhaps to the joyous peal contingent on the final completion of the marriage. note . in a little memoir of milton, which the author of this article drew up some years ago for a public society, and which is printed in an abridged shape, he took occasion to remark, that dr. johnson, who was meanly anxious to revive this slander against milton, as well as some others, had supposed milton himself to have this flagellation in his mind, and indirectly to confess it, in one of his latin poems, where, speaking of cambridge, and declaring that he has no longer any pleasure in the thoughts of revisiting that university, he says, "nee duri libet usque minas preferre magislri, coeteraque ingenio non subeunda meo." this last line the malicious critic would translate--"and other things insufferable to a man of my temper." but, as we then observed, _ingenium_ is properly expressive of the _intellectual _ constitution, whilst it is the _moral_ constitution that suffers degradation from personal chastisement--the sense of honor, of personal dignity, of justice, &c. _indoles_ is the proper term for this latter idea; and in using the word _ingenium,_ there cannot be a doubt that milton alluded to the dry scholastic disputations, which were shocking and odious to his fine poetical genius. if, therefore, the vile story is still to be kept up in order to dishonor a great man, at any rate let it not in future be pretended that any countenance to such a slander can be drawn from the confessions of the poet himself. note . and singular enough it is, as well as interesting, that shakspeare had so entirely superseded to his own ear and memory the name hamnet by the dramatic name of hamlet, that in writing his will, he actually mis-spells the name of his friend sadler, and calls him hamlet. his son, however, who should have familiarized the true name to his ear, had then been dead for twenty years. note . "i have heard that mr. shakspeare was a natural wit, without any art at all. hee frequented the plays all his younger time, but in his elder days lived at stanford, and supplied the stage with two plays every year, and for it had an allowance so large, that he spent at the rate of , guineas a-year, as i have heard. shakespeare, dray ton, arid ben jonson, had a merie meeting, and it seems drank too hard, for shakespear died of a feavour there contracted" (diary of the rev john ward, a m vicar of stratford upon avon, extending from to , p lond. , vo) note . it is naturally to be supposed that dr hall would attend the sick bed of his father in law, and the discovery of this gentleman's medical diary promised some gratification to our curiosity as to the cause of shakspeare's death. unfortunately, it does not commence until the year . note . an exception ought perhaps to be made for sir walter scott and for cervantes, but with regard to all other writers, dante, suppose, or anosto amongst italians, camoens amongst those of portugal, schiller amongst germans, however ably they may have been naturalized in foreign languages, as all of those here mentioned (excepting only anosto) have in one part of their works been most powerfully naturalized in english, it still remains true, (and the very sale of the books is proof sufficient,) that an alien author never does take root in the general sympathies out of his own country, he takes his station in libraries, he is lead by the man of learned leisure, he is known and valued by the refined and the elegant, but he is not (what shakspeare is for germany and america) in any proper sense a _popular_ favorite. note . it will occur to many readers, that perhaps homer may furnish the sole exception to this sweeping assertion. any _but_ homer is clearly and ludicrously below the level of the competition, but even homer "with his tail on," (as the scottish highlanders say of then chieftains when belted by their ceremonial retinues,) musters nothing like the force which _already_ follows shakspeare, and be it remembered, that homer sleeps and has long slept as a subject of criticism or commentary, while in germany as well as england, and _now even in france_, the gathering of wits to the vast equipage of shakspeare is advancing in an accelerated ratio. there is, in fact, a great delusion current upon this subject. innumerable references to homer, and brief critical remarks on this or that pretension of homer, this or that scene, this or that passage, lie scattered over literature ancient and modern; but the express works dedicated to the separate service of homer are, after all, not many. in greek we have only the large commentary of eustathius, and the scholia of didymus, &c.; in french little or nothing before the prose translation of the seventeenth century, which pope esteemed "elegant, "and the skirmishings of madame dacier, la motte, &c.; in english, besides the various translations and their prefaces, (which, by the way, began as early as ,) nothing of much importance until the elaborate preface of pope to the iliad, and his elaborate postscript to the odyssey--nothing certainly before that, and very little indeed since that, except wood's essay on the life and genius of homer. on the other hand, of the books written in illustration or investigation of shakspeare, a very considerable library might be formed in england, and another in germany. note . apartment is here used, as the reader will observe, in its true and continental acceptation, as a division or _compartment_ of a house including many rooms; a suite of chambers, but a suite which is partitioned off, (as in palaces,) not a single chamber; a sense so commonly and so erroneously given to this word in england. note . and hence, by parity of reason, under the opposite circumstances, under the circumstances which, instead of abolishing, most emphatically drew forth the sexual distinctions, viz., in the _comic_ aspects of social intercourse, the reason that we see no women on the greek stage; the greek comedy, unless when it affects the extravagant fun of farce, rejects women. note . it may be thought, however, by some readers, that aeschylus, in his fine phantom of darius, has approached the english ghost. as a foreign ghost, we would wish (and we are sure that our excellent readers would wish) to show every courtesy and attention to this apparition of darius. it has the advantage of being royal, an advantage which it shares with the ghost of the royal dane. yet how different, how removed by a total world, from that or any of shakspeare's ghosts! take that of banquo, for instance. how shadowy, how unreal, yet how real! darius is a mere state ghost--a diplomatic ghost. but banquo--he exists only for macbeth; the guests do not see him, yet how solemn, how real, how heart--searching he is. note . caliban has not yet been thoroughly fathomed. for all shakspeare's great creations are like works of nature, subjects of unexhaustible study. it was this character of whom charles i. and some of his ministers expressed such fervent admiration; and, among other circumstances, most justly they admired the new language almost with which he is endowed, for the purpose of expressing his fiendish and yet carnal thoughts of hatred to his master. caliban is evidently not meant for scorn, but for abomination mixed with fear and partial respect. he is purposely brought into contrast with the drunken trinculo and stephano, with an advantageous result. he is much more intellectual than either, uses a more elevated language, not disfigured by vulgarisms, and is not liable to the low passion for plunder as they are. he is mortal, doubtless, as his "dam" (for shakspeare will not call her mother) sycorax. but he inherits from her such qualities of power as a witch could be supposed to bequeath. he trembles indeed before prospero; but that is, as we are to understand, through the moral superiority of prospero in christian wisdom; for when he finds himself in the presence of dissolute and unprincipled men, he rises at once into the dignity of intellectual power. pope. alexander lexander pope, the most brilliant of all wits who have at any period applied themselves to the poetic treatment of human manners, to the selecting from the play of human character what is picturesque, or the arresting what is fugitive, was born in the city of london on the st day of may, in the memorable year ; about six months, therefore, before the landing of the prince of orange, and the opening of that great revolution which gave the final ratification to all previous revolutions of that tempestuous century. by the "city" of london the reader is to understand us as speaking with technical accuracy of that district, which lies within the ancient walls and the jurisdiction of the lord mayor. the parents of pope, there is good reason to think, were of "gentle blood," which is the expression of the poet himself when describing them in verse. his mother was so undoubtedly; and her illustrious son, in speaking of her to lord harvey, at a time when any exaggeration was open to an easy refutation, and writing in a spirit most likely to provoke it, does not scruple to say, with a tone of dignified haughtiness not unbecoming the situation of a filial champion on behalf of an insulted mother, that by birth and descent she was not below that young lady, (one of the two beautiful miss lepels,) whom his lordship had selected from all the choir of court beauties as the future mother of his children. of pope's extraction and immediate lineage for a space of two generations we know enough. beyond that we know little. of this little a part is dubious; and what we are disposed to receive as _not_ dubious, rests chiefly on his own authority. in the prologue to his satires, having occasion to notice the lampooners of the times, who had represented his father as "a mechanic, a hatter, a farmer, nay a bankrupt," he feels himself called upon to state the truth about his parents; and naturally much more so at a time when the low scurrilities of these obscure libellers had been adopted, accredited, and diffused by persons so distinguished in all points of personal accomplishment and rank as lady mary wortley montagu and lord harvey: _"hard as thy heart"_ was one of the lines in their joint pasquinade, _" hard as thy heart, and as thy birth obscure."_ accordingly he makes the following formal statement: "mr. pope's father was of a gentleman's family in oxfordshire, the head of which was the earl of downe. his mother was the daughter of william turner, esq., of york. she had three brothers, one of whom was killed; another died in the service of king charles [meaning charles i.]; the eldest, following his fortunes, and becoming a general officer in spain, left _her_ what estate remained after the sequestrations and forfeitures of her family." the sequestrations here spoken of were those inflicted by the commissioners for the parliament; and usually they levied a fifth, or even two fifths, according to the apparent delinquency of the parties. but in such cases two great differences arose in the treatment of the royalists; first, that the report was colored according to the interest which a man possessed, or other private means for biassing the commissioners; secondly, that often, when money could not be raised on mortgage to meet the sequestration, it became necessary to sell a family estate suddenly, and. therefore in those times at great loss; so that a nominal fifth might be depressed by favor to a tenth, or raised by the necessity of selling to a half. and hence might arise the small dowry of mrs. pope, notwithstanding the family estate in yorkshire had centred in her person. but, by the way, we see from the fact of the eldest brother having sought service in spain, that mrs. pope was a papist; not, like her husband, by conversion, but by hereditary faith. this account, as publicly thrown out in the way of challenge by pope, was, however, sneered at by a certain mr. pottinger of those days, who, together with his absurd name, has been safely transmitted to posterity in connection with this single feat of having contradicted alexander pope. we read in a diary published by the microcosm," _met a large hat, with a man under it_. "and so, here, we cannot so properly say that mr. pottinger brings down the contradiction to our times, as that the contradiction brings down mr. pottinger." cousin pope, "said pottinger," had made himself out a fine pedigree, but he wondered where he got it. "and he then goes on to plead in abatement of pope's pretensions," that an old maiden aunt, equally related," (that is, standing in the same relation to himself and to the poet,) "a great genealogist, who was always talking of her family, never mentioned this circumstance." and again we are told, from another quarter, that the earl of guildford, after express investigation of this matter, "was sure that," amongst the descendants of the earls of downe, "there was none of the name of pope." how it was that lord guildford came to have any connection with the affair, is not stated by the biographers of pope; but we have ascertained that, by marriage with a female descendant from the earls of downe, he had come into possession of their english estates. finally, though it is rather for the honor of the earls of downe than of pope to make out the connection, we must observe that lord guildford's testimony, _if ever given at all_, is simply negative; he had found no proofs of the connection, but he had not found any proofs to destroy it; whilst, on the other hand, it ought to be mentioned, though unaccountably overlooked by all previous biographers, that one of pope's anonymous enemies, who hated him personally, but was apparently master of his family history, and too honorable to belie his own convictions, expressly affirms of his own authority, and without reference to any claim put forward by pope, that he was descended from a junior branch of the downe family. which testimony has a double value; first, as corroborating the probability of pope's statement viewed in the light of a fact; and, secondly, as corroborating that same statement viewed in the light of a current story, true or false, and not as a disingenuous fiction put forward by pope to confute lord harvey. it is probable to us, that the popes, who had been originally transplanted from england to ireland, had in the person of some cadet been re-transplanted to england; and that having in that way been disconnected from all personal recognition, and all local memorials of the capital house, by this sort of _postliminium_, the junior branch had ceased to cherish the honor of a descent which was now divided from all direct advantage. at all events, the researches of pope's biographers have not been able to trace him farther back in the paternal line than to his grandfather; and he (which is odd enough, considering the popery of his descendants) was a clergyman of the established church in hampshire. this grandfather had two sons. of the eldest nothing is recorded beyond the three facts, that he went to oxford, that he died there, and that he spent the family estate. [endnote: ] the younger son, whose name was alexander, had been sent when young, in some commercial character, to lisbon; [endnote: ] and there it was, in that centre of bigotry, that he became a sincere and most disinterested catholic. he returned to england; married a catholic young widow; and became the father of a second alexander pope, _ultra sauromatas notus et antipodes._ by his own account to spence, pope learned "very early to read;" and writing he taught himself "by copying, from printed books;" all which seems to argue, that, as an only child, with an indolent father and a most indulgent mother, he was not molested with much schooling in his infancy. only one adventure is recorded of his childhood, viz., that he was attacked by a cow, thrown down, and wounded in the throat. pope escaped this disagreeable kind of vaccination without serious injury, and was not farther tormented by cows or schoolmasters until he was about eight years old, when the family priest, that is, we presume, the confessor of his parents, taught him, agreeably to the jesuit system, the rudiments of greek and latin concurrently. this priest was named banister; and his name is frequently employed, together with other fictitious names, by way of signature to the notes in the dunciad, an artifice which was adopted for the sake of giving a characteristic variety to the notes, according to the tone required for the illustration of the text. from his tuition pope was at length dismissed to a catholic school at twyford, near winchester. the selection of a school in this neighborhood, though certainly the choice of a catholic family was much limited, points apparently to the old hampshire connection of his father. here an incident occurred which most powerfully illustrates the original and constitutional determination to satire of this irritable poet. he knew himself so accurately, that in after times, half by way of boast, half of confession, he says, "but touch me, and no minister so sore: whoe'er offends, at some unlucky time slides into verse and hitches in a rhyme, sacred to ridicule his whole life long, and the sad burthen of some merry song." already, it seems, in childhood he had the same irresistible instinct, victorious over the strongest sense of personal danger. he wrote a bitter satire upon the presiding pedagogue, was brutally punished for this youthful indiscretion, and indignantly removed by his parents from the school. mr. roscoe speaks of pope's personal experience as necessarily unfavorable to public schools; but in reality he knew nothing of public schools. all the establishments for papists were narrow, and suited to their political depression; and his parents were too sincerely anxious for their son's religious principles to risk the contagion of protestant association by sending him elsewhere. from the scene [endnote: ] of his disgrace and illiberal punishment, he passed, according to the received accounts, under the tuition of several other masters in rapid succession. but it is the less necessary to trouble the reader with their names, as pope himself assures us, that he learned nothing from any of them. to banister he had been indebted for such trivial elements of a schoolboy's learning as he possessed at all, excepting those which he had taught himself. and upon himself it was, and his own admirable faculties, that he was now finally thrown for the rest of his education, at an age so immature that many boys are then first entering their academic career. pope is supposed to have been scarcely twelve years old when he assumed the office of self-tuition, and bade farewell for ever to schools and tutors. such a phenomenon is at any rate striking. it is the more so, under the circumstances which attended the plan, and under the results which justified its execution. it seems, as regards the plan, hardly less strange that prudent parents should have acquiesced in a scheme of so much peril to his intellectual interests, than that the son, as regards the execution, should have justified their confidence by his final success. more especially this confidence surprises us in the father. a doating mother might shut her eyes to all remote evils in the present gratification to her affections; but pope's father was a man of sense and principle; he must have weighed the risks besetting a boy left to his own intellectual guidance; and to these risks he would allow the more weight from his own conscious defect of scholarship and inability to guide or even to accompany his son's studies. he could neither direct the proper choice of studies; nor in any one study taken separately could he suggest the proper choice of books. the case we apprehend to have been this. alexander pope, the elder, was a man of philosophical desires and unambitious character. quiet and seclusion and innocence of life,--these were what he affected for himself; and that which had been found available for his own happiness, he might reasonably wish for his son. the two hinges upon which his plans may be supposed to have turned, were, first, the political degradation of his sect; and, secondly, the fact that his son was an only child. had he been a protestant, or had he, though a papist, been burthened with a large family of children, he would doubtless have pursued a different course. but to him, and, as he sincerely hoped, to his son, the strife after civil honors was sternly barred. apostasy only could lay it open. and, as the sentiments of honor and duty in this point fell in with the vices of his temperament, high principle concurring with his constitutional love of ease, we need not wonder that he should early retire from commerce with a very moderate competence, or that he should suppose the same fortune sufficient for one who was to stand in the same position. this son was from his birth deformed. that made it probable that he might not marry. if he should, and happened to have children, a small family would find an adequate provision in the patrimonial funds; and a large one at the worst could only throw him upon the same commercial exertions to which he had been obliged himself. the roman catholics, indeed, were just then situated as our modern quakers are. law to the one, as conscience to the other, closed all modes of active employment except that of commercial industry. either his son, therefore, would be a rustic recluse, or, like himself, he would be a merchant. with such prospects, what need of an elaborate education? and where was such an education to be sought? at the petty establishments of the suffering catholics, the instruction, as he had found experimentally, was poor. at the great national establishments his son would be a degraded person; one who was permanently repelled from every arena of honor, and sometimes, as in cases of public danger, was banished from the capital, deprived of his house, left defenceless against common ruffians, and rendered liable to the control of every village magistrate. to one in these circumstances solitude was the wisest position, and the best qualification, for that was an education that would furnish aids to solitary thought. no need for brilliant accomplishments to him who must never display them; forensic arts, pulpit erudition, senatorial eloquence, academical accomplishments--these would be lost to one against whom the courts, the pulpit, the senate, the universities, were closed. nay, by possibility worse than lost; they might prove so many snares or positive bribes to apostasy. plain english, therefore, and the high thinking of his compatriot authors, might prove the best provision for the mind of an english papist destined to seclusion. such are the considerations under which we read and interpret the conduct of pope's parents; and they lead us to regard as wise and conscientious a scheme which, under ordinary circumstances, would have been pitiably foolish. and be it remembered, that to these considerations, derived exclusively from the civil circumstances of the family, were superadded others derived from the astonishing prematurity of the individual. that boy who could write at twelve years of age the beautiful and touching stanzas on solitude, might well be trusted with the superintendence of his own studies. and the stripling of sixteen, who could so far transcend in good sense the accomplished statesmen or men of the world with whom he afterwards corresponded, might challenge confidence for such a choice of books as would best promote the development of his own faculties. in reality, one so finely endowed as alexander pope, could not easily lose his way in the most extensive or ill-digested library. and though he tells atterbury, that at one time he abused his opportunities by reading controversial divinity, we may be sure that his own native activities, and the elasticity of his mind, would speedily recoil into a just equilibrium of study, under wider and happier opportunities. reading, indeed, for a person like pope, is rather valuable as a means of exciting his own energies, and of feeding his own sensibilities, than for any direct acquisitions of knowledge, or for any trains of systematic research. all men are destined to devour much rubbish between the cradle and the grave; and doubtless the man who is wisest in the choice of his books, will have read many a page before he dies that a thoughtful review would pronounce worthless. this is the fate of all men. but the reading of pope, as a general result or measure of his judicious choice, is best justified in his writings. they show him well furnished with whatsoever he wanted for matter or for embellishment, for argument or illustration, for example and model, or for direct and explicit imitation. possibly, as we have already suggested, within the range of english literature pope might have found all that he wanted. but variety the widest has its uses; and, for the extension of his influence with the polished classes amongst whom he lived, he did wisely to add other languages; and a question has thus arisen with regard to the extent of pope's attainments as a self-taught linguist. a man, or even a boy, of great originality, may happen to succeed best, in working his own native mines of thought, by his unassisted energies. here it is granted that a tutor, a guide, or even a companion, may be dispensed with, and even beneficially. but in the case of foreign languages, in attaining this machinery of literature, though anomalies even here do arise, and men there are, like joseph scaliger, who form their own dictionaries and grammars in the mere process of reading an unknown language, by far the major part of students will lose their time by rejecting the aid of tutors. as there has been much difference of opinion with regard to pope's skill in languages, we shall briefly collate and bring into one focus the stray notices. as to the french, voltaire, who knew pope personally, declared that he "could hardly _read_ it, and spoke not one syllable of the language." but perhaps voltaire might dislike pope? on the contrary, he was acquainted with his works, and admired them to the very level of their merits. speaking of him _after death_ to frederick of prussia, he prefers him to horace and boileau, asserting that, by comparison with _them_, "pope _approfondit_ ce qu'ils ont _effleura_. d'un esprit plus hardi, d'un pas plus assure, il porta le flambeau dans l'abeme de l'otre; et l'homme _avec lui seul_ apprit a se connoetre. l'art quelquefois frivole, et quelquefois divine, l'art des vers est dans pope utile au genre humain." this is not a wise account of pope, for it does not abstract the characteristic feature of his power; but it is a very kind one. and of course voltaire could not have meant any unkindness in denying his knowledge of french. but he was certainly wrong. pope, in _his_ presence, would decline to speak or to read a language of which the pronunciation was confessedly beyond him. or, if he did, the impression left would be still worse. in fact, no man ever will pronounce or talk a language which he does not use, for some part of every day, in the real intercourse of life. but that pope read french of an ordinary cast with fluency enough, is evident from the extensive use which he made of madame dacier's labors on the iliad, and still more of la valterie's prose translation of the iliad. already in the year , and long before his personal knowledge of voltaire, pope had shown his accurate acquaintance with some voluminous french authors, in a way which, we suspect, was equally surprising and offensive to his noble correspondent. the duke of buckingham [endnote: ] had addressed to pope a letter, containing some account of the controversy about homer, which had then been recently carried on in france between la motte and madame dacier. this account was delivered with an air of teaching, which was very little in harmony with its excessive shallowness. pope, who sustained the part of pupil in this interlude, replied in a manner that exhibited a knowledge of the parties concerned in the controversy much superior to that of the duke. in particular, he characterized the excellent notes upon horace of m. dacier, the husband, in very just terms, as distinguished from those of his conceited and half-learned wife; and the whole reply of pope seems very much as though he had been playing off a mystification on his grace. undoubtedly the pompous duke felt that he had caught a tartar. now m. dacier's horace, which, with the text, fills nine volumes, pope could not have read _except_ in french; for they are not even yet translated into english. besides, pope read critically the french translations of his own essay on man, essay on criticism, rape of the lock, &c. he spoke of them as a critic; and it was at no time a fault of pope's to make false pretensions. all readers of pope's satires must also recollect numerous proofs, that he had read boileau with so much feeling of his peculiar merit, that he has appropriated and naturalized in english some of his best passages. voltaire was, therefore, certainly wrong. of italian literature, meantime, pope knew little or nothing; and simply because he knew nothing of the language. tasso, indeed, he admired; and, which is singular, more than ariosto. but we believe that he had read him only in english; and it is certain that he could not take up an italian author, either in prose or verse, for the unaffected amusement of his leisure. greek, we all know has been denied to pope, ever since he translated homer, and chiefly in consequence of that translation. this seems at first sight unfair, because criticism has not succeeded in fixing upon pope any errors of ignorance. his deviations from homer were uniformly the result of imperfect sympathy with the naked simplicity of the antique, and therefore wilful deviations, not (like those of his more pretending competitors, addison and tickell) pure blunders of misapprehension. but yet it is not inconsistent with this concession to pope's merits, that we must avow our belief in his thorough ignorance of greek when he first commenced his task. and to us it seems astonishing that nobody should have adverted to that fact as a sufficient solution, and in fact the only plausible solution, of pope's excessive depression of spirits in the earliest stage of his labors. this depression, after he had once pledged himself to his subscribers for the fulfilment of his task, arose from, and could have arisen from nothing else than, his conscious ignorance of greek in connection with the solemn responsibilities he had assumed in the face of a great nation. nay, even countries as presumptuously disdainful of tramontane literature as italy took an interest in this memorable undertaking. bishop berkeley found salvini reading it at florence; and madame dacier even, who read little but greek, and certainly no english until then, condescended to study it. pope's dejection, therefore, or rather agitation (for it impressed by sympathy a tumultuous character upon his dreams, which lasted for years after the cause had ceased to operate) was perfectly natural under the explanation we have given, but not otherwise. and how did he surmount this unhappy self-distrust? paradoxical as it may sound, we will venture to say, that, with the innumerable aids for interpreting homer which even then existed, a man sufficiently acquainted with latin might make a translation even critically exact. this pope was not long in discovering. other alleviations of his labor concurred, and in a ratio daily increasing. the same formulae were continually recurring, such as, _"but him answering, thus addressed the swift-footed achilles;"_ or, _"but him sternly beholding, thus spoke agamemnon the king of men."_ then, again, universally the homeric greek, from many causes, is easy; and especially from these two: _st_, the simplicity of the thought, which never gathers into those perplexed knots of rhetorical condensation, which we find in the dramatic poets of a higher civilization. _dly_, from the constant hounds set to the expansion of the thought by the form of the metre; an advantage of verse which makes the poets so much easier to a beginner in the german language than the illimitable weavers of prose. the line or the stanza reins up the poet tightly to his theme, and will not suffer him to expatiate. gradually, therefore, pope came to read the homeric greek, but never accurately; nor did he ever read eustathius without aid from latin. as to any knowledge of the attic greek, of the greek of the dramatists, the greek of plato, the greek of demosthenes, pope neither had it nor affected to have it. indeed it was no foible of pope's, as we will repeat, to make claims which he had not, or even to dwell ostentatiously upon those which he had. and with respect to greek in particular, there is a manuscript letter in existence from pope to a mr. bridges at falham, which, speaking of the original homer, distinctly records the knowledge which he had of his own "imperfectness in the language." chapman, a most spirited translator of homer, probably had no very critical skill in greek; and hobbes was, beyond all question, as poor a grecian as he was a doggerel translator; yet in this letter pope professes his willing submission to the "authority" of chapman and hobbes, as superior to his own. finally, in _latin_ pope was a "considerable proficient," even by the cautious testimony of dr. johnson; and in this language only the doctor was an accomplished critic. if pope had really the proficiency here ascribed to him, he must have had it already in his boyish years; for the translation from statius, which is the principal monument of his skill, was executed _before_ he was fourteen. we have taken the trouble to throw a hasty glance over it; and whilst we readily admit the extraordinary talent which it shows, as do all the juvenile essays of pope, we cannot allow that it argues any accurate skill in latin. the word malea, as we have seen noticed by some editor, he makes malea; which in itself, as the name was not of common occurrence, would not have been an error worth noticing; but, taken in connection with the certainty that pope had the original line before him-- "arripit ex templo maleae de valle resurgens," when not merely the scanning theoretically, but the whole rhythm is practically, to the most obtuse ear, would be annihilated by pope's false quantity, is a blunder which serves to show his utter ignorance of prosody. but, even as a version of the sense, with every allowance for a poet's license of compression and expansion, pope's translation is defective, and argues an occasional inability to construe the text. for instance, at the council summoned by jupiter, it is said that he at his first entrance seats himself upon his starry throne, but not so the inferior gods; "nec protinus ausi coelicolae, veniam donee pater ipse sedendi tranquilla jubet esse manu." in which passage there is a slight obscurity, from the ellipsis of the word _sedere_, or _sese locare_; but the meaning is evidently that the other gods did not presume to sit down _protinus_, that is, in immediate succession to jupiter, and interpreting his example as a tacit license to do so, until, by a gentle wave of his hand, the supreme father signifies his express permission to take their seats. but pope, manifestly unable to extract any sense from the passage, translates thus: "at jove's assent the deities around in solemn slate the consistory _crown'd_;" where at once the whole picturesque solemnity of the celestial ritual melts into the vaguest generalities. again, at v. , _ruptaeque vices_ is translated," _and all the ties of nature broke_; "but by vices is indicated the alternate reign of the two brothers, as ratified by mutual oaths, and subsequently violated by eteocles. other mistakes might be cited, which seem to prove that pope, like most self-taught linguists, was a very imperfect one. [endnote: ] pope, in short, never rose to such a point in classical literature as to read either greek or latin authors without effort, and for his private amusement. the result, therefore, of pope's self-tuition appears to us, considered in the light of an attempt to acquire certain accomplishments of knowledge, a most complete failure. as a linguist, he read no language with ease; none with pleasure to himself; and none with so much accuracy as could have carried him through the most popular author with a general independence on interpreters. but, considered with a view to his particular faculties and slumbering originality of power, which required perhaps the stimulation of accident to arouse them effectually, we are very much disposed to think that the very failure of his education as an artificial training was a great advantage finally for inclining his mind to throw itself, by way of indemnification, upon its native powers. had he attained, as with better tuition he would have attained, distinguished excellence as a scholar, or as a student of science, the chances are many that he would have settled down into such studies as thousands could pursue not less successfully than he; whilst as it was, the very dissatisfaction which he could not but feel with his slender attainments, must have given him a strong motive for cultivating those impulses of original power which he felt continually stirring within him, and which were vivified into trials of competition as often as any distinguished excellence was introduced to his knowledge. pope's father, at the time of his birth, lived in lombard street; [endnote: ] a street still familiar to the public eye, from its adjacency to some of the chief metropolitan establishments, and to the english ear possessing a degree of historical importance; first, as the residence of those lombards, or milanese, who affiliated our infant commerce to the matron splendors of the adriatic and the mediterranean; next, as the central resort of thrme jewellers, or "goldsmiths," as they were styled, who performed all the functions of modern bankers from the period of the parliamentary war to the rise of the bank of england, that is, for six years after the birth of pope; and, lastly, as the seat, until lately, of that vast post office, through which, for so long a period, has passed the correspondence of all nations and languages, upon a scale unknown to any other country. in this street alexander pope the elder had a house, and a warehouse, we presume, annexed, in which he conducted the wholesale business of a linen merchant. as soon as he had made a moderate fortune he retired from business, first to kensington, and afterwards to binfield, in windsor forest. the period of this migration is not assigned by any writer. it is probable that a prudent man would not adopt it with any prospect of having more children. but this chance might be considered as already extinguished at the birth of pope; for though his father had then only attained his forty-fourth year, mrs. pope had completed her forty-eighth. it is probable, from the interval of seven days which is said to have elapsed between pope's punishment and his removal from the school, that his parents were then living at such a distance from him as to prevent his ready communication with them, else we may be sure that mrs. pope would have flown on the wings of love and wrath to the rescue of her darling. supposing, therefore, as we _do_ suppose, that mr. bromley's school in london was the scene of his disgrace, it would appear on this argument that his parents were then living in windsor forest. and this hypothesis falls in with another anecdote in pope's life, which we know partly upon his own authority. he tells wycherley that he had seen dryden, and barely seen him. _virgilium vidi tantum_. this is presumed to have been in will's coffee-house, whither any person in search of dryden would of course resort; and it must have been before pope was twelve years old, for dryden died in . now there is a letter of sir charles wogan's, stating that he first took pope to will's; and his words are, "from our forest." consequently, at that period, when he had not completed his twelfth year, pope was already living in the forest. from this period, and so long as the genial spirits of youth lasted, pope's life must have been one dream of pleasure. he tells lord harvey that his mother did not spoil him; but that was no doubt because there was no room for wilfulness or waywardness on either side, when all was one placid scene of parental obedience and gentle filial authority. we feel persuaded that, if not in words, in spirit and inclination, they would, in any notes they might have occasion to write, subscribe themselves "your dutiful parents." and of what consequence in whose hands were the reins which were never needed? every reader must be pleased to know that these idolizing parents lived to see their son at the very summit of his public elevation; even his father lived two years and a half after the publication of his homer had commenced, and when his fortune was made; and his mother lived for nearly eighteen years more. what a felicity for her, how rare and how perfect, to find that he, who to her maternal eyes was naturally the most perfect of human beings, and the idol of her heart, had already been the idol of the nation before he had completed his youth. she had also another blessing not always commanded by the most devoted love; many sons there are who think it essential to manliness that they should treat their mother's doating anxiety with levity, or even ridicule. but pope, who was the model of a good son, never swerved in words, manners, or conduct, from the most respectful tenderness, or intermitted the piety of his attentions. and so far did he carry this regard for his mother's comfort, that, well knowing how she lived upon his presence or by his image, he denied himself for many years all excursions which could not be fully accomplished within the revolution of a week. and to this cause, combined with the excessive length of his mother's life, must be ascribed the fact that pope never went abroad; not to italy with thomson or with berkeley, or any of his diplomatic friends; not to ireland, where his presence would have been hailed as a national honor; not even to france, on a visit to his admiring and admired friend lord bolingbroke. for as to the fear of sea-sickness, _that_ did not arise until a late period of his life; and at any period would not have operated to prevent his crossing from dover to calais. it is possible that, in his earlier and more sanguine years, all the perfection of his filial love may not have availed to prevent him from now and then breathing a secret murmur at confinement so constant. but it is certain that, long before he passed the meridian of his life, pope had come to view this confinement with far other thoughts. experience had then taught him, that to no man is the privilege granted of possessing more than one or two friends who are such in extremity. by that time he had come to view his mother's death with fear and anguish. she, he knew by many a sign, would have been happy to lay down her life for his sake; but for others, even those who were the most friendly and the most constant in their attentions, he felt but too certainly that his death, or his heavy affliction, might cost them a few sighs, but would not materially disturb their peace of mind. "it is but in a very narrow circle," says he, in a confidential letter, "that friendship walks in this world, and i care not to tread out of it more than i needs must; knowing well it is but to two or three, (if quite so many,) that any man's welfare or memory can be of consequence." after such acknowledgments, we are not surprised to find him writing thus of his mother, and his fearful struggles to fight off the shock of his mother's death, at a time when it was rapidly approaching. after having said of a friend's death, "the subject is beyond writing upon, beyond cure or ease by reason or reflection, beyond all but one thought, that it is the will of god," he goes on thus, "so will the death of my mother be, which now i tremble at, now resign to, now bring close to me, now set farther off; every day alters, turns me about, confuses my whole frame of mind." there is no pleasure, he adds, which the world can give "equivalent to countervail either the death of one i have so long lived with, or of one i have so long lived for." how will he comfort himself after her death? "i have nothing left but to turn my thoughts to one comfort, the last we usually think of, though the only one we should in wisdom depend upon. i sit in her room, and she is always present before me but when i sleep. i wonder i am so well. i have shed many tears; but now i weep at nothing." a man, therefore, happier than pope in his domestic relations cannot easily have lived. it is true these relations were circumscribed; had they been wider, they could not have been so happy. but pope was equally fortunate in his social relations. what, indeed, most of all surprises us, is the courteous, flattering, and even brilliant reception which pope found from his earliest boyhood amongst the most accomplished men of the world. wits, courtiers, statesmen, grandees the most dignified, and men of fashion the most brilliant, all alike treated him not only with pointed kindness, but with a respect that seemed to acknowledge him as their intellectual superior. without rank, high birth, fortune, without even a literary name, and in defiance of a deformed person, pope, whilst yet only sixteen years of age, was caressed, and even honored; and all this with no one recommendation but simply the knowledge of his dedication to letters, and the premature expectations which he raised of future excellence. sir william trumbull, a veteran statesman, who had held the highest stations, both diplomatic and ministerial, made him his daily companion. wycherley, the old _roue_ of the town, a second-rate wit, but not the less jealous on that account, showed the utmost deference to one whom, as a man of fashion, he must have regarded with contempt, and between whom and himself there were nearly "fifty good years of fair and foul weather." cromwell, [endnote: ] a fox-hunting country gentleman, but uniting with that character the pretensions of a wit, and affecting also the reputation of a rake, cultivated his regard with zeal and conscious inferiority. nay, which never in any other instance happened to the most fortunate poet, his very inaugural essays in verse were treated, not as prelusive efforts of auspicious promise, but as finished works of art, entitled to take their station amongst the literature of the land; and in the most worthless of all his poems, walsh, an established authority, and whom dryden pronounced the ablest critic of the age, found proofs of equality with virgil. the literary correspondence with these gentlemen is interesting, as a model of what once passed for fine letter-writing. every nerve was strained to outdo each other in carving all thoughts into a fillagree work of rhetoric; and the amoebaean contest was like that between two village cocks from neighboring farms endeavoring to overcrow each other. to us, in this age of purer and more masculine taste, the whole scene takes the ludicrous air of old and young fops dancing a minuet with each other, practising the most elaborate grimaces, sinkings and risings the most awful, bows the most overshadowing, until plain walking, running, or the motions of natural dancing, are thought too insipid for endurance. in this instance the taste had perhaps really been borrowed from france, though often enough we impute to france what is the native growth of all minds placed in similar circumstances. madame de sevigne's letters were really models of grace. but balzac, whose letters, however, are not without interest, had in some measure formed himself upon the truly magnificent rhetoric of pliny and seneca. pope and his correspondents, meantime, degraded the dignity of rhetoric, by applying it to trivial commonplaces of compliment; whereas seneca applied it to the grandest themes which life or contemplation can supply. lady mary wortley montagu, on first coming amongst the wits of the day, naturally adopted their style. she found this sort of _euphuism_ established; and it was not for a very young woman to oppose it. but her masculine understanding and powerful good sense, shaken free, besides, from all local follies by travels and extensive commerce with the world, first threw off these glittering chains of affectation. dean swift, by the very constitution of his mind, plain, sinewy, nervous, and courting only the strength that allies itself with homeliness, was always indisposed to this mode of correspondence. and, finally, pope himself, as his earlier friends died off, and his own understanding acquired strength, laid it aside altogether. one reason doubtless was, that he found it too fatiguing; since in this way of letter-writing he was put to as much expense of wit in amusing an individual correspondent, as would for an equal extent have sufficed to delight the whole world. a funambulist may harass his muscles and risk his neck on the tight-rope, but hardly to entertain his own family. pope, however, had another reason for declining this showy system of fencing; and strange it is that he had not discovered this reason from the very first. as life advanced, it happened unavoidably that real business advanced; the careless condition of youth prompted no topics, or at least prescribed none, but such as were agreeable to the taste, and allowed of an ornamental coloring. but when downright business occurred, exchequer bills to be sold, meetings to be arranged, negotiations confided, difficulties to be explained, here and there by possibility a jest or two might be scattered, a witty allusion thrown in, or a sentiment interwoven; but for the main body of the case, it neither could receive any ornamental treatment, nor if, by any effort of ingenuity, it _had_, could it look otherwise than silly and unreasonable: "ornari les a ipsa negat, contenta doceri." pope's idleness, therefore, on the one hand, concurring with good sense and the necessities of business on the other, drove him to quit his gay rhetoric in letter-writing. but there are passages surviving in his correspondence which indicate, that, after all, had leisure and the coarse perplexities of life permitted it, he still looked with partiality upon his youthful style, and cherished it as a first love. but in this harsh world, as the course of true love, so that of rhetoric, never did run smooth; and thus it happened that, with a lingering farewell, he felt himself forced to bid it adieu. strange that any man should think his own sincere and confidential overflowings of thought and feeling upon books, men, and public affairs, less valuable in a literary view than the legerdemain of throwing up bubbles into the air for the sake of watching their prismatic hues, like an indian juggler with his cups and balls. we of this age, who have formed our notions of epistolary excellence from the chastity of gray's, the brilliancy of lady mary wortley montagu's during her later life, and the mingled good sense and fine feeling of cowper's, value only those letters of pope which he himself thought of inferior value. and even with regard to these, we may say that there is a great mistake made; the best of those later letters between pope and swift, &c., are not in themselves at all superior to the letters of sensible and accomplished women, such as leave every town in the island by every post. their chief interest is a derivative one; we are pleased with any letter, good or bad, which relates to men of such eminent talent; and sometimes the subjects discussed have a separate interest for themselves. but as to the quality of the discussion, apart from the person discussing and the thing discussed, so trivial is the value of these letters in a large proportion, that we cannot but wonder at the preposterous value which was set upon them by the writers. [endnote: ] pope especially ought not to have his ethereal works loaded by the mass of trivial prose which is usually attached to them. this correspondence, meantime, with the wits of the time, though one mode by which, in the absence of reviews, the reputation of an author was spread, did not perhaps serve the interests of pope so effectually as the poems which in this way he circulated in those classes of english society whose favor he chiefly courted. one of his friends, the truly kind and accomplished sir william trumbull, served him in that way, and perhaps in another eventually even more important. the library of pope's father was composed exclusively of polemical divinity, a proof, by the way, that he was not a blind convert to the roman catholic faith; or, if he was so originally, had reviewed the grounds of it, and adhered to it after strenuous study. in this dearth of books at his own home, and until he was able to influence his father in buying more extensively, pope had benefited by the loans of his friends; amongst whom it is probable that sir william, as one of the best scholars of the whole, might assist him most. he certainly offered him the most touching compliment, as it was also the wisest and most paternal counsel, when he besought him, as one _goddess-born_, to quit the convivial society of deep-drinkers: "heu, fuge nate dea, teque his, ait, eripe malis." with these aids from friends of rank, and his way thus laid open to public favor, in the year pope first came forward upon the stage of literature. the same year which terminated his legal minority introduced him to the public. _miscellanies_ in those days were almost periodical repositories of fugitive verse. tonson happened at this time to be publishing one of some extent, the sixth volume of which offered a sort of ambush to the young aspirant of windsor forest, from which he might watch the public feeling. the volume was opened by mr. ambrose philips, in the character of pastoral poet; and in the same character, but stationed at the end of the volume, and thus covered by his bucolic leader, as a soldier to the rear by the file in advance, appeared pope; so that he might win a little public notice, without too much seeming to challenge it. this half-clandestine emersion upon the stage of authorship, and his furtive position, are both mentioned by pope as accidents, but as accidents in which he rejoiced, and not improbably accidents which tonson had arranged with a view to his satisfaction. it must appear strange that pope at twenty-one should choose to come forward for the first time with a work composed at sixteen. a difference of five years at that stage of life is of more effect than of twenty at a later; and his own expanding judgment could hardly fail to inform him, that his pastorals were by far the worst of his works. in reality, let us not deny, that had pope never written any thing else, his name would not have been known as a name even of promise, but would probably have been redeemed from oblivion by some satirist or writer of a dunciad. were a man to meet with such a nondescript monster as the following, viz.," _love out of mount mlna by whirlwind_"he would suppose himself reading the racing calendar. yet this hybrid creature is one of the many zoological monsters to whom the pastorals introduce us: "i know thee. love! on foreign mountains born. wolves gave thee suck, and savage tigers fed. thou wert from aetna's burning entrails torn. got by fierce whirlwinds, and in thunder born." but the very names "damon" and "strephon," "phillis" and "delia," are rank with childishness. arcadian life is, at the best, a feeble conception, and rests upon the false principle of crowding together all the luscious sweets of rural life, undignified by the danger which attends pastoral life in our climate, and unrelieved by shades, either moral or physical. and the arcadia of pope's age was the spurious arcadia of the opera theatre, and, what is worse, of the french opera. the hostilities which followed between these rival wooers of the pastoral muse are well known. pope, irritated at what he conceived the partiality shown to philips in the guardian, pursued the review ironically; and, whilst affecting to load his antagonist with praises, draws into pointed relief some of his most flagrant faults. the result, however, we cannot believe. that all the wits, except addison, were duped by the irony, is quite impossible. could any man of sense mistake for praise the remark, that philips had imitated "_every_ line of strada; "that he had introduced wolves into england, and proved himself the first of gardeners by making his flowers "blow all in the same season." or, suppose those passages unnoticed, could the broad sneer escape him, where pope taxes the other writer (viz., himself) with having deviated" into downright poetry; "or the outrageous ridicule of philip's style, as setting up for the ideal type of the pastoral style, the quotation from gay, beginning, "rager, go vetch tha kee, or else tha zun will quite bego before ch' 'avs half a don!" philips is said to have resented this treatment by threats of personal chastisement to pope, and even hanging up a rod at button's coffee-house. we may be certain that philips never disgraced himself by such ignoble conduct. if the public indeed were universally duped by the paper, what motive had philips for resentment? or, in any case, what plea had he for attacking pope, who had not come forward as the author of the essay? but, from pope's confidential account of the matter, we know that philips saw him daily, and never offered him "any indecorum;" though, for some cause or other, pope pursued philips with virulence through life. in the year , pope published his essay on criticism, which some people have very unreasonably fancied his best performance; and in the same year his rape of the lock, the most exquisite monument of playful fancy that universal literature offers. it wanted, however, as yet, the principle of its vitality, in wanting the machinery of sylphs and gnomes, with which addition it was first published in . in the year , pope appeared again before the public as the author of the temple of fame, and the elegy to the memory of an unfortunate lady. much speculation has arisen on the question concerning the name of this lady, and the more interesting question concerning the nature of the persecutions and misfortunes which she suffered. pope appears purposely to decline answering the questions of his friends upon that point; at least the questions have reached us, and the answers have not. joseph warton supposed himself to have ascertained four facts about her: that her name was wainsbury; that she was deformed in person; that she retired into a convent from some circumstances connected with an attachment to a young man of inferior rank; and that she killed herself, not by a sword, as the poet insinuates, but by a halter. as to the latter statement, it may very possibly be true; such a change would be a very slight exercise of the poet's privileges. as to the rest, there are scarcely grounds enough for an opinion. pope certainly speaks of her under the name of mrs. (_i. e._ miss) w--, which at least argues a poetical exaggeration in describing her as a being "that once had _titles_, honor, wealth, and fame;" and he may as much have exaggerated her pretensions to beauty. it is indeed noticeable, that he speaks simply of her _decent_ limbs, which, in any english use of the word, does not imply much enthusiasm of praise. she appears to have been the niece of a lady a--; and mr. craggs, afterwards secretary of state, wrote to lady a--on her behalf, and otherwise took an interest in her fate. as to her being a relative of the duke of buckingham's, that rests upon a mere conjectural interpretation applied to a letter of that nobleman's. but all things about this unhappy lady are as yet enveloped in mystery. and not the least part of the mystery is a letter of pope's to a mr. c--, bearing date , that is, just twenty years after the publication of the poem, in which pope, in a manly tone, justifies himself for his estrangement, and presses against his unknown correspondent the very blame which he had applied generally to the kinsman of the poor victim in . now, unless there is some mistake in the date, how are we to explain this gentleman's long lethargy, and his sudden sensibility to pope's anathema, with which the world had resounded for twenty years? pope had now established his reputation with the public as the legitimate successor and heir to the poetical supremacy of dryden. his rape of the lock was unrivalled in ancient or modern literature, and the time had now arrived when, instead of seeking to extend his fame, he might count upon a pretty general support in applying what he had already established to the promotion of his own interest. accordingly, in the autumn of , he formed a final resolution of undertaking a new translation of the iliad. it must be observed, that already in , concurrently with his pastorals, he had published specimens of such a translation; and these had been communicated to his friends some time before. in particular, sir william trumbull, on the th of april, , urged upon pope a complete translation of both iliad and odyssey. defective skill in the greek language, exaggeration of the difficulties, and the timidity of a writer as yet unknown, and not quite twenty years old, restrained pope for five years and more. what he had practised as a sort of _bravura_, for a single effort of display, he recoiled from as a daily task to be pursued through much toil, and a considerable section of his life. however, he dallied with the purpose, starting difficulties in the temper of one who wishes to hear them undervalued; until at length sir richard steele determined him to the undertaking, a fact overlooked by the biographers, but which is ascertained by ayre's account of that interview between pope and addison, probably in , which sealed the rupture between them. in the autumn of , he made his design known amongst his friends. accordingly, on the st of october, we have lord lansdown's letter, expressing his great pleasure at the communication; on the th, we have addison's letter encouraging him to the task; and in november of the same year occurs the amusing scene so graphically described by bishop kennet, when dean swift presided in the conversation, and, amongst other indications of his conscious authority, "instructed a young nobleman, that the best poet in england was mr. pope, who had _begun_ a translation of homer into english verse, for which he must have them all subscribe; for," says he," _the author shall not begin to print until i have a thousand guineas for him_." if this were the extent of what swift anticipated from the work, he fell miserably below the result. but, perhaps, he spoke only of a cautionary _arrha_ or earnest. as this was unquestionably the greatest literary labor, as to profit, ever executed, not excepting the most lucrative of sir walter scott's, if due allowance be made for the altered value of money, and if we consider the odyssey as forming part of the labor, it may be right to state the particulars of pope's contract with lintot. the number of subscribers to the iliad was , and the number of copies subscribed for was . the work was to be printed in six quarto volumes; and the subscription was a guinea a volume. consequently by the subscription pope obtained six times guineas, or l. s., (for the guinea then passed for s. d.); and for the copyright of each volume lintot offered l, consequently l for the whole six; so that from the iliad the profit exactly amounted to l. s. of the odyssey, copies were subscribed for. it was to be printed in five quarto volumes, and the subscription was a guinea a volume. consequently by the subscription pope obtained five times guineas, or l. s.; and for the copyright lintot offered l. the total sum received, therefore, by pope, on account of the odyssey, was l. s. but in this instance he had two coadjutors, broome and fenton; between them they translated twelve books, leaving twelve to pope. the notes also were compiled by broome; but the postscript to the notes was written by pope. fenton received l, broome l. such at least is warton's account, and more probable than that of ruffhead, who not only varies the proportions, but increases the whole sum given to the assistants by l. thus far we had followed the guidance of mere probabilities, as they lie upon the face of the transaction. but we have since detected a written statement of pope's, unaccountably overlooked by the biographers, and serving of itself to show how negligently they have read the works of their illustrious subject. the statement is entitled to the fullest attention and confidence, not being a hasty or casual notice of the transaction, but pointedly shaped to meet a calumnious rumor against pope in his character of paymaster; as if he who had found so much liberality from publishers in his own person, were niggardly or unjust as soon as he assumed those relations to others. broome, it was alleged, had expressed himself dissatisfied with pope's remuneration. perhaps he had. for he would be likely to frame his estimate for his own services from the scale of pope's reputed gains; and those gains would, at any rate, be enormously exaggerated, as uniformly happens where there is a basis of the marvellous to begin with. and, secondly, it would be natural enough to assume the previous result from the iliad as a fair standard for computation; but in this, as we know, all parties found themselves disappointed, and broome had the less right to murmur at this, since the arrangement with himself as chief journeyman in the job was one main cause of the disappointment. there was also another reason why broome should be less satisfied than fenton. verse for verse, any one thousand lines of a translation so purely mechanical might stand against any other thousand; and so far the equation of claims was easy. a book-keeper, with a pen behind his ear, and cocker's golden rule open before him, could do full justice to mr. broome _as a poet_ every saturday night. but broome had a separate account current for pure prose against pope. one he had in conjunction with fenton for verses delivered on the premises at so much per hundred, on which there could be no demur, except as to the allowance for tare and tret as a discount in favor of pope. but the prose account, the account for notes, requiring very various degrees of reading and research, allowed of no such easy equation. there it was, we conceive, that broome's discontent arose. pope, however, declares, that he had given him l, thus confirming the proportions of warton against ruffhead, (that is, in effect, warburton,) and some other advantages which were not in money, nor deductions at all from his own money profits, but which may have been worth so much money to broome, as to give some colorable truth to ruffhead's allegation of an additional l. in direct money, it remains certain that fenton had three, and broome five hundred pounds. it follows, therefore, that for the iliad and odyssey jointly he received a sum of l. s., and paid for assistance l, which leaves to himself a clear sum of l. s. and, in fact, his profits ought to be calculated without deduction, since it was his own choice, from indolence, to purchase assistance. the iliad was commenced about october, . in the summer of the following year he was so far advanced as to begin making arrangements with lintot for the printing; and the first two books, in manuscript, were put into the hands of lord halifax. in june, , between the th and th, the subscribers received their copies of the first volume; and in july lintot began to publish that volume generally. some readers will inquire, who paid for the printing and paper, &c.? all this expense fell upon lintot, for whom pope was superfluously anxious. the sagacious bookseller understood what he was about; and, when a pirated edition was published in holland, he counteracted the injury by printing a cheap edition, of which copies were sold in a few weeks; an extraordinary proof of the extended interest in literature. the second, third, and fourth volumes of the iliad, each containing, like the first, four books, were published successively in , , ; and in , pope completed the work by publishing the fifth volume, containing five books, and the sixth, containing the last three, with the requisite supplementary apparatus. the odyssey was commenced in , (not , as mr. roscoe virtually asserts at p. ,) and the publication of it was finished in . the sale, however, was much inferior to that of the iliad; for which more reasons than one might be assigned. but there can be no doubt that pope himself depreciated the work, by his undignified arrangements for working by subordinate hands. such a process may answer in sculpture, because there a quantity of rough-hewing occurs, which can no more be improved by committing it to a phidias, than a common shop-bill could be improved in its arithmetic by sir isaac newton. but in literature such arrangements are degrading; and, above all, in a work which was but too much exposed already to the presumption of being a mere effort of mechanic skill, or (as curll said to the house of lords)" _a knack_; "it was deliberately helping forward that idea to let off parts of the labor. only think of milton letting off by contract to the lowest offer, and to be delivered by such a day, (for which good security to be found,) six books of paradise lost. it is true, the great dramatic authors were often _collaborateurs_, but their case was essentially different. the loss, however, fell not upon pope, but upon lintot, who, on this occasion, was out of temper, and talked rather broadly of prosecution. but that was out of the question. pope had acted indiscreetly, but nothing could be alleged against his honor; for he had expressly warned the public, that he did not, as in the other case, profess _to translate_, but _to undertake [endnote: ] a translation_ of the odyssey. lintot, however, was no loser absolutely, though he might be so in relation to his expectations; on the contrary, he grew rich, bought land, and became sheriff of the county in which his estates lay. we have pursued the homeric labors uninterruptedly from their commencement in , till their final termination in , a period of twelve years or nearly; because this was the task to which pope owed the dignity, if not the comforts, of his life, since it was this which enabled him to decline a pension from all administrations, and even from his friend craggs, the secretary, to decline the express offer of l per annum. indeed pope is always proud to own his obligations to homer. in the interval, however, between the iliad and the odyssey, pope listened to proposals made by jacob tonson, that he should revise an edition of shakspeare. for this, which was in fact the first attempt at establishing the text of the mighty poet, pope obtained but little money, and still less reputation. he received, according to tradition, only l. s. for his trouble of collation, which must have been considerable, and some other trifling editorial labor. and the opinion of all judges, from the first so unfavorable as to have depreciated the money-value of the book enormously, perhaps from a prepossession of the public mind against the fitness of pope for executing the dull labors of revision, has ever since pronounced this work the very worst edition in existence. for the edition we have little to plead; but for the editor it is but just to make three apologies. in the _first_ place, he wrote a brilliant preface, which, although (like other works of the same class) too much occupied in displaying his own ability, and too often, for the sake of an effective antithesis, doing deep injustice to shakspeare, yet undoubtedly, as a whole, extended his fame, by giving the sanction and countersign of a great wit to the national admiration. _secondly_, as dr. johnson admits, pope's failure pointed out the right road to his successors. _thirdly_, even in this failure it is but fair to say, that in a graduated scale of merit, as distributed amongst the long succession of editors through that century, pope holds a rank proportionable to his age. for the year , he is no otherwise below theobald, hanmer, capell, warburton, or even johnson, than as they are successively below each other, and all of them as to accuracy below steevens, as he again was below malone and read. the gains from shakspeare would hardly counterbalance the loss which pope sustained this year from the south sea bubble. one thing, by the way, is still unaccountably neglected by writers on this question. how it was that the great mississippi bubble, during the orleans regency in paris, should have happened to coincide with that of london. if this were accident, how marvellous that the same insanity should possess the two great capitals of christendom in the same year? if, again, it were not accident, but due to some common cause, why is not that cause explained? pope to his nearest friends never stated the amount of his loss. the biographers report that at one time his stock was worth from twenty to thirty thousand pounds. but that is quite impossible. it is true, that as the stock rose at one time a thousand per cent., this would not imply on pope's part an original purchase beyond twenty-five hundred pounds or thereabouts. but pope has furnished an argument against _that, _ which we shall improve. he quotes, more than once, as applicable to his own case, the old proverbial riddle of hesiod, _----- ----- ------, the half is more than the whole_. what did he mean by that? we understand it thus: that between the selling and buying, the variations had been such as to sink his shares to one half of the price they had once reached, but, even at that depreciation, to leave him richer on selling out than he had been at first. but the half of , would be a far larger sum than pope could have ventured to risk upon a fund confessedly liable to daily fluctuation. english pounds would be the utmost he could risk; in which case the half of , pounds would have left him so very much richer, that he would have proclaimed his good fortune as an evidence of his skill and prudence. yet, on the contrary, he wished his friends to understand at times that he had lost. but his friends forgot to ask one important question: was the word _loss_ to be understood in relation to the imaginary and nominal wealth which he once possessed, or in relation to the absolute sum invested in the south sea fund? the truth is, pope practised on this, as on other occasions, a little finessing, which is the chief foible in his character. his object was, that, according to circumstances, he might vindicate his own freedom from the common mania, in case his enemies should take that handle for attacking him; or might have it in his power to plead poverty, and to account for it, in case he should ever accept that pension which had been so often tendered but never sternly rejected. in pope lost one of his dearest friends, bishop atterbury, by banishment; a sentence most justly incurred, and mercifully mitigated by the hostile whig government. on the bishop's trial a circumstance occurred to pope which flagrantly corroborated his own belief in his natural disqualification for public life. he was summoned as an evidence on his friend's behalf. he had but a dozen words to say, simply explaining the general tenor of his lordship's behavior at bromley, and yet, under this trivial task, though supported by the enthusiasm of his friendship, he broke down. lord bolingbroke, returning from exile, met the bishop at the sea-side; upon which it was wittily remarked that they were "exchanged." lord bolingbroke supplied to pope the place, or perhaps more than supplied the place, of the friend he had lost; for bolingbroke was a free-thinker, and so far more entertaining to pope, even whilst partially dissenting, than atterbury, whose clerical profession laid him under restraints of decorum, and latterly, there is reason to think, of conscience. in , on closing the odyssey, pope announces his intention to swift of quitting the labors of a translator, and thenceforwards applying himself to original composition. this resolution led to the essay on man, which appeared soon afterwards; and, with the exception of two labors, which occupied pope in the interval between and , the rest of his life may properly be described as dedicated to the further extension of that essay. the two works which he interposed were a collection of the fugitive papers, whether prose or verse, which he and dean swift had scattered amongst their friends at different periods of life. the avowed motive for this publication, and, in fact, the secret motive, as disclosed in pope's confidential letters, was to make it impossible thenceforwards for piratical publishers like curll. both pope and swift dreaded the malice of curll in case they should die before him. it was one of curll's regular artifices to publish a heap of trash on the death of any eminent man, under the title of his remains; and in allusion to that practice, it was that arbuthnot most wittily called curll "one of the new terrors of death." by publishing _all_, pope would have disarmed curll beforehand; and that was in fact the purpose; and that plea only could be offered by two grave authors, one forty, the other sixty years old, for reprinting _jeux d'esprit_ that never had any other apology than the youth of their authors. yet, strange to say, after all, some were omitted; and the omission of one opened the door to curll as well as that of a score. let curll have once inserted the narrow end of the wedge, he would soon have driven it home. this miscellany, however, in three volumes, (published in , but afterwards increased by a fourth in ,) though in itself a trifling work, had one vast consequence. it drew after it swarms of libels and lampoons, levelled almost exclusively at pope, although the cipher of the joint authors stood entwined upon the title-page. these libels in _their_ turn produced a second reaction; and, by stimulating pope to effectual anger, eventually drew forth, for the everlasting admiration of posterity, the very greatest of pope's works; a monument of satirical power the greatest which man has produced, not excepting the macfleckno of dryden, namely, the immortal dunciad. in october of the year , this poem, in its original form, was completed. many editions, not spurious altogether, nor surreptitious, but with some connivance, not yet explained, from pope, were printed in dublin and in london. but the first quarto and acknowledged edition was published in london early in " - ," as the editors choose to write it, that is, (without perplexing the reader,) in . on march of which year it was presented by the prime minister, sir robert walpole, to the king and queen at st. james's. like a hornet, who is said to leave his sting in the wound, and afterwards to languish away, pope felt so greatly exhausted by the efforts connected with the dunciad, (which are far greater, in fact, than all his homeric labors put together,) that he prepared his friends to expect for the future only an indolent companion and a hermit. events rapidly succeeded which tended to strengthen the impression he had conceived of his own decay, and certainly to increase his disgust with the world. in died his friend atterbury; and on december the th of the same year gay, the most unpretending of all the wits whom he knew, and the one with whom he had at one time been domesticated, expired, after an illness of three days, which dr. arbuthnot declares to have been "the most precipitate" he ever knew. but in fact gay had long been decaying, from the ignoble vice of too much and too luxurious eating. six months after this loss, which greatly affected pope, came the last deadly wound which this life could inflict, in the death of his mother. she had for some time been in her dotage, and recognized no face but that of her son, so that her death was not unexpected; but that circumstance did not soften the blow of separation to pope. she died on the th of june, , being then ninety-three years old. three days after, writing to richardson the painter, for the purpose of urging him to come down and take her portrait before the coffin was closed, he says, "i thank god, her death was as easy as her life was innocent; and as it cost her not a groan, nor even a sigh, there is yet upon her countenance such an expression of tranquillity," that "it would afford the finest image of a saint expired that ever painting drew. adieu, may you die as happily." the funeral took place on the th; pope then quitted the house, unable to support the silence of her chamber, and did not return for months, nor in fact ever reconciled himself to the sight of her vacant apartment. swift also he had virtually lost for ever. in april, , this unhappy man had visited pope for the last time. during this visit occurred the death of george i. great expectations arose from that event amongst the tories, in which, of course,' swift shared. it was reckoned upon as a thing of course that walpole would be dismissed. but this bright gleam of hope proved as treacherous as all before; and the anguish of this final disappointment perhaps it was which brought on a violent attack of swift's constitutional malady. on the last of august he quitted pope's house abruptly, concealed himself in london, and finally quitted it, as stealthily as he had before quitted twickenham, for ireland, never more to return. he left a most affectionate letter for pope; but his affliction, and his gloomy anticipations of insanity, were too oppressive to allow of his seeking a personal interview. pope might now describe himself pretty nearly as _ultimus suorum_; and if he would have friends in future, he must seek them, as he complains bitterly, almost amongst strangers and another generation. this sense of desolation may account for the acrimony which too much disfigures his writings henceforward. between and , he was chiefly engaged in satires, which uniformly speak a high moral tone in the midst of personal invective; or in poems directly philosophical, which almost as uniformly speak the bitter tone of satire in the midst of dispassionate ethics. his essay on man was but one link in a general course which he had projected of moral philosophy, here and there pursuing his themes into the fields of metaphysics, but no farther in either field of morals or metaphysics than he could make compatible with a poetical treatment. these works, however, naturally entangled him in feuds of various complexions with people of very various pretensions; and to admirers of pope so fervent as we profess ourselves, it is painful to acknowledge that the dignity of his latter years, and the becoming tranquillity of increasing age, are sadly disturbed by the petulance and the tone of irritation which, alike to those in the wrong and in the right, inevitably besiege all personal disputes. he was agitated, besides, by a piratical publication of his correspondence. this emanated of course from the den of curll, the universal robber and "_blatant beast_" of those days; and, besides the injury offered to his feelings by exposing some youthful sallies which he wished to have suppressed, it drew upon him a far more disgraceful imputation, most assuredly unfounded, but accredited by dr. johnson, and consequently in full currency to this day, of having acted collusively with curll, or at least through curll, for the publication of what he wished the world to see, but could not else have devised any decent pretext for exhibiting. the disturbance of his mind on this occasion led to a circular request, dispersed amongst his friends, that they would return his letters. all complied except swift. he only delayed, and in fact shuffled. but it is easy to read in his evasions, and pope, in spite of his vexation, read the same tale, viz., that, in consequence of his recurring attacks and increasing misery, he was himself the victim of artifices amongst those who surrounded him. what pope apprehended happened. the letters were all published in dublin and in london, the originals being then only returned when they had done their work of exposure. such a tenor of life, so constantly fretted by petty wrongs, or by leaden insults, to which only the celebrity of their object lent force or wings, allowed little opportunity to pope for recalling his powers from angry themes, and converging them upon others of more catholic philosophy. to the last he continued to conceal vipers beneath his flowers; or rather, speaking proportionately to the case, he continued to sheath amongst the gleaming but innocuous lightnings of his departing splendors, the thunderbolts which blasted for ever. his last appearance was his greatest. in he published the fourth book of the dunciad; to which it has with much reason been objected, that it stands in no obvious relation to the other three, but which, taken as a separate whole, is by far the most brilliant and the weightiest of his works. pope was aware of the _hiatus_ between this last book and the rest, on which account he sometimes called it the greater dunciad; and it would have been easy for him, with a shallow warburtonian ingenuity, to invent links that might have satisfied a mere _verbal_ sense of connection. but he disdained this puerile expedient. the fact was, and could not be disguised from any penetrating eye, that the poem was not a pursuit of the former subjects; it had arisen spontaneously at various times, by looking at the same general theme of dulness (which, in pope's sense, includes all aberrations of the intellect, nay, even any defective equilibrium amongst the faculties) under a different angle of observation, and from a different centre. in this closing book, not only bad authors, as in the other three, but all abuses of science or antiquarian knowledge, or connoisseurship in the arts, are attacked. virtuosi, medalists, butterfly-hunters, florists, erring metaphysicians, &c., are all pierced through and through as with the shafts of apollo. but the imperfect plan of the work as to its internal economy, no less than its exterior relations, is evident in many places; and in particular the whole catastrophe of the poem, if it can be so called, is linked to the rest by a most insufficient incident. to give a closing grandeur to his work, pope had conceived the idea of representing the earth as lying universally under the incubation of one mighty spirit of dulness; a sort of millennium, as we may call it, for ignorance, error, and stupidity. this would take leave of the reader with effect; but how was it to be introduced? at what era? under what exciting cause? as to the eras, pope could not settle that; unless it were a _future_ era, the description of it could not be delivered as a prophecy; and, not being prophetic, it would want much of its grandeur. yet, _as_ a part of futurity, how is it connected with our present times? do they and their pursuits lead to it as a possibility, or as a contingency upon certain habits which we have it in our power to eradicate, (in which case this vision of dulness has a _practical_ warning,) or is it a mere necessity, one amongst the many changes attached to the cycles of human destiny, or which chance brings round with the revolutions of its wheel? all this pope could not determine; but the exciting cause he has determined, and it is preposterously below the effect. the goddess of dulness yawns; and her yawn, which, after all, should rather express the fact and state of universal dulness than its cause, produces a change over all nations tantamount to a long eclipse. meantime, with all its defects of plan, the poem, as to execution, is superior to all which pope has done; the composition is much superior to that of the essay on man, and more profoundly poetic. the parodies drawn from milton, as also in the former books, have a beauty and effect which cannot be expressed; and, if a young lady wished to cull for her album a passage from all pope's writings, which, without a trace of irritation or acrimony, should yet present an exquisite gem of independent beauty, she could not find another passage equal to the little story of the florist and the butterfly-hunter. they plead their cause separately before the throne of dulness; the florist telling how he had reared a superb carnation, which, in honor of the queen, he called caroline, when his enemy, pursuing a butterfly which settled on the carnation, in securing his own object, had destroyed that of the plaintiff. the defendant replies with equal beauty; and it may certainly be affirmed, that, for brilliancy of coloring and the art of poetical narration, the tale is not surpassed by any in the language. this was the last effort of pope worthy of separate notice. he was now decaying rapidly, and sensible of his own decay. his complaint was a dropsy of the chest, and he knew it to be incurable. under these circumstances, his behavior was admirably philosophical. he employed himself in revising and burnishing all his later works, as those upon which he wisely relied for his reputation with future generations. in this task he was assisted by dr. warburton, a new literary friend, who had introduced himself to the favorable notice of pope about four years before, by a defence of the essay on man, which crousaz had attacked, but in general indirectly and ineffectually, by attacking it through the blunders of a very faulty translation. this poem, however, still labors, to religious readers, under two capital defects. if man, according to pope, is now so admirably placed in the universal system of things, that evil only could result from any change, then it seems to follow, either that a fall of man is inadmissible; or at least, that, by placing him in his true centre, it had been a blessing universally. the other objection lies in this, that if all is right already, and in this earthly station, then one argument for a future state, as the scene in which evil is to be redressed, seems weakened or undermined. as the weakness of pope increased, his nearest friends, lord bolingbroke, and a few others, gathered around him. the last scenes were passed almost with ease and tranquillity. he dined in company two days before he died: and on the very day preceding his death he took an airing on blackheath. a few mornings before he died, he was found very early in his library writing on the immortality of the soul. this was an effort of delirium; and he suffered otherwise from this affection of the brain, and from inability to think in his closing hours. but his humanity and goodness, it was remarked, had survived his intellectual faculties. he died on the th of may, ; and so quietly, that the attendants could not distinguish the exact moment of his dissolution. we had prepared an account of pope's quarrels, in which we had shown that, generally, he was not the aggressor; and often was atrociously ill used before he retorted. this service to pope's memory we had judged important, because it is upon these quarrels chiefly that the erroneous opinion has built itself of pope's fretfulness and irritability. and this unamiable feature of his nature, together with a proneness to petty manoeuvring, are the main foibles that malice has been able to charge upon pope's moral character. yet, with no better foundation for their malignity than these doubtful propensities, of which the first perhaps was a constitutional defect, a defect of his temperament rather than his will, and the second has been much exaggerated, many writers have taken upon themselves to treat pope as a man, if not absolutely unprincipled and without moral sensibility, yet as mean, little-minded, indirect, splenetic, vindictive, and morose. now the difference between ourselves and these writers is fundamental. they fancy that in pope's character a basis of ignoble qualities was here and there slightly relieved by a few shining spots; we, on the contrary, believe that in pope lay a disposition radically noble and generous, clouded and overshadowed by superficial foibles, or, to adopt the distinction of shakspeare, they see nothing but "dust a little gilt," and we "gold a little dusted." a very rapid glance we will throw over the general outline of his character. as a friend, it is noticed emphatically by martha blount and other contemporaries, who must have had the best means of judging, that no man was so warm-hearted, or so much sacrificed himself for others, as pope; and in fact many of his quarrels grew out of this trait in his character. for once that he levelled his spear in his own quarrel, at least twice he did so on behalf of his insulted parents or his friends. pope was also noticeable for the duration of his friendships; [endnote: ] some dropped him,--but he never any throughout his life. and let it be remembered, that amongst pope's friends were the men of most eminent talents in those days; so that envy at least, or jealousy of rival power, was assuredly no foible of his. in that respect how different from addison, whose petty manoeuvring against pope proceeded entirely from malignant jealousy. that addison was more in the wrong even than has generally been supposed, and pope more thoroughly innocent as well as more generous, we have the means at a proper opportunity of showing decisively. as a son, we need not insist on pope's preeminent goodness. dean swift, who had lived for months together at twickenham, declares that he had not only never witnessed, but had never heard of anything like it. as a christian, pope appears in a truly estimable light. he found himself a roman catholic by accident of birth; so was his mother; but his father was so upon personal conviction and conversion, yet not without extensive study of the questions at issue. it would have laid open the road to preferment, and preferment was otherwise abundantly before him, if pope would have gone over to the protestant faith. and in his conscience he found no obstacle to that change; he was a philosophical christian, intolerant of nothing but intolerance, a bigot only against bigots. but he remained true to his baptismal profession, partly on a general principle of honor in adhering to a distressed and dishonored party, but chiefly out of reverence and affection to his mother. in his relation to women, pope was amiable and gentlemanly; and accordingly was the object of affectionate regard and admiration to many of the most accomplished in that sex. this we mention especially because we would wish to express our full assent to the manly scorn with which mr. roscoe repels the libellous insinuations against pope and miss martha blount. a more innocent connection we do not believe ever existed. as an author, warburton has recorded that no man ever displayed more candor or more docility to criticisms offered in a friendly spirit. finally, we sum up all in saying, that pope retained to the last a true and diffusive benignity; that this was the quality which survived all others, notwithstanding the bitter trial which his benignity must have stood through life, and the excitement to a spiteful reaction of feeling which was continually pressed upon him by the scorn and insult which his deformity drew upon him from the unworthy. but the moral character of pope is of secondary interest. we are concerned with it only as connected with his great intellectual power. there are three errors which seem current upon this subject. _first_, that pope drew his impulses from french literature; _secondly_, that he was a poet of inferior rank; _thirdly_, that his merit lies in superior "correctness." with respect to the first notion, it has prevailed by turns in every literature. one stage of society, in every nation, brings men of impassioned minds to the contemplation of manners, and of the social affections of man as exhibited in manners. with this propensity cooperates, no doubt, some degree of despondency when looking at the great models of the literature who have usually preoccupied the grander passions, and displayed their movements in the earlier periods of literature. now it happens that the french, from an extraordinary defect in the higher qualities of passion, have attracted the notice of foreign nations chiefly to that field of their literature, in which the taste and the unimpassioned understanding preside. but in all nations such literature is a natural growth of the mind, and would arise equally if the french literature had never existed. the wits of queen anne's reign, or even of charles ii.'s, were not french by their taste or their imitation. butler and dryden were surely not french; and of milton we need not speak; as little was pope french, either by his institution or by his models. boileau he certainly admired too much; and, for the sake of a poor parallelism with a passage about greece in horace, he has falsified history in the most ludicrous manner, without a shadow of countenance from facts, in order to make out that we, like the romans, received laws of taste from those whom we had conquered. but these are insulated cases and accidents, not to insist on his known and most profound admiration, often expressed, for both chaucer, and shakspeare, and milton. secondly, that pope is to be classed as an inferior poet, has arisen purely from a confusion between the departments of poetry which he cultivated and the merit of his culture. the first place must undoubtedly be given for ever,--it cannot be refused,--to the impassioned movements of the tragic, and to the majestic movements of the epic muse. we cannot alter the relations of things out of favor to an individual. but in his own department, whether higher or lower, that man is supreme who has not yet been surpassed; and such a man is pope. as to the final notion, first started by walsh, and propagated by warton, it is the most absurd of all the three; it is not from superior correctness that pope is esteemed more correct, but because the compass and sweep of his performances lies more within the range of ordinary judgments. many questions that have been raised upon milton or shakspeare, questions relating to so subtile a subject as the flux and reflux of human passion, lie far above the region of ordinary capacities; and the indeterminateness or even carelessness of the judgment is transferred by a common confusion to its objects. but waiving this, let us ask, what is meant by "correctness?" correctness in what? in developing the thought? in connecting it, or effecting the transitions? in the use of words? in the grammar? in the metre? under every one of these limitations of the idea, we maintain that pope is _not_ distinguished by correctness; nay, that, as compared with shakspeare, he is eminently incorrect. produce us from any drama of shakspeare one of those leading passages that all men have by heart, and show us any eminent defect in the very sinews of the thought. it is impossible; defects there may be, but they will always be found irrelevant to the main central thought, or to its expression. now turn to pope; the first striking passage which offers itself to our memory, is the famous character of addison, ending thus: "who would not laugh, if such a man there be, who but must weep if atticus were he?" why must we laugh? because we find a grotesque assembly of noble and ignoble qualities. very well; but why then must we weep? because this assemblage is found actually existing in an eminent man of genius. well, that is a good reason for weeping; we weep for the degradation of human nature. but then revolves the question, why must we laugh? because, if the belonging to a man of genius were a sufficient reason for weeping, so much we know from the very first. the very first line says, "peace to all such. but were there one whose fires _true genius kindles_ and fair fame inspires." thus falls to the ground the whole antithesis of this famous character. we are to change our mood from laughter to tears upon a sudden discovery that the character belonged to a man of genius; and this we had already known from the beginning. match us this prodigious oversight in shakspeare. again, take the essay on criticism. it is a collection of independent maxims, tied together into a fasciculus by the printer, but having no natural order or logical dependency; generally so vague as to mean nothing. like the general rules of justice, &c., in ethics, to which every man assents; but when the question comes about any practical case, _is_ it just? the opinions fly asunder far as the poles. and, what is remarkable, many of the rules are violated by no man so often as by pope, and by pope nowhere so often as in this very poem. as a single instance, he proscribes monosyllabic lines; and in no english poem of any pretensions are there so many lines of that class as in this. we have counted above a score, and the last line of all is monosyllabic. not, therefore, for superior correctness, but for qualities the very same as belong to his most distinguished brethren, is pope to be considered a great poet; for impassioned thinking, powerful description, pathetic reflection, brilliant narration. his characteristic difference is simply that he carried these powers into a different field, and moved chiefly amongst the social paths of men, and viewed their characters as operating through their manners. and our obligations to him arise chiefly on this ground, that having already, in the persons of earlier poets, carried off the palm in all the grander trials of intellectual strength, for the majesty of the epopee and the impassioned vehemence of the tragic drama, to pope we owe it that we can now claim an equal preeminence in the sportive and aerial graces of the mock heroic and satiric muse; that in the dunciad we possess a peculiar form of satire, in which (according to a plan unattempted by any other nation) we see alternately her festive smile and her gloomiest scowl; that the grave good sense of the nation has here found its brightest mirror; and, finally, that through pope the cycle of our poetry is perfected and made orbicular, that from that day we might claim the laurel equally, whether for dignity or grace. notes. note . dr. johnson, however, and joseph warton, for reasons not stated, have placed his birth on the d. to this statement, as opposed to that which comes from the personal friends of pope, little attention is due. ruffhead and spence, upon such questions, must always be of higher authority than johnson and warton, and _a fortiori_ than bowles. but it ought not to be concealed, though hitherto unnoticed by any person, that some doubt after all remains whether any of the biographers is right. an anonymous writer, contemporary with pope, and evidently familiar with his personal history, declares that he was born on the th of june; and he connects it with an event that, having a public and a partisan interest, (the birth of that prince of wales, who was known twenty-seven years afterwards as the pretender,) would serve to check his own recollections, and give them a collateral voucher. it is true he wrote for an ill-natured purpose; but no purpose whatever could have been promoted by falsifying this particular date. what is still more noticeable, however, pope himself puts a most emphatic negative upon all these statements. in a pathetic letter to a friend, when his attention could not have been wandering, for he is expressly insisting upon a sentiment which will find an echo in many a human heart, viz., that a birthday, though from habit usually celebrated as a festal day, too often is secretly a memorial of disappointment, and an anniversary of sorrowful meaning, he speaks of the very day on which he is then writing as his own birthday; and indeed what else could give any propriety to the passage? now the date of this letter is january , . surely pope knew his own birthday better than those who have adopted a random rumor without investigation. but, whilst we are upon this subject, we must caution the readers of pope against too much reliance upon the chronological accuracy of his editors. _all_ are scandalously careless; and generally they are faithless. many allusions are left unnoticed, which a very little research would have illustrated; many facts are omitted, even yet recoverable, which are essential to the just appreciation of pope's satirical blows; and dates are constantly misstated. mr. roscoe is the most careful of pope's editors; but even he is often wrong. for instance, he has taken the trouble to write a note upon pope's humorous report to lord burlington of his oxford journey on horseback with lintot; and this note involves a sheer impossibility. the letter is undated, except as to the month; and mr. roscoe directs the reader to supply as the true date, which is a gross anachronism. for a ludicrous anecdote is there put into lintot's mouth, representing some angry critic, who had been turning over pope's homer, with frequent _pshaws_, as having been propitiated, by mr. lintot's dinner, into a gentler feeling towards pope, and, finally, by the mere effect of good cheer, without an effort on the publisher's part, as coming to a confession, that what he ate and what he had been reading were equally excellent. but in the year , _no part_ of pope's homer was printed; june, , was the month in which even the subscribers first received the four earliest books of the iliad; and the public generally not until july. this we notice by way of specimen; in itself, or as an error of mere negligence, it would be of little importance; but it is a case to which mr. roscoe has expressly applied his own conjectural skill, and solicited the attention of his reader. we may judge, therefore, of his accuracy in other cases which he did not think worthy of examination. there is another instance, presenting itself in every page, of ignorance concurring with laziness, on the part of all pope's editors, and with the effect not so properly of misleading as of perplexing the general reader. until lord macclesfield's bill for altering the style in the very middle of the eighteenth century, six years, therefore, after the death of pope, there was a custom, arising from the collision between the civil and ecclesiastical year, of dating the whole period that lies between december st and march th, (both days _exclusively,_) as belonging indifferently to the past or the current year. this peculiarity had nothing to do with the old and new style, but was, we believe, redressed by the same act of parliament. now in pope's time it was absolutely necessary that a man should use this double date, because else he was liable to be seriously misunderstood. for instance, it was then always said that charles i had suffered on the th of january / , and why? because, had the historian fixed the date to what it really was, , in that case all those (a very numerous class) who supposed the year to commence on ladyday, or march , would have understood him to mean that this event happened in what we _now_ call , for not until was there any january which _they_ would have acknowledged as belonging to , since _they_ added to the year all the days from january to march . on the other hand, if he had said simply that charles suffered in , he would have been truly understood by the class we have just mentioned; but by another class, who began the year from the st of january, he would have been understood to mean what we _now_ mean by the year . there would have been a sheer difference, not of one, as the reader might think at first sight, but of _two_ entire years in the chronology of the two parties; which difference, and all possibility of doubt, is met and remedied by the fractional date / for that date says in effect it was to you who do not open the new year till ladyday; it was to you who open it from january . thus much to explain the real sense of the case, and it follows from this explanation, that no part of the year ever _can_ have the fractional or double date except the interval from january to march inclusively. and hence arises a practical inference, viz, that the very same reason, and no other, which formerly enjoined the use of the compound or fractional date, viz, the prevention of a capital ambiguity or dilemma, now enjoins its omission. for in our day, when the double opening of the year is abolished, what sense is there in perplexing a reader by using a fraction which offers him a choice without directing him how to choose? in fact, it is the _denominator_ of the fraction, if one may so style the lower figure, which expresses to a modern eye the true year. yet the editors of pope, as well as many other writers, have confused their readers by this double date; and why? simply because they were confused themselves. (period omitted in original; but there is a double space following, suggesting one should have been there) many errors in literature of large extent have arisen from this confusion. thus it was said properly enough in the contemporary accounts, for instance, in lord monmouth's memoirs that queen elizabeth died on the last day of the year , for she died on the th of march, and by a careful writer this event would have been dated as march , / . but many writers, misled by the phrase above cited, have asserted that james i. was proclaimed on the st of january, . heber, bishop of calcutta, again, has ruined the entire chronology of the life of jeremy taylor, and unconsciously vitiated the facts, by not understanding this fractional date. mr roscoe even too often leaves his readers to collect the true year as they can. thus, e. g. at p. , of his life, he quotes from pope's letter to warburton, in great vexation for the surreptitious publication of his letters in ireland, under date of february , - / . but why not have printed it intelligibly as ? incidents there are in most men's lives, which are susceptible of a totally different moral value, according as the are dated in one year or another that might be a kind and honorable liberality in , which would be a fraud upon creditors in . exile to a distance of ten miles from london in january, might argue, that a man was a turbulent citizen, and suspected of treason, whilst the same exile in january, , would simply argue that, as a papist, he had been included amongst his whole body in a general measure of precaution to meet the public dangers of that year. this explanation we have thought it right to make both for its extensive application to all editions of pope, and on account of the serious blunders which have arisen from the case when ill understood, and because, in a work upon education, written jointly by messrs lant carpenter and shephard though generally men of ability and learning, this whole point is erroneously explained. note . it is apparently with allusion to this part of his history, which he would often have heard from the lips of his own father, that pope glances at his uncle's memory somewhat disrespectfully in his prose letter to lord harvey. note . some accounts, however, say to flanders, in which case, perhaps, antwerp or brussels would have the honor of his conversion. note . this however was not twyford, according to an anonymous pamphleteer of the times but a catholic seminary in devonshire street that is, in the bloomsbury district of london, and the same author asserts, that the scene of his disgrace as indeed seems probable beforehand, was not the first but the last of his arenas as a schoolboy which indeed was first, and which last, is very unimportant; but with a view to another point, which is not without interest, namely, as to the motive of pope for so bitter a lampoon as we must suppose it to have been, as well as with regard to the topics which he used to season it, this anonymous letter throws the only light which has been offered; and strange it is, that no biographer of pope should have hunted upon the traces indicated by him. any solution of pope's virulence, and of the master's bitter retaliation, even _as_ a solution, is so far entitled to attention; apart from which the mere straightforwardness of this man's story, and its minute circumstantiality, weigh greatly in its favor. to our thinking, he unfolds the whole affair in the simple explanation, nowhere else to be found, that the master of the school, the mean avenger of a childish insult by a bestial punishment, was a mr. bromley, one of james ii.'s popish apostates; whilst the particular statements which he makes with respect to himself and the young duke of norfolk of , as two schoolfellows of pope at that time and place, together with his voluntary promise to come forward in person, and verify his account if it should happen to be challenged,--are all, we repeat, so many presumptions in favor of his veracity. "mr. alexander pope," says he, "before he had been four months at this school, or was able to construe tully's offices, employed his muse in satirizing his master. it was a libel of at least one hundred verses, which (a fellow-student having given information of it) was found in his pocket; and the young satirist was soundly whipped, and kept a prisoner to his room for seven days; whereupon his father fetched him away, and i have been told he never went to school more." this bromley, it has been ascertained, was the son of a country gentleman in worcestershire, and must have had considerable prospects at one time, since it appears that he had been a gentleman-commoner at christ's church, oxford. there is an error in the punctuation of the letter we have just quoted, which affects the sense in a way very important to the question before us. bromley is described as "one of king james's converts in oxford, some years _after_ that prince's abdication;" but, if this were really so, he must have been a conscientious convert. the latter clause should be connected with what follows:" _some years after that prince's abdication he kept a little seminary_; "that is, when his mercenary views in quitting his religion were effectually defeated, when the boyne had sealed his despair, he humbled himself into a petty schoolmaster. these facts are interesting, because they suggest at once the motive for the merciless punishment inflicted upon pope. his own father was a papist like bromley, but a sincere and honest papist, who had borne double taxes, legal stigmas, and public hatred for conscience' sake. his contempt was habitually pointed at those who tampered with religion for interested purposes. his son inherited these upright feelings. and we may easily guess what would be the bitter sting of any satire he would write on bromley. such a topic was too true to be forgiven, and too keenly barbed by bromley's conscience. by the way, this writer, like ourselves, reads in this juvenile adventure a prefiguration of pope's satirical destiny. note . that is, sheffield, and, legally speaking, of buckingham _shire_. for he would not take the title of buckingham, under a fear that there was lurking somewhere or other a claim to that title amongst the connections of the villiers family. he was a pompous grandee, who lived in uneasy splendor, and, as a writer, most extravagantly overrated; accordingly, he is now forgotten. such was his vanity, and his ridiculous mania for allying himself with royalty, that he first of all had the presumption to court the princess (afterwards queen) anne. being rejected, he then offered himself to the illegitimate daughter of james ii., by the daughter of sir charles sedley. she was as ostentatious as himself, and accepted him. note . meantime, the felicities of this translation are at times perfectly astonishing; and it would be scarcely possible to express more nervously or amply the words, --"_jurisque secundi_ _ambitus impatiens_, et summo dulcius unum stare loco,"---- than this child of fourteen has done in the following couplet, which, most judiciously, by reversing the two clauses, gains the power of fusing them into connection. "and impotent desire to reign alone, _that scorns the dull reversion of a throne_." but the passage for which beyond all others we must make room, is a series of eight lines, corresponding to six in the original; and this for two reasons: first, because dr. joseph warton has deliberately asserted, that in our whole literature, "we have scarcely eight more beautiful lines than these;" and though few readers will subscribe to so sweeping a judgment, yet certainly these must be wonderful lines for a boy, which could challenge such commendation from an experienced _polyhistor_ of infinite reading. secondly, because the lines contain a night-scene. now it must be well known to many readers, that the famous night scene in the iliad, so familiar to every schoolboy, has been made the subject, for the last thirty years, of severe, and, in many respects, of just criticisms. this description will therefore have a double interest by comparison, whilst, whatever may be thought of either taken separately for itself, considered as a translation, this which we now quote is as true to statius as the other is undoubtedly faithless to homer "_jamque per emeriti surgens confima phoebi titanis, late mundo subvecta silenti rorifera gelidum tenuaverat aera biga jam pecudes volucresque tacent. jam somnus avaris inserpit curis, pronusque per aera nutat, grata laboratae referens oblivia vitae_" theb i - . "'twas now the time when phoebus yields to night, and rising cynthia sheds her silver light, wide o'er the world in solemn pomp she drew her airy chariot hung with pearly dew all birds and beasts he hush'd. sleep steals away the wild desires of men and toils of day, and brings, descending through the silent air, a sweet forgetfulness of human care." note . one writer of that age says, in cheapside, but probably this difference arose from contemplating lombard street as a prolongation of cheapside. note . dr johnson said, that all he could discover about mr cromwell, was the fact of his going a hunting in a tie wig, but gay has added another fact to dr johnson's, by calling him "honest _hatless_ cromwell with red breeches" this epithet has puzzled the commentators, but its import is obvious enough cromwell, as we learn from more than one person, was anxious to be considered a fine gentleman, and devoted to women. now it was long the custom in that age for such persons, when walking with ladies, to carry their hats in their hand. louis xv. used to ride by the side of madame de pompadour hat in hand. note . it is strange indeed to find, not only that pope had so frequently kept rough copies of his own letters, and that he thought so well of them as to repeat the same letter to different persons, as in the case of the two lovers killed by lightning, or even to two sisters, martha and therese blount (who were sure to communicate their letters,) but that even swift had retained copies of _his. _ note . the word _undertake_ had not yet lost the meaning of shakspeare's age, in which it was understood to describe those cases where, the labor being of a miscellaneous kind, some person in chief offered to overlook and conduct the whole, whether with or without personal labor. the modern _undertaker,_ limited to the care of funerals, was then but one of numerous cases to which the term was applied. note . we may illustrate this feature in the behavior of pope to savage. when all else forsook him, when all beside pleaded the insults of savage for withdrawing their subscriptions, pope sent his in advance. and when savage had insulted _him_ also, arrogantly commanding him never "to presume to interfere or meddle in his affairs," dignity and self-respect made pope obedient to these orders, except when there was an occasion of serving savage. on his second visit to bristol (when he returned from glamorganshire,) savage had been thrown into the jail of the city. one person only interested himself for this hopeless profligate, and was causing an inquiry to be made about his debts at the time savage died. so much dr. johnson admits; but he _forgets_ to mention the name of this long suffering friend. it was pope. meantime, let us not be supposed to believe the lying legend of savage; he was doubtless no son of lady macclesfield's, but an impostor, who would not be sent to the tread-mill. charles lamb. it sounds paradoxical, but is not so in a bad sense, to say, that in every literature of large compass some authors will be found to rest much of the interest which surrounds them on their essential _non_-popularity. they are good for the very reason that they are not in conformity to the current taste. they interest because to the world they are _not_ interesting. they attract by means of their repulsion. not as though it could separately furnish a reason for loving a book, that the majority of men had found it repulsive. _prima facie_, it must suggest some presumption _against_ a book, that it has failed to gain public attention. to have roused hostility indeed, to have kindled a feud against its own principles or its temper, may happen to be a good sign. _that_ argues power. hatred may be promising. the deepest revolutions of mind sometimes begin in hatred. but simply to have left a reader unimpressed, is in itself a neutral result, from which the inference is doubtful. yet even _that_, even simple failure to impress, may happen at times to be a result from positive powers in a writer, from special originalities, such as rarely reflect themselves in the mirror of the ordinary understanding. it seems little to be perceived, how much the great scriptural [endnote: ] idea of the _worldly_ and the _unworldly_ is found to emerge in literature as well as in life. in reality the very same combinations of moral qualities, infinitely varied, which compose the harsh physiognomy of what we call worldliness in the living groups of life, must unavoidably present themselves in books. a library divides into sections of worldly and unworldly, even as a crowd of men divides into that same majority and minority. the world has an instinct for recognizing its own; and recoils from certain qualities when exemplified in books, with the same disgust or defective sympathy as would have governed it in real life. from qualities for instance of childlike simplicity, of shy profundity, or of inspired self-communion, the world does and must turn away its face towards grosser, bolder, more determined, or more intelligible expressions of character and intellect; and not otherwise in literature, nor at all less in literature, than it does in the realities of life. charles lamb, if any ever _was_ is amongst the class here contemplated; he, if any ever _has_, ranks amongst writers whose works are destined to be forever unpopular, and yet forever interesting; interesting, moreover, by means of those very qualities which guarantee their non-popularity. the same qualities which will be found forbidding to the worldly and the thoughtless, which will be found insipid to many even amongst robust and powerful minds, are exactly those which will continue to command a select audience in every generation. the prose essays, under the signature of _elia_, form the most delightful section amongst lamb's works. they traverse a peculiar field of observation, sequestered from general interest; and they are composed in a spirit too delicate and unobtrusive to catch the ear of the noisy crowd, clamoring for strong sensations. but this retiring delicacy itself, the pensiveness chequered by gleams of the fanciful, and the humor that is touched with cross-lights of pathos, together with the picturesque quaintness of the objects casually described, whether men, or things, or usages, and, in the rear of all this, the constant recurrence to ancient recollections and to decaying forms of household life, as things retiring before the tumult of new and revolutionary generations; these traits in combination communicate to the papers a grace and strength of originality which nothing in any literature approaches, whether for degree or kind of excellence, except the most felicitous papers of addison, such as those on sir roger de coverly, and some others in the same vein of composition. they resemble addison's papers also in the diction, which is natural and idiomatic, even to carelessness. they are equally faithful to the truth of nature; and in this only they differ remarkably--that the sketches of elia reflect the stamp and impress of the writer's own character, whereas in all those of addison the personal peculiarities of the delineator (though known to the reader from the beginning through the account of the club) are nearly quiescent. now and then they are recalled into a momentary notice, but they do not act, or at all modify his pictures of sir roger or will wimble. _they_ are slightly and amiably eccentric; but the spectator him-self, in describing them, takes the station of an ordinary observer. everywhere, indeed, in the writings of lamb, and not merely in his _elia_, the character of the writer cooperates in an under current to the effect of the thing written. to understand in the fullest sense either the gaiety or the tenderness of a particular passage, you must have some insight into the peculiar bias of the writer's mind, whether native and original, or impressed gradually by the accidents of situation; whether simply developed out of predispositions by the action of life, or violently scorched into the constitution by some fierce fever of calamity. there is in modern literature a whole class of writers, though not a large one, standing within the same category; some marked originality of character in the writer become a coefficient with what he says to a common result; you must sympathize with this _personality_ in the author before you can appreciate the most significant parts of his views. in most books the writer figures as a mere abstraction, without sex or age or local station, whom the reader banishes from his thoughts. what is written seems to proceed from a blank intellect, not from a man clothed with fleshly peculiarities and differences. these peculiarities and differences neither do, nor (generally speaking)_could_ intermingle with the texture of the thoughts so as to modify their force or their direction. in such books, and they form the vast majority, there is nothing to be found or to be looked for beyond the direct objective. (_sit venia verbo_!) but, in a small section of books, the objective in the thought becomes confluent with the subjective in the thinker--the two forces unite for a joint product; and fully to enjoy that product, or fully to apprehend either element, both must be known. it is singular, and worth inquiring into, for the reason that the greek and roman literature had no such books. timon of athens, or diogenes, one may conceive qualified for this mode of authorship, had journalism existed to rouse them in those days; their "articles" would no doubt have been fearfully caustic. but, as _they_ failed to produce anything, and lucian in an after age is scarcely characteristic enough for the purpose, perhaps we may pronounce rabelais and montaigne the earliest of writers in the class described. in the century following _theirs_, came sir thomas brown, and immediately after _him_ la fontaine. then came swift, sterne, with others less distinguished; in germany, hippel, the friend of kant, harmann, the obscure; and the greatest of the whole body--john paul fr. richter. in _him_, from the strength and determinateness of his nature as well as from the great extent of his writing, the philosophy of this interaction between the author as a human agency and his theme as an intellectual reagency, might best be studied. from _him_ might be derived the largest number of cases, illustrating boldly this absorption of the universal into the concrete--of the pure intellect into the human nature of the author. but nowhere could illustrations be found more interesting--shy, delicate, evanescent--shy as lightning, delicate and evanescent as the colored pencillings on a frosty night from the northern lights, than in the better parts of lamb. to appreciate lamb, therefore, it is requisite that his character and temperament should be understood in their coyest and most wayward features. a capital defect it would be if these could not be gathered silently from lamb's works themselves. it would be a fatal mode of dependency upon an alien and separable accident if they needed an external commentary. but they do _not_. the syllables lurk up and down the writings of lamb which decipher his eccentric nature. his character lies there dispersed in anagram; and to any attentive reader the regathering and restoration of the total word from its scattered parts is inevitable without an effort. still it is always a satisfaction in knowing a result, to know also its _why_ and _how_; and in so far as every character is likely to be modified by the particular experience, sad or joyous, through which the life has travelled, it is a good contribution towards the knowledge of that resulting character as a whole to have a sketch of that particular experience. what trials did it impose? what energies did it task? what temptations did it unfold? these calls upon the moral powers, which in music so stormy, many a life is doomed to hear, how were they faced? the character in a capital degree moulds oftentimes the life, but the life _always_ in a subordinate degree moulds the character. and the character being in this case of lamb so much of a key to the writings, it becomes important that the life should be traced, however briefly, as a key to the character. that is _one_ reason for detaining the reader with some slight record of lamb's career. such a record by preference and of right belongs to a case where the intellectual display, which is the sole ground of any public interest at all in the man, has been intensely modified by the _humanities_ and moral _personalities_ distinguishing the subject. we read a physiology, and need no information as to the life and conversation of its author; a meditative poem becomes far better understood by the light of such information; but a work of genial and at the same time eccentric sentiment, wandering upon untrodden paths, is barely intelligible without it. there is a good reason for arresting judgment on the writer, that the court may receive evidence on the life of the man. but there is another reason, and, in any other place, a better; which reason lies in the extraordinary value of the life considered separately for itself. logically, it is not allowable to say that _here;_ and, considering the principal purpose of this paper, any possible _independent_ value of the life must rank as a better reason for reporting it. since, in a case where the original object is professedly to estimate the writings of a man, whatever promises to further that object must, merely by that tendency, have, in relation to that place, a momentary advantage which it would lose if valued upon a more abstract scale. liberated from this casual office of throwing light upon a book--raised to its grander station of a solemn deposition to the moral capacities of man in conflict with calamity--viewed as a return made into the chanceries of heaven--upon an issue directed from that court to try the amount of power lodged in a poor desolate pair of human creatures for facing the very anarchy of storms--this obscure life of the two lambs, brother and sister, (for the two lives were one life,) rises into a grandeur that is not paralleled once in a generation. rich, indeed, in moral instruction was the life of charles lamb; and perhaps in one chief result it offers to the thoughtful observer a lesson of consolation that is awful, and of hope that ought to be immortal, viz., in the record which it furnishes, that by meekness of submission, and by earnest conflict with evil, in the spirit of cheerfulness, it is possible ultimately to disarm or to blunt the very heaviest of curses--even the curse of lunacy. had it been whispered, in hours of infancy, to lamb, by the angel who stood by his cradle--"thou, and the sister that walks by ten years before thee, shall be through life, each to each, the solitary fountain of comfort; and except it be from this fountain of mutual love, except it be as brother and sister, ye shall not taste the cup of peace on earth!"--here, if there was sorrow in reversion, there was also consolation. but what funeral swamps would have instantly ingulfed this consolation, had some meddling fiend prolonged the revelation, and, holding up the curtain from the sad future a little longer, had said scornfully--"peace on earth! peace for you two, charles and mary lamb! what peace is possible under the curse which even now is gathering against your heads? is there peace on earth for the lunatic--peace for the parenticide--peace for the girl that, without warning, and without time granted for a penitential cry to heaven, sends her mother to the last audit?" and then, without treachery, speaking bare truth, this prophet of woe might have added--"thou also, thyself, charles lamb, thou in thy proper person, shalt enter the skirts of this dreadful hail-storm; even thou shalt taste the secrets of lunacy, and enter as a captive its house of bondage; whilst over thy sister the accursed scorpion shall hang suspended through life, like death hanging over the beds of hospitals, striking at times, but more often threatening to strike; or withdrawing its instant menaces only to lay bare her mind more bitterly to the persecutions of a haunted memory!" considering the nature of the calamity, in the first place; considering, in the second place, its life-long duration; and, in the last place, considering the quality of the resistance by which it was met, and under what circumstances of humble resources in money or friends--we have come to the deliberate judgment, that the whole range of history scarcely presents a more affecting spectacle of perpetual sorrow, humiliation, or conflict, and that was supported to the end, (that is, through forty years,) with more resignation, or with more absolute victory. charles lamb was born in february of the year . his immediate descent was humble; for his father, though on one particular occasion civilly described as a "scrivener," was in reality a domestic servant to mr. salt--a bencher (and therefore a barrister of some standing) in the inner temple. john lamb the father belonged by birth to lincoln; from which city, being transferred to london whilst yet a boy, he entered the service of mr. salt without delay; and apparently from this period throughout his life continued in this good man's household to support the honorable relation of a roman client to his _patronus_, much more than that of a mercenary servant to a transient and capricious master. the terms on which he seems to live with the family of the lambs, argue a kindness and a liberality of nature on both sides. john lamb recommended himself as an attendant by the versatility of his accomplishments; and mr. salt, being a widower without children, which means in effect an old bachelor, naturally valued that encyclopaedic range of dexterity which made his house independent of external aid for every mode of service. to kill one's own mutton is but an operose way of arriving at a dinner, and often a more costly way; whereas to combine one's own carpenter, locksmith, hair-dresser, groom, &c., all in one man's person,--to have a robinson crusoe, up to all emergencies of life, always in waiting, --is a luxury of the highest class for one who values his ease. a consultation is held more freely with a man familiar to one's eye, and more profitably with a man aware of one's peculiar habits. and another advantage from such an arrangement is, that one gets any little alteration or repair executed on the spot. to hear is to obey, and by an inversion of pope's rule-- "one always _is_, and never _to be_, blest." people of one sole accomplishment, like the _homo unius libri, _ are usually within that narrow circle disagreeably perfect, and therefore apt to be arrogant. people who can do all things, usually do every one of them ill; and living in a constant effort to deny this too palpable fact, they become irritably vain. but mr. lamb the elder seems to have been bent on perfection. he did all things; he did them all well; and yet was neither gloomily arrogant, nor testily vain. and being conscious apparently that all mechanic excellencies tend to illiberal results, unless counteracted by perpetual sacrifices to the muses, he went so far as to cultivate poetry; he even printed his poems, and were we possessed of a copy, (which we are _not_, nor probably is the vatican,) it would give us pleasure at this point to digress for a moment, and to cut them up, purely on considerations of respect to the author's memory. it is hardly to be supposed that they did not really merit castigation; and we should best show the sincerity of our respect for mr. lamb, senior, in all those cases where we _could_ conscientiously profess respect by an unlimited application of the knout in the cases where we could _not_. the whole family of the lambs seem to have won from mr. salt the consideration which is granted to humble friends; and from acquaintances nearer to their own standing, to have won a tenderness of esteem such as is granted to decayed gentry. yet naturally, the social rank of the parents, as people still living, must have operated disadvantageously for the children. it is hard, even for the practised philosopher, to distinguish aristocratic graces of manner, and capacities of delicate feeling, in people whose very hearth and dress bear witness to the servile humility of their station. yet such distinctions as wild gifts of nature, timidly and half-unconsciously asserted themselves in the unpretending lambs. already in _their_ favor there existed a silent privilege analogous to the famous one of lord kinsale. he, by special grant from the crown, is allowed, when standing before the king, to forget that he is not himself a king; the bearer of that peerage, through all generations, has the privilege of wearing his hat in the royal presence. by a general though tacit concession of the same nature, the rising generation of the lambs, john and charles, the two sons, and mary lamb, the only daughter, were permitted to forget that their grandmother had been a housekeeper for sixty years, and that their father had worn a livery. charles lamb, individually, was so entirely humble, and so careless of social distinctions, that he has taken pleasure in recurring to these very facts in the family records amongst the most genial of his elia recollections. he only continued to remember, without shame, and with a peculiar tenderness, these badges of plebeian rank, when everybody else, amongst the few survivors that could have known of their existence, had long dismissed them from their thoughts. probably, through mr. salt's interest, charles lamb, in the autumn of , when he wanted something more than four months of completing his eighth year, received a presentation to the magnificent school of christ's hospital. the late dr. arnold, when contrasting the school of his own boyish experience, winchester, with rugby, the school confided to his management, found nothing so much to regret in the circumstances of the latter as its forlorn condition with respect to historical traditions. wherever these were wanting, and supposing the school of sufficient magnitude, it occurred to dr. arnold that something of a compensatory effect for impressing the imagination might be obtained by connecting the school with the nation through the link of annual prizes issuing from the exchequer. an official basis of national patronage might prove a substitute for an antiquarian or ancestral basis. happily for the great educational foundations of london, none of them is in the naked condition of rugby. westminster, st. paul's, merchant tailors', the charter-house, &c., are all crowned with historical recollections; and christ's hospital, besides the original honors of its foundation, so fitted to a consecrated place in a youthful imagination--an asylum for boy-students, provided by a boy-king--innocent, religious, prematurely wise, and prematurely called away from earth--has also a mode of perpetual connection with the state. it enjoys, therefore, _both_ of dr. arnold's advantages. indeed, all the great foundation schools of london, bearing in their very codes of organization the impress of a double function--viz., the conservation of sound learning and of pure religion--wear something of a monastic or cloisteral character in their aspect and usages, which is peculiarly impressive, and even pathetic, amidst the uproars of a capital the most colossal and tumultuous upon earth. here lamb remained until his fifteenth year, which year threw him on the world, and brought him alongside the golden dawn of the french revolution. here he learned a little elementary greek, and of latin more than a little; for the latin notes to mr. cary (of dante celebrity) though brief, are sufficient to reveal a true sense of what is graceful and idiomatic in latinity. _we_ say this, who have studied that subject more than most men. it is not that lamb would have found it an easy task to compose a long paper in latin--nobody _can,_ find it easy to do what he has no motive for habitually practising; but a single sentence of latin wearing the secret countersign of the "sweet roman hand," ascertains sufficiently that, in reading latin classics, a man feels and comprehends their peculiar force or beauty. that is enough. it is requisite to a man's expansion of mind that he should make acquaintance with a literature so radically differing from all modern literatures as is the latin. it is _not_ requisite that he should practise latin composition. here, therefore, lamb obtained in sufficient perfection one priceless accomplishment, which even singly throws a graceful air of liberality over all the rest of a man's attainments: having rarely any pecuniary value, it challenges the more attention to its intellectual value. here also lamb commenced the friendships of his life; and, of all which he formed, he lost none. here it was, as the consummation and crown of his advantages from the time-honored hospital, that he came to know "poor s. t. c." [greek text: ton thaumasiotaton.] until , it is probable that he lost sight of coleridge, who was then occupied with cambridge, having been transferred thither as a "grecian" from the house of christ church. that year, , was a year of change and fearful calamity for charles lamb. on that year revolved the wheels of his after-life. during the three years succeeding to his school days, he had held a clerkship in the south sea house. in , he was transferred to the india house. as a junior clerk, he could not receive more than a slender salary; but even this was important to the support of his parents and sister. they lived together in lodgings near holborn; and in the spring of , miss lamb, (having previously shown signs of lunacy at intervals,) in a sudden paroxysm of her disease, seized a knife from the dinner table, and stabbed her mother, who died upon the spot. a coroner's inquest easily ascertained the nature of a case which was transparent in all its circumstances, and never for a moment indecisive as regarded the medical symptoms. the poor young lady was transferred to the establishment for lunatics at hoxton. she soon recovered, we believe; but her relapses were as sudden as her recoveries, and she continued through life to revisit, for periods of uncertain seclusion, this house of woe. this calamity of his fireside, followed soon after by the death of his father, who had for some time been in a state of imbecility, determined the future destiny of lamb. apprehending, with the perfect grief of perfect love, that his sister's fate was sealed for life--viewing her as his own greatest benefactress, which she really _had_ been through her advantage by ten years of age--yielding with impassioned readiness to the depth of his fraternal affection, what at any rate he would have yielded to the sanctities of duty as interpreted by his own conscience--he resolved forever to resign all thoughts of marriage with a young lady whom he loved, forever to abandon all ambitious prospects that might have tempted him into uncertainties, humbly to content himself with the _certainties_ of his indian clerkship, to dedicate himself for the future to the care of his desolate and prostrate sister, and to leave the rest to god. these sacrifices he made in no hurry or tumult, but deliberately, and in religious tranquillity. these sacrifices were accepted in heaven--and even on this earth they _had_ their reward. she, for whom he gave up all, in turn gave up all for _him_. she devoted herself to his comfort. many times she returned to the lunatic establishment, but many times she was restored to illuminate the household hearth for _him_; and of the happiness which for forty years and more he had, no hour seemed true that was not derived from her. hence forwards, therefore, until he was emancipated by the noble generosity of the east india directors, lamb's time, for nine-and-twenty years, was given to the india house. "_o fortunati nimium, sua si bona narint,_" is applicable to more people than "_agricolae_." clerks of the india house are as blind to their own advantages as the blindest of ploughmen. lamb was summoned, it is true, through the larger and more genial section of his life, to the drudgery of a copying clerk--making confidential entries into mighty folios, on the subject of calicoes and muslins. by this means, whether he would or not, he became gradually the author of a great "serial" work, in a frightful number of volumes, on as dry a department of literature as the children of the great desert could have suggested. nobody, he must have felt, was ever likely to study this great work of his, not even dr. dryasdust. he had written in vain, which is not pleasant to know. there would be no second edition called for by a discerning public in leadenhall street; not a chance of that. and consequently the _opera omnia_ of lamb, drawn up in a hideous battalion, at the cost of labor so enormous, would be known only to certain families of spiders in one generation, and of rats in the next. such a labor of sysyphus,--the rolling up a ponderous stone to the summit of a hill only that it might roll back again by the gravitation of its own dulness,--seems a bad employment for a man of genius in his meridian energies. and yet, perhaps not. perhaps the collective wisdom of europe could not have devised for lamb a more favorable condition of toil than this very india house clerkship. his works (his leadenhall street works) were certainly not read; popular they _could_ not be, for they were not read by anybody; but then, to balance _that,_ they were not reviewed. his folios were of that order, which (in cowper's words) "not even critics criticise." is _that_ nothing? is it no happiness to escape the hands of scoundrel reviewers? many of us escape being _read;_ the worshipful reviewer does not find time to read a line of us; but we do not for that reason escape being criticised, "shown up," and martyred. the list of _errata_ again, committed by lamb, was probably of a magnitude to alarm any possible compositor; and yet these _errata_ will never be known to mankind. they are dead and buried. they have been cut off prematurely; and for any effect upon their generation, might as well never have existed. then the returns, in a pecuniary sense, from these folios--how important were _they!_ it is not common, certainly, to write folios; but neither is it common to draw a steady income of from _l._ to _l._ per annum from volumes of any size. this will be admitted; but would it not have been better to draw the income without the toil? doubtless it would always be more agreeable to have the rose without the thorn. but in the case before us, taken with all its circumstances, we deny that the toil is truly typified as a thorn; so far from being a thorn in lamb's daily life, on the contrary, it was a second rose ingrafted upon the original rose of the income, that he had to earn it by a moderate but continued exertion. holidays, in a national establishment so great as the india house, and in our too fervid period, naturally could not be frequent; yet all great english corporations are gracious masters, and indulgences of this nature could be obtained on a special application. not to count upon these accidents of favor, we find that the regular toil of those in lamb's situation, began at ten in the morning and ended as the clock struck four in the afternoon. six hours composed the daily contribution of labor, that is precisely one fourth part of the total day. only that, as sunday was exempted, the rigorous expression of the quota was one fourth of six-sevenths, which makes sixty twenty-eighths and not six twenty-fourths of the total time. less toil than this would hardly have availed to deepen the sense of value in that large part of the time still remaining disposable. had there been any resumption whatever of labor in the evening, though but for half an hour, that one encroachment upon the broad continuous area of the eighteen free hours would have killed the tranquillity of the whole day, by _sowing_ it (so to speak) with intermitting anxieties--anxieties that, like tides, would still be rising and falling. whereas now, at the early hour of four, when daylight is yet lingering in the air, even at the dead of winter, in the latitude of london, and when the _enjoying_ section of the day is barely commencing, everything is left which a man would care to retain. a mere dilettante or amateur student, having no mercenary interest concerned, would, upon a refinement of luxury--would, upon choice, give up so much time to study, were it only to sharpen the value of what remained for pleasure. and thus the only difference between the scheme of the india house distributing his time for lamb, and the scheme of a wise voluptuary distributing his time for himself, lay, not in the _amount_ of time deducted from enjoyment, but in the particular mode of appropriating that deduction. an _intellectual_ appropriation of the time, though casually fatiguing, must have pleasures of its own; pleasures denied to a task so mechanic and so monotonous as that of reiterating endless records of sales or consignments not _essentially_ varying from each other. true; it is pleasanter to pursue an intellectual study than to make entries in a ledger. but even an intellectual toil is toil; few people can support it for more than six hours in a day. and the only question, therefore, after all, is, at what period of the day a man would prefer taking this pleasure of study. now, upon that point, as regards the case of lamb, there is no opening for doubt. he, amongst his _popular fallacies_, admirably illustrates the necessity of evening and artificial lights to the prosperity of studies. after exposing, with the perfection of fun, the savage unsociality of those elder ancestors who lived (if life it was) before lamp-light was invented, showing that "jokes came in with candles," since "what repartees could have passed" when people were "grumbling at one another in the dark," and "when you must have felt about for a smile, and handled a neighbor's cheek to be sure that he understood it?"--he goes on to say," this accounts for the seriousness of the elder poetry, "viz., because they had no candle-light. even eating he objects to as a very imperfect thing in the dark; you are not convinced that a dish tastes as it should do by the promise of its name, if you dine in the twilight without candles. seeing is believing." the senses absolutely give and take reciprocally. "the sight guarantees the taste. for instance," can you tell pork from veal in the dark, or distinguish sherries from pure malaga? "to all enjoyments whatsoever candles are indispensable as an adjunct; but, as to _reading_," there is, "says lamb," absolutely no such thing but by a candle. we have tried the affectation of a book at noon-day in gardens, but it was labor thrown away. it is a mockery, all that is reported of the influential phoebus. no true poem ever owed its birth to the sun's light. the mild internal light, that reveals the fine shapings of poetry, like fires on the domestic hearth, goes out in the sunshine. milton's morning hymn in paradise, we would hold a good wager, was penned at midnight; and taylor's rich description of a sunrise smells decidedly of the taper. "this view of evening and candle-light as involved in literature may seem no more than a pleasant extravaganza; and no doubt it is in the nature of such gayeties to travel a little into exaggeration, but substantially it is certain that lamb's feelings pointed habitually in the direction here indicated. his literary studies, whether taking the color of tasks or diversions, courted the aid of evening, which, by means of physical weariness, produces a more luxurious state of repose than belong to the labor hours of day, and courted the aid of lamp-light, which, as lord bacon remarked, gives a gorgeousness to human pomps and pleasures, such as would be vainly sought from the homeliness of day-light. the hours, therefore, which were withdrawn from his own control by the india house, happened to be exactly that part of the day which lamb least valued, and could least have turned to account. the account given of lamb's friends, of those whom he endeavored to love because he admired them, or to esteem intellectually because he loved them personally, is too much colored for general acquiescence by sergeant talfourd's own early prepossessions. it is natural that an intellectual man like the sergeant, personally made known in youth to people, whom from childhood he had regarded as powers in the ideal world, and in some instances as representing the eternities of human speculation, since their names had perhaps dawned upon his mind in concurrence with the very earliest suggestion of topics which they had treated, should overrate their intrinsic grandeur. hazlitt accordingly is styled "the great thinker." but had he been such potentially, there was an absolute bar to his achievement of that station in act and consummation. no man _can_ be a great thinker in our days upon large and elaborate questions without being also a great student. to think profoundly, it is indispensable that a man should have read down to his own starting point, and have read as a collating student to the particular stage at which he himself takes up the subject. at this moment, for instance, how could geology be treated otherwise than childishly by one who should rely upon the encyclopaedias of ? or comparative physiology by the most ingenious of men unacquainted with marshall hall, and with the apocalyptic glimpses of secrets unfolding under the hands of professor owen? in such a condition of undisciplined thinking, the ablest man thinks to no purpose. he lingers upon parts of the inquiry that have lost the importance which once they had, under imperfect charts of the subject; he wastes his strength upon problems that have become obsolete; he loses his way in paths that are not in the line of direction upon which the improved speculation is moving; or he gives narrow conjectural solutions of difficulties that have long since received sure and comprehensive ones. it is as if a man should in these days attempt to colonize, and yet, through inertia or through ignorance, should leave behind him all modern resources of chemistry, of chemical agriculture, or of steam-power. hazlitt had read nothing. unacquainted with grecian philosophy, with scholastic philosophy, and with the recomposition of these philosophies in the looms of germany during the last sixty and odd years, trusting merely to the unrestrained instincts of keen mother-wit--whence should hazlitt have had the materials for great thinking? it is through the collation of many abortive voyages to polar regions that a man gains his first chance of entering the polar basin, or of running ahead on the true line of approach to it. the very reason for hazlitt's defect in eloquence as a lecturer, is sufficient also as a reason why he could not have been a comprehensive thinker. "he was not eloquent," says the sergeant, "in the true sense of the term." but why? because it seems "his thoughts were too weighty to be moved along by the shallow stream of feeling which an evening's excitement can rouse,"--an explanation which leaves us in doubt whether hazlitt forfeited his chance of eloquence by accommodating himself to this evening's excitement, or by gloomily resisting it. our own explanation is different, hazlitt was not eloquent, because he was discontinuous. no man can he eloquent whose thoughts are abrupt, insulated, capricious, and (to borrow an impressive word from coleridge) non-sequacious. eloquence resides not in separate or fractional ideas, but in the relations of manifold ideas, and in the mode of their evolution from each other. it is not indeed enough that the ideas should be many, and their relations coherent; the main condition lies in the key of the evolution, in the _law_ of the succession. the elements are nothing without the atmosphere that moulds, and the dynamic forces that combine. now hazlitt's brilliancy is seen chiefly in separate splinterings of phrase or image which throw upon the eye a vitreous scintillation for a moment, but spread no deep suffusions of color, and distribute no masses of mighty shadow. a flash, a solitary flash, and all is gone. rhetoric, according to its quality, stands in many degrees of relation to the permanencies of truth; and all rhetoric, like all flesh, is partly unreal, and the glory of both is fleeting. even the mighty rhetoric of sir thomas brown, or jeremy taylor, to whom only it has been granted to open the trumpet-stop on that great organ of passion, oftentimes leaves behind it the sense of sadness which belongs to beautiful apparitions starting out of darkness upon the morbid eye, only to be reclaimed by darkness in the instant of their birth, or which belongs to pageantries in the clouds. but if all rhetoric is a mode of pyrotechny, and all pyrotechnics are by necessity fugacious, yet even in these frail pomps, there are many degrees of frailty. some fireworks require an hour's duration for the expansion of their glory; others, as if formed from fulminating powder, expire in the very act of birth. precisely on that scale of duration and of power stand the glitterings of rhetoric that are not worked into the texture, but washed on from the outside. hazlitt's thoughts were of the same fractured and discontinuous order as his illustrative images--seldom or never self-diffusive; and _that_ is a sufficient argument that he had never cultivated philosophic thinking. not, however, to conceal any part of the truth, we are bound to acknowledge that lamb thought otherwise on this point, manifesting what seemed to us an extravagant admiration of hazlitt, and perhaps even in part for that very glitter which we are denouncing--at least he did so in a conversation with ourselves. but, on the other hand, as this conversation travelled a little into the tone of a disputation, and _our_ frost on this point might seem to justify some undue fervor by way of balance, it is very possible that lamb did not speak his absolute and most dispassionate judgment. and yet again, if he _did_, may we, with all reverence for lamb's exquisite genius, have permission to say--that his own constitution of intellect sinned by this very habit of discontinuity. it was a habit of mind not unlikely to be cherished by his habits of life. amongst these habits was the excess of his social kindness. he scorned so much to deny his company and his redundant hospitality to any man who manifested a wish for either by calling upon him, that he almost seemed to think it a criminality in himself if, by accident, he really _was_ from home on your visit, rather than by possibility a negligence in you, that had not forewarned him of your intention. all his life, from this and other causes, he must have read in the spirit of one liable to sudden interruption; like a dragoon, in fact, reading with one foot in the stirrup, when expecting momentarily a summons to mount for action. in such situations, reading by snatches, and by intervals of precarious leisure, people form the habit of seeking and unduly valuing condensations of the meaning, where in reality the truth suffers by this short-hand exhibition, or else they demand too vivid illustrations of the meaning. lord chesterfield himself, so brilliant a man by nature, already therefore making a morbid estimate of brilliancy, and so hurried throughout his life as a public man, read under this double coercion for craving instantaneous effects. at one period, his only time for reading was in the morning, whilst under the hands of his hair-dresser; compelled to take the hastiest of flying shots at his author, naturally he demanded a very conspicuous mark to fire at. but the author could not, in so brief a space, be always sure to crowd any very prominent objects on the eye, unless by being audaciously oracular and peremptory as regarded the sentiment, or flashy in excess as regarded its expression. "come now, my friend," was lord chesterfield's morning adjuration to his author;" come now, cut it short--don't prose--don't hum and haw. "the author had doubtless no ambition to enter his name on the honorable and ancient roll of gentlemen prosers; probably he conceived himself not at all tainted with the asthmatic infirmity of humming and hawing; but, as to "cutting it short," how could he be sure of meeting his lordship's expectations in that point, unless by dismissing the limitations that might be requisite to fit the idea for use, or the adjuncts that might be requisite to integrate its truth, or the final consequences that might involve some deep _arriere pensee_, which, coming last in the succession, might oftentimes be calculated to lie deepest on the mind. to be lawfully and usefully brilliant after this rapid fashion, a man must come forward as a refresher of old truths, where _his_ suppressions are supplied by the reader's memory; not as an expounder of new truths, where oftentimes a dislocated fraction of the true is more dangerous than the false itself. to read therefore habitually, by hurried instalments, has this bad tendency--that it is likely to found a taste for modes of composition too artificially irritating, and to disturb the equilibrium of the judgment in relation to the colorings of style. lamb, however, whose constitution of mind was even ideally sound in reference to the natural, the simple, the genuine, might seem of all men least liable to a taint in this direction. and undoubtedly he _was_ so, as regarded those modes of beauty which nature had specially qualified him for apprehending. else, and in relation to other modes of beauty, where his sense of the true, and of its distinction from the spurious, had been an acquired sense, it is impossible for us to hide from ourselves--that not through habits only, not through stress of injurious accidents only, but by original structure and temperament of mind, lamb had a bias towards those very defects on which rested the startling characteristics of style which we have been noticing. he himself, we fear, not bribed by indulgent feelings to another, not moved by friendship, but by native tendency, shrank from the continuous, from the sustained, from the elaborate. the elaborate, indeed, without which much truth and beauty must perish in germ, was by name the object of his invectives. the instances are many, in his own beautiful essays, where he literally collapses, literally sinks away from openings suddenly offering themselves to flights of pathos or solemnity in direct prosecution of his own theme. on any such summons, where an ascending impulse, and an untired pinion were required, he _refuses_ himself (to use military language) invariably. the least observing reader of _elia_ cannot have failed to notice that the most felicitous passages always accomplish their circuit in a few sentences. the gyration within which his sentiment wheels, no matter of what kind it may be, is always the shortest possible. it does not prolong itself, and it does not repeat itself. but in fact, other features in lamb's mind would have argued this feature by analogy, had we by accident been left unaware of it directly. it is not by chance, or without a deep ground in his nature, _common_ to all his qualities, both affirmative and negative, that lamb had an insensibility to music more absolute than can have been often shared by any human creature, or perhaps than was ever before acknowledged so candidly. the sense of music,--as a pleasurable sense, or as any sense at all other than of certain unmeaning and impertinent differences in respect to high and low, sharp or flat, --was utterly obliterated as with a sponge by nature herself from lamb's organization. it was a corollary, from the same large _substratum_ in his nature, that lamb had no sense of the rhythmical in prose composition. rhythmus, or pomp of cadence, or sonorous ascent of clauses, in the structure of sentences, were effects of art as much thrown away upon him as the voice of the charmer upon the deaf adder. we ourselves, occupying the very station of polar opposition to that of lamb, being as morbidly, perhaps, in the one excess as he in the other, naturally detected this omission in lamb's nature at an early stage of our acquaintance. not the fabled regulus, with his eyelids torn away, and his uncurtained eye-balls exposed to the noon-tide glare of a carthaginian sun, could have shrieked with more anguish of recoil from torture than we from certain sentences and periods in which lamb perceived no fault at all. _pomp_, in our apprehension, was an idea of two categories; the pompous might be spurious, but it might also be genuine. it is well to love the simple--_we_ love it; nor is there any opposition at all between _that_ and the very glory of pomp. but, as we once put the case to lamb, if, as a musician, as the leader of a mighty orchestra, you had this theme offered to you--"belshazzar the king gave a great feast to a thousand of his lords"--or this," and on a certain day, marcus cicero stood up, and in a set speech rendered solemn thanks to caius caesar for quintus ligarius pardoned, and for marcus marcellus restored "--surely no man would deny that, in such a case, simplicity, though in a passive sense not lawfully absent, must stand aside as totally insufficient for the positive part. simplicity might guide, even here, but could not furnish the power; a rudder it might be, but not an oar or a sail. this, lamb was ready to allow; as an intellectual _quiddity_, he recognized pomp in the character of a privileged thing; he was obliged to do so; for take away from great ceremonial festivals, such as the solemn rendering of thanks, the celebration of national anniversaries, the commemoration of public benefactors, &c., the element of pomp, and you take away their very meaning and life; but, whilst allowing a place for it in the rubric of the logician, it is certain that, _sensuously_, lamb would not have sympathized with it, nor have _felt_ its justification in any concrete instance. we find a difficulty in pursuing this subject, without greatly exceeding our limits. we pause, therefore, and add only this one suggestion as partly explanatory of the case. lamb had the dramatic intellect and taste, perhaps in perfection; of the epic, he had none at all. here, as happens sometimes to men of genius preternaturally endowed in one direction, he might be considered as almost starved. a favorite of nature, so eminent in some directions, by what right could he complain that her bounties were not indiscriminate? from this defect in his nature it arose, that, except by culture and by reflection, lamb had no genial appreciation of milton. the solemn planetary wheelings of the paradise lost were not to his taste. what he _did_ comprehend, were the motions like those of lightning, the fierce angular coruscations of that wild agency which comes forward so vividly in the sudden _peripetteia_, in the revolutionary catastrophe, and in the tumultuous conflicts, through persons or through situations, of the tragic drama. there is another vice in mr. hazlitt's mode of composition, viz., the habit of trite quotation, too common to have challenged much notice, were it not for these reasons: st, that sergeant talfourd speaks of it in equivocal terms, as a fault perhaps, but as a "felicitous" fault, "trailing after it a line of golden associations;" dly, because the practice involves a dishonesty. on occasion of no. , we must profess our belief that a more ample explanation from the sergeant would have left him in substantial harmony with ourselves. we cannot conceive the author of ion, and the friend of wordsworth, seriously to countenance that paralytic "mouth-diarrhoea," (to borrow a phrase of coleridge's)--that _fluxe de bouche_(to borrow an earlier phrase of archbishop huet's) which places the reader at the mercy of a man's tritest remembrances from his most school-boy reading. to have the verbal memory infested with tags of verse and "cues" of rhyme is in itself an infirmity as vulgar and as morbid as the stableboy's habit of whistling slang airs upon the mere mechanical excitement of a bar or two whistled by some other blockhead in some other stable. the very stage has grown weary of ridiculing a folly, that having been long since expelled from decent society has taken refuge amongst the most imbecile of authors. was mr. hazlitt then of that class? no; he was a man of great talents, and of capacity for greater things than he ever attempted, though without any pretensions of the philosophic kind ascribed to him by the sergeant. meantime the reason for resisting the example and practice of hazlitt lies in this--that essentially it is at war with sincerity, the foundation of all good writing, to express one's own thoughts by another man's words. this dilemma arises. the thought is, or it is not, worthy of that emphasis which belongs to a metrical expression of it. if it is _not_, then we shall be guilty of a mere folly in pushing into strong relief that which confessedly cannot support it. if it _is_, then how incredible that a thought strongly conceived, and bearing about it the impress of one's own individuality, should naturally, and without dissimulation or falsehood, bend to another man's expression of it! simply to back one's own view by a similar view derived from another, may be useful; a quotation that repeats one's own sentiment, but in a varied form, has the grace which belongs to the _idem in alio_, the same radical idea expressed with a difference--similarity in dissimilarity; but to throw one's own thoughts, matter, and form, through alien organs so absolutely as to make another man one's interpreter for evil and good, is either to confess a singular laxity of thinking that can so flexibly adapt itself to any casual form of words, or else to confess that sort of carelessness about the expression which draws its real origin from a sense of indifference about the things to be expressed. utterly at war this distressing practice is with all simplicity and earnestness of writing; it argues a state of indolent ease inconsistent with the pressure and coercion of strong fermenting thoughts, before we can be at leisure for idle or chance quotations. but lastly, in reference to no. , we must add that the practice is signally dishonest. it "trails after it a line of golden associations." yes, and the burglar, who leaves an army-tailor's after a midnight visit, trails after him perhaps a long roll of gold bullion epaulettes which may look pretty by lamplight. but _that_, in the present condition of moral philosophy amongst the police, is accounted robbery; and to benefit too much by quotations is little less. at this moment we have in our eye a work, at one time not without celebrity, which is one continued _cento_ of splendid passages from other people. the natural effect from so much fine writing is, that the reader rises with the impression of having been engaged upon a most eloquent work. meantime the whole is a series of mosaics; a tessellation made up from borrowed fragments: and first, when the reader's attention is expressly directed upon the fact, he becomes aware that the nominal author has contributed nothing more to the book than a few passages of transition or brief clauses of connection. in the year , the main incident occurring of any importance for english literature was the publication by southey of an epic poem. this poem, the _joan of arc_, was the earliest work of much pretension amongst all that southey wrote; and by many degrees it was the worst. in the four great narrative poems of his later years, there is a combination of two striking qualities, viz., a peculiar command over the _visually_ splendid, connected with a deep-toned grandeur of moral pathos. especially we find this union in the _thalaba_ and the _roderick_; but in the _joan of arc_ we miss it. what splendor there is for the fancy and the eye belongs chiefly to the vision, contributed by coleridge, and this was subsequently withdrawn. the fault lay in southey's political relations at that era; his sympathy with the french revolution in its earlier stages had been boundless; in all respects it was a noble sympathy, fading only as the gorgeous coloring faded from the emblazonries of that awful event, drooping only when the promises of that golden dawn sickened under stationary eclipse. in , southey was yet under the tyranny of his own earliest fascination: in _his_ eyes the revolution had suffered a momentary blight from refluxes of panic; but blight of some kind is incident to every harvest on which human hopes are suspended. bad auguries were also ascending from the unchaining of martial instincts. but that the revolution, having ploughed its way through unparalleled storms, was preparing to face other storms, did but quicken the apprehensiveness of his love--did but quicken the duty of giving utterance to this love. hence came the rapid composition of the poem, which cost less time in writing than in printing. hence, also, came the choice of his heroine. what he needed in his central character was, a heart with a capacity for the wrath of hebrew prophets applied to ancient abuses, and for evangelic pity applied to the sufferings of nations. this heart, with this double capacity--where should he seek it? a french heart it must be, or how should it follow with its sympathies a french movement? _there_ lay southey's reason for adopting the maid of orleans as the depositary of hopes and aspirations on behalf of france as fervid as his own. in choosing this heroine, so inadequately known at that time, southey testified at least his own nobility of feeling; [endnote: ] but in executing his choice, he and his friends overlooked two faults fatal to his purpose. one was this: sympathy with the french revolution meant sympathy with the opening prospects of man--meant sympathy with the pariah of every clime--with all that suffered social wrong, or saddened in hopeless bondage. that was the movement at work in the french revolution. but the movement of joanne d'arc took a different direction. in her day also, it is true, the human heart had yearned after the same vast enfranchisement for the children of labor as afterwards worked in the great vision of the french revolution. in her days also, and shortly before them, the human hand had sought by bloody acts to realize this dream of the heart. and in her childhood, joanna had not been insensible to these premature motions upon a path too bloody and too dark to be safe. but this view of human misery had been utterly absorbed to _her_ by the special misery then desolating france. the lilies of france had been trampled under foot by the conquering stranger. within fifty years, in three pitched battles that resounded to the ends of the earth, the chivalry of france had been exterminated. her oriflamme had been dragged through the dust. the eldest son of baptism had been prostrated. the daughter of france had been surrendered on coercion as a bride to her english conqueror. the child of that marriage, so ignominious to the land, was king of france by the consent of christendom; that child's uncle domineered as regent of france; and that child's armies were in military possession of the land. but were they undisputed masters? no; and there precisely lay the sorrow of the time. under a perfect conquest there would have been repose; whereas the presence of the english armies did but furnish a plea, masking itself in patriotism, for gatherings everywhere of lawless marauders; of soldiers that had deserted their banners; and of robbers by profession. this was the woe of france more even than the military dishonor. that dishonor had been palliated from the first by the genealogical pretensions of the english royal family to the french throne, and these pretensions were strengthened in the person of the present claimant. but the military desolation of france, this it was that woke the faith of joanna in her own heavenly mission of deliverance. it was the attitude of her prostrate country, crying night and day for purification from blood, and not from feudal oppression, that swallowed up the thoughts of the impassioned girl. but _that_ was not the cry that uttered itself afterwards in the french revolution. in joanna's days, the first step towards rest for france was by expulsion of the foreigner. independence of a foreign yoke, liberation as between people and people, was the one ransom to be paid for french honor and peace. _that_ debt settled, there might come a time for thinking of civil liberties. but this time was not within the prospects of the poor shepherdess the field--the area of her sympathies never coincided with that of the revolutionary period. it followed therefore, that southey _could_ not have raided joanna (with her condition of feeling) by any management, into the interpreter of his own. that was the first error in his poem, and it was irremediable. the second was--and strangely enough this also escaped notice--that the heroine of southey is made to close her career precisely at the point when its grandeur commences. she believed herself to have a mission for the deliverance of france; and the great instrument which she was authorized to use towards this end, was the king, charles vii. him she was to crown. with this coronation, her triumph, in the plain historical sense, ended. and _there_ ends southey's poem. but exactly at this point, the grander stage of her mission commences, viz., the ransom which she, a solitary girl, paid in her own person for the national deliverance. the grander half of the story was thus sacrificed, as being irrelevant to southey's political object; and yet, after all, the half which he retained did not at all symbolize that object. it is singular, indeed, to find a long poem, on an ancient subject, adapting itself hieroglyphically to a modern purpose; dly, to find it failing of this purpose; and dly, if it had not failed, so planned that it could have succeeded only by a sacrifice of all that was grandest in the theme. to these capital oversights, southey, coleridge, and lamb, were all joint parties; the two first as concerned in the composition, the last as a frank though friendly reviewer of it in his private correspondence with coleridge. it is, however, some palliation of these oversights, and a very singular fact in itself, that neither from english authorities nor from french, though the two nations were equally brought into close connection with the career of that extraordinary girl, could any adequate view be obtained of her character and acts. the official records of her trial, apart from which nothing can be depended upon, were first in the course of publication from the paris press during the currency of last year. first in , about four hundred and sixteen years after her ashes had been dispersed to the winds, could it be seen distinctly, through the clouds of fierce partisanships and national prejudices, what had been the frenzy of the persecution against her, and the utter desolation of her position; what had been the grandeur of her conscientious resistance. anxious that our readers should see lamb from as many angles as possible, we have obtained from an old friend of his a memorial--slight, but such as the circumstances allowed--of an evening spent with charles and mary lamb, in the winter of - . the record is of the most unambitious character; it pretends to nothing, as the reader will see, not so much as to a pun, which it really required some singularity of luck to have missed from charles lamb, who often continued to fire puns, as minute guns, all through the evening. but the more unpretending this record is, the more appropriate it becomes by that very fact to the memory of _him_ who, amongst all authors, was the humblest and least pretending. we have often thought that the famous epitaph written for his grave by piron, the cynical author of _la metromanie_, might have come from lamb, were it not for one objection; lamb's benign heart would have recoiled from a sarcasm, however effective, inscribed upon a grave-stone; or from a jest, however playful, that tended to a vindictive sneer amongst his own farewell words. we once translated this piron epitaph into a kind of rambling drayton couplet; and the only point needing explanation is, that, from the accident of scientific men, fellows of the royal society being usually very solemn men, with an extra chance, therefore, for being dull men in conversation, naturally it arose that some wit amongst our great-grandfathers translated f. r. s. into a short-hand expression for a fellow remarkably stupid; to which version of the three letters our english epitaph alludes. the french original of piron is this: "ci git piron; qui ne fut rien; pas meme acadamicien." the bitter arrow of the second line was feathered to hit the french acadamie, who had declined to elect him a member. our translation is this: "here lies piron; who was--nothing; or, if _that_ could be, was less: how!--nothing? yes, nothing; not so much as f. r. s." but now to our friend's memorandum: october , . my dear x.--you ask me for some memorial, however trivial, of any dinner party, supper party, water party, no matter what, that i can circumstantially recall to recollection, by any features whatever, puns or repartees, wisdom or wit, connecting it with charles lamb. i grieve to say that my meetings of any sort with lamb were few, though spread through a score of years. that sounds odd for one that loved lamb so entirely, and so much venerated his character. but the reason was, that i so seldom visited london, and lamb so seldom quitted it. somewhere about and i must have met lamb repeatedly at the _courier office_ in the strand; that is, at coleridge's, to whom, as an intimate friend, mr. stuart (a proprietor of the paper) gave up for a time the use of some rooms in the office. thither, in the london season, (may especially and june,) resorted lamb, godwin, sir h. davy, and, once or twice, wordsworth, who visited sir george beaumont's leicestershire residence of coleorton early in the spring, and then travelled up to grosvenor square with sir george and lady beaumont; _spectatum veniens, veniens spectetur ut ipse_. but in these miscellaneous gatherings, lamb said little, except when an opening arose for a pun. and how effectual that sort of small shot was from _him_, i need not say to anybody who remembers his infirmity of stammering, and his dexterous management of it for purposes of light and shade. he was often able to train the roll of stammers into settling upon the words immediately preceding the effective one; by which means the key-note of the jest or sarcasm, benefiting by the sudden liberation of his embargoed voice, was delivered with the force of a pistol shot. that stammer was worth an annuity to him as an ally of his wit. firing under cover of that advantage, he did triple execution; for, in the first place, the distressing sympathy of the hearers with _his_ distress of utterance won for him unavoidably the silence of deep attention; and then, whilst he had us all hoaxed into this attitude of mute suspense by an appearance of distress that he perhaps did not really feel, down came a plunging shot into the very thick of us, with ten times the effect it would else have had. if his stammering, however, often did him true "yeoman's service," sometimes it led him into scrapes. coleridge told me of a ludicrous embarrassment which it caused him at hastings. lamb had been medically advised to a course of sea-bathing; and accordingly at the door of his bathing machine, whilst he stood shivering with cold, two stout fellows laid hold of him, one at each shoulder, like heraldic supporters; they waited for the word of command from their principal, who began the following oration to them: "hear me, men! take notice of this--i am to be dipped." what more he would have said is unknown to land or sea or bathing machines; for having reached the word dipped, he commenced such a rolling fire of di--di--di--di, that when at length he descended _a plomb_ upon the full word _dipped_, the two men, rather tired of the long suspense, became satisfied that they had reached what lawyers call the "operative" clause of the sentence; and both exclaiming at once, "oh yes, sir, we're quite aware of _that_," down they plunged him into the sea. on emerging, lamb sobbed so much from the cold, that he found no voice suitable to his indignation; from necessity he seemed tranquil; and again addressing the men, who stood respectfully listening, he began thus: "men! is it possible to obtain your attention?" "oh surely, sir, by all means." "then listen: once more i tell you, i am to be di--di--di--"--and then, with a burst of indignation," dipped, i tell you,"--"oh decidedly, sir," rejoined the men, "decidedly," and down the stammerer went for the second time. petrified with cold and wrath, once more lamb made a feeble attempt at explanation--" grant me pa--pa--patience; is it mum--um--murder you me--me--mean? again and a--ga--ga--gain, i tell you, i'm to be di--di--di--dipped," now speaking furiously, with the voice of an injured man. "oh yes, sir," the men replied, "we know that, we fully understood it," and for the third time down went lamb into the sea." oh limbs of satan!" he said, on coming up for the third time, "it's now too late; i tell you that i am--no, that i _was_--to be di--di--di--dipped only _once_." since the rencontres with lamb at coleridge's, i had met him once or twice at literary dinner parties. one of these occurred at the house of messrs. taylor & hessey, the publishers. i myself was suffering too much from illness at the time to take any pleasure in what passed, or to notice it with any vigilance of attention. lamb, i remember, as usual, was full of gayety; and as usual he rose too rapidly to the zenith of his gayety; for he shot upwards like a rocket, and, as usual, people said he was "tipsy." to me lamb never seemed intoxicated, but at most arborily elevated. he never talked nonsense, which is a great point gained; nor polemically, which is a greater; for it is a dreadful thing to find a drunken man bent upon converting oneself; nor sentimentally, which is greatest of all. you can stand a man's fraternizing with you; or if he swears an eternal friendship, only once in an hour, you do not think of calling the police; but once in every three minutes is too much (period omitted here in original, but there is a double space following for a new sentence) lamb did none of these things; he was always rational, quiet, and gentlemanly in his habits. nothing memorable, i am sure, passed upon this occasion, which was in november of ; and yet the dinner was memorable by means of one fact not discovered until many years later. amongst the company, all literary men, sate a murderer, and a murderer of a freezing class; cool, calculating, wholesale in his operations, and moving all along under the advantages of unsuspecting domestic confidence and domestic opportunities. this was mr. wainwright, who was subsequently brought to trial, but not for any of his murders, and transported for life. the story has been told both by sergeant talfourd, in the second volume of these "final memoirs," and previously by sir edward b. lytton. both have been much blamed for the use made of this extraordinary case; but we know not why. in itself it is a most remarkable case for more reasons than one. it is remarkable for the appalling revelation which it makes of power spread through the hands of people not liable to suspicion, for purposes the most dreadful. it is remarkable also by the contrast which existed in this case between the murderer's appearance and the terrific purposes with which he was always dallying. he was a contributor to a journal in which i also had written several papers. this formed a shadowy link between us; and, ill as i was, i looked more attentively at _him_ than at anybody else. yet there were several men of wit and genius present, amongst whom lamb (as i have said) and thomas hood, hamilton reynolds, and allan cunningham. but _them_ i already knew, whereas mr. w. i now saw for the first time and the last. what interested me about _him_ was this, the papers which had been pointed out to me as his, (signed _janus weathercock, vinklooms_, &c.) were written in a spirit of coxcombry that did not so much disgust as amuse. the writer could not conceal the ostentatious pleasure which he took in the luxurious fittings-up of his rooms, in the fancied splendor of his _bijouterie_, &c. yet it was easy for a man of any experience to read two facts in all this idle _etalage_; one being, that his finery was but of a second-rate order; the other, that he was a parvenu, not at home even amongst his second-rate splendor. so far there was nothing to distinguish mr. w--'s papers from the papers of other triflers. but in this point there was, viz., that in his judgments upon the great italian masters of painting, da vinci, titian, &c., there seemed a tone of sincerity and of native sensibility, as in one who spoke from himself, and was not merely a copier from books. this it was that interested me; as also his reviews of the chief italian engravers, morghen, volpato, &c.; not for the manner, which overflowed with levities and impertinence, but for the substance of his judgments in those cases where i happened to have had an opportunity of judging for myself. here arose also a claim upon lamb's attention; for lamb and his sister had a deep feeling for what was excellent in painting. accordingly lamb paid him a great deal of attention, and continued to speak of him for years with an interest that seemed disproportioned to his pretensions. this might be owing in part to an indirect compliment paid to miss lamb in one of w--'s papers; else his appearance would rather have repelled lamb; it was commonplace, and better suited to express the dandyism which overspread the surface of his manner, than the unaffected sensibility which apparently lay in his nature. dandy or not, however, this man, on account of the schism in his papers, so much amiable puppyism on one side, so much deep feeling on the other, (feeling, applied to some of the grandest objects that earth has to show,) did really move a trifle of interest in me, on a day when i hated the face of man and woman. yet again, if i had known this man for the murderer that even then he was, what sudden loss of interest, what sudden growth of another interest, would have changed the face of that party! trivial creature, that didst carry thy dreadful eye kindling with perpetual treasons! dreadful creature, that didst carry thy trivial eye, mantling with eternal levity, over the sleeping surfaces of confiding household life--oh, what a revolution for man wouldst thou have accomplished had thy deep wickedness prospered! what _was_ that wickedness? in a few words i will say. at this time (october, ) the whole british island is appalled by a new chapter in the history of poisoning. locusta in ancient rome, madame brinvilliers in paris, were people of original genius: not in any new artifice of toxicology, not in the mere management of poisons, was the audacity of their genius displayed. no; but in profiting by domestic openings for murder, unsuspected through their very atrocity. such an opening was made some years ago by those who saw the possibility of founding purses for parents upon the murder of their children. this was done upon a larger scale than had been suspected, and upon a plausible pretence. to bury a corpse is costly; but of a hundred children only a few, in the ordinary course of mortality, will die within a given time. five shillings a-piece will produce l annually, and _that_ will bury a considerable number. on this principle arose infant burial societies. for a few shillings annually, a parent could secure a funeral for every child. if the child died, a few guineas fell due to the parent, and the funeral was accomplished without cost of _his_. but on this arose the suggestion--why not execute an insurance of this nature twenty times over? one single insurance pays for the funeral--the other nineteen are so much clear gain, a _lucro ponatur_, for the parents. yes; but on the supposition that the child died! twenty are no better than one, unless they are gathered into the garner. now, if the child died naturally, all was right; but how, if the child did _not_ die? why, clearly this, --the child that _can_ die, and won't die, may be made to die. there are many ways of doing that; and it is shocking to know, that, according to recent discoveries, poison is comparatively a very merciful mode of murder. six years ago a dreadful communication was made to the public by a medical man, viz., that three thousand children were annually burned to death under circumstances showing too clearly that they had been left by their mothers with the means and the temptations to set themselves on fire in her absence. but more shocking, because more lingering, are the deaths by artificial appliances of wet, cold, hunger, bad diet, and disturbed sleep, to the frail constitutions of children. by that machinery it is, and not by poison, that the majority qualify themselves for claiming the funeral allowances. here, however, there occur to any man, on reflection, two eventual restraints on the extension of this domestic curse:-- st, as there is no pretext for wanting more than one funeral on account of one child, any insurances beyond one are in themselves a ground of suspicion. now, if any plan were devised for securing the _publication_ of such insurances, the suspicions would travel as fast as the grounds for them. dly, it occurs, that eventually the evil checks itself, since a society established on the ordinary rates of mortality would be ruined when a murderous stimulation was applied to that rate too extensively. still it is certain that, for a season, this atrocity _has_ prospered in manufacturing districts for some years, and more recently, as judicial investigations have shown, in one agricultural district of essex. now, mr. w--'s scheme of murder was, in its outline, the very same, but not applied to the narrow purpose of obtaining burials from a public fund he persuaded, for instance, two beautiful young ladies, visitors in his family, to insure their lives for a short period of two years. this insurance was repeated in several different offices, until a sum of , pounds had been secured in the event of their deaths within the two years. mr. w--took care that they _should_ die, and very suddenly, within that period; and then, having previously secured from his victims an assignment to himself of this claim, he endeavored to make this assignment available. but the offices, which had vainly endeavored to extract from the young ladies any satisfactory account of the reasons for this limited insurance, had their suspicions at last strongly roused. one office had recently experienced a case of the same nature, in which also the young lady had been poisoned by the man in whose behalf she had effected the insurance; all the offices declined to pay; actions at law arose; in the course of the investigation which followed, mr. w--'s character was fully exposed. finally, in the midst of the embarrassments which ensued, he committed forgery, and was transported. from this mr. w--, some few days afterwards, i received an invitation to a dinner party, expressed in terms that were obligingly earnest. he mentioned the names of his principal guests, and amongst them rested most upon those of lamb and sir david wilkie. from an accident i was unable to attend, and greatly regretted it. sir david one might rarely happen to see, except at a crowded party. but as regarded lamb, i was sure to see him or to hear of him again in some way or other within a short time. this opportunity, in fact, offered itself within a month through the kindness of the lambs themselves. they had heard of my being in solitary lodgings, and insisted on my coming to dine with them, which more than once i did in the winter of - . the mere reception by the lambs was so full of goodness and hospitable feeling, that it kindled animation in the most cheerless or torpid of invalids. i cannot imagine that any _memorabilia_ occurred during the visit; but i will use the time that would else be lost upon the settling of that point, in putting down any triviality that occurs to my recollection. both lamb and myself had a furious love for nonsense, headlong nonsense. excepting professor wilson, i have known nobody who had the same passion to the same extent. and things of that nature better illustrate the _realities_ of lamb's social life than the gravities, which weighing so sadly on his solitary hours he sought to banish from his moments of relaxation. there were no strangers; charles lamb, his sister, and myself made up the party. even this was done in kindness. they knew that i should have been oppressed by an effort such as must be made in the society of strangers; and they placed me by their own fireside, where i could say as little or as much as i pleased. we dined about five o'clock, and it was one of the hospitalities inevitable to the lambs, that any game which they might receive from rural friends in the course of the week, was reserved for the day of a friend's dining with them. in regard to wine, lamb and myself had the same habit--perhaps it rose to the dignity of a principle--viz., to take a great deal _during_ dinner--none _after_ it. consequently, as miss lamb (who drank only water) retired almost with the dinner itself, nothing remained for men of our principles, the rigor of which we had illustrated by taking rather too much of old port before the cloth was drawn, except talking; amoebaean colloquy, or, in dr. johnson's phrase, a dialogue of "brisk reciprocation." but this was impossible; over lamb, at this period of his life, there passed regularly, after taking wine, a brief eclipse of sleep. it descended upon him as softly as a shadow. in a gross person, laden with superfluous flesh, and sleeping heavily, this would have been disagreeable; but in lamb, thin even to meagreness, spare and wiry as an arab of the desert, or as thomas aquinas, wasted by scholastic vigils, the affection of sleep seemed rather a network of aerial gossamer than of earthly cobweb--more like a golden haze falling upon him gently from the heavens than a cloud exhaling upwards from the flesh. motionless in his chair as a bust, breathing so gently as scarcely to seem certainly alive, he presented the image of repose midway between life and death, like the repose of sculpture; and to one who knew his history a repose affectingly contrasting with the calamities and internal storms of his life. i have heard more persons than i can now distinctly recall, observe of lamb when sleeping, that his countenance in that state assumed an expression almost seraphic, from its intellectual beauty of outline, its childlike simplicity, and its benignity. it could not be called a transfiguration that sleep had worked in his face; for the features wore essentially the same expression when waking; but sleep spiritualized that expression, exalted it, and also harmonized it. much of the change lay in that last process. the eyes it was that disturbed the unity of effect in lamb's waking face. they gave a restlessness to the character of his intellect, shifting, like northern lights, through every mode of combination with fantastic playfulness, and sometimes by fiery gleams obliterating for the moment that pure light of benignity which was the predominant reading on his features. some people have supposed that lamb had jewish blood in his veins, which seemed to account for his gleaming eyes. it might be so; but this notion found little countenance in lamb's own way of treating the gloomy medieval traditions propagated throughout europe about the jews, and their secret enmity to christian races. lamb, indeed, might not be more serious than shakspeare is supposed to have been in his shylock; yet he spoke at times as from a station of wilful bigotry, and seemed (whether laughingly or not) to sympathize with the barbarous christian superstitions upon the pretended bloody practices of the jews, and of the early jewish physicians. being himself a lincoln man, he treated sir hugh [endnote: ] of lincoln, the young child that suffered death by secret assassination in the jewish quarter rather than suppress his daily anthems to the virgin, as a true historical personage on the rolls of martyrdom; careless that this fable, like that of the apprentice murdered out of jealousy by his master, the architect, had destroyed its own authority by ubiquitous diffusion. all over europe the same legend of the murdered apprentice and the martyred child reappears under different names--so that in effect the verification of the tale is none at all, because it is unanimous; is too narrow, because it is too impossibly broad. lamb, however, though it was often hard to say whether he were not secretly laughing, swore to the truth of all these old fables, and treated the liberalities of the present generation on such points as mere fantastic and effeminate affectations, which, no doubt, they often are as regards the sincerity of those who profess them. the bigotry, which it pleased his fancy to assume, he used like a sword against the jew, as the official weapon of the christian, upon the same principle that a capulet would have drawn upon a montague, without conceiving it any duty of _his_ to rip up the grounds of so ancient a quarrel; it was a feud handed down to him by his ancestors, and it was _their_ business to see that originally it had been an honest feud. i cannot yet believe that lamb, if seriously aware of any family interconnection with jewish blood, would, even in jest, have held that one-sided language. more probable it is, that the fiery eye recorded not any alliance with jewish blood, but that disastrous alliance with insanity which tainted his own life, and laid desolate his sister's. on awakening from his brief slumber, lamb sat for some time in profound silence, and then, with the most startling rapidity, sang out--"diddle, diddle, dumpkins;" not looking at me, but as if soliloquizing. for five minutes he relapsed into the same deep silence; from which again he started up into the same abrupt utterance of--"diddle, diddle, dumpkins." i could not help laughing aloud at the extreme energy of this sudden communication, contrasted with the deep silence that went before and followed. lamb smilingly begged to know what i was laughing at, and with a look of as much surprise as if it were i that had done something unaccountable, and not himself. i told him (as was the truth) that there had suddenly occurred to me the possibility of my being in some future period or other called on to give an account of this very evening before some literary committee. the committee might say to me--(supposing the case that i outlived him)--"you dined with mr. lamb in january, ; now, can you remember any remark or memorable observation which that celebrated man made before or after dinner?" i as _respondent_. "oh yes, i can." _com_. "what was it?" _resp_. "diddle, diddle, dumpkins." _com_. "and was this his only observation? did mr. lamb not strengthen this remark by some other of the same nature?" _resp_. "yes, he did." _com_. "and what was it?" _resp_. "diddle, diddle, dumpkins." _com_. "what is your secret opinion of dumpkins?" _com_. "do you conceive dumpkins to have been a thing or a person?" _resp_. "i conceive dumpkins to have been a person, having the rights of a person." _com_. "capable, for instance, of suing and being sued?" _resp_. "yes, capable of both; though i have reason to think there would have been very little use in suing dumpkins." _com_. "how so? are the committee to understand that you, the respondent, in your own case, have found it a vain speculation, countenanced only by visionary lawyers, to sue dumpkins?" _resp_. "no; i never lost a shilling by dumpkins, the reason for which may be that dumpkins never owed me a shilling; but from his _pronomen_ of 'diddle,' i apprehend that he was too well acquainted with joint-stock companies!" _com_. "and your opinion is, that he may have diddled mr. lamb?" _resp_. "i conceive it to be not unlikely." _com_. "and, perhaps, from mr. lamb's pathetic reiteration of his name, 'diddle, diddle,' you would be disposed to infer that dumpkins had practised his diddling talents upon mr. l. more than once?" _resp_. "i think it probable." lamb laughed, and brightened up; tea was announced; miss lamb returned. the cloud had passed away from lamb's spirits, and again he realized the pleasure of evening, which, in _his_ apprehension, was so essential to the pleasure of literature. on the table lay a copy of wordsworth, in two volumes; it was the edition of longman, printed about the time of waterloo. wordsworth was held in little consideration, i believe, amongst the house of longman; at any rate, _their_ editions of his works were got up in the most slovenly manner. in particular, the table of contents was drawn up like a short-hand bill of parcels. by accident the book lay open at a part of this table, where the sonnet beginning-- "alas! what boots the long laborious quest"-- had been entered with mercantile speed, as-- "alas! what boots,"---- "yes," said lamb, reading this entry in a dolorous tone of voice, "he may well say _that_. i paid hoby three guineas for a pair that tore like blotting paper, when i was leaping a ditch to escape a farmer that pursued me with a pitch-fork for trespassing. but why should w. wear boots in westmoreland? pray, advise him to patronize shoes." the mercurialities of lamb were infinite, and always uttered in a spirit of absolute recklessness for the quality or the prosperity of the sally. it seemed to liberate his spirits from some burthen of blackest melancholy which oppressed it, when he had thrown off a jest: he would not stop one instant to improve it; nor did he care the value of a straw whether it were good enough to be remembered, or so mediocre as to extort high moral indignation from a collector who refused to receive into his collection of jests and puns any that were not felicitously good or revoltingly bad. after tea, lamb read to me a number of beautiful compositions, which he had himself taken the trouble to copy out into a blank paper folio from unsuccessful authors. neglected people in every class won the sympathy of lamb. one of the poems, i remember, was a very beautiful sonnet from a volume recently published by lord thurlow--which, and lamb's just remarks upon it, i could almost repeat _verbatim_ at this moment, nearly twenty-seven years later, if your limits would allow me. but these, you tell me, allow of no such thing; at the utmost they allow only twelve lines more. now all the world knows that the sonnet itself would require fourteen lines; but take fourteen from twelve, and there remains very little, i fear; besides which, i am afraid two of my twelve are already exhausted. this forces me to interrupt my account of lamb's reading, by reporting the very accident that _did_ interrupt it in fact; since that no less characteristically expressed lamb's peculiar spirit of kindness, (always quickening itself towards the ill-used or the down-trodden,) than it had previously expressed itself in his choice of obscure readings. two ladies came in, one of whom at least had sunk in the scale of worldly consideration. they were ladies who would not have found much recreation in literary discussions; elderly, and habitually depressed. on _their_ account, lamb proposed whist, and in that kind effort to amuse them, which naturally drew forth some momentary gayeties from himself, but not of a kind to impress themselves on the recollection, the evening terminated. we have left ourselves no room for a special examination of lamb's writings, some of which were failures, and some were so memorably beautiful as to be unique in their class. the character of lamb it is, and the life-struggle of lamb, that must fix the attention of many, even amongst those wanting in sensibility to his intellectual merits. this character and this struggle, as we have already observed, impress many traces of themselves upon lamb's writings. even in that view, therefore, they have a ministerial value; but separately, for themselves, they have an independent value of the highest order. upon this point we gladly adopt the eloquent words of sergeant talfourd:-- "the sweetness of lamb's 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 anything in human action and endurance more lovely than its self-devotion exhibits? it was not merely that he saw, through the ensanguined cloud of misfortune which had fallen upon his family, the unstained 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; and 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, without pluming himself upon his brotherly nobleness as a virtue, or seeking to repay himself (as some uneasy martyrs do) by small instalments of long repining; but that he 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." it must be remembered, also, which the sergeant does not overlook, that lamb's efforts for the becoming support of his sister lasted through a period of forty years. twelve years before his death, the munificence of the india house, by granting him a liberal retiring allowance, had placed his own support under shelter from accidents of any kind. but this died with himself; and he could not venture to suppose that, in the event of his own death, the india house would grant to his sister the same allowance as by custom is granted to a wife. this they did; but not venturing to calculate upon such nobility of patronage, lamb had applied himself through life to the saving of a provision for his sister under any accident to himself. and this he did with a persevering prudence, so little known in the literary class, amongst a continued tenor of generosities, often so princely as to be scarcely known in any class. was this man, so memorably good by life-long sacrifice of himself, in any profound sense a christian? the impression is, that he was _not_. we, from private communications with him, can undertake to say that, according to his knowledge and opportunities for the study of christianity, he _was_. what has injured lamb on this point is, that his early opinions (which, however, from the first were united with the deepest piety) are read by the inattentive, as if they had been the opinions of his mature days; secondly, that he had few religious persons amongst his friends, which made him reserved in the expression of his own views; thirdly, that in any case where he altered opinions for the better, the credit of the improvement is assigned to coleridge. lamb, for example, beginning life as a unitarian, in not many years became a trinitarian. coleridge passed through the same changes in the same order; and, here, at least, lamb is supposed simply to have obeyed the influence, confessedly great, of coleridge. this, on our own knowledge of lamb's views, we pronounce to be an error. and the following extracts from lamb's letters will show, not only that he was religiously disposed on impulses self-derived, but that, so far from obeying the bias of coleridge, he ventured, on this one subject, firmly as regarded the matter, though humbly as regarded the manner, affectionately to reprove coleridge. in a letter to coleridge, written in , the year after his first great affliction, he says: "coleridge, i have not one truly elevated character among my acquaintance; not one christian; not one but undervalues christianity. singly, what am i to do? wesley--[have you read his life?]--was not he an elevated character? wesley has said religion was not a solitary thing. alas! it is necessarily so with me, or next to solitary. 'tis true you write to me; but correspondence by letter and personal intimacy are widely different. do, do write to me; and do some good to my mind--already how much 'warped and relaxed' by the world!" in a letter written about three months previously, he had not scrupled to blame coleridge at some length for audacities of religious speculation, which seemed to him at war with the simplicities of pure religion. he says: "do continue to write to me. i read your letters with my sister, and they give us both abundance of delight. especially they please us two when you talk in a religious strain. not but we are offended occasionally with a certain freedom of expression, a certain air of mysticism, more consonant to the conceits of pagan philosophy than consistent with the humility of genuine piety." then, after some instances of what he blames, he says: "be not angry with me, coleridge. i wish not to cavil; i know i cannot instruct you; i only wish to remind you of that humility which best becometh the christian character. god, in the new testament, our best guide, is represented to us in the kind, condescending, amiable, familiar light of a parent; and, in my poor mind, 'tis best for us so to consider him as our heavenly father, and our best friend, without indulging too bold conceptions of his character." about a month later, he says: "few but laugh at me for reading my testament. they talk a language i understand not; i conceal sentiments that would be a puzzle to _them_." we see by this last quotation _where_ it was that lamb originally sought for consolation. we personally can vouch that, at a maturer period, when he was approaching his fiftieth year, no change had affected his opinions upon that point; and, on the other hand, that no changes had occurred in his needs for consolation, we see, alas! in the records of his life. whither, indeed, could he fly for comfort, if not to his bible? and to whom was the bible an indispensable resource, if not to lamb? we do not undertake to say, that in his knowledge of christianity he was everywhere profound or consistent, but he was always earnest in his aspirations after its spiritualities, and had an apprehensive sense of its power. charles lamb is gone; his life was a continued struggle in the service of love the purest, and within a sphere visited by little of contemporary applause. even his intellectual displays won but a narrow sympathy at any time, and in his earlier period were saluted with positive derision and contumely on the few occasions when they were not oppressed by entire neglect. but slowly all things right themselves. all merit, which is founded in truth, and is strong enough, reaches by sweet exhalations in the end a higher sensory; reaches higher organs of discernment, lodged in a selecter audience. but the original obtuseness or vulgarity of feeling that thwarted lamb's just estimation in life, will continue to thwart its popular diffusion. there are even some that continue to regard him with the old hostility. and we, therefore, standing by the side of lamb's grave, seemed to hear, on one side, (but in abated tones, ) strains of the ancient malice--"this man, that thought himself to be somebody, is dead--is buried--is forgotten!" and, on the other side, seemed to hear ascending, as with the solemnity of an anthem--"this man, that thought himself to be nobody, is dead--is buried; his life has been searched; and his memory is hallowed forever!" notes. note . "_scriptural_" we call it, because this element of thought, so indispensable to a profound philosophy of morals, is not simply _more_ used in scripture than elsewhere, but is so exclusively significant or intelligible amidst the correlative ideas of scripture, as to be absolutely insusceptible of translation into classical greek or classical latin. it is disgraceful that more reflection has not been directed to the vast causes and consequences of so pregnant a truth. note . "_poor s t. c._"-the affecting expression by which coleridge indicates himself in the few lines written during his last illness for an inscription upon his grave, lines ill constructed in point of diction and compression, but otherwise speaking from the depths of his heart. note . it is right to remind the reader of this, for a reason applying forcibly to the present moment michelet has taxed englishmen with yielding to national animosities in the case of joan, having no plea whatever for that insinuation but the single one drawn from shakspeare's henry vi. to this the answer is, first, that shakspeare's share in that trilogy is not nicely ascertained secondly, that m michelet forgot (or, which is far worse, _not_ forgetting it, he dissembled) the fact, that in undertaking a series of dramas upon the basis avowedly of national chronicles, and for the very purpose of profiting by old traditionary recollections connected with ancestral glories, it was mere lunacy to recast the circumstances at the bidding of antiquarian research, so as entirely to disturb these glories. besides that, to shakspeare's age no such spirit of research had blossomed. writing for the stage, a man would have risked lapidation by uttering a whisper in that direction. and, even if not, what sense could there have been in openly running counter to the very motive that had originally prompted that particular class of chronicle plays? thirdly, if one englishman had, in a memorable situation, adopted the popular view of joan's conduct, (_popular_ as much in france as in england;) on the other hand, fifty years before m. michelet was writing this flagrant injustice, another englishman (viz., southey) had, in an epic poem, reversed this mis-judgment, and invested the shepherd girl with a glory nowhere else accorded to her, unless indeed by schiller. fourthly, we are not entitled to view as an _attack_ upon joanna, what, in the worst construction, is but an unexamining adoption of the contemporary historical accounts. a poet or a dramatist is not responsible for the accuracy of chronicles. but what _is_ an attack upon joan, being briefly the foulest and obscenest attempt ever made to stifle the grandeur of a great human struggle, viz., the french burlesque poem of _la pucelle_--what memorable man was it that wrote _that_? was he a frenchman, or was he not? that m. michelet should _pretend_ to have forgotten this vilest of pasquinades, is more shocking to the general sense of justice than any special untruth as to shakspeare _can_ be to the particular nationality of an englishman. note . the story which furnishes a basis to the fine ballad in percy's reliques, and to the canterbury tale of chaucer's lady abbess. goethe john wolfgang von goethe, a man of commanding influence in the literature of modern germany throughout the latter half of his long life, and possessing two separate claims upon our notice; one in right of his own unquestionable talents; and another much stronger, though less direct, arising out of his position, and the extravagant partisanship put forward on his behalf for the last forty years. the literary body in all countries, and for reasons which rest upon a sounder basis than that of private jealousies, have always been disposed to a republican simplicity in all that regards the assumption of rank and personal pretensions. _valeat quantum valere potest_, is the form of license to every man's ambition, coupled with its caution. let his influence and authority be commensurate with his attested value; and, because no man in the present infinity of human speculation, and the present multiformity of human power, can hope for more than a very limited superiority, there is an end at once to all _absolute_ dictatorship. the dictatorship in any case could be only _relative_, and in relation to a single department of art or knowledge; and this for a reason stronger even than that already noticed, viz., the vast extent of the field on which the intellect is now summoned to employ itself. that objection, as it applies only to the _degree_ of the difficulty, might be met by a corresponding degree of mental energy; such a thing may be supposed, at least. but another difficulty there is, of a profounder character, which cannot be so easily parried. those who have reflected at all upon the fine arts, know that power of one kind is often inconsistent, positively incompatible, with power of another kind. for example, the _dramatic_ mind is incompatible with the _epic_. and though we should consent to suppose that some intellect might arise endowed upon a scale of such angelic comprehensiveness, as to vibrate equally and indifferently towards either pole, still it is next to impossible, in the exercise and culture of the two powers, but some bias must arise which would give that advantage to the one over the other which the right arm has over the left. but the supposition, the very case put, is baseless, and countenanced by no precedent. yet, under this previous difficulty, and with regard to a literature convulsed, if any ever was, by an almost total anarchy, it is a fact notorious to all who take an interest in germany and its concerns, that goethe did in one way or other, through the length and breadth of that vast country, establish a supremacy of influence wholly unexampled; a supremacy indeed perilous in a less honorable man, to those whom he might chance to hate, and with regard to himself thus far unfortunate, that it conferred upon every work proceeding from his pen a sort of papal indulgence, an immunity from criticism, or even from the appeals of good sense, such as it is not wholesome that any man should enjoy. yet we repeat that german literature was and is in a condition of total anarchy. with this solitary exception, no name, even in the most narrow section of knowledge or of power, has ever been able in that country to challenge unconditional reverence; whereas, with us and in france, name the science, name the art, and we will name the dominant professor; a difference which partly arises out of the fact that england and france are governed in their opinions by two or three capital cities, whilst germany looks for its leadership to as many cities as there are _residenzen_ and universities. for instance, the little territory with which goethe was connected presented no less than two such public lights; weimar, the _residenz_ or privileged abode of the grand duke, and jena, the university founded by that house. partly, however, this difference may be due to the greater restlessness, and to the greater energy as respects mere speculation, of the german mind. but no matter whence arising, or how interpreted, the fact is what we have described; absolute confusion, the "anarch old" of milton, is the one deity whose sceptre is there paramount; and yet _there_ it was, in that very realm of chaos, that goethe built his throne. that he must have looked with trepidation and perplexity upon his wild empire and its "dark foundations," may be supposed. the tenure was uncertain to _him_ as regarded its duration; to us it is equally uncertain, and in fact mysterious, as regards its origin. meantime the mere fact, contrasted with the general tendencies of the german literary world, is sufficient to justify a notice, somewhat circumstantial, of the man in whose favor, whether naturally by force of genius, or by accident concurring with intrigue, so unexampled a result was effected. goethe was born at noonday on the th of august, , in his father's house at frankfort on the maine. the circumstances of his birth were thus far remarkable, that, unless goethe's vanity deceived him, they led to a happy revolution hitherto retarded by female delicacy falsely directed. from some error of the midwife who attended his mother, the infant goethe appeared to be still-born. sons there were as yet none from this marriage; everybody was therefore interested in the child's life; and the panic which arose in consequence, having survived its immediate occasion, was improved into a public resolution, (for which no doubt society stood ready at that moment,) to found some course of public instruction from this time forward for those who undertook professionally the critical duties of accoucheur. we have noticed the house in which goethe was born, as well as the city. both were remarkable, and fitted to leave lasting impressions upon a young person of sensibility. as to the city, its antiquity is not merely venerable, but almost mysterious; towers were at that time to be found in the mouldering lines of its earliest defences, which belonged to the age of charlemagne, or one still earlier; battlements adapted to a mode of warfare anterior even to that of feudalism or romance. the customs, usages, and local privileges of frankfort, and the rural districts adjacent, were of a corresponding character. festivals were annually celebrated at a short distance from the walls, which had descended from a dateless antiquity. every thing which met the eye spoke the language of elder ages; whilst the river on which the place was seated, its great fair, which still held the rank of the greatest in christendom, and its connection with the throne of caesar and his inauguration, by giving to frankfort an interest and a public character in the eyes of all germany, had the effect of countersigning, as it were, by state authority, the importance which she otherwise challenged to her ancestral distinctions. fit house for such a city, and in due keeping with the general scenery, was that of goethe's father. it had in fact been composed out of two contiguous houses; that accident had made it spacious and rambling in its plan; whilst a further irregularity had grown out of the original difference in point of level between the corresponding stories of the two houses, making it necessary to connect the rooms of the same _suite_ by short flights of steps. some of these features were no doubt removed by the recast of the house under the name of "repairs," (to evade a city bye-law, ) afterwards executed by his father; but such was the house of goethe's infancy, and in all other circumstances of style and furnishing equally antique. the spirit of society in frankfort, without a court, a university, or a learned body of any extent, or a resident nobility in its neighborhood, could not be expected to display any very high standard of polish. yet, on the other hand, as an independent city, governed by its own separate laws and tribunals, (that privilege of _autonomy_ so dearly valued by ancient greece,) and possessing besides a resident corps of jurisprudents and of agents in various ranks for managing the interests of the german emperor and other princes, frankfort had the means within herself of giving a liberal tone to the pursuits of her superior citizens, and of cooperating in no inconsiderable degree with the general movement of the times, political or intellectual. the memoirs of goethe himself, and in particular the picture there given of his own family, as well as other contemporary glimpses of german domestic society in those days, are sufficient to show that much knowledge, much true cultivation of mind, much sound refinement of taste, were then distributed through the middle classes of german society; meaning by that very indeterminate expression those classes which for frankfort composed the aristocracy, viz., all who had daily leisure, and regular funds for employing it to advantage. it is not necessary to add, because that is a fact applicable to all stages of society, that frankfort presented many and various specimens of original talent, moving upon all directions of human speculation. yet, with this general allowance made for the capacities of the place, it is too evident that, for the most part, they lay inert and undeveloped. in many respects frankfort resembled an english cathedral city, according to the standard of such places seventy years ago, not, that is to say, like carlisle in this day, where a considerable manufacture exists, but like chester as it is yet. the chapter of a cathedral, the resident ecclesiastics attached to the duties of so large an establishment, men always well educated, and generally having families, compose the original _nucleus_, around which soon gathers all that part of the local gentry who, for any purpose, whether of education for their children, or of social enjoyment for themselves, seek the advantages of a town. hither resort all the timid old ladies who wish for conversation, or other forms of social amusement; hither resort the valetudinarians, male or female, by way of commanding superior medical advice at a cost not absolutely ruinous to themselves; and multitudes besides, with narrow incomes, to whom these quiet retreats are so many cities of refuge. such, in one view, they really are; and yet in another they have a vicious constitution. cathedral cities in england, imperial cities without manufactures in germany, are all in an improgressive condition. the public employments of every class in such places continue the same from generation to generation. the amount of superior families oscillates rather than changes; that is, it fluctuates within fixed limits; and, for all inferior families, being composed either of shopkeepers or of menial servants, they are determined by the number, or, which, on a large average, is the same, by the pecuniary power, of their employers. hence it arises, that room is made for one man, in whatever line of dependence, only by the death of another; and the constant increments of the population are carried off into other cities. not less is the difference of such cities as regards the standard of manners. how striking is the soft and urbane tone of the lower orders in a cathedral city, or in a watering place dependent upon ladies, contrasted with the bold, often insolent, demeanor of a self-dependent artisan or mutinous mechanic of manchester and glasgow. children, however, are interested in the state of society around them, chiefly as it affects their parents. those of goethe were respectable, and perhaps tolerably representative of the general condition in their own rank. an english authoress of great talent, in her _characteristics of goethe_, has too much countenanced the notion that he owed his intellectual advantages exclusively to his mother. of this there is no proof. his mother wins more esteem from the reader of this day, because she was a cheerful woman, of serene temper, brought into advantageous comparison with a husband much older than herself, whom circumstances had rendered moody, fitful, sometimes capricious, and confessedly obstinate in that degree which pope has taught us to think connected with inveterate error: "stiff in opinion, always in the wrong," unhappily presents an association too often actually occurring in nature, to leave much chance for error in presuming either quality from the other. and, in fact, goethe's father was so uniformly obstinate in pressing his own views upon all who belonged to him, whenever he did come forward in an attitude of activity, that his family had much reason to be thankful for the rarity of such displays. fortunately for them, his indolence neutralized his obstinacy. and the worst shape in which his troublesome temper showed itself, was in what concerned the religious reading of the family. once begun, the worst book as well as the best, the longest no less than the shortest, was to be steadfastly read through to the last word of the last volume; no excess of yawning availed to obtain a reprieve, not, adds his son, though he were himself the leader of the yawners. as an illustration, he mentions bowyer's _history of the popes_; which awful series of records, the catacombs, as it were, in the palace of history, were actually traversed from one end to the other of the endless suite by the unfortunate house of goethe. allowing, however, for the father's unamiableness in this one point, upon all intellectual ground both parents seem to have met very much upon a level. two illustrations may suffice, one of which occurred during the infancy of goethe. the science of education was at that time making its first rude motions towards an ampler development; and, amongst other reforms then floating in the general mind, was one for eradicating the childish fear of ghosts, &c. the young goethes, as it happened, slept not in separate beds only, but in separate rooms; and not unfrequently the poor children, under the stinging terrors of their lonely situation, stole away from their "forms," to speak in the hunter's phrase, and sought to rejoin each other. but in these attempts they were liable to surprises from the enemy; papa and mamma were both on the alert, and often intercepted the young deserter by a cross march or an ambuscade; in which cases each had a separate policy for enforcing obedience. the father, upon his general system of "perseverance," compelled the fugitive back to his quarters, and, in effect, exhorted him to persist in being frightened out of his wits. to his wife's gentle heart that course appeared cruel, and she reclaimed the delinquent by bribes; the peaches which her garden walls produced being the fund from which she chiefly drew her supplies for this branch of the secret service. what were her winter bribes, when the long nights would seem to lie heaviest on the exchequer, is not said. speaking seriously, no man of sense can suppose that a course of suffering from terrors the most awful, under whatever influence supported, whether under the naked force of compulsion, or of _that_ connected with bribes, could have any final effect in mitigating the passion of awe, connected, by our very dreams, with the shadowy and the invisible, or in tranquillizing the infantine imagination. a second illustration involves a great moral event in the history of goethe, as it was, in fact, the first occasion of his receiving impressions at war with his religious creed. piety is so beautiful an ornament of the youthful mind, doubt or distrust so unnatural a growth from confiding innocence, that an infant freethinker is heard of not so much with disgust as with perplexity. a sense of the ludicrous is apt to intermingle; and we lose our natural horror of the result in wonder at its origin. yet in this instance there is no room for doubt; the fact and the occasion are both on record; there can be no question about the date; and, finally, the accuser is no other than the accused. goethe's own pen it is which proclaims, that already, in the early part of his seventh year, his reliance upon god as a moral governor had suffered a violent shock, was shaken, if not undermined. on the st of november, , occurred the great earthquake at lisbon. upon a double account, this event occupied the thoughts of all europe for an unusual term of time; both as an expression upon a larger scale than usual of the mysterious physical agency concerned in earthquakes, and also for the awful human tragedy [endnote: ] of this no picture can ever hope to rival that hasty one sketched in the letter of the chaplain to the lisbon factory. the plague of athens as painted by thucydides or lucretius, nay even the fabulous plague of london by de foe, contain no scenes or situations equal in effect to some in this plain historic statement. nay, it would perhaps be difficult to produce a passage from ezekiel, from aeschylus, or from shakspeare, which would so profoundly startle the sense of sublimity as one or two of his incidents, which attended either the earthquake itself, or its immediate sequel in the sudden irruption of the tagus. sixty thousand persons, victims to the dark power in its first or its second _avatar_, attested the titanic scale upon which it worked. here it was that the shallow piety of the germans found a stumbling-block. those who have read any circumstantial history of the physical signs which preceded this earthquake, are aware that in england and northern germany many singular phenomena were observed, more or less manifestly connected with the same dark agency which terminated at lisbon, and running before this final catastrophe at times so accurately varying with the distances, as to furnish something like a scale for measuring the velocity with which it moved. these german phenomena, circulated rapidly over all germany by the journals of every class, had seemed to give to the germans a nearer and more domestic interest in the great event, than belonged to them merely in their universal character of humanity. it is also well known to observers of national characteristics, that amongst the germans the household charities, the _pieties of the hearth_, as they may be called, exist, if not really in greater strength, yet with much less of the usual balances or restraints. a german father, for example, is like the grandfather of other nations; and thus a piety, which in its own nature scarcely seems liable to excess, takes, in its external aspect, too often an air of effeminate imbecility. these two considerations are necessary to explain the intensity with which this lisbon tragedy laid hold of the german mind, and chiefly under the one single aspect of its _undistinguishing_ fury. women, children, old men--these, doubtless, had been largely involved in the perishing sixty thousand; and that reflection, it would seem from goethe's account, had so far embittered the sympathy of the germans with their distant portuguese brethren, that, in the frankfort discussions, sullen murmurs had gradually ripened into bold impeachments of providence. there can be no gloomier form of infidelity than that which questions the moral attributes of the great being, in whose hands are the final destinies of us all. such, however, was the form of goethe's earliest scepticism, such its origin; caught up from the very echoes which rang through the streets of frankfort when the subject occupied all men's minds. and such, for anything that appears, continued to be its form thenceforwards to the close of his life, if speculations so crude could be said to have any form at all. many are the analogies, some close ones, between england and germany with regard to the circle of changes they have run through, political or social, for a century back. the challenges are frequent to a comparison; and sometimes the result would be to the advantage of germany, more often to ours. but in religious philosophy, which in reality is the true _popular_ philosophy, how vast is the superiority on the side of this country. not a shopkeeper or mechanic, we may venture to say, but would have felt this obvious truth, that surely the lisbon earthquake yielded no fresh lesson, no peculiar moral, beyond what belonged to every man's experience in every age. a passage in the new testament about the fall of the tower of siloam, and the just construction of that event, had already anticipated the difficulty, if such it could be thought. not to mention, that calamities upon the same scale in the earliest age of christianity, the fall of the amphitheatre at fidenae, or the destruction of pompeii, had presented the same problem at the lisbon earthquake. nay, it is presented daily in the humblest individual case, where wrong is triumphant over right, or innocence confounded with guilt in one common disaster. and that the parents of goethe should have authorized his error, if only by their silence, argues a degree of ignorance in them, which could not have co-existed with much superior knowledge in the public mind. goethe, in his memoirs, (book vi.,) commends his father for the zeal with which he superintended the education of his children. but apparently it was a zeal without knowledge. many things were taught imperfectly, but all casually, and as chance suggested them. italian was studied a little, because the elder goethe had made an italian tour, and had collected some italian books, and engravings by italian masters. hebrew was studied a little, because goethe the son had a fancy for it, partly with a view to theology, and partly because there was a jewish quarter, gloomy and sequestrated, in the city of frankfort. french offered itself no doubt on many suggestions, but originally on occasion of a french theatre, supported by the staff of the french army when quartered in the same city. latin was gathered in a random way from a daily sense of its necessity. english upon the temptation of a stranger's advertisement, promising upon moderate terms to teach that language in four weeks; a proof, by the way, that the system of bold innovations in the art of tuition had already commenced. riding and fencing were also attempted under masters apparently not very highly qualified, and in the same desultory style of application. dancing was taught to his family, strange as it may seem, by mr. goethe himself. there is good reason to believe that not one of all these accomplishments was possessed by goethe, when ready to visit the university, in a degree which made it practically of any use to him. drawing and music were pursued confessedly as amusements; and it would be difficult to mention any attainment whatsoever which goethe had carried to a point of excellence in the years which he spent under his father's care, unless it were his mastery over the common artifices of metre and the common topics of rhetoric, which fitted him for writing what are called occasional poems and _impromptus_. this talent he possessed in a remarkable degree, and at an early age; but he owed its cultivation entirely to himself. in a city so orderly as frankfort, and in a station privileged from all the common hardships of poverty, it can hardly be expected that many incidents should arise, of much separate importance in themselves, to break the monotony of life; and the mind of goethe was not contemplative enough to create a value for common occurrences through any peculiar impressions which he had derived from them. in the years and , when he must have been from fourteen to fifteen years old, goethe witnessed the inauguration and coronation of a king of the romans, a solemn spectacle connected by prescription with the city of frankfort. he describes it circumstantially, but with very little feeling, in his memoirs. probably the prevailing sentiment, on looking back at least to this transitory splendor of dress, processions, and ceremonial forms, was one of cynical contempt. but this he could not express, as a person closely connected with a german court, without giving much and various offence. it is with some timidity even that he hazards a criticism upon single parts of the costume adopted by some of the actors in that gorgeous scene. white silk stockings, and pumps of the common form, he objects to as out of harmony with the antique and heraldic aspects of the general costume, and ventures to suggest either boots or sandals as an improvement. had goethe felt himself at liberty from all restraints of private consideration in composing these memoirs, can it be doubted that he would have taken his retrospect of this frankfort inauguration from a different station; from the station of that stern revolution which, within his own time, and partly under his own eyes, had shattered the whole imperial system of thrones, in whose equipage this gay pageant made so principal a figure, had humbled caesar himself to the dust, and left him an emperor without an empire? we at least, for our parts, could not read without some emotion one little incident of these gorgeous scenes recorded by goethe, namely, that when the emperor, on rejoining his wife for a few moments, held up to her notice his own hands and arms arrayed in the antique habiliments of charlemagne, maria theresa--she whose children where summoned to so sad a share in the coming changes--gave way to sudden bursts of loud laughter, audible to the whole populace below her. that laugh on surveying the departing pomps of charlemagne, must, in any contemplative ear, have rung with a sound of deep significance, and with something of the same effect which belongs to a figure of death introduced by a painter, as mixing in the festal dances of a bridal assembly. these pageants of - occupy a considerable space in goethe's memoirs, and with some _logical_ propriety at least, in consideration of their being exclusively attached to frankfort, and connected by manifold links of person and office with the privileged character of the city. perhaps he might feel a sort of narrow local patriotism in recalling these scenes to public notice by description, at a time when they had been irretrievably extinguished as realities. but, after making every allowance for their local value to a frankfort family, and for their memorable splendor, we may venture to suppose that by far the most impressive remembrances which had gathered about the boyhood of goethe, were those which pointed to frederick of prussia. this singular man, so imbecile as a pretender to philosophy and new lights, so truly heroic under misfortunes, was the first german who created a german interest, and gave a transient unity to the german name, under all its multiplied divisions. were it only for this conquest of difficulties so peculiar, he would deserve his german designation of fred. the unique, (_fritz der einzige_.) he had been partially tried and known previously; but it was the seven years' war which made him the popular idol. this began in ; and to frankfort, in a very peculiar way, that war brought dissensions and heart-burnings in its train. the imperial connections of the city with many public and private interests, pledged it to the anti-prussian cause. it happened also that the truly german character of the reigning imperial family, the domestic habits of the empress and her young daughters, and other circumstances, were of a nature to endear the ties of policy; self-interest and affection pointed in the same direction. and yet were all these considerations allowed to melt away before the brilliant qualities of one man, and the romantic enthusiasm kindled by his victories. frankfort was divided within herself; the young and the generous were all dedicated to frederick. a smaller party, more cautious and prudent, were for the imperialists. families were divided upon this question against families, and often against themselves; feuds, begun in private, issued often into public violence; and, according to goethe's own illustration, the streets were vexed by daily brawls, as hot and as personal as of old between the capulets and montagues. these dissensions, however, were pursued with not much personal risk to any of the goethes, until a french army passed the rhine as allies of the imperialists. one corps of this force took up their quarters in frankfort; and the comte thorane, who held a high appointment on the staff, settled himself for a long period of time in the spacious mansion of goethe's father. this officer, whom his place made responsible for the discipline of the army in relation to the citizens, was naturally by temper disposed to moderation and forbearance. he was indeed a favorable specimen of french military officers under the old system; well bred, not arrogant, well informed, and a friend of the fine arts. for painting, in particular, he professed great regard and some knowledge. the goethes were able to forward his views amongst german artists; whilst, on the other hand, they were pleased to have thus an opportunity of directing his patronage towards some of their own needy connections. in this exchange of good offices, the two parties were for some time able to maintain a fair appearance of reciprocal good-will. this on the comte's side, if not particularly warm, was probably sincere; but in goethe the father it was a masque for inveterate dislike. a natural ground of this existed in the original relations between them. under whatever disguise or pretext, the frenchman was in fact a military intruder. he occupied the best suite of rooms in the house, used the furniture as his own; and, though upon private motives he abstained from doing all the injury which his situation authorized, (so as in particular to have spread his fine military maps upon the floor, rather than disfigure the decorated walls by nails,) still he claimed credit, if not services of requital, for all such instances of forbearance. here were grievances enough; but, in addition to these, the comte's official appointments drew upon him a weight of daily business, which kept the house in a continual uproar. farewell to the quiet of a literary amateur, and the orderliness of a german household. finally, the comte was a frenchman. these were too many assaults upon one man's patience. it will be readily understood, therefore, how it happened, that, whilst goethe's gentle minded mother, with her flock of children, continued to be on the best terms with comte thorane, the master of the house kept moodily aloof, and retreated from all intercourse. goethe, in his own memoir, enters into large details upon this subject; and from him we shall borrow the _denouement_ of the tale. a crisis had for some time been lowering over the french affairs in frankfort; things seemed ripening for a battle; and at last it came. flight, siege, bombardment, possibly a storm, all danced before the eyes of the terrified citizens. fortunately, however, the battle took place at the distance of four or five miles from frankfort. monsieur le comte was absent, of course, on the field of battle. his unwilling host thought that on such an occasion he also might go out in quality of spectator; and with this purpose he connected another, worthy of a parson adams. it is his son who tells the story, whose filial duty was not proof against his sense of the ludicrous. the old gentleman's hatred of the french had by this time brought him over to his son's admiration of the prussian hero. not doubting for an instant that victory would follow that standard, he resolved on this day to offer in person his congratulations to the prussian army, whom he already viewed as his liberator from a domestic nuisance. so purposing, he made his way cautiously to the suburbs; from the suburbs, still listening at each advance, he went forward to the country; totally forgetting, as his son insists, that, however completely beaten, the french army must still occupy some situation or other between himself and his german deliverer. coming, however, at length to a heath, he found some of those marauders usually to be met with in the rear of armies, prowling about, and at intervals amusing themselves with shooting at a mark. for want of a better, it seemed not improbable that a large german head might answer their purpose. certain signs admonished him of this, and the old gentleman crept back to frankfort. not many hours after came back also the comte, by no means creeping, however; on the contrary, crowing with all his might for a victory which he averred himself to have won. there had in fact been an affair, but on no very great scale, and with no distinguished results. some prisoners, however, he brought, together with some wounded; and naturally he expected all well disposed persons to make their compliments of congratulation upon this triumph. of this duty poor mrs. goethe and her children cheerfully acquitted themselves that same night; and monsieur le comte was so well pleased with the sound opinions of the little goethes, that he sent them in return a collection of sweetmeats and fruits. all promised to go well; intentions, after all, are not acts; and there certainly is not, nor ever was, any treason in taking a morning's walk. but, as ill luck would have it, just as mr. goethe was passing the comte's door, out came the comte in person, purely by accident, as we are told; but we suspect that the surly old german, either under his morning hopes or his evening disappointments, had talked with more frankness than prudence. "good evening to you, herr goethe," said the comte; "you are come, i see, to pay your tribute of congratulation. somewhat of the latest, to be sure; but no matter." "by no means," replied the german;" by no means; _mit nichten_. heartily i wished, the whole day long, that you and your cursed gang might all go to the devil together. "here was plain speaking, at least. the comte thorane could no longer complain of dissimulation. his first movement was to order an arrest; and the official interpreter of the french army took to himself the whole credit that he did not carry it into effect. goethe takes the trouble to report a dialogue, of length and dulness absolutely incredible, between this interpreter and the comte. no such dialogue, we may be assured, ever took place. goethe may, however, be right in supposing that, amongst a foreign soldiery, irritated by the pointed contrasts between the frankfort treatment of their own wounded, and of their prisoners who happened to be in the same circumstances, and under a military council not held to any rigorous responsibility, his father might have found no very favorable consideration of his case. it is well, therefore, that after some struggle the comte's better nature triumphed. he suffered mrs. goethe's merits to outweigh her husband's delinquency; countermanded the order for arrest, and, during the remainder of their connection, kept at such a distance from his moody host as was equally desirable for both. fortunately that remainder was not very long. comte thorane was soon displaced; and the whole army was soon afterwards withdrawn from frankfort. in his fifteenth year goethe was entangled in some connection with young people of inferior rank, amongst whom was margaret, a young girl about two years older than himself, and the object of his first love. the whole affair, as told by goethe, is somewhat mysterious. what might be the final views of the elder parties it is difficult to say; but goethe assures us that they used his services only in writing an occasional epithalamium, the pecuniary acknowledgment for which was spent jovially in a general banquet. the magistrates, however, interfered, and endeavored to extort a confession from goethe. he, as the son of a respectable family, was to be pardoned; the others to be punished. no confession, however, could be extorted; and for his own part he declares that, beyond the offence of forming a clandestine connection, he had nothing to confess. the affair terminated, as regarded himself, in a severe illness. of the others we hear no more. the next event of importance in goethe's life was his removal to college. his own wishes pointed to goettingen, but his father preferred leipsic. thither accordingly he went, but he carried his obedience no farther. declining the study of jurisprudence, he attached himself to general literature. subsequently he removed to the university of strasburg; but in neither place could it be said that he pursued any regular course of study. his health suffered at times during this period of his life; at first from an affection of the chest, caused by an accident on his first journey to leipsic; the carriage had stuck fast in the muddy roads, and goethe exerted himself too much in assisting to extricate the wheels. a second illness connected with the digestive organs brought him into considerable danger. after his return to frankfort, goethe commenced his career as an author. in , and the following year, he made his maiden essay in _goetz of berlichingen_, a drama, (the translation of which, remarkably enough, was destined to be the literary _coup d'essai_ of sir walter scott,) and in the far-famed _werther_. the first of these was pirated; and in consequence the author found some difficulty in paying for the paper of the genuine edition, which part of the expense, by his contract with the publisher, fell upon himself. the general and early popularity of the second work is well known. yet, except in so far as it might spread his name abroad, it cannot be supposed to have had much influence in attracting that potent patronage which now began to determine the course of his future life. so much we collect from the account which goethe himself has left us of this affair in its earliest stages. "i was sitting alone in my room," says he, "at my father's house in frankfort, when a gentleman entered, whom at first i took for frederick jacobi, but soon discovered by the dubious light to be a stranger. he had a military air; and announcing himself by the name of von knebel, gave me to understand in a short explanation, that being in the prussian service, he had connected himself, during a long residence at berlin and potsdam, with the literati of those places; but that at present he held the appointment from the court of weimar of travelling tutor to the prince constantine. this i heard with pleasure; for many of our friends had brought us the most interesting accounts from weimar, in particular that the duchess amelia, mother of the young grand duke and his brother, summoned to her assistance in educating her sons the most distinguished men in germany; and that the university of jena cooperated powerfully in all her liberal plans. i was aware also that wieland was in high favor; and that the german mercury (a literary journal of eminence) was itself highly creditable to the city of jena, from which it issued. a beautiful and well-conducted theatre had besides, as i knew, been lately established at weimar. this, it was true, had been destroyed; but that event, under common circumstances so likely to be fatal as respected the present, had served only to call forth the general expression of confidence in the young prince as a restorer and upholder of all great interests, and true to his purposes under any calamity." thinking thus, and thus prepossessed in favor of weimar, it was natural that goethe should be eager to see the prince. nothing was easier. it happened that he and his brother constantine were at this moment in frankfort, and von knebel willingly offered to present goethe. no sooner said than done; they repaired to the hotel, where they found the illustrious travellers, with count goertz, the tutor of the elder. upon this occasion an accident, rather than any previous reputation of goethe, was probably the determining occasion which led to his favor with the future sovereign of weimar. a new book lay upon the table; that none of the strangers had read it, goethe inferred from observing that the leaves were as yet uncut. it was a work of moser, (_patriotische phantasien_;) and, being political rather than literary in its topics, it presented to goethe, previously acquainted with its outline, an opportunity for conversing with the prince upon subjects nearest to his heart, and of showing that he was not himself a mere studious recluse. the opportunity was not lost; the prince and his tutor were much interested, and perhaps a little surprised. such subjects have the further advantage, according to goethe's own illustration, that, like the arabian thousand and one nights, as conducted by sultana scheherezade, "never ending, still beginning," they rarely come to any absolute close, but so interweave one into another, as still to leave behind a large arrear of interest in order to pursue the conversation, goethe was invited to meet them soon after at mentz. he kept the appointment punctually; made himself even more agreeable; and finally received a formal invitation to enter the service of this excellent prince, who was now beginning to collect around him all those persons who have since made weimar so distinguished a name in connection with the german literature. with some opposition from his father, who held up the rupture between voltaire and frederick of prussia as a precedent applying to all possible connections of princes and literati, goethe accepted the invitation; and hence forwards, for upwards of fifty-five years, his fortunes were bound up with those of the ducal house of weimar. the noble part which that house played in the great modern drama of german politics is well known, and would have been better known had its power been greater. but the moral value of its sacrifices and its risks is not the less. had greater potentates shown equal firmness, germany would not have been laid at the feet of napoleon. in the grand duke was aware of the peril which awaited the allies of prussia; but neither his heart nor his conscience would allow of his deserting a friend in whose army he held a principal command. the decisive battle took place in his own territory, and not far from his own palace and city of weimar. personally he was with the prussian army; but his excellent consort stayed in the palace to encourage her subjects, and as far as possible to conciliate the enemy by her presence. the fortune of that great day, the th of october, , was decided early; and the awful event was announced by a hot retreat and a murderous pursuit through the streets of the town. in the evening napoleon arrived in person; and now came the trying moment. "the duchess," says an englishman well acquainted with weimar and its court, "placed herself on the top of the staircase to greet him with the formality of a courtly reception. napoleon started when he beheld her, _qui etes vous_? he exclaimed with characteristic abruptness. _je suis la duchesse de weimar. je vous plains_, he retorted fiercely, j'ecraserai votre mari; he then added, 'i shall dine in my apartment,' and rushed by her. the night was spent on the part of the soldiery in all the horrid excesses of rapine. in the morning the duchess sent to inquire concerning the health of his majesty the emperor, and to solicit an audience. he, who had now benefited by his dreams, or by his reflections, returned a gracious answer, and invited himself to breakfast with her in her apartment." in the conversation which ensued, napoleon asked her if her husband were mad, upon which she justified the duke by appealing to his own magnanimity, asking in her turn if his majesty would have approved of his deserting the king of prussia at the moment when he was attacked by so potent a monarch as himself. the rest of the conversation was in the same spirit, uniting with a sufficient concession to the circumstances of the moment a dignified vindication of a high-minded policy. napoleon was deeply impressed with respect for her, and loudly expressed it. for her sake, indeed, he even affected to pardon her husband, thus making a merit with her of the necessity which he felt, from other motives, for showing forbearance towards a family so nearly allied to that of st. petersburg. in the grand duke was found at his post in that great gathering of the nations which took place on the stupendous fields of leipsic, and was complimented by the allied sovereigns as one of the most faithful amongst the faithful to the great cause, yet undecided, of national independence. with respect to goethe, as a councillor so near the duke's person, it may be supposed that his presence was never wanting where it promised to be useful. in the earlier campaigns of the duke, goethe was his companion; but in the final contest with napoleon be was unequal to the fatigues of such a post. in all the functions of peace, however, he continued to be a useful servant to the last, though long released from all official duties. each had indeed most honorably earned the gratitude of the other. goethe had surrendered the flower of his years and the best energies of his mind to the service of his serene master. on the other hand, that master had to him been at once his augustus and his maecenas; such is his own expression. under him he had founded a family, raised an estate, obtained titles and decorations from various courts; and in the very vigor of his life he had been allowed to retire, with all the honors of long service, to the sanctuary of his own study, and to the cultivation of his leisure, as the very highest mode in which he could further the public interest. the life of goethe was so quiet and so uniform after the year , when he may first be said to have entered into active life, by taking service with the duke of weimar, that a biographer will find hardly any event to notice, except two journeys to italy, and one campaign in , until he draws near the close of his long career. it cannot interest an english reader to see the dates of his successive appointments. it is enough to know that they soon raised him to as high a station as was consistent with literary leisure; and that he had from the beginning enjoyed the unlimited confidence of his sovereign. nothing remained, in fact, for the subject to desire which the prince had not previously volunteered. in , they were able to look back upon a course of uninterrupted friendship, maintained through good and evil fortunes, unexampled in their agitation and interest for fifty years. the duke commemorated this remarkable event by a jubilee, and by a medal in honor of goethe. full of years and honor, this eminent man might now begin to think of his departure. however, his serenity continued unbroken nearly for two years more, when his illustrious patron died. that shock was the first which put his fortitude to trial. in others followed; the duchess, who had won so much admiration from napoleon, died; then followed his own son; and there remained little now to connect his wishes with the earth. the family of his patron he had lived to see flourishing in his descendants to the fourth generation. his own grandchildren were prosperous and happy. his intellectual labors were now accomplished. all that remained to wish for was a gentle dismission. this he found in the spring of . after a six days' illness, which caused him no apparent suffering, on the morning of the d of march he breathed away as if into a gentle sleep, surrounded by his daughter-in-law and her children. never was a death more in harmony with the life it closed; both had the same character of deep and absolute serenity. such is the outline of goethe's life, traced through its principal events. but as these events, after all, borrow their interest mainly from the consideration allowed to goethe as an author, and as a model in the german literature,--_that_ being the centre about which all secondary feelings of interest in the man must finally revolve,--it thus becomes a duty to throw a glance over his principal works. dismissing his songs, to which has been ascribed by some critics a very high value for their variety and their lyrical enthusiasm; dismissing also a large body of short miscellaneous poems, suited to the occasional circumstances in which they arose; we may throw the capital works of goethe into two classes, philosophic novels, and dramas. the novels, which we call _philosophic_ by way of expressing their main characteristic in being written to serve a preconceived purpose, or to embody some peculiar views of life, or some aspects of philosophic truth, are three, viz., the _werther's leiden_; secondly, the _wilhelm meister_; and, lastly, the _wahloer-wand-schaften_. the first two exist in english translations; and though the _werther_ had the disadvantage of coming to us through a french version, already, perhaps, somewhat colored and distorted to meet the parisian standards of sentiment, yet, as respects goethe and his reputation amongst us, this wrong has been redressed, or compensated at least, by the good fortune of his _wilhelm meister_, in falling into the hands of a translator whose original genius qualified him for sympathizing even to excess with any real merits in that work. this novel is in its own nature and purpose sufficiently obscure; and the commentaries which have been written upon it by the hurnboldts, schlegels, &c., make the enigma still more enigmatical. we shall not venture abroad upon an ocean of discussion so truly dark, and at the same time so illimitable. whether it be qualified to excite any deep and _sincere_ feeling of one kind or another in the german mind,--in a mind trained under german discipline,--this we will consent to waive as a question not immediately interesting to ourselves. enough that it has not gained, and will not gain, any attention in this country; and this not only because it is thoroughly deficient in all points of attraction to readers formed upon our english literature, but because in some capital circumstances it is absolutely repulsive. we do not wish to offend the admirers of goethe; but the simplicity of truth will not allow us to conceal, that in various points of description or illustration, and sometimes in the very outline of the story, the _wilhelm meister_ is at open war, not with decorum and good taste merely, but with moral purity and the dignity of human nature. as a novelist, goethe and his reputation are problems, and likely to continue such, to the countrymen of mrs. inchbald, miss harriet lee, miss edgeworth, and sir walter scott. to the dramatic works of goethe we are disposed to pay more homage; but neither in the absolute amount of our homage at all professing to approach his public admirers, nor to distribute the proportions of this homage amongst his several performances according to the graduations of _their_ scale. the _iphigenie_ is built upon the old subject of iphigenia in tauris, as treated by euripides and other grecian dramatists; and, if we are to believe a schlegel, it is in beauty and effect a mere echo or reverberation from the finest strains of the old grecian music. that it is somewhat nearer to the greek model than a play after the fashion of racine, we grant. setting aside such faithful transcripts from the antique as the samson agonistes, we might consent to view goethe as that one amongst the moderns who had made the closest approximation to the greek stage. _proximus_, we might say, with quintilian, but with him we must add," _sed lango intervallo_; "and if in the second rank, yet nearer to the third than to the first. two other dramas, the _clavigo_ and the _egmont_, fall below the _iphigenie_ by the very character of their pretensions; the first as too openly renouncing the grandeurs of the ideal; the second as confessedly violating the historic truth of character, without temptation to do so, and without any consequent indemnification. the _tasso_ has been supposed to realize an italian beauty of genial warmth and of sunny repose; but from the common defect of german criticism--the absence of all sufficient illustrations--it is as difficult to understand the true nature and constituents of the supposed italian standard set up for the regulation of our judgments, as it is to measure the degree of approach made to that standard in this particular work. _eugenie_ is celebrated for the artificial burnish of the style, but otherwise has been little relished. it has the beauty of marble sculpture, say the critics of goethe, but also the coldness. we are not often disposed to quarrel with these critics as _below_ the truth in their praises; in this instance we are. the _eugenie_ is a fragment, or (as goethe himself called it in conversation) a _torso_, being only the first drama in a trilogy or series of three dramas, each having a separate plot, whilst all are parts of a more general and comprehensive plan. it may be charged with languor in the movement of the action, and with excess of illustration. thus, _e. g_. the grief of the prince for the supposed death of his daughter, is the monotonous topic which occupies one entire act. but the situations, though not those of _scenical_ distress, are so far from being unexciting, that, on the contrary, they are too powerfully afflicting. the lustre of all these performances, however, is eclipsed by the unrivalled celebrity amongst german critics of the _faust_. upon this it is better to say nothing than too little. how trifling an advance has been made towards clearing the ground for any sane criticism, may be understood from this fact, that as yet no two people have agreed about the meaning of any separate scene, or about the drift of the whole. neither is this explained by saying, that until lately the _faust_ was a fragment; for no additional light has dawned upon the main question since the publication of the latter part. one work there is of goethe's which falls into neither of the classes here noticed; we mean the _hermann and dorothea_, a narrative poem, in hexameter verse. this appears to have given more pleasure to readers not critical, than any other work of its author; and it is remarkable that it traverses humbler ground, as respects both its subject, its characters, and its scenery. from this, and other indications of the same kind, we are disposed to infer that goethe mistook his destination; that his aspiring nature misled him; and that his success would have been greater had he confined himself to the _real_ in domestic life, without raising his eyes to the _ideal_. we must also mention, that goethe threw out some novel speculations in physical science, and particularly in physiology, in the doctrine of colors, and in comparative anatomy, which have divided the opinions of critics even more than any of those questions which have arisen upon points more directly connected with his avowed character of poet. it now remains to say a few words by way of summing up his pretensions as a man, and his intellectual power in the age to which he belonged. his rank and value as a moral being are so plain as to be legible to him who runs. everybody must feel that his temperament and constitutional tendency was of that happy quality, the animal so nicely balanced with the intellectual, that with any ordinary measure of prosperity he could not be otherwise than a good man. he speaks himself of his own "virtue," _sans phrase_; and we tax him with no vanity in doing so. as a young man even at the universities, which at that time were barbarously sensual in germany, he was (for so much we collect from his own memoirs) eminently capable of self-restraint. he preserves a tone of gravity, of sincerity, of respect for female dignity, which we never find associated with the levity and recklessness of vice. we feel throughout, the presence of one who, in respecting others, respects himself; and the cheerfulness of the presiding tone persuades us at once that the narrator is in a healthy moral condition, fears no ill, and is conscious of having meditated none. yet at the same time we cannot disguise from ourselves, that the moral temperament of goethe was one which demanded prosperity. had he been called to face great afflictions, singular temptations, or a billowy and agitated course of life, our belief is that his nature would have been found unequal to the strife; he would have repeated the mixed and moody character of his father. sunny prosperity was essential to his nature; his virtues were adapted to that condition. and happily that was his fate. he had no personal misfortunes; his path was joyous in this life; and even the reflex sorrow from the calamities of his friends did not press too heavily on his sympathies; none of these were in excess either as to degree or duration. in this estimate of goethe as a moral being, few people will differ with us, unless it were the religious bigot. and to him we must concede thus much, that goethe was not that religious creature which by nature he was intended to become. this is to be regretted. goethe was naturally pious, and reverential towards higher natures; and it was in the mere levity or wantonness of youthful power, partly also through that early false bias growing out of the lisbon earthquake, that he falsified his original destination. do we mean, then, that a childish error could permanently master his understanding? not so; _that_ would have been corrected with his growing strength. but having once arisen, it must for a long time have moulded his feelings; _until_ corrected, it must have impressed a corresponding false bias upon his practical way of viewing things; and that sort of false bias, once established, might long survive a mere error of the understanding. one thing is undeniable,--goethe had so far corrupted and clouded his natural mind, that he did not look up to god, or the system of things beyond the grave, with the interest of reverence and awe, but with the interest of curiosity. goethe, however, in a moral estimate, will be viewed pretty uniformly. but goethe intellectually, goethe as a power acting upon the age in which he lived, that is another question. let us put a case; suppose that goethe's death had occurred fifty years ago, that is, in the year , what would have been the general impression? would europe have felt a shock? would europe have been sensible even of the event? not at all; it would have been obscurely noticed in the newspapers of germany, as the death of a novelist who had produced some effect about ten years before. in , it was announced by the post-horns of all europe as the death of him who had written the _wilhelm meister_, the _iphigenie_, and the _faust_, and who had been enthroned by some of his admirers on the same seat with homer and shakspeare, as composing what they termed the _trinity of men of genius_. and yet it is a fact, that, in the opinion of some amongst the acknowledged leaders of our own literature for the last twenty-five years, the _werther_ was superior to all which followed it, and for mere power was the paramount work of goethe. for ourselves, we must acknowledge our assent upon the whole to this verdict; and at the same time we will avow our belief that the reputation of goethe must decline for the next generation or two, until it reaches its just level. three causes, we are persuaded, have concurred to push it so far beyond the proportion of real and genuine interest attached to his works, for in germany his works are little read, and in this country not at all. _first_, his extraordinary age; for the last twenty years goethe had been the patriarch of the german literature. _secondly_, the splendor of his official rank at the court of weimar; he was the minister and private friend of the patriot sovereign amongst the princes of germany. _thirdly_, the quantity of enigmatical and unintelligible writing which he has designedly thrown into his latter works, by way of keeping up a system of discussion and strife upon his own meaning amongst the critics of his country. these disputes, had his meaning been of any value in his own eyes, he would naturally have settled by a few authoritative words from himself; but it was his policy to keep alive the feud in a case where it was of importance, that his name should continue to agitate the world, but of none at all that he should be rightly interpreted. schiller. john christopher frederick von schiller, was born at marbach, a small town in the duchy of wurtemberg, on the th day of november, . it will aid the reader in synchronizing the periods of this great man's life with the corresponding events throughout christendom, if we direct his attention to the fact, that schiller's birth nearly coincided in point of time with that of robert burns, and that it preceded that of napoleon by about ten years. the position of schiller is remarkable. in the land of his birth, by those who undervalue him the most, he is ranked as the second name in german literature; everywhere else he is ranked as the first. for us, who are aliens to germany, schiller is the representative of the german intellect in its highest form; and to him, at all events, whether first or second, it is certainly due, that the german intellect has become a known power, and a power of growing magnitude, for the great commonwealth of christendom. luther and kepler, potent intellects as they were, did not make themselves known as germans. the revolutionary vigor of the one, the starry lustre of the other, blended with the convulsions of reformation, or with the aurora of ascending science, in too kindly and genial a tone to call off the attention from the work which they performed, from the service which they promoted, to the circumstances of their personal position. their country, their birth, their abode, even their separate existence, was merged in the mighty cause to which they lent their cooperation. and thus at the beginning of the sixteenth century, thus at the beginning of the seventeenth, did the titan sons of germany defeat their own private pretensions by the very grandeur of their merits. their interest as patriots was lost and confounded in their paramount interest as cosmopolites. what they did for man and for human dignity eclipsed what they had designed for germany. after them there was a long interlunar period of darkness for the land of the rhine and the danube. the german energy, too spasmodically excited, suffered a collapse. throughout the whole of the seventeenth century, but one vigorous mind arose for permanent effects in literature. this was opitz, a poet who deserves even yet to be read with attention, but who is no more worthy to be classed as the dryden, whom his too partial countrymen have styled him, than the germany of the thirty years' war of taking rank by the side of civilized and cultured england during the cromwellian era, or klopstock of sitting on the same throne with milton. leibnitz was the one sole potentate in the fields of intellect whom the germany of this country produced; and he, like luther and kepler, impresses us rather as a european than as a german mind, partly perhaps from his having pursued his self-development in foreign lands, partly from his large circle of foreign connections, but most of all from his having written chiefly in french or in latin. passing onwards to the eighteenth century, we find, through its earlier half, an absolute wilderness, unreclaimed and without promise of natural vegetation, as the barren arena on which the few insipid writers of germany paraded. the torpor of academic dulness domineered over the length and breadth of the land. and as these academic bodies were universally found harnessed in the equipage of petty courts, it followed that the lethargies of pedantic dulness were uniformly deepened by the lethargies of aulic and ceremonial dulness; so that, if the reader represents to himself the very abstract of birthday odes, sycophantish dedications, and court sermons, he will have some adequate idea of the sterility and the mechanical formality which at that era spread the sleep of death over german literature. literature, the very word literature, points the laughter of scorn to what passed under that name during the period of gottsched. that such a man indeed as this gottsched, equal at the best to the composition of a latin grammar or a school arithmetic, should for a moment have presided over the german muses, stands out as in itself a brief and significant memorial, too certain for contradiction, and yet almost too gross for belief, of the apoplectic sleep under which the mind of central europe at that era lay oppressed. the rust of disuse had corroded the very principles of activity. and, as if the double night of academic dulness, combined with the dulness of court inanities, had not been sufficient for the stifling of all native energies, the feebleness of french models (and of these moreover naturalized through still feebler imitations) had become the law and standard for all attempts at original composition. the darkness of night, it is usually said, grows deeper as it approaches the dawn; and the very enormity of that prostration under which the german intellect at this time groaned, was the most certain pledge to any observing eye of that intense reaction soon to stir and kindle among the smouldering activities of this spell-bound people. this re-action, however, was not abrupt and theatrical. it moved through slow stages and by equable gradations. it might be said to commence from the middle of the eighteenth century, that is, about nine years before the birth of schiller; but a progress of forty years had not carried it so far towards its meridian altitude, as that the sympathetic shock from the french revolution was by one fraction more rude and shattering than the public torpor still demanded. there is a memorable correspondency throughout all members of protestant christendom in whatsoever relates to literature and intellectual advance. however imperfect the organization which binds them together, it was sufficient even in these elder times to transmit reciprocally from one to every other, so much of that illumination which could be gathered into books, that no christian state could be much in advance of another, supposing that popery opposed no barriers to free communication, unless only in those points which depended upon local gifts of nature, upon the genius of a particular people, or upon the excellence of its institutions. these advantages were incommunicable, let the freedom of intercourse have been what it might. england could not send off by posts or by heralds her iron and coals; she could not send the indomitable energy of her population; she could not send the absolute security of property; she could not send the good faith of her parliaments. these were gifts indigenous to herself, either through the temperament of her people, or through the original endowments of her soil. but her condition of moral sentiment, her high-toned civic elevation, her atmosphere of political feeling and popular boldness; much of these she could and did transmit, by the radiation of the press, to the very extremities of the german empire. not only were our books translated, but it is notorious to those acquainted with german novels, or other pictures of german society, that as early as the seven years' war, ( - ,) in fact, from the very era when cave and dr. johnson first made the parliamentary debates accessible to the english themselves, most of the german journals repeated, and sent forward as by telegraph, these senatorial displays to every village throughout germany. from the polar latitudes to the mediterranean, from the mouths of the rhine to the euxine, there was no other exhibition of free deliberative eloquence in any popular assembly. and the _luise_ of voss alone, a metrical idyl not less valued for its truth of portraiture than our own vicar of wakefield, will show, that the most sequestered clergyman of a rural parish did not think his breakfast equipage complete without the latest report from the great senate that sat in london. hence we need not be astonished that german and english literature were found by the french revolution in pretty nearly the same condition of semi-vigilance and imperfect animation. that mighty event reached us both, reached us all, we may say, (speaking of protestant states,) at the same moment, by the same tremendous galvanism. the snake, the intellectual snake, that lay in ambush among all nations, roused itself, sloughed itself, renewed its youth, in all of them at the same period. a new world opened upon us all; new revolutions of thought arose; new and nobler activities were born; "and other palms were won." but by and through schiller it was, as its main organ, that this great revolutionary impulse expressed itself. already, as we have said, not less than forty years before the earthquake by which france exploded and projected the scoria of her huge crater over all christian lands, a stirring had commenced among the dry bones of intellectual germany; and symptoms arose that the breath of life would soon disturb, by nobler agitations than by petty personal quarrels, the deathlike repose even of the german universities. precisely in those bodies, however, it was, in those as connected with tyrannical governments, each academic body being shackled to its own petty centre of local despotism, that the old spells remained unlinked; and to them, equally remarkable as firm trustees of truth, and as obstinate depositories of darkness or of superannuated prejudice, we must ascribe the slowness of the german movement on the path of reascent. meantime the earliest torch-bearer to the murky literature of this great land, this crystallization of political states, was bodmer. this man had no demoniac genius, such as the service required; but he had some taste, and, what was better, he had some sensibility. he lived among the alps; and his reading lay among the alpine sublimities of milton and shakspeare. through his very eyes he imbibed a daily scorn of gottsched and his monstrous compound of german coarseness with french sensual levity. he could not look at his native alps, but he saw in them, and their austere grandeurs or their dread realities, a spiritual reproach to the hollowness and falsehood of that dull imposture which gottsched offered by way of substitute for nature. he was taught by the alps to crave for something nobler and deeper. bodmer, though far below such a function, rose by favor of circumstances into an apostle or missionary of truth for germany. he translated passages of english literature. he inoculated with his own sympathies the more fervent mind of the youthful klopstock, who visited him in switzerland. and it soon became evident that germany was not dead, but sleeping; and once again, legibly for any eye, the pulses of life began to play freely through the vast organization of central europe. klopstock, however, though a fervid, a religious, and for that reason an anti-gallican mind, was himself an abortion. such at least is our own opinion of this poet. he was the child and creature of enthusiasm, but of enthusiasm not allied with a masculine intellect, or any organ for that capacious vision and meditative range which his subjects demanded. he vas essentially thoughtless, betrays everywhere a most effeminate quality of sensibility, and is the sport of that pseudo-enthusiasm and baseless rapture which we see so often allied with the excitement of strong liquors. in taste, or the sense of proportions and congruencies, or the harmonious adaptations, he is perhaps the most defective writer extant. but if no patriarch of german literature, in the sense of having shaped the moulds in which it was to flow, in the sense of having disciplined its taste or excited its rivalship by classical models of excellence, or raised a finished standard of style, perhaps we must concede that, on a minor scale, klopstock did something of that service in every one of these departments. his works were at least miltonic in their choice of subjects, if ludicrously non-miltonic in their treatment of those subjects. and, whether due to him or not, it is undeniable that in his time the mother-tongue of germany revived from the most absolute degradation on record, to its ancient purity. in the time of gottsched, the authors of germany wrote a macaronic jargon, in which french and latin made up a considerable proportion of every sentence: nay, it happened often that foreign words were inflected with german forms; and the whole result was such as to remind the reader of the medical examination in the _malade imaginaire_ of moliere, "quid poetea est a faire? saignare baignare ensuita purgare," &c. now is it reasonable to ascribe some share in the restoration of good to klopstock, both because his own writings exhibit nothing of this most abject euphuism, (a euphuism expressing itself not in fantastic refinements on the staple of the language, but altogether in rejecting it for foreign words and idioms,) and because he wrote expressly on the subject of style and composition? wieland, meantime, if not enjoying so intense an acceptation as klopstock, had a more extensive one; and it is in vain to deny him the praise of a festive, brilliant, and most versatile wit. the schlegels showed the haughty malignity of their ungenerous natures, in depreciating wieland, at a time when old age had laid a freezing hand upon the energy which he would once have put forth in defending himself. he was the voltaire of germany, and very much more than the voltaire; for his romantic and legendary poems are above the level of voltaire. but, on the other hand, he was a voltaire in sensual impurity. to work, to carry on a plot, to affect his readers by voluptuous impressions,--these were the unworthy aims of wieland; and though a good-natured critic would not refuse to make some allowance for a youthful poet's aberrations in this respect, yet the indulgence cannot extend itself to mature years. an old man corrupting his readers, attempting to corrupt them, or relying for his effect upon corruptions already effected, in the purity of their affections, is a hideous object; and that must be a precarious influence indeed which depends for its durability upon the licentiousness of men. wieland, therefore, except in parts, will not last as a national idol; but such he was nevertheless for a time. burger wrote too little of any expansive compass to give the measure of his powers, or to found national impression; lichtenberg, though a very sagacious observer, never rose into what can be called a power, he did not modify his age; yet these were both men of extraordinary talent, and burger a man of undoubted genius. on the other hand, lessing was merely a man of talent, but of talent in the highest degree adapted to popularity. his very defects, and the shallowness of his philosophy, promoted his popularity; and by comparison with the french critics on the dramatic or scenical proprieties he is ever profound. his plummet, if not suited to the soundless depths of shakspeare, was able ten times over to fathom the little rivulets of parisian philosophy. this he did effectually, and thus unconsciously levelled the paths for shakspeare, and for that supreme dominion which he has since held over the german stage, by crushing with his sarcastic shrewdness the pretensions of all who stood in the way. at that time, and even yet, the functions of a literary man were very important in germany; the popular mind and the popular instinct pointed one way, those of the little courts another. multitudes of little german states (many of which were absorbed since by the process of _mediatizing_) made it their ambition to play at keeping mimic armies in their pay, and to ape the greater military sovereigns, by encouraging french literature only, and the french language at their courts. it was this latter propensity which had generated the anomalous macaronic dialect, of which we have already spoken as a characteristic circumstance in the social features of literary germany during the first half of the eighteenth century. nowhere else, within the records of human follies, do we find a corresponding case, in which the government and the patrician orders in the state, taking for granted, and absolutely postulating the utter worthlessness for intellectual aims of those in and by whom they maintained their own grandeur and independence, undisguisedly and even professedly sought to ally themselves with a foreign literature, foreign literati, and a foreign language. in this unexampled display of scorn for native resources, and the consequent collision between the two principles of action, all depended upon the people themselves. for a time the wicked and most profligate contempt of the local governments for that native merit which it was their duty to evoke and to cherish, naturally enough produced its own justification. like jews or slaves, whom all the world have agreed to hold contemptible, the german literati found it hard to make head against so obstinate a prejudgment; and too often they became all that they were presumed to be. _sint maecenates, non deerunt, flacce, marones._ and the converse too often holds good--that when all who should have smiled scowl upon a man, he turns out the abject thing they have predicted. where frenchified fredericks sit upon german thrones, it should not surprise us to see a crop of gottscheds arise as the best fruitage of the land. but when there is any latent nobility in the popular mind, such scorn, by its very extremity, will call forth its own counteraction. it was perhaps good for germany that a prince so eminent in one aspect as _fritz der einziger,_[footnote: _" freddy the unique;"_ which is the name by which the prussians expressed their admiration of the martial and indomitable, though somewhat fantastic, king.] should put on record so emphatically his intense conviction, that no good thing could arise out of germany. this creed was expressed by the quality of the french minds which he attracted to his court. the very refuse and dregs of the parisian coteries satisfied his hunger for french garbage; the very offal of their shambles met the demand of his palate; even a maupertuis, so long as he could produce a french baptismal certificate, was good enough to manufacture into the president of a berlin academy. such scorn challenged a reaction: the contest lay between the thrones of germany and the popular intellect, and the final result was inevitable. once aware that they were insulted, once enlightened to the full consciousness of the scorn which trampled on them as intellectual and predestined helots, even the mild-tempered germans became fierce, and now began to aspire, not merely under the ordinary instincts of personal ambition, but with a vindictive feeling, and as conscious agents of retribution. it became a pleasure with the german author, that the very same works which elevated himself, wreaked his nation upon their princes, and poured retorted scorn upon their most ungenerous and unparental sovereigns. already, in the reign of the martial frederick, the men who put most weight of authority into his contempt of germans, --euler, the matchless euler, lambert, and immanuel kant,--had vindicated the preeminence of german mathematics. already, in , had the same immanuel kant, whilst yet a probationer for the chair of logic in a prussian university, sketched the outline of that philosophy which has secured the admiration, though not the assent of all men known and proved to have understood it, of all men able to state its doctrines in terms admissible by its disciples. already, and even previously, had haller, who wrote in german, placed himself at the head of the current physiology. and in the fields of science or of philosophy, the victory was already decided for the german intellect in competition with the french. but the fields of literature were still comparatively barren. klopstock was at least an anomaly; lessing did not present himself in the impassioned walks of literature; herder was viewed too much in the exclusive and professional light of a clergyman; and, with the exception of john paul bichter, a man of most original genius, but quite unfitted for general popularity, no commanding mind arose in germany with powers for levying homage from foreign nations, until the appearance, as a great scenical poet, of frederick schiller. the father of this great poet was caspar schiller, an officer in the military service of the duke of wurtemberg. he had previously served as a surgeon in the bavarian army; but on his final return to his native country of wurtemberg, and to the service of his native prince, he laid aside his medical character for ever, and obtained a commission as ensign and adjutant. in , the peace of paris threw him out of his military employment, with the nominal rank of captain. but, having conciliated the duke's favor, he was still borne on the books of the ducal establishment; and, as a planner of ornamental gardens, or in some other civil capacity, he continued to serve his serene highness for the rest of his life. the parents of schiller were both pious, upright persons, with that loyal fidelity to duty, and that humble simplicity of demeanor towards their superiors, which is so often found among the unpretending natives of germany. it is probable, however, that schiller owed to his mother exclusively the preternatural endowments of his intellect. she was of humble origin, the daughter of a baker, and not so fortunate as to have received much education. but she was apparently rich in gifts of the heart and the understanding. she read poetry with delight; and through the profound filial love with which she had inspired her son, she found it easy to communicate her own literary tastes. her husband was not illiterate, and had in mature life so laudably applied himself to the improvement of his own defective knowledge, that at length he thought himself capable of appearing before the public as an author. his book related simply to the subjects of his professional experience as a horticulturist, and was entitled _die baumzurht im grossen_(on the management of forests.) some merit we must suppose it to have had, since the public called for a second edition of it long after his own death, and even after that of his illustrious son. and although he was a plain man, of no pretensions, and possibly even of slow faculties, he has left behind him a prayer, in which there is one petition of sublime and pathetic piety, worthy to be remembered by the side of agar's wise prayer against the almost equal temptations of poverty and riches. at the birth of his son, he had been reflecting with sorrowful anxiety, not unmingled with self-reproach, on his own many disqualifications for conducting the education of the child. but at length, reading in his own manifold imperfections but so many reiterations of the necessity that he should rely upon god's bounty, converting his very defects into so many arguments of hope and confidence in heaven, he prayed thus: "oh god, that knowest my poverty in good gifts for my son's inheritance, graciously permit that, even as the want of bread became to thy son's hunger-stricken flock in the wilderness the pledge of overflowing abundance, so likewise my darkness may, in its sad extremity, carry with it the measure of thy unfathomable light; and because i, thy worm, cannot give to my son the least of blessings, do thou give the greatest; because in my hands there is not any thing, do thou from thine pour out all things; and that temple of a new-born spirit, which i cannot adorn even with earthly ornaments of dust and ashes, do thou irradiate with the celestial adornment of thy presence, and finally with that peace that passeth all understanding." reared at the feet of parents so pious and affectionate, schiller would doubtless pass a happy childhood; and probably to this utter tranquillity of his earlier years, to his seclusion from all that could create pain, or even anxiety, we must ascribe the unusual dearth of anecdotes from this period of his life; a dearth which has tempted some of his biographers into improving and embellishing some puerile stories, which a man of sense will inevitably reject as too trivial for his gravity or too fantastical for his faith. that nation is happy, according to a common adage, which furnishes little business to the historian; for such a vacuity in facts argues a condition of perfect peace and silent prosperity. that childhood is happy, or may generally be presumed such, which has furnished few records of external experience, little that has appeared in doing or in suffering to the eyes of companions; for the child who has been made happy by early thoughtfulness, and by infantine struggles with the great ideas of his origin and his destination, (ideas which settle with a deep, dove-like brooding upon the mind of childhood, more than of mature life, vexed with inroads from the noisy world,) will not manifest the workings of his spirit by much of external activity. the _fallentis semita vitae_, that path of noiseless life, which eludes and deceives the conscious notice both of its subject and of all around him, opens equally to the man and to the child; and the happiest of all childhoods will have been that of which the happiness has survived and expressed itself, not in distinct records, but in deep affection, in abiding love, and the hauntings of meditative power. such a childhood, in the bosom of maternal tenderness, was probably passed by schiller; and his first awaking to the world of strife and perplexity happened in his fourteenth year. up to that period his life had been vagrant, agreeably to the shifting necessities of the ducal service, and his education desultory and domestic. but in the year he was solemnly entered as a member of a new academical institution, founded by the reigning duke, and recently translated to his little capital of stuttgard. this change took place at the special request of the duke, who, under the mask of patronage, took upon himself the severe control of the whole simple family. the parents were probably both too humble and dutiful in spirit towards one whom they regarded in the double light of sovereign lord and of personal benefactor, ever to murmur at the ducal behests, far less to resist them. the duke was for them an earthly providence; and they resigned themselves, together with their child, to the disposal of him who dispensed their earthly blessings, not less meekly than of him whose vicegerent they presumed him to be. in such a frame of mind, requests are but another name for commands; and thus it happened that a second change arose upon the first, even more determinately fatal to the young schiller's happiness. hitherto he had cherished a day-dream pointing to the pastoral office in some rural district, as that which would harmonize best with his intellectual purposes, with his love of quiet, and by means of its preparatory requirements, best also with his own peculiar choice of studies. but this scheme he now found himself compelled to sacrifice; and the two evils which fell upon him concurrently in his new situation were, first, the formal military discipline and monotonous routine of duty; secondly, the uncongenial direction of the studies, which were shaped entirely to the attainment of legal knowledge, and the narrow service of the local tribunals. so illiberal and so exclusive a system of education was revolting to the expansive mind of schiller; and the military bondage under which this system was enforced, shocked the aspiring nobility of his moral nature, not less than the technical narrowness of the studies shocked his understanding. in point of expense the whole establishment cost nothing at all to those parents who were privileged servants of the duke: in this number were the parents of schiller, and that single consideration weighed too powerfully upon his filial piety to allow of his openly murmuring at his lot; while on _their_ part the parents were equally shy of encouraging a disgust which too obviously tended to defeat the promises of ducal favor. this system of monotonous confinement was therefore carried to its completion, and the murmurs of the young schiller were either dutifully suppressed, or found vent only in secret letters to a friend. in one point only schiller was able to improve his condition; jointly with the juristic department, was another for training young aspirants to the medical profession. to this, as promising a more enlarged scheme of study, schiller by permission transferred himself in . but whatever relief he might find in the nature of his new studies, he found none at all in the system of personal discipline which prevailed. under the oppression of this detested system, and by pure reaction against its wearing persecutions, we learn from schiller himself, that in his nineteenth year he undertook the earliest of his surviving plays, the robbers, beyond doubt the most tempestuous, the most volcanic, we might say, of all juvenile creations anywhere recorded. he himself calls it "a monster," and a monster it is; but a monster which has never failed to convulse the heart of young readers with the temperament of intellectual enthusiasm and sensibility. true it is, and nobody was more aware of that fact than schiller himself in after years, the characters of the three moors, father and sons, are mere impossibilities; and some readers, in whom the judicious acquaintance with human life in its realities has outrun the sensibilities, are so much shocked by these hypernatural phenomena, that they are incapable of enjoying the terrific sublimities which on that basis of the visionary do really exist. a poet, perhaps schiller might have alleged, is entitled to assume hypothetically so much in the previous positions or circumstances of his agents as is requisite to the basis from which he starts. it is undeniable that shakspeare and others have availed themselves of this principle, and with memorable success. shakspeare, for instance, _postulates_ his witches, his caliban, his ariel: grant, he virtually says, such modes of spiritual existence or of spiritual relations as a possibility; do not expect me to demonstrate this, and upon that single concession i will rear a superstructure that shall be self-consistent; every thing shall be _internally_ coherent and reconciled, whatever be its _external_ relations as to our human experience. but this species of assumption, on the largest scale, is more within the limits of credibility and plausible verisimilitude when applied to modes of existence, which, after all, are in such total darkness to us, (the limits of the possible being so undefined and shadowy as to what can or cannot exist,) than the very slightest liberties taken with human character, or with those principles of action, motives, and feelings, upon which men would move under given circumstances, or with the modes of action which in common prudence they would be likely to adopt. the truth is, that, as a coherent work of art, the robbers is indefensible; but, however monstrous it may be pronounced, it possesses a power to agitate and convulse, which will always obliterate its great faults to the young, and to all whose judgment is not too much developed. and the best apology for schiller is found in his own words, in recording the circumstances and causes under which this anomalous production arose. "to escape," says he, "from the formalities of a discipline which was odious to my heart, i sought a retreat in the world of ideas and shadowy possibilities, while as yet i knew nothing at all of that human world from which i was harshly secluded by iron bars. of men, the actual men in this world below, i knew absolutely nothing at the time when i composed my robbers. four hundred human beings, it is true, were my fellow-prisoners in this abode; but they were mere tautologies and reiterations of the self-same mechanic creature, and like so many plaster casts from the same original statue. thus situated, of necessity i failed. in making the attempt, my chisel brought out a monster, of which [and that was fortunate] the world had no type or resemblance to show." meantime this demoniac drama produced very opposite results to schiller's reputation. among the young men of germany it was received with an enthusiasm absolutely unparalleled, though it is perfectly untrue that it excited some persons of rank and splendid expectations (as a current fable asserted) to imitate charles moor in becoming robbers. on the other hand, the play was of too powerful a cast not in any case to have alarmed his serenity the duke of wurtemberg; for it argued a most revolutionary mind, and the utmost audacity of self-will. but besides this general ground of censure, there arose a special one, in a quarter so remote, that this one fact may serve to evidence the extent as well as intensity of the impression made. the territory of the grisons had been called by spiegelberg, one of the robbers, "the thief's athens." upon this the magistrates of that country presented a complaint to the duke; and his highness having cited schiller to his presence, and severely reprimanded him, issued a decree that this dangerous young student should henceforth confine himself to his medical studies. the persecution which followed exhibits such extraordinary exertions of despotism, even for that land of irresponsible power, that we must presume the duke to have relied more upon the hold which he had upon schiller through his affection for parents so absolutely dependent on his highness's power, than upon any laws, good or bad, which he could have pleaded as his warrant. germany, however, thought otherwise of the new tragedy than the serene critic of wurtemburg: it was performed with vast applause at the neighboring city of mannheim; and thither, under a most excusable interest in his own play, the young poet clandestinely went. on his return he was placed under arrest. and soon afterwards, being now thoroughly disgusted, and, with some reason, alarmed by the tyranny of the duke, schiller finally eloped to mannheim, availing himself of the confusion created in stuttgard by the visit of a foreign prince. at mannheim he lived in the house of dalberg, a man of some rank and of sounding titles, but in mannheim known chiefly as the literary manager (or what is called director) of the theatre. this connection aided in determining the subsequent direction of schiller's talents; and his fiesco, his intrigue and love, his don carlos, and his maria stuart, followed within a short period of years. none of these are so far free from the faults of the robbers as to merit a separate notice; for with less power, they are almost equally licentious. finally, however, he brought out his wallenstein, an immortal drama, and, beyond all competition, the nearest in point of excellence to the dramas of shakspeare. the position of the characters of max piccolomini and the princess thekla is the finest instance of what, in a critical sense, is called _relief,_ that literature offers. young, innocent, unfortunate, among a camp of ambitious, guilty, and blood-stained men, they offer a depth and solemnity of impression which is equally required by way of contrast and of final repose. from mannheim, where he had a transient love affair with laura dalberg, the daughter of his friend the director, schiller removed to jena, the celebrated university in the territory of weimar. the grand duke of that german florence was at this time gathering around him the most eminent of the german intellects; and he was eager to enroll schiller in the body of his professors. in schiller received the chair of civil history; and not long after he married miss lengefeld, with whom he had been for some time acquainted. in he was ennobled; that is, he was raised to the rank of gentleman, and entitled to attach the prefix of _von_ to his name. his income was now sufficient for domestic comfort and respectable independence; while in the society of goethe, herder, and other eminent wits, he found even more relaxation for his intellect, than his intellect, so fervent and so self-sustained, could require. meantime the health of schiller was gradually undermined: his lungs had been long subject to attacks of disease; and the warning indications which constantly arose of some deep-seated organic injuries in his pulmonary system ought to have put him on his guard for some years before his death. of all men, however, it is remarkable that schiller was the most criminally negligent of his health; remarkable, we say, because for a period of four years schiller had applied himself seriously to the study of medicine. the strong coffee, and the wine, which he drank, may not have been so injurious as his biographers suppose; but his habit of sitting up through the night, and defrauding his wasted frame of all natural and restorative sleep, had something in it of that guilt which belongs to suicide. on the th of may, , his complaint reached its crisis. early in the morning he became delirious; at noon his delirium abated; and at four in the afternoon he fell into a gentle unagitated sleep, from which he soon awoke. conscious that he now stood on the very edge of the grave, he calmly and fervently took a last farewell of his friends. at six in the evening he fell again into sleep, from which, however, he again awoke once more to utter the memorable declaration, "that many things were growing plain and clear to his understanding." after this the cloud of sleep again settled upon him; a sleep which soon changed into the cloud of death. this event produced a profound impression throughout germany. the theatres were closed at weimar, and the funeral was conducted with public honors. the position in point of time, and the peculiar services of schiller to the german literature, we have already stated: it remains to add, that in person he was tall, and of a strong bony structure, but not muscular, and strikingly lean. his forehead was lofty, his nose aquiline, and his mouth almost of grecian beauty. with other good points about his face, and with auburn hair, it may be presumed that his whole appearance was pleasing and impressive, while in latter years the character of sadness and contemplative sensibility deepened the impression of his countenance. we have said enough of his intellectual merit, which places him in our judgment at the head of the trans-rhenish literature. but we add in concluding, that frederick von schiller was something more than a great author; he was also in an eminent sense a great man; and his works are not more worthy of being studied for their singular force and originality, than his moral character from its nobility and aspiring grandeur. proofreading team at http://www.pgdpcanada.net this file was produced from images generously made available by the internet archive/european libraries mary lamb by mrs. gilchrist _eminent women series_ edited by john h. ingram london: w. h. allen & co., waterloo place. s.w. . preface. i am indebted to mrs. henry watson, a granddaughter of mr. gillman, for one or two interesting reminiscences, and for a hitherto unpublished "notelet" by lamb (p. ), together with an omitted paragraph from a published letter (p. ), which confirms what other letters also show,--that the temporary estrangement between lamb and coleridge was mainly due to the influence of the morbid condition of mind of their common friend, charles lloyd. my thanks are also due to mr. potts for some bibliographic details respecting the various editions of the _tales from shakespeare_. reprinted here, for the first time, is a little essay on _needle-work_ (regarded from an industrial, not an "art" point of view), by mary lamb (p. ), unearthed from an obscure and long-deceased periodical--_the british lady's magazine_--for which i have to thank mr. edward solly, f.r.s. the reader will find, also, the only letter that has been preserved from coleridge to lamb, who destroyed all the rest in a moment of depression (pp. - ). this letter is given, without exact date or name of the person to whom it was addressed, in gillman's unfinished _life of coleridge_, as having been written "to a friend in great anguish of mind on the sudden death of his mother," and has, i believe, never before been identified. but the internal evidence that it was to lamb is decisive. in taking mary as the central figure in the following narrative, woven mainly from her own and her brother's letters and writings, it is to that least explored time, from to --before they had made the acquaintance of judge talfourd, proctor, patmore, de quincey, and other friends, who have left written memorials of them--that we are brought nearest; the period, that is, of charles' youth and early manhood. for mary was the elder by ten years; and there is but little to tell of the last twenty of her eighty-three years of life, when the burthen of age was added to that of her sad malady. the burial-register of st. andrew's, holborn, in which church-yard lamb's father, mother and aunt hetty were buried, shows that the father survived his wife's tragic death nearly three years instead of only a few months as talfourd, and others following him, have supposed. it is a date of some interest because not till then did brother and sister begin together their life of "double singleness" and entire mutual devotion. also, in sifting the letters for facts and dates, i find that lamb lived in chapel street, pentonville not, as talfourd and proctor thought, a few months, but three years, removing thither almost immediately after the mother's death. it is a trifle, yet not without interest to the lovers of lamb, for these were the years in which he met in his daily walks, and loved but never accosted, the beautiful quakeress "hester," whose memory is enshrined in the poem beginning "when maidens such as hester die." anne gilchrist. keats corner, hampstead. contents. chapter i. page parentage and childhood. chapter ii. birth of charles.--coleridge.--domestic toils and trials.--their tragic culmination.--letters to and from coleridge. chapter iii. death of aunt hetty.--mary removed from the asylum.--charles lloyd.--a visit to nether stowey, and introduction to wordsworth and his sister.--anniversary of the mother's death.--mary ill again.--estrangement between lamb and coleridge.--speedy reconcilement. chapter iv. death of the father.--mary comes home to live.--a removal.--first verses.--a literary tea-party.--another move.--friends increase. chapter v. personal appearance and manners.--health.--influence of mary's illnesses upon her brother. chapter vi. visit to coleridge at greta hall.--wordsworth and his sister in london.--letters to miss stoddart.--coleridge goes to malta.--letter to dorothy wordsworth on the death of her brother john. chapter vii. mary in the asylum again.--lamb's letter with a poem of hers.--her slow recovery.--letters to sarah stoddart.--the _tales from shakespeare_ begun.--hazlitt's portrait of lamb.--sarah's lovers.--the farce of _mr. h._ chapter viii. the _tales from shakespeare_.--letters to sarah stoddart. chapter ix. correspondence with sarah stoddart.--hazlitt.--a courtship and wedding at which mary is bridesmaid. chapter x. _mrs. leicester's school_.--a removal.--_poetry for children._ chapter xi. the hazlitts again.--letters to mrs. hazlitt.--two visits to winterslow.--mr. dawe, r.a.--birth of hazlitt's son.--death of holcroft. chapter xii. an essay on needle-work. chapter xiii. letters to miss betham and her little sister.--to wordsworth. --manning's return.--coleridge goes to highgate.--letter to miss hutchinson on mary's state.--removal to russell street.--mary's letter to dorothy wordsworth.--lodgings at dalston.--death of john lamb and captain burney. chapter xiv. hazlitt's divorce.--emma isola.--mrs. cowden clarke's _recollections_ of mary.--the visit to france.--removal to colebrook cottage.--a dialogue of reminiscences. chapter xv. lamb's ill-health.--retirement from the india house, and subsequent illness.--letter from mary to lady stoddart.--colebrook cottage quitted.--mary's constant attacks.--a home given up.--board with the westwoods.--death of hazlitt.--removal to edmonton.--marriage of emma isola.--mary's sudden recovery.--ill again.--death of coleridge.--death of charles.--mary's last days and death. chapter i. parentage and childhood. - .--Æt. - . the story of mary lamb's life is mainly the story of a brother and sister's love; of how it sustained them under the shock of a terrible calamity and made beautiful and even happy a life which must else have sunk into desolation and despair. it is a record, too, of many friendships. round the biographer of mary as of charles, the blended stream of whose lives cannot be divided into two distinct currents, there gathers a throng of faces--radiant immortal faces some, many homely every-day faces, a few almost grotesque--whom he can no more shut out of his pages, if he would give a faithful picture of life and character, than charles or mary could have shut their humanity-loving hearts or hospitable doors against them. first comes coleridge, earliest and best beloved friend of all, to whom mary was "a most dear heart's sister"; wordsworth and his sister dorothy; southey; hazlitt who, quarrel with whom he might, could not effectually quarrel with the lambs; his wife, also, without whom mary would have been a comparatively silent figure to us, a presence rather than a voice. but all kinds were welcome so there were but character; the more variety the better. "i am made up of queer points," wrote lamb, "and i want so many answering needles." and of both brother and sister it may be said that their likes wore as well as most people's loves. mary anne lamb was born in crown office row, inner temple, on the rd of december --year of hogarth's death. she was the third, as charles was the youngest, of seven children all of whom died in infancy save these two and an elder brother john, her senior by two years. one little sister elizabeth, who came when mary was four years old, lived long enough to imprint an image on the child's memory which, helped by a few relics, remained for life. "the little cap with white satin ribbon grown yellow with long keeping and a lock of light hair," wrote mary when she was near sixty, "always brought her pretty fair face to my view so that to this day i seem to have a perfect recollection of her features." the family of the lambs came originally from stamford in lincolnshire, as charles himself once told a correspondent. nothing else is known of mary's ancestry; nor yet even the birth-place or earliest circumstances of john lamb the father. if, however, we may accept on mr. cowden clarke's authority, corroborated by internal evidence, the little story of _susan yates_, contributed by charles to _mrs. leicester's school_, as embodying some of his father's earliest recollections, he was born of parents "in no very affluent circumstances" in a lonely part of the fen country, seven miles from the nearest church an occasional visit to which, "just to see how _goodness thrived_," was a feat to be remembered, such bad and dangerous walking was it in the fens in those days, "a mile as good as four." what is quite certain is that while john lamb was still a child his family removed to lincoln, with means so straitened that he was sent to service in london. whether his father were dead or, sadder still, in a lunatic asylum--since we are told with emphasis that the hereditary seeds of madness in the lamb family came from the father's side--it is beyond doubt that misfortune of some kind must have been the cause of the child's being sent thus prematurely to earn his bread in service. his subsequently becoming a barrister's clerk seems to indicate that his early nurture and education had been of a gentler kind than this rough thrusting out into the world of a mere child would otherwise imply: in confirmation of which it is to be noted that afterwards, in the dark crisis of family misfortune, an "old gentlewoman of fortune" appears on the scene as a relative. in spite of early struggles john lamb grew up a merry cheerful man. a merrier man, a man more apt to frame matter for mirth, mad jokes and antics for a christmas-eve, making life social and the laggard time to move on nimbly, never yet did cheer the little circle of domestic friends. inflexibly honest and upright too, with a dash of chivalry in his nature; who is not familiar with his portrait as "lovel" in _the benchers of the inner temple_? elizabeth his wife, a native of ware, whose maiden name was field, was many years younger than himself. she was a handsome, dignified-looking woman; like her husband fond of pleasure; a good and affectionate mother, also, in the main, yet lacking insight into the characters of her children--into mary's at any rate, towards whom she never manifested that maternal tenderness which makes the heart wise whatever the head may be. mary, a shy, sensitive, nervous, affectionate child, who early showed signs of a liability to brain disorder, above all things needed tender and judicious care. "her mother loved her," wrote charles in after years, "as she 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 coldness and repulse. still she was a good mother. god forbid i should think of her but most respectfully, most affectionately. yet she would always love my brother above mary, who was not worthy of one-tenth of that affection which mary had a right to claim." john, the eldest, a handsome, lively, active boy, was just what his good looks and his being the favourite were likely to make of a not very happily endowed nature. "dear little selfish craving john" he was in childhood, and dear big selfish john he remained in manhood; treated with tender indulgence by his brother and sister who cheerfully exonerated him from taking up any share of the burthen of sorrow and privation which became the portion of his family by the time he was grown up and prosperously afloat. a maiden aunt, a worthy but uncanny old soul whose odd silent ways and odder witch-like mutterings and mumblings coupled with a wild look in her eyes as she peered out from under her spectacles, made her an object of dread rather than love to mary as afterwards to charles in whom she garnered up her heart, completed the family group but did not add to its harmony for she and her sister-in-law ill agreed. they were in "their different ways," wrote mary, looking back on childhood from middle-life, "the best creatures in the world; but they set out wrong at first. they made each other miserable for full twenty years of their lives. my mother was a perfect gentlewoman; my aunty as unlike a gentlewoman as you can possibly imagine a good old woman to be; so that my dear mother (who, though you do not know it, is always in my poor head and heart), used to distress and weary her with incessant and unceasing attention and politeness to gain her affection. the old woman could not return this in kind and did not know what to make of it--thought it all deceit, and used to hate my mother with a bitter hatred; which, of course, was soon returned with interest. a little frankness and looking into each other's characters at first would have spared all this, and they would have lived as they died, fond of each other for the last ten years of their lives. when we grew up and harmonised them a little, they sincerely loved each other." in these early days mary's was a comfortable though a very modest home; a place of "snug fire-sides, the low-built roof, parlours ten feet by ten, frugal boards, and all the homeliness of home"; a wholesome soil to be planted in which permitted no helplessness in the practical details of domestic life; above poverty in the actual though not in the conventional sense of the word. such book-learning as fell to her lot was obtained at a day-school in fetter lane, holborn, where, notwithstanding the inscription over the door, "mr. william bird, teacher of mathematics and languages," reading in the mother-tongue, writing and "ciphering" were all that was learned. the school-room looked into a dingy, discoloured garden, in the passage leading from fetter lane into bartlett's buildings; and there boys were taught in the morning and their sisters in the afternoon by "a gentle usher" named starkey, whose subsequent misfortunes have rescued him and mary's school-days from oblivion. for, having in his old age drifted into an almshouse at newcastle, the tale of his wanderings and his woes found its way into print and finally into hone's _every day book_, where, meeting the eyes of charles and mary lamb, it awakened in both old memories which took shape in the sketch called _captain starkey_. "poor starkey, when young, had that peculiar stamp of old-fashionedness in his face which makes it impossible for a beholder to predict any particular age in the object. you can scarce make a guess between seventeen and seven-and-thirty. this antique caste always seems to promise ill-luck and penury. yet it seems he was not always the abject thing he came to. my sister, who well remembers him, can hardly forgive mr. thomas ranson for making an etching so unlike her idea of him when he was at mr. bird's school. old age and poverty, a life-long poverty she thinks, could at no time have effaced the marks of native gentility which were once so visible in a face otherwise strikingly ugly, thin, and careworn. from her recollections of him, she thinks that he would have wanted bread before he would have begged or borrowed a halfpenny. 'if any of the girls,' she says, 'who were my school-fellows should be reading through their aged spectacles tidings from the dead of their youthful friend starkey, they will feel a pang as i do at having teased his gentle spirit.' "they were big girls, it seems, too old to attend his instructions with the silence necessary; and, however old age and a long state of beggary seems to have reduced his writing faculties to a state of imbecility, in those days his language occasionally rose to the bold and figurative, for, when he was in despair to stop their chattering, his ordinary phrase was, 'ladies, if you will not hold your peace, not all the powers in heaven can make you.' once he was missing for a day or two; he had run away. a little, old, unhappy-looking man brought him back--it was his father, and he did no business in the school that day but sat moping in a corner with his hands before his face; the girls, his tormentors, in pity for his case, for the rest of the day forbore to annoy him. "'i had been there but a few months,' adds she, 'when starkey, who was the chief instructor of us girls, communicated to us a profound secret, that the tragedy of cato was shortly to be acted by the elder boys, and that we were to be invited to the representation.' that starkey lent a helping hand in fashioning the actors she remembers; and, but for his unfortunate person, he might have had some distinguished part in the scene to enact. as it was he had the arduous task of prompter assigned to him and his feeble voice was heard clear and distinct repeating the text during the whole performance. she describes her recollection of the caste of characters even now with a relish:--martia, by the handsome edgar hickman, who afterwards went to africa, and of whom she never afterwards heard tidings; lucia, by master walker, whose sister was her particular friend; cato, by john hunter, a masterly declaimer but a plain boy, and shorter by a head than his two sons in the scene, &c. in conclusion, starkey appears to have been one of those mild spirits which, not originally deficient in understanding, are crushed by penury into dejection and feebleness. he might have proved a useful adjunct, if not an ornament to society, if fortune had taken him into a very little fostering; but wanting that he became a captain--a by-word--and lived and died a broken bulrush." but the chief and best part of mary's education was due to the fact that her father's employer, mr. salt, had a good library "into which she was tumbled early" and suffered to "browse there without much selection or prohibition." a little selection, however, would have made the pasturage all the wholesomer to a child of mary's sensitive brooding nature; for the witch-stories and cruel tales of the sufferings of the martyrs on which she pored all alone, as her brother did after her, wrought upon her tender brain and lent their baleful aid to nourish those seeds of madness which she inherited; as may be inferred from a subsequent adventure. when tripping to and from school or playing in the temple gardens mary must sometimes, though we have no record of the fact, have set eyes on oliver goldsmith: for the first ten years of her life were the last of his; spent, though with frequent sojourns elsewhere, in the temple. and in the temple churchyard he was buried, just ten months before the birth of charles. the london born and bred child had occasional tastes of joyous, healthful life in the country, for her mother had hospitable relatives in her native county, pleasant hertfordshire. specially was there a great-aunt married to a substantial yeoman named gladman living at mackery end within a gentle walk of wheathampstead, the visits to whom remained in mary's memory as the most delightful recollections of her childhood. in after life she embodied them, mingling fiction with fact, in a story called _louisa manners or the farm house_ where she tells in sweet and child-like words of the ecstasy of a little four-year-old girl on finding herself for the first time in the midst of fields quite full of bright shining yellow flowers with sheep and young lambs feeding; of the inexhaustible interest of the farm-yard, the thresher in the barn with his terrifying flail and black beard, the collecting of eggs and searching for scarce violets ("if we could find eggs and violets too, what happy children we were"); of the hay-making and the sheep-shearing, the great wood fires and the farm-house suppers. this will recall to the reader elia's _mackery end_; how, forty years afterwards, brother and sister revisited the old farm-house one day in the midst of june and how bridget (so he always called mary in print) "remembered her old acquaintance again; some altered features, of course, a little grudged at. at first, indeed, she was ready to disbelieve for joy; but the scene soon re-confirmed itself in her affections, and she traversed every out-post of the old mansion, to the wood-house, the orchard, the place where the pigeon-house had stood (house and birds were alike flown), with a breathless impatience of recognition which was more pardonable perhaps than decorous at the age of fifty odd. but bridget in some things is behind her years." "... the only thing left was to get into the house, and that was a difficulty which to me singly would have been insurmountable, for i am terribly shy in making myself known to strangers and out-of-date kinsfolk. love, stronger than scruple, winged my cousin in without me; but she soon returned with a creature that might have sat to a sculptor for the image of welcome.... to have seen bridget and her,--it was like the meeting of the two scriptural cousins! there was a grace and dignity, an amplitude of form and stature answering to her mind in this farmer's wife, which would have shined in a palace...." to return to the days of childhood, mary also paid visits to her maternal grandmother field, housekeeper to the plumers at their stately but forsaken mansion of blakesware; but here the pleasure was mingled with a kind of weird solemnity. mary has left on record her experiences in a tale which forms a sort of pendant to _blakesmoor in h----shire_ by elia. her story is called _margaret green, the young mahometan_, also from _mrs. leicester's school_ and, apart from a slight framework of invention ("mrs. beresford," her grandmother, being represented as the owner instead of housekeeper of the mansion), is minutely autobiographical. "every morning when she (mrs. beresford) saw me she used to nod her head very kindly and say 'how do you do, little margaret?' but i do not recollect that she ever spoke to me during the remainder of the day, except indeed after i had read the psalms and the chapters which was my daily task; then she used constantly to observe that i improved in my reading and frequently added, 'i never heard a child read so distinctly.' when my daily portion of reading was over i had a taste of needle-work, which generally lasted half an hour. i was not allowed to pass more time in reading or work, because my eyes were very weak, for which reason i was always set to read in the large-print family bible. i was very fond of reading, and when i could, unobserved, steal a few minutes as they were intent on their work, i used to delight to read in the historical part of the bible; but this, because of my eyes, was a forbidden pleasure, and the bible being never removed out of the room, it was only for a short time together that i dared softly to lift up the leaves and peep into it. as i was permitted to walk in the garden or wander about the house whenever i pleased, i used to leave the parlour for hours together, and make out my own solitary amusement as well as i could. my first visit was always to a very large hall, which, from being paved with marble, was called the marble hall. the heads of the twelve cæsars were hung round the hall. every day i mounted on the chairs to look at them and to read the inscriptions underneath, till i became perfectly familiar with their names and features. hogarth's prints were below the cæsars. i was very fond of looking at them and endeavouring to make out their meaning. an old broken battledore and some shuttle-cocks with most of the feathers missing were on a marble slab in one corner of the hall, which constantly reminded me that there had once been younger inhabitants here than the old lady and her grey-headed servants. in another corner stood a marble figure of a satyr; every day i laid my hand on his shoulder to feel how cold he was. this hall opened into a room full of family portraits. they were all in dresses of former times; some were old men and women, and some were children. i used to long to have a fairy's power to call the children down from their frames to play with me. one little girl in particular, who hung by the side of the glass door which opened into the garden, i often invited to walk there with me; but she still kept her station, one arm round a little lamb's neck and in her hand a large bunch of roses. from this room i usually proceeded to the garden. when i was weary of the garden i wandered over the rest of the house. the best suite of rooms i never saw by any other light than what glimmered through the tops of the window-shutters, which, however, served to show the carved chimney-pieces and the curious old ornaments about the rooms; but the worked furniture and carpets of which i heard such constant praises i could have but an imperfect sight of, peeping under the covers which were kept over them by the dim light; for i constantly lifted up a corner of the envious cloth that hid these highly praised rareties from my view. "the bedrooms were also regularly explored by me, as well to admire the antique furniture as for the sake of contemplating the tapestry hangings which were full of bible history. the subject of the one which chiefly attracted my attention was hagar and her son ishmael. every day i admired the beauty of the youth, and pitied the forlorn state of him and his mother in the wilderness. at the end of the gallery into which these tapestry rooms opened was one door which, having often in vain attempted to open, i concluded to be locked; and finding myself shut out, i was very desirous of seeing what it contained and, though still foiled in the attempt, i every day endeavoured to turn the lock, which, whether by constantly trying i loosened, being probably a very old one, or that the door was not locked but fastened tight by time, i know not; to my great joy, as i was one day trying the lock as usual, it gave way, and i found myself in this so long desired room. "it proved to be a very large library. this was indeed a precious discovery. i looked round on the books with the greatest delight: i thought i would read them every one. i now forsook all my favourite haunts and passed all my time here. i took down first one book, then another. if you never spent whole mornings alone in a large library, you cannot conceive the pleasure of taking down books in the constant hope of finding an entertaining book among them; yet, after many days, meeting with nothing but disappointment, it became less pleasant. all the books within my reach were folios of the gravest cast. i could understand very little that i read in them, and the old dark print and the length of the lines made my eyes ache. "when i had almost resolved to give up the search as fruitless, i perceived a volume lying in an obscure corner of the room. i opened it; it was a charming print, the letters were almost as large as the type of the family bible. in the first page i looked into i saw the name of my favourite ishmael, whose face i knew so well from the tapestry, and whose history i had often read in the bible. i sat myself down to read this book with the greatest eagerness. the title of it was _mahometanism explained_.... a great many of the leaves were torn out, but enough remained to make me imagine that ishmael was the true son of abraham. i read here that the true descendants of abraham were known by a light which streamed from the middle of their foreheads. it said that ishmael's father and mother first saw this light streaming from his forehead as he was lying asleep in the cradle. i was very sorry so many of the leaves were torn out, for it was as entertaining as a fairy tale. i used to read the history of ishmael and then go and look at him in the tapestry, and then read his history again. when i had almost learned the history of ishmael by heart, i read the rest of the book, and then i came to the history of mahomet who was there said to be the last descendant of abraham. "if ishmael had engaged so much of my thoughts, how much more so must mahomet? his history was full of nothing but wonders from the beginning to the end. the book said that those who believed all the wonderful stories which were related of mahomet were called mahometans and true believers; i concluded that i must be a mahometan, for i believed every word i read. "at length i met with something which i also believed, though i trembled as i read it. this was, that after we are dead we are to pass over a narrow bridge which crosses a bottomless gulf. the bridge was described to be no wider than a silken thread, and it is said that all who were not mahometans would slip on one side of this bridge and drop into the tremendous gulf that had no bottom. i considered myself as a mahometan, yet i was perfectly giddy whenever i thought of passing over this bridge. one day, seeing the old lady totter across the room, a sudden terror seized me for i thought how would she ever be able to get over the bridge? then, too, it was that i first recollected that my mother would also be in imminent danger; for i imagined she had never heard the name of mahomet, because i foolishly conjectured this book had been locked up for ages in the library and was utterly unknown to the rest of the world. "all my desire was now to tell them the discovery i had made; for, i thought, when they knew of the existence of _mahometanism explained_ they would read it and become mahometans to ensure themselves a safe passage over the silken bridge. but it wanted more courage than i possessed to break the matter to my intended converts; i must acknowledge that i had been reading without leave; and the habit of never speaking or being spoken to considerably increased the difficulty. "my anxiety on this subject threw me into a fever. i was so ill that my mother thought it necessary to sleep in the same room with me. in the middle of the night i could not resist the strong desire i felt to tell her what preyed so much on my mind. "i awoke her out of a sound sleep and begged she would be so kind as to be a mahometan. she was very much alarmed, for she thought i was delirious, which i believe i was; for i tried to explain the reason of my request, but it was in such an incoherent manner that she could not at all comprehend what i was talking about. the next day a physician was sent for and he discovered, by several questions that he put to me, that i had read myself into a fever. he gave me medicines and ordered me to be kept very quiet and said he hoped in a few days i should be very well; but as it was a new case to him, he never having attended a little mahometan before, if any lowness continued after he had removed the fever he would, with my mother's permission, take me home with him to study this extraordinary case at his leisure; and added that he could then hold a consultation with his wife who was often very useful to him in prescribing remedies for the maladies of his younger patients." in the sequel, this sensible and kindly doctor takes his little patient home, and restores her by giving her child-like wholesome pleasures and rational sympathy. i fear that this only shadowed forth the wise tenderness with which mary lamb would have treated such a child rather than what befell herself; and that with the cruelty of ignorance mary's mother and grandmother suffered her young spirit to do battle still, in silence and inward solitariness, with the phantoms imagination conjured up in her too-sensitive brain. "polly, what are those poor crazy, moythered brains of yours thinking always?" was worthy mrs. field's way of endeavouring to win the confidence of the thoughtful suffering child. the words in the story, "my mother almost wholly discontinued talking to me," "i scarcely ever heard a word addressed to me from morning to night" have a ring of truth, of bitter experience in them, which makes the heart ache. yet it was no result of sullenness on either side, least of all did it breed any ill-feeling on mary's. it was simple stupidity, lack of insight or sympathy in the elders; and on hers was repaid by the sweetest affection and, in after years, by a self-sacrificing devotion which, carried at last far beyond her strength, led to the great calamity of her life. grandmother field was a fine old character, however, as the reader of _elia_ well knows. she had a mounting spirit, one that entertained scorn of base action, deed dishonourable or aught unseemly. like her daughter, mrs. lamb, she had been a handsome stately woman in her prime and when bent with age and pain, for she suffered from a cruel malady, cheerful patience and fortitude gave her dignity of another and a higher kind. but, like her daughter, she seems to have been wanting in those finer elements of tenderness and sympathy which were of vital consequence in the rearing up of a child smitten like mary with a hereditary tendency to madness. chapter ii. birth of charles.--coleridge.--domestic toils and trials.--their tragic culmination.--letters to and from coleridge. - .--Æt. - . on the th of february arrived a new member into the household group in crown office row--charles, the child of his father's old age, the "weakly but very pretty babe," who was to prove their strong support. and now mary was no longer a lonely girl. she was just old enough to be trusted to nurse and tend the baby and she became a mother to it. in after life she spoke of the comfort, the wholesome curative influence upon her young troubled mind, which this devotion to charles in his infancy brought with it. and as he grew older rich was her reward; for he repaid the debt with a love half filial, half fraternal, than which no human tie was ever stronger or more sublimely adequate to the strain of a terrible emergency. as his young mind unfolded he found in her intelligence and love the same genial fostering influences that had cherished his feeble frame into health and strength. it was with his little hand in hers that he first trod the temple gardens, and spelled out the inscriptions on the sun-dials and on the tombstones in the old burying-ground and wondered, finding only lists of the virtues "where all the naughty people were buried?" like mary, his disposition was so different from that of his gay, pleasure-loving parents that they but ill understood "and gave themselves little trouble about him," which also tended to draw brother and sister closer together. there are no other records of mary's girlhood than such as may be gathered from the story of her brother's early life; of how when he was five and she was fifteen she came near to losing him from small-pox, aunt hetty grieving over him "the only thing in the world she loved" as she was wont to say, with a mother's tears. and how, three years later (in ), she had to give up his daily companionship and see him, now grown a handsome boy with "crisply curling black hair, clear brown complexion, aquiline, slightly jewish cast of features, winning smile, and glittering, restless eyes," equipped as a christ's hospital boy and, with aunt hetty, to ... peruse him round and round, and hardly know him in his yellow coats, red leathern belt and gown of russet blue. coleridge was already a blue coat boy but older and too high above charles in the school for comradeship then. to lamb, with home close at hand, it was a happy time; but coleridge, homeless and friendless in the great city, had no mitigations of the rough spartan discipline which prevailed; and the weekly whole holidays when, turned adrift in the streets from morn till night, he had nothing but a crust of bread in his pockets and no resource but to beguile the pangs of hunger in summer with hours of bathing in the new river and in winter with furtive hanging round book-stalls wrought permanent harm to his fine-strung organisation. nor did the gentleness of his disposition, or the brilliancy of his powers, save him from the birch-loving brutalities of old boyer, who was wont to add an extra stripe "because he was so ugly." in the lamb household the domestic outlook grew dark as soon as mary was grown up, for her father's faculties and her mother's health failed early; and when, in his fifteenth year, charles left christ's hospital it was already needful for him to take up the burthens of a man on his young shoulders; and for mary not only to make head against sickness, helplessness, old age with its attendant exigencies but to add to the now straitened means by taking in millinery work. for eleven years, as she has told us, she maintained herself by the needle; from the age of twenty-one to thirty-two, that is. it was not in poor old aunt hetty's nature to be helpful either. "she was from morning till night poring over good books and devotional exercises.... the only secular employment i remember to have seen her engaged in was the splitting of french beans and dropping them into a basin of fair water," says elia. happily, a clerkship in the south sea house, where his brother already was, enabled charles to maintain his parents and a better post in the india house was obtained two years afterwards. nor were there wanting snatches of pleasant holiday sometimes shared by mary. of one, a visit to the sea, there is a beautiful reminiscence in _the old margate hoy_, written more than thirty years afterwards. "it was our first sea-side experiment," he says, "and many circumstances combined to make it the most agreeable holiday of my life. we had neither of us seen the sea" (he was fifteen and mary twenty-six), "and we had never been from home so long together in company." the disappointment they both felt at the first sight of the sea he explains with one of his subtle and profound suggestions. "is it not" ... says he, "that we had expected to behold (absurdly i grant, but by the law of imagination inevitably) not a definite object compassable by the eye, but _all the sea at once, the commensurate antagonist of the earth_? whereas the eye can but take in a 'slip of salt water.'" the whole passage is one of elia's finest. then coleridge too, who had remained two years longer at christ's hospital than lamb and after he went up to cambridge in continued to pay frequent visits to london, spent many a glorious evening, not only those memorable ones with charles in the parlour of the "salutation and cat," but in his home; and was not slow to discover mary's fine qualities and to take her into his brotherly heart as a little poem, written so early as , to cheer his friend during a serious illness of hers testifies:-- cheerily, dear charles! thou thy best friend shalt cherish many a year such warm presages feel i of high hope. for not uninterested the dear maid i've viewed--her soul affectionate yet wise, her polished wit as mild as lambent glories that play around a sainted infant's head. the year witnessed changes for all. the father, now wholly in his dotage, was pensioned off by mr. salt and the family had to exchange their old home in the temple for straitened lodgings in little queen street, holborn (the site of which and of the adjoining houses is now occupied by trinity church). coleridge, too, had left cambridge and was at bristol, drawn thither by his newly formed friendship with southey, lecturing, writing, dreaming of his ideal pantisocracy on the banks of the susquehannah and love-making. the love-making ended in marriage the autumn of that same year. meanwhile lamb, too, was first tasting the joys and sorrows of love. alice w---- lingers but as a shadow in the records of his life: the passion, however, was real enough and took deep hold of him, conspiring with the cares and trials of home life unrelieved now by the solace of coleridge's society to give a fatal stimulus to the germs of brain-disease, which were part of the family heritage and for six weeks he was in a mad-house. "in your absence," he tells his friend afterwards, "the tide of melancholy rushed in, and did its worst mischief by overwhelming my reason." who can doubt the memory of this attack strengthened the bond of sympathy between mary and himself and gave him a fellow-feeling for her no amount of affection alone could have realised? as in her case, too, the disorder took the form of a great heightening and intensifying of the imaginative faculty. "i look back on it, at times," wrote he after his recovery, "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 fancy, till you have gone mad.... the sonnet i send you has small merit as poetry, but you will be curious to read it when i tell you it was written 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 e'er inclined too highly, and with a partial eye to see no blemish. thou to me didst ever show kindest affection; and would 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 my friend. no sooner was charles restored to himself than the elder brother john met with a serious accident; and though whilst in health he had carried himself and his earnings to more comfortable quarters, he did not now fail to return and be nursed with anxious solicitude by his brother and sister. this was the last ounce. mary, worn out with years of nightly as well as daily attendance upon her mother who was now wholly deprived of the use of her limbs, and harassed by a close application to needle-work to help her in which she had been obliged to take a young apprentice, was at last strained beyond the utmost pitch of physical endurance, "worn down to a state of extreme nervous misery." about the middle of september, she being then thirty-two years old, her family observed some symptoms of insanity in her which had so much increased by the st that her brother early in the morning went to dr. pitcairn who unhappily was out. on the afternoon of that day, seized with a sudden attack of frenzy, she snatched a knife from the table and pursued the young apprentice round the room when her mother interposing received a fatal stab and died instantly. mary was totally unconscious of what she had done, aunt hetty fainted with terror, the father was too feeble in mind for any but a confused and transient impression; it was charles alone who confronted all the anguish and horror of the scene. with the stern brevity of deep emotion he wrote to coleridge five days afterwards:-- "my poor dear, dearest sister, in a fit of insanity, has been the death of her own mother. i was at hand only time enough to snatch the knife out of her grasp. she is at present in a mad-house, from whence i fear she must be moved to a 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 composed, and able to do the best that remains to do. write as religious a letter as possible, but no mention of what is gone and done with. with me 'the former things are passed away,' and i have something more to do than to feel. god almighty have us all in his keeping! mention nothing of poetry. i have destroyed every vestige of past vanities of that kind.... 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!" coleridge responded to this appeal for sympathy and comfort by the following,--the only letter of his to lamb which has been preserved:-- "your letter, my friend, struck me with a mighty horror. it rushed upon me and stupified my feelings. you bid me write you a religious letter; i am not a man who would attempt to insult the greatness of your anguish by any other consolation. heaven knows that in the easiest fortunes there is much dissatisfaction and weariness of spirit; much that calls for the exercise of patience and resignation; but in storms like these that shake the dwelling and make the heart tremble, there is no middle way between despair and the yielding up of the whole spirit to the guidance of faith. and surely it is a matter of joy that your faith in jesus has been preserved; the comforter that should relieve you is not far from you. but as you are a christian, in the name of that saviour who was filled with bitterness and made drunken with wormwood, i conjure you to have recourse in frequent prayer to 'his god and your god,' the god of mercies and father of all comfort. your poor father is, i hope, almost senseless of the calamity; the unconscious instrument of divine providence knows it not, and your mother is in heaven. it is sweet to be roused from a frightful dream by the song of birds, and the gladsome rays of the morning. ah, how infinitely more sweet to be awakened from the blackness and amazement of a sudden horror by the glories of god manifest, and the hallelujahs of angels. "as to what regards yourself, i approve altogether of your abandoning what you justly call vanities. i look upon you as a man called by sorrow and anguish and a strange desolation of hopes into quietness, and a soul set apart and made peculiar to god; we cannot arrive at any portion of heavenly bliss without, in some measure, imitating christ. and they arrive at the largest inheritance who imitate the most difficult parts of his character, and, bowed down and crushed under foot, cry, in fulness of faith, 'father, thy will be done.' "i wish above measure to have you for a little while here; no visitants shall blow on the nakedness of your feelings; you shall be quiet, that your spirit may be healed. i see no possible objection, unless your father's helplessness prevent you, and unless you are necessary to him. if this be not the case, i charge you write me that you will come. "i charge you, my dearest friend, not to dare to encourage gloom or despair; you are a temporary sharer in human miseries, that you may be an eternal partaker of the divine nature. i charge you, if by any means it be possible, come to me." how the storm was weathered, with what mingled fortitude and sweetness lamb sustained the wrecked household and rescued his sister, when reason returned, from the living death of perpetual confinement in a mad-house must be read in the answer to coleridge:-- "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 instrument of the almighty's judgment on our house, is restored to her senses; to a dreadful sense and recollection of what has passed, 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 committed 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 far from an indecent 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 religious principle, to look forward to a time when even she might recover tranquillity. god be praised, coleridge! wonderful 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 tranquillity 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 favourable 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 like one dying; my father, with his poor forehead plaistered over from a wound he had received from a daughter, 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 endeavoured after a comprehension of mind unsatisfied with the 'ignorant present time,' and this 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 any time to take care of old age and infirmities, had now, with his bad leg, an exemption from such duties, and i was 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 we 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 _with them_ (for to eat i never refused). they were all making merry in the room! 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 welfare. indignation, the rage of grief, something like remorse, 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. 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 [an old schoolfellow well known to the readers of lamb], who was then in town, was with me the first three or four 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 humouring 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 playing 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 he 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 to 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, 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 the thought of going, and has generously given up the interest of her little money (which was formerly paid my father for her board) wholly and solely to my sister's use. reckoning this we have, daddy and i, for our two selves and an old maid-servant to look after him when i am out which will be necessary, £ (or £ rather) a year, out of which we can spare £ or £ , 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 mad-house 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 often-times and mindful of more than one severe illness of that nature before. a legacy of £ which my father will have at christmas and this £ i mentioned 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 £ or £ 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 unfavourable 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 to struggle with difficulties, nor has he much accustomed himself to throw himself into their way and i know his language is already, 'charles you must take care of yourself, you must not abridge yourself of a single pleasure you have been used to,' &c. &c, and in that style of talking. but you, a necessarian, 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 unconnect 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 mad-house assures 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 establishment in her house, where she will only not have a room and nurse to herself for £ or guineas a year--the outside would be £ . 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 them dearly; and they, as the saying is, take to her very extraordinarily if it is extraordinary 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 humanly and foolishly speaking, she will be found, i trust, uniformly great and amiable...." the depth and tenderness of mary's but half requited love for her mother and the long years of daily and nightly devotion to her which had borne witness to it and been the immediate cause of the catastrophe, took the sting out of her grief and gave her an unfaltering sense of innocence. they even shed round her a peaceful atmosphere which veiled from her mind's eye the dread scene in all its naked horror, as it would seem from lamb's next letter:-- "mary continues serene and cheerful. i have not by me a little letter 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 awake, 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 understand 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?'" and again, in another of her little letters, not itself preserved, but which charles translated "almost literally," he tells us, into verse, she said:-- thou and i, dear friend, with filial recognition sweet, shall know one day the face of our dear mother in heaven; and her remembered looks of love shall greet with answering looks of love, her placid smiles meet with a smile as placid, and her hand with drops of fondness wet, nor fear repulse. and after speaking, in words already quoted, of how his mother "had never understood mary right," lamb continues:-- "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 a long 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." although mary's recovery had been rapid, to be permitted to return home was, for the present, out of the question; so cheered by constant intercourse with charles she set herself, with characteristic sweetness, to make the best of life in a private lunatic asylum. "i have satisfaction," charles tells his unfailing sympathiser coleridge, "in being able to bid you rejoice with me in my sister's continued reason and composedness of mind. let us both be thankful for it. i continue to visit her very frequently and the people of the house are vastly indulgent to her. she is likely to be as comfortably situated in all respects as those who pay twice or thrice the sum. they love her and she loves 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." so wore away the remaining months of this dark year. perhaps they were loneliest and saddest for charles. there was no one now to share with him the care of his old father; and second childhood draws unsparingly on the debt of filial affection and gratitude. cheerfully and ungrudgingly did he pay it. his chief solace was the correspondence with coleridge; and, as his spirits recovered their tone, the mutual discussion of the poems which the two friends were about to publish conjointly with some of charles lloyd's, was resumed. the little volume was to be issued by cottle of bristol, early in the coming year, ; and lamb was desirous to seize the occasion of giving his sister an unlooked-for pleasure and of consecrating his verses by a renouncement and a dedication. "i have a dedication in my head," he writes, "for my few things, which i want to know if you approve of and can insert. i mean to inscribe them to my sister. it will be unexpected, and it will give her pleasure; or do you think it will look whimsical at all? as i have not spoken to her about it, i can easily reject the idea. but there is a monotony in the affections which people living together, or, as we do now, very frequently seeing each other, are apt to get into; a sort of indifference in the expression of kindness for each other, which demands that we should sometimes call to our aid the trickery of surprise. the title page to stand thus:-- poems by charles lamb, of the india house. motto:-- this beauty, in the blossom of my youth, when my first fire knew no adulterate incense, nor i no way to flatter but my fondness, in the best language my true tongue could tell me, and all the broken sighs my sick heart lend me, i sued and served. long did i love this lady.--massinger. the dedication:-- the few following poems, creatures of the fancy and the feeling, in life's more vacant hours, produced, for the most part, by love in idleness, are, with all a brother's fondness, inscribed to mary anne lamb, the author's best friend and sister. "this is the pomp and paraphernalia of parting, with which i take my leave of a passion which has reigned so royally, so long, within me. thus, with its trappings of laureateship, i fling it off, pleased and satisfied with myself that the weakness troubles me no longer. i am wedded, coleridge, to the fortunes of my sister and my poor old father. oh, my friend! i think, sometimes, could i recall the days that are past, which among them should i choose? not those merrier days, not the pleasant days of hope, not those wanderings with a fair-haired maid which i have so often and so feelingly regretted, but the days, coleridge, of a _mother's_ fondness for her _school-boy_. what would i give to call her back to earth for _one_ day!--on my knees to ask her pardon for all those little asperities of temper which, from time to time, have given her gentle spirit pain!--and the day, my friend, i trust will come. there will be 'time enough' for kind offices of love, if heaven's 'eternal year' be ours. hereafter, her meek spirit shall not reproach me. oh! my friend, cultivate the filial feelings! and let no man think himself released from the kind 'charities' of relationship: these shall give him peace at the last; these are the best foundation for every species of benevolence. i rejoice to hear by certain channels, that you, my friend, are reconciled with all your relations. 'tis the most kindly and natural species of love, and we have all the associated train of early feelings to secure its strength and perpetuity." chapter iii. death of aunt hetty.--mary removed from the asylum.--charles lloyd.--a visit to nether stowey, and introduction to wordsworth and his sister.--anniversary of the mother's death.--mary ill again.--estrangement between lamb and coleridge.--speedy reconcilement. - .--Æt. - . aunt hetty did not find her expectations of a comfortable home realised under the roof of the wealthy gentlewoman, who proved herself a typical rich relation and wrote to charles at the beginning of the new year that she found her aged cousin indolent and mulish, "and that her attachment to us" (he is telling coleridge the tale, to whom he could unburthen his heart on all subjects, sure of sympathy) "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 recollections 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 with perplexities, i am somewhat nonplussed, to say no worse." hetty lamb found a refuge and a welcome in the old humble home again. but she returned only to die; and mary was not there to nurse her. she was still in the asylum at islington; and was indeed herself at this time recovering from an attack of scarlet fever, or something akin to it. early in january lamb wrote to coleridge:--"you and sara are very good to think so kindly and so favourably 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 complain. my poor old aunt, whom you have seen, the kindest goodest creature to me when i was 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 basin with some nice thing 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 favourite." she lingered a month, and then went to occupy "... the same grave bed where the dead mother lies. oh, my dear mother! oh, thou dear dead saint! where's now that placid face, where oft hath sat a mother's smile to think her son should thrive in this bad world when she was dead and gone; and where a tear hath sat (take shame, o son!) when that same child has proved himself unkind. one parent yet is left--a wretched thing, a sad survivor of his buried wife, a palsy-smitten childish old, old man, a semblance most forlorn of what he was." "i own i am thankful that the good creature has ended her days of suffering and infirmity," says lamb to coleridge. "good god! who could have foreseen all this but four months back! i had reckoned, in particular, on my aunt's living many years; she was a very hearty old woman.... but she was a mere skeleton before she died; looked more like a corpse that had lain weeks in the grave than one fresh dead." "i thank you; from my heart, i thank you," charles again wrote to coleridge, "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 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. what she hath done to deserve, or the necessity of such an hardship i see not; do you?" at length lamb determined to grapple, on mary's behalf, with the difficulties and embarrassments of the situation. "painful doubts were suggested," says talfourd, "by the authorities of the parish where the terrible occurrence happened, whether they 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 recurrence of dangerous frenzy. but charles came to her 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 for life; and he kept his word. whether any communication with the home secretary 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 contain 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," not with her brother yet, but in lodgings near him and her father. he writes to coleridge, april th, : "lloyd may have told you about my sister.... if not, i have taken her out of her confinement, and taken a room for her at hackney, and spend my sundays, holidays, &c., with her. she boards herself. in a 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. may that merciful god make tender my heart and make me as thankful as, in my distress, i was earnest in my prayers. congratulate me on an ever-present and never alienable friend like her, and do, do insert, if you have not _lost_, my dedication [to mary]. it will have lost half its value by coming so late." and of another sonnet to her, which he desires to have inserted, he says: "i wish to accumulate perpetuating tokens of my affection to poor mary." two events which brightened this sad year must not be passed over though mary, the sharer of all her brother's joys and sorrows, had but an indirect participation in them. just when he was most lonely and desolate at the close of the fatal year he had written to coleridge: "i can only converse with you by letter, and with the dead in their books. my sister, indeed, is all i can wish in a companion; but our spirits are alike poorly, our reading and knowledge from the self-same sources, our communication with the scenes of the world alike narrow. never having kept separate company or any 'company' _together_--never having read separate books and few books _together_, what knowledge have we to convey to each other? in our little range of duties and connections how few sentiments can take place without friends, with few books, with a taste for religion rather than a strong religious habit! we need some support, some leading-strings to cheer and direct us. you talk very wisely and be not sparing of _your advice_; continue to remember us and to show us you do remember; we will take as lively an interest in what concerns you and yours. all i can add to your happiness will be sympathy; you can add to mine _more_, you can teach me wisdom." quite suddenly, at the beginning of the new year, there came to break this solitude charles lloyd, whose poems were to company lamb's own and coleridge's in the forthcoming volume: a young man of quaker family who was living in close fellowship with that group of poets down in somersetshire towards whom lamb's eyes and heart were wistfully turned as afterwards were to be those of all lovers of literature. how deeply he was moved by this spontaneous seeking for his friendship on lloyd's part, let a few lines from one of those early poems which, in their earnest simplicity and sincerity, are precious autobiographic fragments tell:-- 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? * * * * * for this a gleam of random joy, hath flush'd my unaccustom'd cheek, and with an o'ercharged bursting heart i feel the thanks i cannot speak. o sweet are all the muses' lays, and sweet the charm of matin bird-- 'twas long since these estranged ears the sweeter voice of friend had heard. the next was a yet brighter gleam--a fortnight with coleridge at nether stowey and an introduction to wordsworth and his sister dorothy, forerunner of a life-long friendship in which mary was soon to share. the visit took place in the july of this same year . the prospect of it had dangled tantalizingly before charles' eyes for a year or more; and now at last his chiefs at the india house were propitious and he wrote: "may i, can i, shall i come so soon?... i long, i yearn, with all the longings of a child do i desire to see you, to come among you, to see the young philosopher [hartley, the poet's first child] 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.... 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." seldom has fate been kind enough to bring together, in those years of early manhood when friendships strike their deepest roots, just the very men who could give the best help, the warmest encouragement to each other's genius, whilst they were girding themselves for that warfare with the ignorance and dulness of the public which every original man has to wage for a longer or shorter time. wordsworth was twenty-seven, coleridge twenty-five, lamb twenty-two. for wordsworth was to come the longest, stiffest battle--fought, however, from the vantage ground of pecuniary independence, thanks to his simple frugal habits and to a few strokes of good fortune. his aspect in age is familiar to the readers of this generation, but less so the wordsworth of the days when the _lyrical ballads_ were just taking final shape. there was already a severe worn pressure of thought about the temples of his high yet somewhat narrow forehead and 'his eyes were fires, half smouldering, half burning, inspired, supernatural, with a fixed acrid gaze' as if he saw something in objects more than the outward appearance. 'his cheeks were furrowed by strong purpose and feeling, and there was a convulsive inclination to laughter about the mouth, a good deal at variance with the solemn, stately expression of the rest of his face.' dressed in a brown fustian jacket and striped pantaloons, adds hazlitt, who first saw him a few months later, he had something of a roll and lounge in his gait not unlike his own peter bell. he talked freely and naturally, with a mixture of clear gushing accents in his voice, a deep guttural intonation and a strong tincture of the northern burr, and when he recited one of his poems his voice lingered on the ear "like the roll of spent thunder." but who could dazzle and win like coleridge? who could travel so far and wide through all the realms of thought and imagination, and pour out the riches he brought back in such free, full, melodious speech with that spontaneous "utterancy of heart and soul," which was his unique gift, in a voice whose tones were so sweet, ear and soul were alike ravished? for him the fight was not so much with the public which, orpheus that he was, he could so easily have led captive, as with the flesh--weak health, a nerveless languor, a feeble will that never could combine and concentrate his forces for any sustained or methodical effort. dorothy wordsworth has described him as he looked in these days: "at first i thought him very plain--that is, for about three minutes--he is pale, thin, has a wide mouth, thick lips, and not very good teeth, longish loose-growing, half-curling, rough black hair (in both these respects a contrast to wordsworth, who had, in his youth, beautiful teeth and light brown hair); but if you hear him speak for five minutes, you think no more of them. his eye is large and full and not very dark, but grey, such an eye as would receive from a heavy soul the dullest expression; but it speaks every emotion of his animated mind; it has more of the 'poet's eye in a fine frenzy rolling' than i ever witnessed. he has fine dark eye-brows and an overhanging forehead." this was the very year that produced _the ancient mariner_, the first part of _christabel_, and _kubla khan_. to charles lamb the change from his restricted over-shadowed life in london--all day at a clerk's desk and in the evening a return to the pentonville lodging with no other inmate than his poor old father, sundays and holidays only spent with his sister--to such companionship amid such scenes, almost dazed him, like stepping from a darkened room into the brilliant sunshine. before he went he had written:--"i see nobody. i sit and read, or walk alone and hear nothing. i am quite lost to conversation from disuse; and out of the sphere of my little family (who, i am thankful, are dearer and dearer to me every day), i see no face that brightens up at my approach. my friends are at a distance. worldly hopes are at a low ebb with me, and unworldly thoughts are unfamiliar to me, though i occasionally indulge in them. still i feel a calm not unlike content. i fear it is sometimes more akin to physical stupidity than to a heaven-flowing serenity and peace. if i come to stowey, what conversation can i furnish to compensate my friend for those stores of knowledge and of fancy, those delightful treasures of wisdom, which i know he will open to me? but it is better to give than to receive; and i was a very patient hearer and docile scholar in our winter evening meetings at mr. may's, was i not coleridge? what i have owed to thee my heart can ne'er forget." perhaps his friends, even coleridge who knew him so well, realised as little as himself what was the true mental stature of the "gentle-hearted", and "wild-eyed boy" as they called him; whose opportunities and experience, save in the matter of strange calamity, had been so narrow compared to their own. the keen edge of his discernment as a critic, quick and piercing as those quick, piercing, restless eyes of his, they knew and prized yet could hardly, perhaps, divine that there were qualities in him which would freight his prose for a long voyage down the stream of time. but already they knew that within that small spare frame, "thin and wiry as an arab of the desert," there beat a heroic heart, fit to meet the stern and painful exigencies of his lot; and that his love for his sister was of the same fibre as conscience--"a supreme embracer of consequences." dorothy wordsworth was just such a friend and comrade to the poet as mary was to charles, sharing his passionate devotion to nature as mary shared her brother's loves, whether for men or books or for the stir and throng of life in the great city. alike were these two women in being as de quincey said of dorothy "the truest, most inevitable and, at the same time, the quickest and readiest in sympathy with either joy or sorrow, with laughter or with tears, with the realities of life, or the larger realities of the poets." but unlike in temperament; dorothy ardent, fiery, trembling with eager impetuosity that embarrassed her utterance; mary gentle, silent, or deliberate in speech. in after life, there was another sad similarity for dorothy's reason, too, was in the end over-clouded. coleridge has described her as she then was: "she is a woman indeed," said he, "in mind, i mean, and in heart; for her person is such that if you expected to see a pretty woman, you would think her ordinary; if you expected to see an ordinary woman, you would think her pretty; but her manners are simple, ardent, and impressive. in every motion her innocent soul outbeams so brightly, that who saw her would say 'guilt was a thing impossible with her.' her information various, her eye watchful in minute observation of nature, and her taste a perfect electrometer." an accident had lamed coleridge the very morning after lamb's arrival, so that he was unable to share his friends' walks. he turned his imprisonment to golden account by writing a poem which mirrors for us, as in a still lake, the beauty of the quantock hills and vales where they were roaming, the scenes amid which these great and happy days of youth and poetry and friendship were passed. it is the very poem in the margin of which, eight and thirty years afterwards, coleridge on his death-bed wrote down the sum of his love for charles and mary lamb. this lime-tree bower my prison. well, they are gone, and here must i remain, this lime-tree bower my prison! i have lost beauties and feelings such as would have been most sweet to my remembrance even when age had dimmed mine eyes to blindness! they, meanwhile, friends whom i never more may meet again on springy heath, along the hill-top edge wander in gladness and wind down, perchance, to that still roaring dell of which i told; the roaring dell, o'erwooded, narrow, deep, and only speckled by the mid-day sun; where its slim trunk the ash, from rock to rock flings arching like a bridge;--that branchless ash, unsunned and damp, whose few poor yellow leaves ne'er tremble in the gale, yet tremble still, fanned by the water-fall! and there my friends behold the dark green file of long, lank weeds, that all at once (a most fantastic sight!) still nod and drip beneath the dripping edge of the blue clay-stone. now, my friends emerge beneath the wide wide heaven--and view again the many-steepled tract magnificent of hilly fields and meadows, and the sea, with some fair bark, perhaps, whose sails light up the slip of smooth clear blue betwixt two isles of purple shadow! yes! they wander on in gladness all; but thou, methinks, most glad, my gentle-hearted charles! for thou hast pined and hungered after nature, many a year, in the great city pent, winning thy way with sad yet patient soul, through evil and pain and strange calamity! ah! slowly sink behind the western ridge, thou glorious sun! shine in the slant beams of the sinking orb, ye purple heath-flowers! richlier burn ye clouds! live in the yellow light, ye distant groves! and kindle, thou blue ocean! so my friend, struck with deep joy may stand, as i have stood, silent with swimming sense; yea, gazing round on the wide landscape, gaze till all doth seem less gross than bodily; and of such hues as veil the almighty spirit, when yet he makes spirits perceive his presence.... * * * * * on lamb's return, he wrote in the same modest vein as before-- "i am scarcely yet so reconciled to the loss of you or so subsided into my wonted uniformity of feeling as to sit calmly down to think of you and write.... is the patriot [thelwall] come? are wordsworth and his sister gone yet? i was looking out for john thelwall all the way from bridgewater and had i met him i think it would have moved me almost to tears. you will oblige me, too, by sending me my great-coat which i left behind in the oblivious state the mind is thrown into at parting. is it not ridiculous that i sometimes envy that great-coat lingering so cunningly behind! at present i have none; so send it me by a stowey waggon if there be such a thing, directing it for c. l., no. , chapel street, pentonville, near london. but above all, _that inscription_ [of wordsworth's]. it will recall to me the tones of all your voices, and with them many a remembered kindness to one who could and can repay you all only by the silence of a grateful heart. i could not talk much while i was with you but my silence was not sullenness nor i hope from any bad motive; but in truth, disuse has made me awkward at it. i know i behaved myself, particularly at tom poole's and at cruikshank's most like a sulky child; but company and converse are strange to me. it was kind in you all to endure me as you did. "are you and your dear sara--to me also very dear because very kind--agreed yet about the management of little hartley? and how go on the little rogue's teeth?" the mention of his address in the foregoing letter, shows that lamb and his father had already quitted little queen street. it is probable that they did so, indeed, immediately after the great tragedy; to escape, not only from the painful associations of the spot but also from the cruel curiosity which its terrible notoriety must have drawn upon them. the season was coming round which could not but renew his and mary's grief and anguish in the recollection of that "day of horrors." "friday next, coleridge," he writes, "is the day (september nd) on which my mother died;" and in the letter is enclosed that beautiful and affecting poem beginning:-- alas! how am i changed? where be the tears, the sobs, and forced suspensions of the breath, and all the dull desertions of the heart, with which i hung o'er my dead mother's corse? where be the blest subsidings of the storm within? the sweet resignedness of hope drawn heavenward, and strength of filial love in which i bowed me to my father's will? * * * * * mary's was a silent grief. but those few casual pathetic words written years afterwards speak her life-long sorrow,--"my dear mother who, though you do not know it, is always in my poor head and heart." she continued quiet in her lodgings, free from relapse till toward the end of the year. on the th december charles wrote in bad spirits,--"my teasing lot makes me too confused for a clear judgment of things; too selfish for sympathy.... my sister is pretty well, thank god. we think of you very often. god bless you. continue to be my correspondent, and i will strive to fancy that this world is _not_ 'all barrenness.'" but by christmas day she was once more in the asylum. in sad solitude he gave utterance, again in verse form, to his overflowing grief and love:-- i am a widow'd thing now thou art gone! now thou art gone, my own familiar friend, companion, sister, helpmate, counsellor! alas! that honour'd mind whose sweet reproof and meekest wisdom in times past have smooth'd the unfilial harshness of my foolish speech, and made me loving to my parents old (why is this so, ah god! why is this so?) that honour'd mind become a fearful blank, her senses lock'd up, and herself kept out from human sight or converse, while so many of the foolish sort are left to roam at large, doing all acts of folly and sin and shame? thy paths are mystery! yet i will not think sweet friend, but we shall one day meet and live in quietness and die so, fearing god. or if _not_, and these false suggestions be a fit of the weak nature, loth to part with what it loved so long and held so dear; if thou art to be taken and i left (more sinning, yet unpunish'd save in thee,) it is the will of god, and we are clay in the potter's hand; and at the worst are made from absolute nothing, vessels of disgrace, till his most righteous purpose wrought in us, our purified spirits find their perfect rest. to add to these sorrows coleridge had, for some time, been growing negligent as a correspondent. so early as april lamb had written, after affectionate enquiries for hartley "the minute philosopher" and hartley's mother,--"coleridge, i am not trifling, nor are these matter-of-fact questions only. you are all very dear and precious to me. do what you will, coleridge, you may hurt and vex me by your silence but you cannot estrange my heart from you all. i cannot scatter friendships like chuck-farthings, nor let them drop from mine hand like hour-glass sand. i have but two or three people in the world to whom i am more than indifferent and i can't afford to whistle them off to the winds." and again, three months after his return from stowey, he wrote sorrowfully almost plaintively, remonstrating for lloyd's sake and his own:-- "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's 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'" (alluding to a passage in a poem of coleridge's, where he compares a false friend to the treacherous manchineel tree[ ] which mingles its own venom with the rain and poisons him who rests beneath its shade) "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 where i left my coat. meet emblem wilt thou be, old winter, of a friend's neglect--cold, cold, cold!" but this fresh stroke of adversity, sweeping away the fond hope charles had begun to cherish that "mary would never be so ill again," roused his friend's sometimes torpid but deep and enduring affection for him into action. "you have writ me many kind letters, and i have answered none of them," says lamb, on the th of january . "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 opening of a correspondence with you. these last afflictions, coleridge, have failed to soften and bend my will. they found me unprepared.... i have been very querulous, impatient under the rod--full of little jealousies and heart-burnings. 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 me _from_ the consideration of my poor dear mary's situation rather than assisting me to 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 (jem white, an old school-fellow, author of _falstaff's letters_), a man to whom i had never been accustomed to impart my _dearest feelings_ though, 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 properly and calmly when alone. all these things the good creature 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 humours from me. i am recovering, god be praised for it, a healthiness of mind, something like calmness; but i want more religion.... 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 madness. i think you would almost make her dance within an inch of the precipice: she must be with duller fancies and cooler intellects. i know a young man of this description, who has suited her these twenty years, and may live to do so still, if we are one day restored to each other." but the clouds gathered up again between the friends, generated partly by a kind of intellectual arrogance whereof coleridge afterwards accused himself (he was often but too self-depreciatory in after life) which, in spite of lamb's generous and unbounded admiration for his friend, did at last both irritate and hurt him; still more by the influence of lloyd who, himself slighted as he fancied, and full of a morbid sensitiveness "bordering on derangement," sometimes indeed overleaping that border, worked upon lamb's soreness of feeling till a brief estrangement ensued. lamb had not yet learned to be on his guard with lloyd. years afterwards he wrote of him to coleridge: "he is a sad tattler; but this is under the rose. twenty years ago he estranged one friend from me quite, whom i have been regretting, 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 coolness betwixt me and (not a friend but) an intimate acquaintance. i suspect, also, he saps manning's faith in me who am to manning more than an acquaintance." the breach was closed, indeed, almost as soon as opened. but coleridge went away to germany for fourteen months and the correspondence was meanwhile suspended. when it was resumed lamb was, in some respects, an altered man; he was passing from youth to maturity, enlarging the circle of his acquaintance and entering on more or less continuous literary work; whilst, on the other hand, the weaknesses which accompanied the splendid endowments of his friend were becoming but too plainly apparent; and though they never for a moment lessened lamb's affection, nay, with his fine humanity seemed to give rather an added tenderness to it, there was inevitably a less deferential, a more humorous and playful tone on his side in their intercourse. "bless you, old sophist who, next to human nature, taught me all the corruption i was capable of knowing," says he to the poet-philosopher by-and-by. and the weak side of his friend's style, too, received an occasional sly thrust; as for instance when on forwarding him some books he writes in "i detained _statius_ wilfully, out of a reverent regard to your style. _statius_ they tell me is turgid." footnote : _hippomane mancinella_, one of the _euphorbiaceæ_, a native of south america. chapter iv. death of the father.--mary comes home to live.--a removal.--first verses.--a literary tea-party.--another move.--friends increase. - .--Æt. - . the feeble flame of life in lamb's father flickered on for two years and a half after his wife's death. he was laid to rest at last beside her and his sister hetty in the churchyard of st. andrew's, holborn (now swept away in the building of the holborn viaduct), on the th of april , and mary came home once more. there is no mention of either fact in lamb's letters; for coleridge was away in germany; and with southey, who was almost the sole correspondent of this year, the tie was purely intellectual and never even in that kind a close one. a significant allusion to mary there is, however, in a letter to him dated may : "mary was never in better health or spirits than now." but neither the happiness of sharing charles's home again nor anything else could save her from the constant recurrence of her malady; nor, in these early days, from the painful notoriety of what had befallen her; and they were soon regarded as unwelcome inmates in the chapel street lodgings. early in be tells coleridge: "soon after i wrote to you last an offer was made me by gutch (you must remember him at christ's) to come and lodge with him at his house in southampton buildings, chancery lane. this was a very comfortable offer to me, the rooms being at a reasonable 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 knew all our story and the perpetual liability to a recurrence in my sister's disorder, 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 £ a year. here i soon found myself at home, and here, in six weeks after, mary was well enough to join me. so we 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 oxford, on a visit, which 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 particularly 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 pleasure i take without _her_. she never goes anywhere." and to manning: "it is a great object to me to live in town." [pentonville then too much of a gossiping country suburb!] "we can be nowhere private except in the midst of london." by the summer mary was not only quite well but making a first essay in verse--the theme, a playful mockery of her brother's boyish love for a pictured beauty at blakesware described in his essay,--"that beauty with the cool blue pastoral drapery and a lamb, that hung next the great bay window, with the bright yellow h----shire hair, and eye of watchet hue--so like my alice! i am persuaded she was a true elia--mildred elia, i take it. from her and from my passion for her--for i first learned love from a picture--bridget took the hint of those pretty whimsical lines which thou mayest see if haply thou hast never seen them, reader, in the margin. but my mildred grew not old like the imaginary helen." with brotherly pride he sends them to coleridge: "how do you like this little epigram? it is not my writing, nor had i any finger in it. if you concur with me in thinking it very elegant and very original, i shall be tempted to name the author to you. i will just hint that it is almost or quite a first attempt:-- helen. high-born helen, round your dwelling these twenty years i've paced in vain; haughty beauty, thy lover's duty hath been to glory in his pain. high-born helen, proudly telling stories of thy cold disdain; i starve, i die, now you comply, and i no longer can complain. these twenty years i've lived on tears, dwelling forever on a frown; on sighs i've fed, your scorn my bread; i perish now you kind are grown. can i who loved my beloved, but for the scorn "was in her eye"; can i be moved for my beloved, when she "returns me sigh for sigh"? in stately pride, by my bed-side high-born helen's portrait's hung; deaf to my praise, my mournful lays are nightly to the portrait sung. to that i weep, nor ever sleep, complaining all night long to her. _helen grown old, no longer cold. said_, "you to all men i prefer." lamb inserted this and another by mary, a serious and tender little poem, the _dialogue between a mother and child_ beginning o lady, lay your costly robes aside, no longer may you glory in your pride, in the first collected edition of his works. mary now began also to go out with her brother, and the last record of this year in the coleridge correspondence discloses them at a literary tea-party, not in the character of lions but only as friends of a lion--coleridge--who had already become, in his frequent visits to town, the prey of some third-rate admiring literary ladies, notably of a certain miss wesley (niece of john wesley) and of her friend miss benger, authoress of a _life of tobin_, &c. "you blame us for giving your direction to miss wesley," says the letter; "the woman has been ten times after us about it and we gave it her at last, under the idea that no further harm would ensue, but that she would _once_ write to you, and you would bite your lips and forget to answer it, and so it would end. you read us a dismal homily upon 'realities.' we know quite as well as you do what are shadows and what are realities. you, for instance, when you are over your fourth or fifth jorum, chirping about old school occurrences, are the best of realities. shadows are cold, thin things that have no warmth or grasp in them. miss wesley and her friend and a tribe of authoresses that come after you here daily and, in defect of you, hive and cluster upon us, are the shadows. you encouraged that mopsey miss wesley to dance after you in the hope of having her nonsense put into a nonsensical anthology. we have pretty well shaken her off by that simple expedient of referring her to you, but there are more burs in the wind. i came home t'other day from business, hungry as a hunter, to dinner, with nothing, i am sure, of the author but _hunger_ about me; and whom found i closeted with mary but a friend of this miss wesley, one miss benjay or benje ... i just came in time enough, i believe, luckily to prevent them from exchanging vows of eternal friendship. it seems she is one of your authoresses that you first foster and then upbraid us with. but i forgive you. 'the rogue has given me potions to make me love him.' well, go she would not nor step a step over our threshold till we had promised to come to drink tea with her next night. i had never seen her before and could not tell who the devil it was that was so familiar. we went, however, not to be impolite. her lodgings are up two pair of stairs in east street. tea and coffee and macaroons--a kind of cake--much love. we sat down. presently miss benjay broke the silence by declaring herself quite of a different opinion from _d'israeli_, who supposes the differences of human intellect to be the mere effect of organization. she begged to know my opinion. i attempted to carry it off with a pun upon organ, but that went off very flat. she immediately conceived a very low opinion of my metaphysics; and turning round to mary, put some question to her in french, possibly having heard that neither mary nor i understood french. the explanation that took place occasioned some embarrassment and much wondering. she then fell into an insulting conversation about the comparative genius and merits of all modern languages and concluded with asserting that the saxon was esteemed the purest dialect in germany. from thence she passed into the subject of poetry where i, who had hitherto sat mute and a hearer only, humbly hoped i might now put in a word to some advantage, seeing that it was my own trade in a manner. but i was stopped by a round assertion that no good poetry had appeared since dr. johnson's time. it seems the doctor has suppressed many hopeful geniuses that way, by the severity of his critical strictures in his _lives of the poets_. i here ventured to question the fact and was beginning to appeal to _names_ but i was assured 'it was certainly the case.' then we discussed miss more's [hannah] book on education, which i had never read. it seems dr. gregory, another of miss benjay's friends, had found fault with one of miss more's metaphors. miss more has been at some pains to vindicate herself, in the opinion of miss benjay not without success. it seems the doctor is invariably against the use of broken or mixed metaphor which he reprobates, against the authority of shakspeare himself. we next discussed the question whether pope was a poet? i find dr. gregory is of opinion he was not, though miss seward does not at all concur with him in this. we then sat upon the comparative merits of the ten translations of pizarro and miss benjay or benje advised mary to take two of them home (she thought it might afford her some pleasure to compare them _verbatim_), which we declined. it being now nine o'clock, wine and macaroons were again served round, and we parted with a promise to go again next week and meet the miss porters who, it seems, have heard much of mr. coleridge and wish to see _us_ because we are _his_ friends. i have been preparing for the occasion. i crowd cotton in my ears. i read all the reviews and magazines of the past month against the dreadful meeting, and i hope by these means to cut a tolerable second-rate figure. "... take no thought about your proof-sheets; they shall be done as if woodfall himself did them. pray send us word of mrs. coleridge and little david hartley, your little reality. farewell, dear substance. take no umbrage at anything i have written. "i am, and will be, "yours ever in sober sadness, "land of shadows, c. lamb. _umbra._ "shadow month th or th, . "write your german as plain as sunshine, for that must correct itself. you know i am _homo unius linguæ_: in english--illiterate, a dunce, a ninny." * * * * * mr. gutch seems to have soon repented him of his friendly deed:-- "i am going to change my lodgings, having received a hint that it would be agreeable at our lady's next feast," writes lamb to manning. "i have partly fixed upon most delectable rooms which look out (when you stand a-tip-toe) over the thames and surrey hills.... my bed faces the river so as by perking up on my haunches and supporting my carcase with my elbows, without much wrying my neck i can see the white sails glide by the bottom of the king's bench walk as i lie in my bed ... casement windows with small panes to look more like a cottage.... there i shall have all the privacy of a house without the encumbrance and shall be able to lock my friends out as often as i desire to hold free converse with my immortal mind, for my present lodgings resemble a minister's levée, i have so increased my acquaintance (as they call 'em) since i have resided in town. like the country mouse that had tasted a little of urbane manners, i long to be nibbling my own cheese by my dear self, without mouse-traps and time-traps." these rooms were at no. , mitre court buildings, and here lamb and his sister lived for nine years. but far from "nibbling his own cheese" by himself, there for nine years he and mary gathered round their hearth and homely, hospitable supper-table with its bread and cheese in these early days and by-and-by its round of beef or "winter hand of pork," an ever lengthening succession of friends, cronies and acquaintance. there came manning with his "fine, sceptical, dogmatical face"; and george dyer, with his head full of innutritious learning and his heart of the milk of kindness. and godwin the man of strange contrasts, a bold thinker yet ignorant as a child of human nature and weakly vain; with such a "noisy fame," for a time, as if he were "briareus centimanus or a tityus tall enough to pull jupiter from his heavens," and then soon forgotten, or remembered only to be denounced; for a year the loving husband of one of the sweetest and noblest of women and after her death led captive by the coarse flatteries and vulgar pretensions of one of the commonest. "is it possible that i behold the immortal godwin?" said, from a neighbouring balcony, she who in a few months became his second wife and in a few more had alienated some of his oldest friends and earned the cordial dislike of all, even of lamb. "i will be buried with this inscription over me, 'here lies c. l., the woman-hater,' i mean that hated one woman; for the rest, god bless 'em," was his whimsical way of venting his feelings towards her; and shelley experienced the like though he expressed them less pungently. then there was holcroft who had fought his way up from grimmest poverty, misery and ignorance to the position of an accomplished literary man; and fine old captain burney who had been taught his accidence by eugene aram and had sailed round the world with captain cook. and his son, 'noisy martin' with the 'spotless soul,' for forty years boy and man, mary's favourite; and phillips of the marines who was with captain cook at his death and shot the savage that killed him; and rickman "the finest fellow to drop in a' nights," southey's great friend, though he 'never read his poetry,' as lamb tells; staunch crabb robinson; fanny kelly, with her "divine plain face" who died but the other day at the age of ninety odd; and mr. dawe, r.a., a figure of nature's own purest comedy. all these and many more frequented the home of charles and mary lamb in these years and live in their letters. chapter v. personal appearance and manners.--health.--influence of mary's illnesses upon her brother. no description of mary lamb's person in youth is to be found; but hers was a kind of face which time treats gently, adding with one hand while he takes away with the other; compensating by deepened traces of thought and kindliness the loss of youthful freshness. like her brother, her features were well formed. "her face was pale and somewhat square, very placid, with grey, intelligent eyes" says proctor who first saw her when she was about fifty-three. "eyes brown, soft and penetrating" says another friend, mrs. cowden clarke, confirming the observation that it is difficult to judge of the colour of expressive eyes. she, too, lays stress upon the strong resemblance to charles and especially on a smile like his, "winning in the extreme." de quincey speaks of her as "that madonna-like lady." the only original portrait of her in existence, i believe, is that by the late mr. cary (son of lamb's old friend), now in the possession of mr. edward hughes, and engraved in the _memoir_ of lamb by barry cornwall; also in _scribner's magazine_ for march where it is accompanied by a letter from mr. cary which states that it was painted in when mary was seventy. she stands a little behind her brother, resting one hand on him and one on the back of his chair. there is a characteristic sweetness in her attitude and the countenance is full of goodness and intelligence; whilst the finer modelling of charles' features and the intellectual beauty of his head are rendered with considerable success,--crabb robinson's strictures notwithstanding who, it appears, saw not the original, but a poor copy of the figure of charles. it was from cary's picture that mr. armitage, r.a. executed the portraits of the lambs in the large fresco on the walls of university college hall. among its many groups (of which crabb robinson, who commissioned the fresco, is the central figure), that containing the lambs includes also wordsworth, coleridge, blake, and southey, by an unfortunate clause in the deed of gift the fresco, which is painted in monochrome, is forbidden to be cleaned, even with bread-crumb; it is therefore already very dingy. in stature, mary was under the middle size and her bodily frame was strong. she could walk fifteen miles with ease; her brother speaks of their having walked thirty miles together and, even at sixty years of age, she was capable of twelve miles "most days." regardless of weather, too, as leigh hunt pleasantly tells in his _familiar epistle in verse_ to lamb:-- you'll guess why i can't see the snow-covered streets, without thinking of you and your visiting feats, when you call to remembrance how you and one more, when i wanted it most, used to knock at my door; for when the sad winds told us rain would come down, or when snow upon snow fairly clogg'd up the town, and dun-yellow fogs brooded over its white, so that scarcely a being was seen towards night, then--then said the lady yclept near and dear: now, mind what i tell you--the lambs will be here. so i poked up the flame, and she got out the tea, and down we both sat as prepared as could be; and then, sure as fate came the knock of you two, then the lanthorn, the laugh, and the "well, how d'ye do?" mary's manners were easy, quiet, unpretending; to her brother gentle and tender always, says mrs. cowden-clarke. she had often an upward look of peculiar meaning when directed towards him, as though to give him an assurance that all was well with her; and away of repeating his words assentingly when he spoke to her. "he once said, with his peculiar mode of tenderness beneath blunt, abrupt speech, 'you must die first, mary.' she nodded with her little quiet nod and sweet smile, 'yes, i must die first, charles,'" when they were in company together her eyes followed him everywhere; and even when he was talking at the other end of the room, she would supply some word he wanted. 'her voice was soft and persuasive, with at times a certain catch, a kind of emotional stress in breathing, which gave a charm to her reading of poetry and a captivating earnestness to her mode of speech when addressing those she liked. it was a slight check that had an eager yearning effect in her voice, creating a softened resemblance to her brother's stammer'--that "pleasant little stammer," as barry cornwall called it, "just enough to prevent his making speeches; just enough to make you listen eagerly for his words." like him, too, she took snuff. "she had a small, white, delicately-formed hand; and as it hovered above the tortoise-shell snuff-box, the act seemed yet another link of association between the brother and sister as they sat together over their favourite books." mary's dress was always plain and neat; not changing much with changing fashions; yet, with no unfeminine affectation of complete indifference. "i do dearly love worked muslin," says she, in one of her letters and the "manning silks" were worn with no little satisfaction. as she advanced in years she usually wore black stuff or silk; or, on great occasions, a "dove-coloured silk, with a kerchief of snow-white muslin folded across her bosom," with a cap of the kind in fashion in her youth, a deep-frilled border, and a bow on the top. mary's severe nurture, though undoubtedly it bore with too heavy a strain on her physical and mental constitution, fitted her morally and practically for the task which she and her brother fulfilled to admiration--that of making an income which, for two-thirds of their joint lives, could not have exceeded two or three hundreds a year, suffice for the heavy expense of her yearly illnesses, for an open-handed hospitality and for the wherewithal to help a friend in need, not to speak of their extensive acquaintance among "the great race of borrowers." he was, says de quincey, "_princely_--nothing short of that in his beneficence.... never anyone have i known in this world upon whom for bounty, for indulgence and forgiveness, for charitable construction of doubtful or mixed actions, and for regal munificence, you might have thrown yourself with so absolute a reliance as upon this comparatively poor charles lamb." there was a certain old-world fashion in mary's speech corresponding to her appearance, which was quaint and pleasant; "yet she was oftener a listener than a speaker, and beneath her sparing talk and retiring manner few would have suspected the ample information and large intelligence that lay concealed." but for her portrait sweetly touched in with subtle tender strokes, such as he who knew and loved her best could alone give, we must turn to elia's _mackery end:_--"... i have obligations to bridget extending beyond the period of memory. we house together, old bachelor and maid, in a sort of double singleness, with such tolerable comfort, upon the whole, that i, for one, find in myself no sort of disposition to go out upon the mountains, with the rash king's offspring, to bewail my celibacy. we agree pretty well in our tastes and habits, yet so as 'with a difference.' we are generally in harmony, with occasional bickerings, as it should be among near relations. our sympathies are rather understood than expressed; and once, upon my dissembling a tone in my voice more kind than ordinary, my cousin burst into tears, and complained that i was altered. we are both great readers, in different directions. while i am hanging over, for the thousandth time, some passage in old burton, or one of his strange contemporaries, she is abstracted in some modern tale or adventure, whereof our common reading table is daily fed with assiduously fresh supplies. narrative teases me. i have little concern in the progress of events. she must have a story--well, ill, or indifferently told--so there be life stirring in it and plenty of good or evil accidents. the fluctuations of fortune in fiction--and almost in real life--have ceased to interest, or operate but dully upon me. out-of-the-way humours and opinions--heads with some diverting twist in them--the oddities of authorship, please me most. my cousin has a native disrelish of anything that sounds odd or bizarre. nothing goes down with her that is quaint, irregular, or out of the road of common sympathy. she holds nature more clever.... we are both of us inclined to be a little too positive; and i have observed the result of our disputes to be almost uniformly this: that in matters of fact, dates, and circumstances, it turns out that i was in the right and my cousin in the wrong. but where we have differed upon moral points, upon something proper to be done or let alone, whatever heat of opposition or steadiness of conviction i set out with, i am sure always, in the long run, to be brought over to her way of thinking. i must touch upon the foibles of my kinswoman with a gentle hand, for bridget does not like to be told of her faults. she hath an awkward trick (to say no worse of it) of reading in company; at which times she will answer _yes_ or _no_ to a question without fully understanding its purport, which is provoking and derogatory in the highest degree to the dignity of the putter of the said question. her presence of mind is equal to the most pressing trials of life, but will sometimes desert her upon trifling occasions. when the purpose requires it, and is a thing of moment, she can speak to it greatly; but in matters which are not stuff of the conscience she hath been known sometimes to let slip a word less seasonably.... "in seasons of distress she is the truest comforter, but in the teasing accidents and minor perplexities which do not call out the _will_ to meet them, she sometimes maketh matters worse by an excess of participation. if she does not always divide your trouble, upon the pleasanter occasions of life she is sure always to treble your satisfaction. she is excellent to be at a play with, or upon a visit; but best when she goes a journey with you." "little could anyone observing miss lamb in the habitual serenity of her demeanour," writes talfourd, "guess the calamity in which she had partaken, or the malady which frightfully chequered 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 such 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 was 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 reconcilement 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 purification, 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 with her own youth made such a reference, in ordinary respects, natural; but spoke of her as though no fearful remembrance was associated with the image; so that some of her most intimate friends who knew of the disaster believed that she had never become aware of her own share in its horrors. it is still more singular that in the wanderings of her insanity, amidst all the vast throngs of imagery she presented of her early days, this picture never recurred or, if ever it did, not associated with shapes of terror." perhaps this was not so surprising as at first sight it appears; for the deed was done in a state of frenzy, in which the brain could no more have received a definite impression of the scene than waves lashed by storm can reflect an image. her knowledge of the facts was never coloured by consciousness but came to her from without "as a tale that is told." the statement, also, that mary could always speak calmly of her mother, seems to require some qualification. emma isola, lamb's adopted daughter, afterwards mrs. moxon, once asked her, ignorant of the facts, why she never spoke of her mother and was answered only with a cry of distress; probably the question coming abruptly and from a child confronted her in a new, sudden and peculiarly painful way with the tragedy of her youth. "miss lamb would have been remarkable for the sweetness of her disposition, the clearness of her understanding, and the gentle wisdom of all her acts and words," continues talfourd, "even if these qualities had not been presented in marvellous contrast with the distractions under which she suffered 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 approach, and she was making preparations for seclusion." this, too, must be taken with some qualification. in a letter from coleridge to matilda betham, he mentions that mary had been to call on the godwins "and that her manner of conversation had greatly alarmed them (dear excellent creature! such is the restraining power of her love for charles lamb over her mind, that he is always the last person in whose presence any alienation of her understanding betrays itself); that she talked far more, and with more agitation concerning me than about g. burnet [the too abrupt mention of whose death had upset her; he was an old friend and one of the original pantisocratic group] and told mrs. godwin that she herself had written to william wordsworth exhorting him to come to town immediately, for that my mind was seriously unhinged." to resume. "her character," wrote talfourd, "in all its essential sweetness, was like her brother's; while, by a temper more placid, a spirit of enjoyment more serene, she was enabled to guide, to counsel, to cheer him and to protect him on the verge of the mysterious calamity from the depths of which she rose so often unruffled to his side. to a friend in any difficulty she was the most comfortable of advisers, the wisest of consolers. hazlitt used to say that he never met with 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 exception, to the 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 woman's province, an intellect of rare excellence which flashed out when the restraints of gentle habit and humble manner 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 sensible quiet gentlewoman appreciating and enjoying the talents of her friends, it was otherwise in her madness. lamb in his letter to miss fryer announcing his determination to be entirely with her, speaks of her pouring out memories of all the events and persons of her younger days; but he does not mention what i am able from repeated experiences to add, that her ramblings often sparkled 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 among them, in the best style of the old comedy. it was all broken and disjointed, so that the hearer could remember little of her discourse; but the fragments were like the jewelled speeches of congreve, only shaken from their settings. there was sometimes even a vein of crazy logic running through them, associating things essentially most dissimilar, 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 the mind had been shaken into fantastic combinations, like those of a kaleidoscope." the immediate cause of her attacks would generally seem to have been excitement or over-fatigue causing, in the first instance, loss of sleep, a feverish restlessness and ending in the complete overthrow of reason. "her relapses," says proctor, "were not dependent on the seasons; they came in hot summer and with the freezing winters. the only remedy seems to have been extreme quiet when any slight symptom of uneasiness was apparent. if any exciting talk occurred charles had to dismiss his friend with a whisper. if any stupor or extraordinary silence was observed then he had to rouse her instantly. he has been seen to take the kettle from the fire and place it for a moment on her headdress, in order to startle her into recollection." once the sudden announcement of the marriage of a young friend--whose welfare she had at heart--restored her, in a moment, after a protracted illness, "as if by an electrical stroke, to the entire possession of her senses." but if no precautions availed to remove the premonitory symptom, then would mary "as gently as possible prepare her brother for the duty he must perform; and thus, unless he could stave off the terrible separation till sunday, oblige him to ask leave of absence from the office, as if for a day's pleasure--a bitter mockery! on one occasion mr. charles lloyd met them slowly pacing together a little foot-path in hoxton fields, both weeping bitterly and found, on joining them, that they were taking their solemn way to the accustomed asylum." holiday trips were almost always followed by a seizure; and never did mary set out on one but with her own hands she packed a strait-waistcoat. the attacks were commonly followed by a period of extreme depression, a sense of being shattered, and by a painful loss of self-reliance. these were but temporary states, however. mary's habitual frame of mind was, as talfourd says, serene and capable of placid enjoyment. in her letters to sarah stoddart there are some affecting and probably unique disclosures of how one who is suffering from madness feels; and what, taught by her own experience, mary regarded as the most important points in the management of the insane. in reference to her friend's mother who was thus afflicted, she writes:-- "do not, i conjure you, let her unhappy malady afflict you too deeply. i speak _from experience_ and from the opportunity i have had of much observation in such cases that insane people, in the fancies they take into their heads, do not feel as one in a sane state of mind does under the real evil of poverty, the perception of having done wrong, or of any such thing that runs in their heads. "think as little as you can, and let your whole care be to be certain that she is treated with _tenderness_. i lay a stress upon this because it is a thing of which people in her state are uncommonly susceptible, and which hardly anyone is at all aware of; a hired nurse _never_, even though in all other respects they are good kind of people. i do not think your own presence necessary, unless she _takes to you very much_, except for the purpose of seeing with your own eyes that she is very kindly treated. "i do long to see you! god bless and comfort you." and again, a few weeks later:-- "after a very feverish night i writ a letter to you and i have been distressed about it ever since. that which gives me most concern is the way in which i talked about your mother's illness, and which i have since feared you might construe into my having a doubt of your showing her proper attention without my impertinent interference. god knows, nothing of this kind was ever in my thoughts, but i have entered very deeply into your affliction with regard to your mother; and while i was writing, the many poor souls in the kind of desponding way she is whom i have seen came fresh into my mind, and all the mismanagement with which i have seen them treated was strong in my mind, and i wrote under a forcible impulse which i could not at the time resist, but i have fretted so much about it since that i think it is the last time i will ever let my pen run away with me. "your kind heart will, i know, even if you have been a little displeased, forgive me when i assure you my spirits have been so much hurt by my last illness, that, at times, i hardly know what i do. i do not mean to alarm you about myself, or to plead an excuse; but i am very much otherwise than you have always known me. i do not think anyone perceives me altered, but i have lost all self-confidence in my own actions, and one cause of my low spirits is that i never feel satisfied with anything i do--a perception of not being in a sane state perpetually haunts me. i am ashamed to confess this weakness to you; which, as i am so sensible of, i ought to strive to conquer. but i tell you, that you may excuse any part of my letter that has given offence; for your not answering it, when you are such a punctual correspondent, has made me very uneasy. "write immediately, my dear sarah, but do not notice this letter, nor do not mention anything i said relative to your poor mother. your handwriting will convince me you are friends with me; and if charles, who must see my letter, was to know i had first written foolishly and then fretted about the event of my folly, he would both ways be angry with me. "i would desire you to direct to me at home, but your hand is so well known to charles that that would not do. therefore, take no notice of my megrims till we meet, which i most ardently long to do. an hour spent in your company would be a cordial to my drooping heart. "write, i beg, by the return of post; and as i am very anxious to hear whether you are, as i fear, dissatisfied with me, you shall, if you please, direct my letter to nurse. i do not mean to continue a secret correspondence, but you must oblige me with this one letter. in future i will always show my letters before they go, which will be a proper check upon my wayward pen." but it was upon her brother that the burthen lay heaviest. it was on his brain that the cruel image of the mother's death-scene was burnt in, and that the grief and loneliness consequent on mary's ever recurring attacks pressed sorest. "his anxiety for her health, even in his most convivial moments, was unceasing. if, in company, he perceived she looked languid, he would repeatedly ask her, 'mary, does your head ache?' don't you feel unwell? and would be satisfied by none of her gentle assurances that his fears were groundless. he was always fearful of her sensibilities being too deeply engaged and if, in her presence, any painful accident or history was discussed, he would turn the conversation with some desperate joke." miss betham related to talfourd that, once when she was speaking to miss lamb of her brother and in her earnestness mary had laid her hand kindly on the eulogist's shoulder, he came up hastily and interrupted them saying, 'come, come, we must not talk sentimentally' and took up the conversation in his gayest strain. the constant anxiety, the forebodings, the unremitting watchful scrutiny of his sister's state, produced a nervous tension and irritability that pervaded his whole life and manifested themselves in many different ways. "when she discovers symptoms of approaching illness," he once wrote to dorothy wordsworth, "it is not easy to say what is best to do. being by ourselves is bad, and going out is bad. i get so irritable and wretched with fear, that i constantly hasten on the disorder. you cannot conceive the misery of such a foresight. i am sure that for the week before she left me i was little better than light-headed. i now am calm, but sadly, taken down and flat." well might he say, "my waking life has much of the confusion, the trouble and obscure perplexity of an ill dream." for he, too, had to wrestle in his own person with the same foe, the same hereditary tendency; though, after one overthrow of reason in his youth, he wrestled successfully. but the frequent allusions in his letters, especially in later years, to attacks of nervous fever, sleeplessness, and depression "black as a smith's beard, vulcanic, stygian" show how near to the brink he was sometimes dragged. "you do not know how sore and weak a brain i have, or you would allow for many things which you set down to whim," he wrote to godwin. and again, when there had been some coolness between them: "... did the black hypochondria never gripe _thy_ heart till thou hast taken a friend for an enemy? the foul fiend, flibbertigibbet leads me over four-inched bridges to course my own shadow for a traitor...." "yet, nervous, tremulous as he seemed," writes talfourd, 'so slight of frame that he looked only fit for the most placid fortune, when the dismal emergencies which chequered his life arose, he acted with as much promptitude and vigour as if he were strung with herculean sinews.' 'such fortitude in his manners, and such a ravage of suffering in his countenance did he display,' said coleridge, 'as went to the hearts of his friends,' it was rather by the violence of the reaction that a keen observer might have estimated the extent of these sufferings; by that 'escape from the pressure of agony, into a fantastic,' sometimes almost a demoniac 'mirth which made lamb a problem to strangers while it endeared him thousandfold to those who really knew him.' the child of impulse ever to appear and yet through duty's path strictly to steer, o lamb, thou art a mystery to me! thou art so prudent, and so mad with wildness-- wrote charles lloyd. sweet and strong must have been the nature upon which the crush of so severe a destiny produced no soreness, no bitterness, no violence but only the rebound of a wild fantastic gaiety. in his writings not only is there an entire absence of the morbid, the querulous, i can find but one expression that breathes of what his sombre experiences were. it is in that most masterly of all his criticisms (unless it be the one on _lear_), the _genius and character of hogarth_, where, in the sublime description of the bedlam scene in the _rake's progress_, he tells of "the frightful, obstinate laugh of madness." in one apparent way only did the calamity which overshadowed his life, exert an influence on his genius. it turned him, as talfourd finely suggests, "to seek a kindred interest in the sterner stuff of old tragedy--to catastrophes more fearful even than his own--to the aspects of pale passion, to shapes of heroic daring and more heroic suffering, to the agonising contests of opposing affections and the victories of the soul over calamity and death which the old english drama discloses, and in the contemplation of which he saw his own suffering nature at once mirrored and exalted." in short, no man ever stood more nobly the test of life-long affliction: 'a deep distress had harmonised his soul.' only on one point did the stress of his difficult lot find him vulnerable, one flaw bring to light--a tendency to counteract his depression and take the edge off his poignant anxieties by a too free use of stimulants. the manners of his day, the custom of producing wine and strong drinks on every possible occasion, bore hard on such a craving and fostered a man's weakness. but lamb maintained to the end a good standing fight with the enemy and, if not wholly victorious, still less was he wholly defeated. so much on account of certain home anxieties to which mary's letters to sarah stoddart make undisguised allusion. chapter vi. visit to coleridge at greta hall.--wordsworth and his sister in london.--letters to miss stoddart.--coleridge goes to malta.--letter to dorothy wordsworth on the death of her brother john. - .--Æt. - . in the summer of , when holiday time came round charles was seized with 'a strong desire of visiting remote regions;' and after some whimsical deliberations his final resolve was to go with mary to see coleridge at the lakes. "i set out with mary to keswick," he tells manning, "without giving any notice to coleridge [who was now living at greta hall, soon to become southey's home for the rest of his life] for my time being precious did not admit of it. we got in in the evening, travelling in a post-chaise from penrith, in the midst of a gorgeous sunset which transmuted the mountains into all colours, purple, &c. we thought we had got into fairy-land; but that went off (and it never came again while we stayed we had no more fine sunsets) and we entered coleridge's comfortable study just in the dusk when the mountains were all dark with clouds upon their heads. such an impression i never received from objects of sight before nor do i suppose i ever can again. glorious creatures, fine old fellows, skiddaw, &c., i shall never forget ye, how ye lay about that night like an intrenchment; gone to bed, as it seemed, for the night but promising that ye were to be seen in the morning. coleridge had got a blazing fire in his study which is a large antique, ill-shaped room with an old-fashioned organ, never played upon, big enough for a church; shelves of scattered folios, an Æolian harp and an old sofa half-bed, &c. and all looking out upon the last fading view of skiddaw and his broad-breasted brethren. what a night!" the poet had now a second son, or rather a third (for the second had died in infancy), derwent, a fine bright, fair, broad-chested little fellow not quite two years old, with whom charles and mary were delighted. a merry sprite he was, in a yellow frock which obtained for him the nick-name of stumpy canary, who loved to race from kitchen to parlour and from parlour to kitchen just putting in his head at the door with roguish smile to catch notice, then off again, shaking his little sides with laughter. he fairly won their hearts and long after figures in their letters as pi-pos pot-pos, his own way of pronouncing striped opossum and spotted opossum, which he would point out triumphantly in his picture book. hartley, now six, was a prematurely grave and thoughtful child who had already, as a curious anecdote told by crabb robinson shows, begun to take surprising plunges into "the metaphysic well without a bottom"; for once when asked something about himself and called by name he said, "which hartley?" "why, is there more than one hartley?" "yes, there's a deal of hartleys; there's picture hartley [hazlitt had painted his portrait] and shadow hartley and there's echo hartley and there's catch-me-fast hartley," seizing his own arm with the other hand; thereby showing, said his father, that "he had begun to reflect on what kant calls the great and inexplicable mystery that man should be both his own subject and object and that these should yet be one!" three delightful weeks they stayed. "so we have seen," continues lamb to manning, "keswick, grasmere, ambleside, ulswater (where the clarksons live), and a place at the other end of ulswater; i forget the name [patterdale] to which we travelled on a very sultry day, over the middle of helvellyn. we have clambered up to the top of skiddaw and i have waded up the bed of lodore. mary was excessively tired when she got about half-way up skiddaw but we came to a cold rill (than which nothing can be imagined more cold, running over cold stones) and, with the reinforcement of a draught of cold water, she surmounted it most manfully. oh its fine black head! and the bleak air atop of it with the prospect of mountains all about and about making you giddy; and then scotland afar off and the border countries so famous in song and ballad! it was a day that will stand out like a mountain, i am sure, in my life." wordsworth was away at calais but the lambs stayed a day or so in his cottage with the clarksons (he of slavery abolition fame and she "one of the friendliest, comfortablest women we know who made the little stay one of the pleasantest times we ever passed"); saw lloyd again but remained distrustful of him on account of the seeds of bitterness he had once sown between the friends, and finally got home very pleasantly: mary a good deal fatigued, finding the difference between going to a place and coming from it, but not otherwise the worse. "lloyd has written me a fine letter of friendship," says lamb, soon after his return, "all about himself and sophia and love and cant which i have not answered. i have not given up the idea of writing to him but it will be done very plainly and sincerely, without acrimony." they found the wordsworths (the poet and his sister, that is, for he was not yet married though just about to be) lodging near their own quarters, saw much of them, pioneered them through bartlemy fair; and now, on mary's part, was formed that intimacy with dorothy which led to her being their constant visitor and sometimes their house-guest when she was in london. as great a contrast in most respects, to dorothy wordsworth as the whole range of womankind could have furnished was mary's other friend and correspondent, sarah stoddart, afterwards mrs. hazlitt. sarah was the only daughter of a retired lieutenant in the navy, a scotchman who had settled down on a little property at winterslow near salisbury which she ultimately inherited. she was a young lady with a business-like determination to marry and with many suitors; but, far from following the old injunction to be off with the old love before being on with the new, she always cautiously kept the old love dangling till she was quite sure the new was the more eligible. mary's letters to her have happily been preserved and published by miss stoddart's grandson, mr. w. carew hazlitt, in his _mary and charles lamb_. the first, dated september , , was written after miss stoddart had been staying with the lambs and when a decision had been arrived at that she should accompany her only brother, dr. stoddart, to malta where he had just been appointed king's advocate. mary's spelling and here and there even a little slip in the matter of grammar have been retained as seeming part of the individuality of the letters:-- "i returned from my visit yesterday and was very much pleased to find your letter; for i have been very anxious to hear how you are going on. i could hardly help expecting to see you when i came in; yet though i should have rejoiced to have seen your merry face again, i believe it was better as it was, upon the whole; and all things considered, it is certainly better you should go to malta. the terms you are upon with your lover [a mr. turner to whom she was engaged] does (as you say it will) appear wondrous strange to me; however, as i cannot enter into your feelings i certainly can have nothing to say to it, only that i sincerely wish you happy in your own way however odd that way may appear to me to be. i would begin now to advise you to drop all correspondence with william [not william hazlitt but an earlier admirer]; but, as i said before, as i cannot enter into your feelings and views of things, _your ways not being my ways_, why should i tell you what i would do in your situation? so, child, take thy own ways and god prosper thee in them! "one thing my advising spirit must say; use as little secresy as possible, make a friend of your sister-in-law; you know i was not struck with her at first sight but, upon your account, i have watched and marked her very attentively and while she was eating a bit of cold mutton in our kitchen we had a serious conversation. from the frankness of her manner i am convinced she is a person i could make a friend of; why should not you? we talked freely about you; she seems to have a just notion of your character and will be fond of you if you will let her." after instancing the misunderstandings between her own mother and aunt already quoted, mary continues:-- "my aunt and my mother were wholly unlike you and your sister yet, in some degree, theirs is the secret history, i believe, of all sisters-in-law and you will smile when i tell you i think myself the only woman in the world who could live with a brother's wife and make a real friend of her, partly from early observation of the unhappy example i have just given you and partly from a knack i know i have of looking into people's real characters and never expecting them to act out of it--never expecting another to do as i would in the same case. when you leave your mother and say if you never see her again you shall feel no remorse and when you make a _jewish_ bargain with your _lover_, all this gives me no offence because it is your nature and your temper and i do not expect or want you to be otherwise than you are. i love you for the good that is in you and look for no change. "_but_ certainly you ought to struggle with the evil that does most easily beset you--a total want of politeness in behaviour, i would say modesty of behaviour but that i should not convey to you my idea of the word modesty; for i certainly do not mean that you want _real modesty_ and what is usually called false or mock modesty i certainly do not wish you to possess; yet i trust you know what i mean well enough. _secresy_, though you appear all frankness, is certainly a grand failing of yours; it is likewise your _brother's_ and, therefore, a family failing. by secresy i mean you both want the habit of telling each other, at the moment, everything that happens, where you go and what you do--that free communication of letters and opinions just as they arrive as charles and i do--and which is, after all, the only ground-work of friendship. your brother, i will answer for it, will never tell his wife or his sister all that is in his mind; he will receive letters and not [mention it]. this is a fault mrs. stoddart can never [tell him of] but she can and will feel it though on the whole and in every other respect she is happy with him. begin, for god's sake, at the first and tell her everything that passes. at first she may hear you with indifference, but in time this will gain her affection and confidence; show her all your letters (no matter if she does not show hers). it is a pleasant thing for a friend to put into one's hand a letter just fresh from the post. i would even say, begin with showing her this but that it is freely written and loosely and some apology ought to be made for it which i know not how to make, for i must write freely or not at all. "if you do this she will tell your brother, you will say; and what then, quotha? it will beget a freer communication amongst you which is a thing devoutly to be wished. "god bless you and grant you may preserve your integrity and remain unmarried and penniless, and make william a good and a happy wife." no wonder mary's friendships were so stable and so various with this knack of hers of looking into another's real character and never expecting him or her to act out of it or to do as she would in the same case; taking no offence, looking for no change and asking for no other explanation than that it was her friend's nature. it is an epitome of social wisdom and of generous sentiment. coleridge had long been in bad health and worse spirits; and what he had first ignorantly used as a remedy was now become his tyrant--opium; for a time the curse of his life and the blight of his splendid powers. sometimes-- adown lethean streams his spirit drifted; sometimes he was stranded "in a howling wilderness of ghastly dreams" waking and sleeping, followed by deadly languors which opium caused and cured and caused again, driving him round in an accursed circle. he came up to london at the beginning of , was much with the lambs if not actually their guest, and finally decided to try change and join his friend dr. stoddart in malta where he landed april th. mary, full of earnest and affectionate solicitude, sent a letter by him to sarah stoddart who had already arrived, bespeaking a warm and indulgent welcome for her suffering friend:-- "i will just write a few hasty lines to say coleridge is setting off sooner than we expected and i every moment expect him to call in one of his great hurrys for this. we rejoiced with exceeding great joy to hear of your safe arrival. i hope your brother will return home in a few years a very rich man. seventy pounds in one fortnight is a pretty beginning. "i envy your brother the pleasure of seeing coleridge drop in unexpectedly upon him; we talk--but it is but wild and idle talk--of following him. he is to get my brother some snug little place of a thousand a year and we are to leave all and come and live among ye. what a pretty dream. "coleridge is very ill. i dread the thoughts of his long voyage. write as soon as he arrives whether _he_ does or not, and tell me how he is.... "he has got letters of recommendation to governor ball and god knows who; and he will talk and talk and be universally admired. but i wish to write for him a _letter of recommendation_ to mrs. stoddart and to yourself to take upon ye, on his first arrival, to be kind affectionate nurses; and mind, now, that you perform this duty faithfully and write me a good account of yourself. behave to him as you would to me or to charles if we came sick and unhappy to you. "i have no news to send you; coleridge will tell you how we are going on. charles has lost the newspaper [an engagement on the _morning post_, which coleridge had procured for him] but what we dreaded as an evil has proved a great blessing, for we have both strangely recovered our health and spirits since this has happened; and i hope, when i write next, i shall be able to tell you charles has begun something which will produce a little money for it is not well to be _very poor_ which we certainly are at this present writing. "i sit writing here and thinking almost you will see it to-morrow; and what a long, long time it will be ere you receive this. when i saw your letter i fancy'd you were even just then in the first bustle of a new reception, every moment seeing new faces and staring at new objects when, at that time, everything had become familiar to you; and the strangers, your new dancing partners, had perhaps become gossiping fireside friends. you tell me of your gay, splendid doings; tell me, likewise, what manner of home-life you lead. is a quiet evening in a maltese drawing-room as pleasant as those we have passed in mitre court and bell yard? tell me all about it, everything pleasant and everything unpleasant that befalls you. "i want you to say a great deal about yourself. _are you happy? and do you not repent going out?_ i wish i could see you for one hour only. "remember me affectionately to your sister and brother, and tell me when you write if mrs. stoddart likes malta and how the climate agrees with her and with thee. "we heard you were taken prisoners, and for several days believed the tale. "how did the pearls and the fine court finery bear the fatigues of the voyage and how often have they been worn and admired? "rickman wants to know if you are going to be married yet. satisfy him in that little particular when you write. "the fenwicks send their love and mrs. reynolds her love and the little old lady her best respects. "mrs. jeffries, who i see now and then, talks of you with tears in her eyes and when she heard you was taken prisoner, lord! how frightened she was. she has heard, she tells me, that mr. stoddart is to have a pension of two thousand a year whenever he chooses to return to england. "god bless you and send you all manner of comforts and happinesses." mrs. reynolds was another 'little old lady,' a familiar figure at the lambs' table. she had once been charles's schoolmistress; had made an unfortunate marriage and would have gone under in the social stream but for his kindly hand. out of their slender means he allowed her thirty pounds a year. she tickled hood's fancy when he too became a frequent guest there; and he has described her as formal, fair and flaxen-wigged like an elderly wax doll, speaking as if by an artificial apparatus, through some defect in the palate and with a slight limp and a twist occasioned by running too precipitately down greenwich hill in her youth! she remembered goldsmith who had once lent her his _deserted village_. in those days of universal warfare and privateering it was an anxious matter to have a friend tossing in the bay of biscay, gales and storms apart; so that tidings from sarah had been eagerly watched for:-- "your letter," writes mary, "which contained the news of coleridge's arrival was a most welcome one; for we had begun to entertain very unpleasant apprehensions for his safety; and your kind reception of the forlorn wanderer gave me the greatest pleasure and i thank you for it in my own and my brother's name. i shall depend upon you for hearing of his welfare for he does not write himself; but as long as we know he is safe and in such kind friends' hands we do not mind. your letters, my dear sarah, are to me very, very precious ones. they are the kindest, best, most natural ones i ever received. the one containing the news of the arrival of coleridge is, perhaps, the best i ever saw; and your old friend charles is of my opinion. we sent it off to mrs. coleridge and the wordsworths--as well because we thought it our duty to give them the first notice we had of our dear friend's safety as that we were proud of showing our sarah's pretty letter. "the letters we received a few days after from you and your brother were far less welcome ones. i rejoiced to hear your sister is well but i grieved for the loss of the dear baby and i am sorry to find your brother is not so successful as he expected to be; and yet i am almost tempted to wish his ill-fortune may send him over to us again. he has a friend, i understand, who is now at the head of the admiralty; why may he not return and make a fortune here? "i cannot condole with you very sincerely upon your little failure in the fortune-making way. if you regret it, so do i. but i hope to see you a comfortable english wife; and the forsaken, forgotten william, of english-partridge memory i have still a hankering after. however, i thank you for your frank communication and i beg you will continue it in future; and if i do not agree with a good grace to your having a maltese husband, i will wish you happy, provided you make it a part of your marriage articles that your husband shall allow you to come over sea and make me one visit; else may neglect and overlookedness be your portion while you stay there. "i would condole with you when the misfortune has befallen your poor leg; but such is the blessed distance we are at from each other that i hope, before you receive this, you have forgot it ever happened. "our compliments to the high ton at the maltese court. your brother is so profuse of them to me that, being, as you know, so unused to them, they perplex me sadly; in future i beg they may be discontinued. they always remind me of the free, and i believe very improper letter i wrote to you while you were at the isle of wight [that already given advising frankness]. the more kindly you and your brother and sister took the impertinent advice contained in it the more certain i feel that it was unnecessary and, therefore, highly improper. do not let your brother compliment me into the memory of it again. "my brother has had a letter from your mother which has distressed him sadly--about the postage of some letters being paid by my brother. your silly brother, it seems, has informed your mother (i did not think your brother could have been so silly) that charles had grumbled at paying the said postage. the fact was just at that time we were very poor having lost the _morning post_ and we were beginning to practise a strict economy. my brother, who never makes up his mind whether he will be a miser or a spendthrift, is at all times a strange mixture of both" [rigid in those small economies which enabled him to be not only just but generous on small means]. "of this failing the even economy of your correct brother's temper makes him an ill judge. the miserly part of charles, at that time smarting under his recent loss, then happened to reign triumphant; and he would not write or let me write so often as he wished because the postage cost two and fourpence. then came two or three of your poor mother's letters nearly together; and the two and fourpences he wished but grudged to pay for his own he was forced to pay for hers. in this dismal distress he applied to fenwick to get his friend motley to send them free from portsmouth. this mr. fenwick could have done for half a word's speaking; but this he did not do! then charles foolishly and unthinkingly complained to your brother in a half-serious, half-joking way; and your brother has wickedly and with malice aforethought told your mother. o fye upon him! what will your mother think of us? "i, too, feel my share of blame in this vexatious business; for i saw the unlucky paragraph in my brother's letter; and i had a kind of foreboding that it would come to your mother's ears--although i had a higher idea of your brother's good sense than i find he deserved. by entreaties and prayer i might have prevailed on my brother to say nothing about it. but i make a point of conscience never to interfere or cross my brother in the humour he happens to be in. it always appears to me to be a vexatious kind of tyranny that women have no business to exercise over men, which, merely because _they having a better judgment_, they have power to do. let _men_ alone and at last we find they come round to the right way which _we_, by a kind of intuition, perceive at once. but better, far better that we should let them often do wrong than that they should have the torment of a monitor always at their elbows. "charles is sadly fretted now, i know, at what to say to your mother. i have made this long preamble about it to induce you, if possible, to re-instate us in your mother's good graces. say to her it was a jest misunderstood; tell her charles lamb is not the shabby fellow she and her son took him for but that he is, now and then, a trifle whimsical or so. i do not ask your brother to do this for i am offended with him for the mischief he has made. "i feel that i have too lightly passed over the interesting account you sent me of your late disappointment. it was not because i did not feel and completely enter into the affair with you. you surprise and please me with the frank and generous way in which you deal with your lovers, taking a refusal from their so prudential hearts with a better grace and more good humour than other women accept a suitor's service. continue this open artless conduct and i trust you will at last find some man who has sense enough to know you are well worth risking a peaceable life of poverty for. i shall yet live to see you a poor but happy english wife. "remember me most affectionately to coleridge, and i thank you again and again for all your kindness to him. to dear mrs. stoddart and your brother i beg my best love; and to you all i wish health and happiness and a _soon_ return to old england. "i have sent to mr. burrel's for your kind present, but unfortunately he is not in town. i am impatient to see my fine silk handkerchiefs and i thank you for them not as a present, for i do not love presents, but as a remembrance of your old friend. farewell. "i am, my best sarah, "your most affectionate friend, "mary lamb." "good wishes and all proper remembrances from old nurse, mrs. jeffries, mrs. reynolds, mrs. rickman, &c. long live queen hoop-oop-oop-oo and all the old merry phantoms." sarah stoddart returned to england before the year was out. coleridge remained in malta, filling temporarily, at the request of sir alexander ball, governor of the island, the post of public secretary till the end of september, when his friends lost track of him altogether for nearly a year; during which he visited paris, wandered through italy, sicily, cairo, and saw vesuvius in december when "the air was so consolidated with a massy cloud-curtain that it appeared like a mountain in basso-relievo in an interminable wall of some pantheon"; and after narrowly escaping imprisonment at the hands of napoleon, suddenly reappeared amongst his friends in the autumn of . to the wordsworths, brother and sister and young wife, for the three were one in heart, this year of had been one of overwhelming sorrow. their brother john, the brave and able ship's captain who yet loved "all quiet things" as dearly as william "although he loved more silently," and was wont to carry that beloved brother's poems to sea and con them to the music of the winds and waves; whose cherished scheme, so near fulfilment, it was to realise enough to settle in a cottage at grasmere and devote his earnings to the poet's use so that he might pursue his way unharassed by a thought of money,--this brother was shipwrecked on the bill of portland just as he was starting, and whilst the ship was yet in the pilot's hands, on what was to have been, in how different a sense, his last voyage. six weeks beneath the moving sea he lay in slumber quietly; unforced by wind or wave to quit the ship for which he died (all claims of duty satisfied); and there they found him at her side, and bore him to the grave. after waiting awhile in silence before a grief of such magnitude mary wrote to dorothy wordsworth. she speaks as one acquainted with a life-long sorrow yet who has learned to find its companionship not bitter:-- "i thank you, my kind friend, for your most comfortable letter; till i saw your own handwriting i could not persuade myself that i should do well to write 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 memory of their affliction would in time become a constant part, not only of their dream, but of their most wakeful sense of happiness. that 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 experience in sorrow; but till you yourself began to feel this i didn't dare tell you so; but i send you some poor lines which i wrote under this conviction of mind and before i heard coleridge was returning home. i will transcribe them now, before i finish my letter, lest a false shame prevent me then for i know they are much worse 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 anything i have once laid aside with dissatisfaction:-- why is he wandering on the sea? coleridge should now with wordsworth be. 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. thus for a moment are we permitted to see that, next to love for her brother, the memory of her dead mother and friendship for coleridge were the deep and sacred influences of mary's life. chapter vii. mary in the asylum again.--lamb's letter with a poem of hers.--her slow recovery.--letters to sarah stoddart.--the _tales from shakespeare_ begun.--hazlitt's portrait of lamb.--sarah's lovers.--the farce of _mr. h._ - .--Æt. - . the letter to miss wordsworth called forth a response; but, alas! mary was in sad exile when it arrived and charles, with a heart full of grief, wrote for her:-- " th june . "your long kind letter has not been thrown away (for it has given me great pleasure to find you are all resuming your old occupations and are better); 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 _from 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.... i have every reason to suppose that this illness, like all the former ones, will be but temporary; but i cannot always feel so. meantime she is dead to me, and i miss a prop. all my strength is gone, and i am like a fool, bereft of her co-operation. i dare not think lest i should think wrong, so used am i to look up to her in the least as in the biggest perplexity. 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 imperfections 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 me; and i know i have been wasting and teasing her life for five years past incessantly with my cursed drinking and ways of going on. but even in this upbraiding of myself i am offending against her for i know that she has clung to me for better for worse; and if the balance has been against her hitherto it was a noble trade.... "i cannot resist transcribing three or four lines which poor mary made upon a picture (a 'holy family') which we saw at an auction only one week before she left home. she was then beginning to show signs of ill-boding. they are sweet lines, and upon a sweet picture; but i send them only as the last memorial of her:-- virgin and child, l. da vinci. maternal lady, with thy virgin grace, heaven-born thy jesus seemeth sure, and thou a virgin pure. lady most perfect, when thy angel face men look upon, they wish to be a catholic, madonna fair, to worship thee. "you had her lines about the 'lady blanch.' you have not had some which she wrote upon a copy of a girl from titian which i had hung up where that print of blanch and the abbess (as she beautifully interpreted two female figures from l. da vinci) had hung in our room. 'tis light and pretty:-- who art thou, fair one, who usurp'st the place of blanch, the lady of the matchless grace? come, fair and pretty tell to me who in thy life-time thou might'st be? thou pretty art and fair, but with the lady blanch thou never must compare. no need for blanch her history to tell, whoever saw her face, they there did read it well; but when i look on thee, i only know there lived a pretty maid some hundred years ago. "this is a little unfair, to tell so much about ourselves and to advert so little to your letter, so full of comfortable tidings of you all. but my own cares press pretty close upon me and you can make allowances. that you may go on gathering strength and peace is my next wish to mary's recovery. "i had almost forgot your repeated invitation. supposing that mary will be well and able there is another _ability_ which you may guess at which i cannot promise myself. in prudence we ought not to come. this illness will make it still more prudential to wait. it is not a balance of this way of spending our money against another way but an absolute question of whether we shall stop now or go on wasting away the little we have got beforehand which my wise conduct has already encroached upon one half." pity it is that the little poem on the 'lady blanch' should have perished, as i fear it has, if it contained as 'sweet lines' as the foregoing. little more than a month after this (july ), charles writes cheerfully to manning:-- "my old housekeeper has shown signs of convalescence and will shortly resume the power of the keys, so i shan't be cheated of my tea and liquors. wind in the west which promotes tranquillity. have leisure now to anticipate seeing thee again. have been taking leave [it was a very short leave] of tobacco in a rhyming address. had thought _that vein_ had long since closed up. find i can rhyme and reason too. think of studying mathematics to restrain the fire of my genius which george dyer recommends. have frequent bleedings at the nose which shows plethoric. maybe shall try the sea myself, that great scene of wonders. got incredibly sober and regular; shave oftener and hum a tune to signify cheerfulness and gallantry. "suddenly disposed to sleep, having taken a quart of pease with bacon and stout. will not refuse nature who has done such things for me! "nurse! don't call me unless mr. manning comes.--what! the gentleman in spectacles?--yes. _dormit_. c. l. "saturday, hot noon." but although mary was sufficiently recovered to return home at the end of the summer she continued much shaken by the severity of this attack and so also did her brother all through the autumn; as the following letters to sarah stoddart and still more one already quoted (pp. - ) show:-- "september . "certainly you are the best letter-writer (besides writing the best hand) in the world. i have just been reading over again your two long letters and i perceive they make me very envious. i have taken a bran new pen and put on my _spectacles_ and am peering with all my might to see the lines in the paper which the sight of your even lines had well-nigh tempted me to rule; and i have moreover taken two pinches of snuff extraordinary to clear my head which feels more cloudy than common this fine cheerful morning. "all i can gather from your clear and, i have no doubt, faithful history of maltese politics is that the good doctor, though a firm friend, an excellent fancier of brooches, a good husband, an upright advocate and, in short, all that they say upon tombstones (for i do not recollect that they celebrate any fraternal virtues there)--yet is he but a _moody_ brother; that your sister-in-law is pretty much like what all sisters-in-law have been since the first happy invention of the marriage state; that friend coleridge has undergone no alteration by crossing the atlantic [geography was evidently no part of captain starkey's curriculum] for his friendliness to you as well as the oddities you mention are just what one ought to look for from him; and that you, my dear sarah, have proved yourself just as unfit to flourish in a little proud garrison town as i did shrewdly suspect you were before you went there. "if i possibly can i will prevail upon charles to write to your brother by the conveyance you mention; but he is so unwell i almost fear the fortnight will slip away before i can get him in the right vein. indeed, it has been sad and heavy times with us lately. when i am pretty well his low spirits throw me back again; and when he begins to get a little cheerful then i do the same kind office for him. i heartily wish for the arrival of coleridge; a few such evenings as we have sometimes passed with him would wind us up and set us going again. "do not say anything when you write of our low spirits; it will vex charles. you would laugh or you would cry, perhaps both, to see us sit together looking at each other with long and rueful faces and saying 'how do you do?' and 'how do you do?' and then we fall a crying and say we will be better on the morrow. he says we are like tooth-ache and his friend gum-boil which, though a kind of ease, is but an uneasy kind of ease, a comfort of rather an uncomfortable sort. "i rejoice to hear of your mother's amendment; when you can leave her with any satisfaction to yourself--which, as her sister, i think i understand by your letter, is with her, i hope you may soon be able to do--let me know upon what plan you mean to come to town. your brother proposed your being six months in town and six with your mother; but he did not then know of your poor mother's illness. by his desire i enquired for a respectable family for you to board with and from captain burney i heard of one i thought would suit you at that time. he particularly desires i would not think of your being with us, not thinking, i conjecture, the house of a single man _respectable_ enough. your brother gave me most unlimited orders to domineer over you, to be the inspector of all your actions and to direct and govern you with a stern voice and a high hand; to be, in short, a very elder brother over you. does the hearing of this, my meek pupil, make you long to come to london? i am making all the proper enquiries, against the time, of the newest and most approved modes (being myself mainly ignorant in these points) of etiquette and nicely correct maidenly manners. "but to speak seriously. i mean, when we meet, that we will lay our heads together and consult and contrive the best way of making the best girl in the world the fine lady her brother wishes to see her and believe me, sarah, it is not so difficult a matter as one is apt to imagine. i have observed many a demure lady who passes muster admirably well who, i think, we could easily learn to imitate in a week or two. we will talk of these things when we meet. in the meantime i give you free leave to be happy and merry at salisbury in any way you can. has the partridge season opened any communication between you and william? as i allow you to be imprudent till i see you, i shall expect to hear you have invited him to taste his own birds. have you scratched him out of your will yet? rickman is married and that is all the news i have to send you. i seem, upon looking over my letter again, to have written too lightly of your distresses at malta; but, however i may have written, believe me i enter very feelingly into all your troubles. i love you and i love your brother; and between you, both of whom, i think, have been to blame, i know not what to say--only this i say,--try to think as little as possible of past miscarriages; it was perhaps so ordered by providence that you might return home to be a comfort to your mother." no long holiday trip was to be ventured on while mary continued thus shaken and depressed. "we have been two tiny excursions this summer, for three or four days each, to a place near harrow and to egham where cooper's hill is and that is the total history of our rustication this year", charles tells wordsworth. in october mary gives a slightly better account of herself:-- "i have made many attempts at writing to you, but it has always brought your troubles and my own so strongly into my mind, that i have been obliged to leave off and make charles write for me. i am resolved now, however few lines i write, this shall go; for i know, my kind friend, you will like once more to see my own handwriting. "i have been for these few days past in rather better spirits, so that i begin almost to feel myself once more a living creature and to hope for happier times; and in that hope i include the prospect of once more seeing my dear sarah in peace and comfort in our old garret. how did i wish for your presence to cheer my drooping heart when i returned home from banishment. "is your being with or near your poor dear mother necessary to her comfort? does she take any notice of you? and is there any prospect of her recovery? how i grieve for her, for you.... "i went to the admiralty, about your mother's pension; from thence i was directed to an office in lincoln's inn.... they informed me it could not be paid to any person but mr. wray without a letter of attorney.... do not let us neglect this business and make use of me in any way you can. "i have much to thank you and your kind brother for. i kept the dark silk, as you may suppose. you have made me very fine; the brooch is very beautiful. mrs. jeffries wept for gratitude when she saw your present; she desires all manner of thanks and good wishes. your maid's sister has gone to live a few miles from town. charles, however, found her out and gave her the handkerchief. "i want to know if you have seen william and if there is any prospect in future there. all you said in your letter from portsmouth that related to him was so burnt in the fumigating that we could only make out that it was unfavourable but not the particulars; tell us again how you go on or if you have seen him. i conceit affairs will somehow be made up between you at last. "i want to know how your brother goes on. is he likely to make a very good fortune and in how long a time? and how is he in the way of home comforts--i mean is he very happy with mrs. stoddart? this was a question i could not ask while you were there and perhaps is not a fair one now; but i want to know how you all went on and, in short, twenty little foolish questions that one ought, perhaps, rather to ask when we meet than to write about. but do make me a little acquainted with the inside of the good doctor's house and what passes therein. "was coleridge often with you? or did your brother and col. argue long arguments till between the two great argue-ers there grew a little coolness; or perchance the mighty friendship between coleridge and your sovereign governor, sir alexander ball, might create a kind of jealousy; for we fancy something of a coolness did exist from the little mention of c. ever made in your brother's letters. "write us, my good girl, a long gossiping letter answering all these foolish questions--and tell me any silly thing you can recollect--any, the least particular, will be interesting to us and we will never tell tales out of school; but we used to wonder and wonder how you all went on; and when you was coming home we said 'now we shall hear all from sarah.' "god bless you, my dear friend.... if you have sent charles any commissions he has not executed write me word--he says he has lost or mislaid a letter desiring him to inquire about a wig. write two letters--one of business and pensions and one all about sarah stoddart and malta. "we have got a picture of charles; do you think your brother would like to have it? if you do, can you put us in a way how to send it?" mary's interest in her friend and her friend's affairs is so hearty one cannot choose but share it and would gladly see what "the best letter-writer in the world" had to tell of coleridge and stoddart and the long arguments and little jealousies; and whether 'william' had continued to dangle on, spite of distance and discouragement; and even to learn that the old lady received her pension and her wig in safety. but curiosity must remain unsatisfied for none of miss stoddart's letters have been preserved. "the picture of charles" was, we may feel pretty sure, one which william hazlitt painted this year of lamb 'in the costume of a venetian senator.' it is, on all accounts, a peculiarly interesting portrait. lamb was just thirty; and it gives, on the whole, a striking impression of the nobility and beauty of form and feature which characterised his head and partly realises proctor's description--"a countenance so full of sensibility that it came upon you like a new thought which you could not help dwelling upon afterwards"; though the subtle lines which gave that wondrous sweetness of expression to the mouth are not fully rendered. compared with the drawing by hancock, done when lamb was twenty-three, engraved in cottle's _early recollections of coleridge_, each may be said to corroborate the truth of the other, allowing for difference of age and aspect,--hancock's being in profile, hazlitt's (of which there is a good lithograph in barry cornwall's _memoir_) nearly full face. the print from it prefixed to fitzgerald's _lamb_ is almost unrecognisable. it was the last time hazlitt took brush in hand, his grandson tells us; and it comes as a pleasant surprise--an indication that he was too modest in estimating his own gifts as a painter; and that the freshness of feeling and insight he displayed as an art critic were backed by some capacity for good workmanship. it was whilst this portrait was being painted that the acquaintance between lamb and hazlitt ripened into an intimacy which, with one or two brief interruptions, was to be fruitful, invigorating on both sides and life-long. hazlitt was at this time staying with his brother john, a successful miniature-painter and a member of the godwin circle much frequented by the lambs. "it is not well to be very poor which we certainly are at this present," mary had lately written. this it was which spurred her on to undertake her first literary venture, the _tales from shakespeare_. the nature of the malady from which she suffered made continuous mental exertion distressing and probably injurious; so that without this spur she would never, we may be sure, have dug and planted her little plot in the field of literature and made of it a sweet and pleasant place for the young where they may play and be nourished, regardless of time and change. the first hint of any such scheme occurs in a letter to sarah stoddart dated april , , written the very day she had left the lambs:-- "i have heard that coleridge was lately going through sicily to rome with a party; but that, being unwell, he returned back to naples. we think there is some mistake in this account and that his intended journey to rome was in his former jaunt to naples. if you know that at that time he had any such intention will you write instantly? for i do not know whether i ought to write to mrs. coleridge or not. "i am going to make a sort of promise to myself and to you that i will write you kind of journal-like letters of the daily what-we-do matters, as they occur. this day seems to me a kind of new era in our time. it is not a birthday, nor a new year's day, nor a leave-off smoking day; but it is about an hour after the time of leaving you, our poor phoenix, in the salisbury stage and charles has just left me to go to his lodgings [a room to work in free from the distraction of constant visitors just hired experimentally] and i am holding a solitary consultation with myself as to how i shall employ myself. "writing plays, novels, poems and all manner of such like vapouring and vapourish schemes are floating in my head which, at the same time, aches with the thought of parting from you and is perplext at the idea of i cannot tell what-about-notion that i have not made you half so comfortable as i ought to have done and a melancholy sense of the dull prospect you have before you on your return home. then i think i will make my new gown; and now i consider the white petticoat will be better candle-light work; and then i look at the fire and think if the irons was but down i would iron my gowns--you having put me out of conceit of mangling. "so much for an account of my own confused head; and now for yours. returning home from the inn we took that to pieces and canvassed you, as you know is our usual custom. we agreed we should miss you sadly, and that you had been what you yourself discovered, _not at all in our way_; and although, if the postmaster should happen to open this, it would appear to him to be no great compliment yet you, who enter so warmly into the interior of our affairs, will understand and value it as well as what we likewise asserted that since you have been with us you have done but one foolish thing, _vide_ pinckhorn (excuse my bad latin, if it should chance to mean exactly contrary to what i intend). we praised you for the very friendly way in which you regarded all our whimsies and, to use a phrase of coleridge, _understood us_. we had, in short, no drawback on our eulogy on your merit except lamenting the want of respect you have to yourself, the want of a certain dignity of action, you know what i mean, which--though it only broke out in the acceptance of the old justice's book and was, as it were, smothered and almost extinct while you were here--yet is it so native a feeling in your mind that you will do whatever the present moment prompts you to do, that i wish you would take that one slight offence seriously to heart and make it a part of your daily consideration to drive this unlucky propensity, root and branch, out of your character. then, mercy on us, what a perfect little gentlewoman you will be!!! "you are not yet arrived at the first stage of your journey; yet have i the sense of your absence so strong upon me that i was really thinking what news i had to send you, and what had happened since you had left us. truly nothing, except that martin burney met us in lincoln's inn fields and borrowed fourpence, of the repayment of which sum i will send you due notice. "_friday._--last night i told charles of your matrimonial overtures from mr. white and of the cause of that business being at a _standstill_. your generous conduct in acquainting mr. white with the vexatious affair at malta highly pleased him. he entirely approves of it. you would be quite comforted to hear what he said on the subject. "he wishes you success; and when coleridge comes will consult with him about what is best to be done. but i charge you be most strictly cautious how you proceed yourself. do not give mr. w. any reason to think you indiscreet; let him return of his own accord and keep the probability of his doing so full in your mind; so, i mean, as to regulate your whole conduct by that expectation. do not allow yourself to see, or in any way renew your acquaintance with william nor do any other silly thing of that kind; for you may depend upon it he will be a kind of spy upon you and, if he observes nothing that he disapproves of you will certainly hear of him again in time. "charles is gone to finish the farce [_mr. h._] and i am to hear it read this night. i am so uneasy between my hopes and fears of how i shall like it that i do not know what i am doing. i need not tell you so for before i send this i shall be able to tell you all about it. if i think it will amuse you i will send you a copy. _the bed was very cold last night._ "i have received your letter and am happy to hear that your mother has been so well in your absence, which i wish had been prolonged a little, for you have been wanted to copy out the farce, in the writing of which i made many an unlucky blunder. "the said farce i carried (after many consultations of who was the most proper person to perform so important an office) to wroughton, the manager of drury lane. he was very civil to me; said it did not depend upon himself, but that he would put it into the proprietor's hands, and that we should certainly have an answer from them. "i have been unable to finish this sheet before, for charles has taken a week's holliday from his lodging to rest himself after his labour, and we have talked of nothing but the farce night and day; but yesterday i carried it to wroughton, and since it has been out of the way our minds have been a little easier. i wish you had been with us to have given your opinion. i have half a mind to scribble another copy and send it you. i like it very much, and cannot help having great hopes of its success. "i would say i was very sorry for the death of mr. white's father, but not knowing the good old gentleman, i cannot help being as well satisfied that he is gone, for his son will feel rather lonely, and so, perhaps, he may chance to visit again winterslow. you so well describe your brother's grave lecturing letter, that you make me ashamed of part of mine. i would fain re-write it, leaving out my '_sage advice_'; but if i begin another letter something may fall out to prevent me from finishing it, and, therefore, skip over it as well as you can; it shall be the last i ever send you. "it is well enough when one is talking to a friend to hedge in an odd word by way of counsel now and then; but there is something mighty irksome in its staring upon one in a letter, where one ought only to see kind words and friendly remembrances. "i have heard a vague report from the dawes (the pleasant-looking young lady we called upon was miss dawe) that coleridge returned back to naples; they are to make further inquiries and let me know the particulars. we have seen little or nothing of manning since you went. your friend george burnett calls as usual for charles _to point out something for him_. i miss you sadly, and but for the fidget i have been in about the farce, i should have missed you still more. i am sorry you cannot get your money; continue to tell us all your perplexities, and do not mind being called widow blackacre. "say all in your mind about your _lover_; now charles knows of it, he will be as anxious to hear as me. all the time we can spare from talking of the characters and plot of the farce, we talk of you. i have got a fresh bottle of brandy to-day; if you were here you should have a glass, _three parts brandy_, so you should. i bought a pound of bacon to-day, not so good as yours. i wish the little caps were finished. i am glad the medicines and the cordials bore the fatigue of their journey so well. i promise you i will write often, and _not mind the postage_. god bless you. charles does _not_ send his love because he is not here. _write as often as ever you can._ do not work too hard." there is a little anecdote of sarah stoddart, told by her grandson, which helps to mitigate our astonishment at mary's too hospitable suggestion in regard to the brandy. lieutenant stoddart would sometimes, while sipping his grog, say to his children, "john, will you have some?" "no thank you, father." "sarah, will you?" "yes, please, father." "not," adds mr. hazlitt, "that she ever indulged to excess; but she was that sort of woman." very far, certainly, from "the perfect little gentlewoman" mary hoped one day to see her; but friendly, not without brains, with a kindly heart, and her worst qualities such, surely, as spread themselves freely on the surface, but strike no deep or poisonous roots. "do not mind being called widow blackacre," says mary, alluding to one of the characters in wycherley's _plain dealer_. it certainly was not gratifying to be likened to that "perverse, bustling, masculine, pettifogging, and litigious" lady, albeit macaulay speaks of her as wycherley's happiest creation. when hazlitt returned to wem, lamb sent him his first letter full of friendly gossip:-- "... we miss you, as we foretold we should. one or two things have happened which are beneath the dignity of epistolary communication, but which, seated about our fireside at night (the winter hands of pork have begun), gesture and emphasis might have talked into some importance. something about rickman's wife, for instance; how tall she is, and that she visits pranked up like a queen of the may with green streamers; a good-natured woman though, which is as much as you can expect from a friend's wife, whom you got acquainted with a bachelor. something, too, about monkey [louisa martin], which can't so well be written; how it set up for a fine lady, and thought it had got lovers and was obliged to be convinced of its age from the parish register, where it was proved to be only twelve, and an edict issued that it should not give itself airs yet this four years; and how it got leave to be called miss by grace. these, and such like hows were in my head to tell you, but who can write? also how manning is come to town in spectacles, and studies physic; is melancholy, and seems to have something in his head which he don't impart. then, how i am going to leave off smoking.... you disappoint me in passing over in absolute silence the blenheim leonardo. didn't you see it? excuse a lover's curiosity. i have seen no pictures of note since, except mr. dawe's gallery. it is curious to see how differently two great men treat the same subject, yet both excellent in their way. for instance, milton and mr. dawe. mr. d. has chosen to illustrate the story of samson exactly in the point of view in which milton has been most happy; the interview between the jewish hero, blind and captive, and dalilah. milton has imagined his locks grown again, strong as horsehair or porcupine's bristles; doubtless shaggy and black, as being hairs 'which of a nation armed contained the strength.' i don't remember he _says_ black; but could milton imagine them to be yellow? do you? mr. dawe, with striking originality of conception, has crowned him with a thin yellow wig; in colour precisely like dyson's, in curl and quantity resembling mrs. professor's (godwin's wife); his limbs rather stout, about such a man as my brother or rickman, but no atlas, nor hercules, nor yet so long as dubois, the clown of sadler's wells. this was judicious, taking the spirit of the story rather than the fact; for doubtless god could communicate national salvation to the trust of flax and tow as well as hemp and cordage, and could draw down a temple with a golden tress, as soon as with all the cables of the british navy.... "wasn't you sorry for lord nelson? i have followed him in fancy ever since i saw him in pall mall (i was prejudiced against him before), looking just as a hero should look, and i have been very much cut about it indeed. he was the only pretence of a great man we had. nobody is left of any name at all. his secretary died by his side. i imagined him a mr. scott, to be the man you met at hume's, but i learn from mrs. hume it is not the same.... what other news is there, mary? what puns have i made in the last fortnight? you never remember them. you have no relish for the comic. 'oh, tell hazlitt not to forget to send the _american farmer_. i daresay it's not as good as he fancies; but a book's a book.'..." mary was no exclusive lover of her brother's old folios, his "ragged veterans" and "midnight darlings," but a miscellaneous reader with a decided leaning to modern tales and adventures--to "a story, well, ill, or indifferently told, so there be life stirring in it," as elia has told. it may be worth noting here that the mr. scott mentioned above, who was not the secretary killed by nelson's side, was his chaplain and, though not killed, he received a wound in the skull of so curious a nature as to cause occasionally a sudden suspension of memory. in the midst of a sentence he would stop abruptly, losing, apparently, all mental consciousness; and after a lapse of time, would resume at the very word with which he had left off, wholly unaware of any breach of continuity; as one who knew him has often related to me. chapter viii. the _tales from shakespeare_.--letters to sarah stoddart. .--Æt. . once begun, the _tales from shakespeare_ were worked at with spirit and rapidity. by may th charles writes to manning:-- "[mary] says you saw her writings about the other day, and she wishes you should know what they are. she is doing for godwin's bookseller twenty of shakespeare's plays, to be made into children's tales. six are already done by her; to wit, _the tempest_, _a winter's tale_, _midsummer night's dream_, _much ado about nothing_, _the two gentlemen of verona_, and _cymbeline_. the _merchant of venice_ is in forwardness. i have done _othello_ and _macbeth_, and mean to do all the tragedies. i think it will be popular among the little people, besides money. it is to bring in sixty guineas. mary has done them capitally i think you'd think." "godwin's bookseller" was really godwin himself, who at his wife's urgent entreaty had just started a "magazine" of children's books in hanway street, hoping thus to add to his precarious earnings as an author. his own name was in such ill odour with the orthodox that he used his foreman's--thomas hodgkins--over the shop door and on the title pages, whilst the juvenile books which he himself wrote were published under the name of baldwin. when the business was removed to skinner street it was carried on in his wife's name. "my tales are to be published in separate storybooks," mary tells sarah stoddart. "i mean in single stories, like the children's little shilling books. i cannot send you them in manuscript, because they are all in the godwins' hands; but one will be published very soon, and then you shall have it _all in print_. i go on very well, and have no doubt but i shall always be able to hit upon some such kind of job to keep going on. i think i shall get fifty pounds a year at the lowest calculation; but as i have not yet seen any money of my own earning, for we do not expect to be paid till christmas, i do not feel the good fortune that has so unexpectedly befallen me half so much as i ought to do. but another year no doubt i shall perceive it.... charles has written _macbeth_, _othello_, _king lear_, and has begun _hamlet_; you would like to see us, as we often sit writing on one table (but not on one cushion sitting), like hermia and helena in the _midsummer night's dream_; or rather, like an old literary darby and joan, i taking snuff and he groaning all the while and saying he can make nothing of it, which he always says till he has finished, and then he finds out he has made something of it. "if i tell you that you widow blackacre-ise you must tell me i _tale_-ise, for my tales seem to be all the subject matter i write about; and when you see them you will think them poor little baby-stories to make such a talk about." and a month later she says:--"the reason i have not written so long is that i worked and worked in hopes to get through my task before the holidays began; but at last i was not able, for charles was forced to get them now, or he could not have had any at all; and having picked out the best stories first these latter ones take more time, being more perplext and unmanageable. i have finished one to-day, which teazed me more than all the rest put together. they sometimes plague me as bad as your _lovers_ do you. how do you go on, and how many new ones have you had lately?" "mary is just stuck fast in _all's well that ends well_," writes charles. "she complains of having to set forth so many female characters in boys' clothes. she begins to think shakespeare must have wanted imagination! i, to encourage her (for she often faints in the prosecution of her great work), flatter her with telling how well such and such a play is done. but she is stuck fast, and i have been obliged to promise to assist her." at last mary, in a postscript to her letter to sarah, adds: "i am in good spirits just at this present time, for charles has been reading over the _tale_ i told you plagued me so much, and he thinks it one of the very best. you must not mind the many wretchedly dull letters i have sent you; for, indeed, i cannot help it; my mind is always so wretchedly _dry_ after poring over my work all day. but it will soon be over. i am cooking a shoulder of lamb (hazlitt dines with us), it will be ready at o'clock if you can pop in and eat a bit with us." mary took a very modest estimate of her own achievement; but time has tested it, and passed it on to generation after generation of children, and the last makes it as welcome as the first. hardly a year passes but a new edition is absorbed; and not by children only, but by the young generally, for no better introduction to the study of shakspeare can be desired. of the twenty plays included in the two small volumes which were issued in january , fourteen, _the tempest_, _a midsummer night's dream_, _a winter's tale_, _much ado about nothing_, _as you like it_, _the two gentlemen of verona_, _the merchant of venice_, _cymbeline_, _all's well that ends well_, _the taming of the shrew_, _the comedy of errors_, _measure for measure_, _twelfth night_, and _pericles, prince of tyre_, were by mary; and the remaining six, the great tragedies, by charles. her share was the more difficult and the less grateful, not only on account of the more "perplext and unmanageable" plots of the comedies, but also of the sacrifices entailed in converting witty dialogue into brief narrative. but she "constantly evinces a rare shrewdness and tact in her incidental criticisms, which show her to have been, in her way, as keen an observer of human nature as her brother," says mr. ainger in his preface to the _golden treasury_ edition of the _tales_. "she" had "not lived so much among the wits and humorists of her day without learning some truths which helped her to interpret the two chief characters of _much ado about nothing_; for instance: 'the hint beatrice gave benedict that he was a coward, by saying she would eat all he had killed, he did not regard, knowing himself to be a brave man; but there is nothing that great wits so much dread as the imputation of buffoonery, because the charge comes sometimes a little too near the truth; therefore benedict perfectly hated beatrice when she called him the prince's jester.' very profound, too, is the casual remark upon the conduct of claudio and his friends when the character of hero is suddenly blasted--conduct which has often perplexed older readers for its heartlessness and insane credulity: 'the prince and claudio left the church without staying to see if hero would recover, or at all regarding the distress into which they had thrown leonato, so _hard-hearted had their anger made them_." if one must hunt for a flaw to show critical discernment, it is a pity that in _pericles_, otherwise so successfully handled, with judicious ignoring of what is manifestly not shakespeare's, a beautiful passage is marred by the omission of a word that is the very heart of the simile:-- see how she 'gins to blow into life's flower again, says cerimon, as the seemingly dead thaisa revives. "see, she begins to blow into life again," mary has it. the _tales_ appeared first in eight sixpenny numbers; but were soon collected in two small volumes "embellished," or, as it turned out, disfigured by twenty copper-plate illustrations, of which as of other attendant vexations lamb complains in a letter to wordsworth, dated jan. , :-- "we have booked off from the 'swan and two necks,' lad lane, this day (per coach), the _tales from shakespeare_. you will forgive the plates, when i tell you they were left to the direction of godwin, who left the choice of subjects to the bad baby [mrs. godwin], who from mischief (i suppose) has chosen one from d----d beastly vulgarity (vide _merch. venice_), when no atom of authority was in the tale to justify it; to another has given a name which exists not in the tale, nic bottom, and which she thought would be funny, though in this i suspect _his_ hand, for i guess her reading does not reach far enough to know bottom's christian name; and one of hamlet and grave-digging, a scene which is not hinted at in the story, and you might as well have put king canute the great reproving his courtiers. the rest are giants and giantesses. suffice it to save our taste and damn our folly, that we left all to a friend, w. g. who, in the first place, cheated me by putting a name to them which i did not mean, but do not repent, and then wrote a puff about their _simplicity_, &c. to go with the advertisement as in my name! enough of this egregious dupery. i will try to abstract the load of teazing circumstances from the stories, and tell you that i am answerable for _lear_, _macbeth_, _timon_, _romeo_, _hamlet_, _othello_, for occasionally a tail-piece or correction of grammar, for none of the cuts and all of the spelling. the rest is my sister's. we think _pericles_ of hers the best, and _othello_ of mine; but i hope all have some good. _as you like it_, we like least. so much, only begging you to tear out the cuts and give them to johnny as 'mrs. godwin's fancy'!!" "i had almost forgot, my part of the preface begins in the middle of a sentence, in last but one page, after a colon, thus-- :--which if they be happily so done, &c. the former part hath a more feminine turn, and does hold me up something as an instructor to young ladies; but upon my modesty's honour i wrote it not. "godwin told my sister that the 'baby' chose the subjects: a fact in taste." mary's preface sets forth her aim and her difficulties with characteristic good sense and simplicity. i have marked with a bracket the point at which, quite tired and out of breath, as it were, at the end of her labours, she put the pen into her brother's hand that he might finish with a few decisive touches what remained to be said of their joint undertaking:-- preface. the following tales are meant to be submitted to the young reader as an introduction to the study of shakspeare, for which purpose his words are used whenever it seemed possible to bring them in; and in whatever has been added to give them the regular form of a connected story, diligent care has been taken to select such words as might least interrupt the effect of the beautiful english tongue in which he wrote; therefore, words introduced into our language since his time have been as far as possible avoided. in those tales which have been taken from the tragedies, as my young readers will perceive when they come to see the source from which these stories are derived, shakespeare's own words, with little alteration, recur very frequently in the narrative as well as in the dialogue; but in those made from the comedies i found myself scarcely ever able to turn his words into the narrative form; therefore i fear in them i have made use of dialogue too frequently for young people not used to the dramatic form of writing. but this fault--if it be, as i fear, a fault--has been caused by my earnest wish to give as much of shakespeare's own words as possible; and if the "_he said_" and "_she said_," the question and the reply, should sometimes seem tedious to their young ears, they must pardon it, because it was the only way i knew of in which i could give them a few hints and little foretastes of the great pleasure which awaits them in their elder years, when they come to the rich treasures from which these small and valueless coins are extracted, pretending to no other merit than as faint and imperfect stamps of shakespeare's matchless image. faint and imperfect images they must be called, because the beauty of his language is too frequently destroyed by the necessity of changing many of his excellent words into words far less expressive of his true sense, to make it read something like prose; and even in some few places where his blank-verse is given unaltered, as hoping from its simple plainness to cheat the young readers into the belief that they are reading prose, yet still, his language being transplanted from its own natural soil and wild poetic garden, it must want much of its native beauty. i have wished to make these tales easy reading for very young children. to the utmost of my ability i have constantly kept this in my mind; but the subjects of most of them made this a very difficult task. it was no easy matter to give the histories of men and women in terms familiar to the apprehension of a very young mind. for young ladies, too, it has been my intention chiefly to write, because boys are generally permitted the use of their fathers' libraries at a much earlier age than girls are, they frequently having the best scenes of shakespeare by heart before their sisters are permitted to look into this manly book; and therefore, instead of recommending these tales to the perusal of young gentlemen who can read them so much better in the originals, i must rather beg their kind assistance in explaining to their sisters such parts as are hardest for them to understand; and when they have helped them to get over the difficulties, then perhaps they will read to them--carefully selecting what is proper for a young sister's ear--some passage which has pleased them in one of these stories, in the very words of the scene from which it is taken. and i trust they will find that the beautiful extracts, the select passages, they may choose to give their sisters in this way will be much better relished and understood from their having some notion of the general story from one of these imperfect abridgments, which, if they be fortunately so done as to prove delightful to any of you, my young readers, i hope will have no worse effect upon you than to make you wish yourselves a little older, that you may be allowed to read the plays at full length: such a wish will be neither peevish nor irrational. when time and leave of judicious friends shall put them into your hands, you will discover in such of them as are here abridged--not to mention almost as many more which are left untouched--many surprising events and turns of fortune, which for their infinite variety could not be contained in this little book, besides a world of sprightly and cheerful characters, both men and women, the humour of which i was fearful of losing if i attempted to reduce the length of them. what these tales have been to you in childhood, that and much more it is my wish that the true plays of shakespeare may prove to you in older years--enrichers of the fancy, strengthened of virtue, a withdrawing from all selfish and mercenary thoughts, a lesson of all sweet and honourable thoughts and actions, to teach you courtesy, benignity, generosity, humanity; for of examples teaching these virtues, his pages are full. * * * * * if the "bad baby" chose the subjects, a stripling who was afterwards to make his mark in art executed them; a young irishman, son of a leather-breeches maker, mulready by name, whom godwin and also harris, newberry's successor, were at this time endeavouring to help in his twofold struggle to earn a livelihood and obtain some training in art (which he did chiefly in the studio of banks the sculptor). some of his early illustrations to the rhymed satirical fables just then in vogue, such as _the butterfly's ball_ and the _peacock at home_, show humour as well as decisive artistic promise. but the young designer seems to have collapsed altogether under the weight of shakespeare's creations; and whoever looks at the goggle-eyed ogre of the pantomime species called othello, as well as at the plates lamb specifies, will not wonder at his disgust. curiously enough they have been attributed to blake; those in the edition of , that is, which are identical with those of and ; and as such figure in booksellers' catalogues, with a correspondingly high price attached to the volumes, notwithstanding the testimony to the contrary of mr. sheepshanks, given in stephen's _masterpieces of mulready_. engraved by blake they may have been, and hence may have here and there traces of blake-like feeling and character; for though he was fifty at the time these were executed, he still and always had to win his bread more often by rendering with his graver the immature or brainless conceptions of others, than by realising those of his own teeming and powerful imagination. the success of the _tales_ was decisive and immediate. new editions were called for in , , and ; but in concession, no doubt, to lamb's earnest remonstrances, only a certain portion of each contained the obnoxious plates; the rest were issued with "merely a beautiful head of our immortal dramatist from a much-admired painting by zoust," as godwin's advertisement put it. subsequently an edition, with designs by harvey, remained long in favour, and was reprinted many times. in , robert, brother of the more famous george cruickshank, illustrated the book, and there was prefixed a memoir of lamb by j. w. dalby, a friend of leigh hunt and contributor to the _london journal_. the _golden treasury_ edition, already spoken of, has a dainty little frontispiece by du maurier, with which lamb would certainly have found no fault. no sooner were the _tales_ out of hand than mary began a fresh task, as charles tells manning in a letter written at the end of the year ( ), wherein also is a glimpse of our friend mr. dawe not to be here omitted: "mr. dawe is turned author; he has been in such a way lately--dawe the painter, i mean--he sits and stands about at holcroft's and says nothing; then sighs and leans his head on his hand. i took him to be in love; but it seems he was only meditating a work, _the life of morland_. the young man is not used to composition." chapter ix. correspondence with sarah stoddart.--hazlitt.--a courtship and wedding at which mary is bridesmaid. - .--Æt. - . to return to domestic affairs, as faithfully reported to sarah by mary whilst the _tales_ were in progress:-- "may , . "no intention of forfeiting my promise, but want of time has prevented me from continuing my _journal_. you seem pleased with the long stupid one i sent, and, therefore, i shall certainly continue to write at every opportunity. the reason why i have not had any time to spare is because charles has given himself some hollidays after the hard labour of finishing his farce; and, therefore, i have had none of the evening leisure i promised myself. next week he promises to go to work again. i wish he may happen to hit upon some new plan to his mind for another farce [_mr. h._ was accepted, but not yet brought out]. when once begun, i do not fear his perseverance, but the hollidays he has allowed himself i fear will unsettle him. i look forward to next week with the same kind of anxiety i did to the new lodging. we have had, as you know, so many teazing anxieties of late, that i have got a kind of habit of foreboding that we shall never be comfortable, and that he will never settle to work, which i know is wrong, and which i will try with all my might to overcome; for certainly if i could but see things as they really are, our prospects are considerably improved since the memorable day of mrs. fenwick's last visit. i have heard nothing of that good lady or of the fells since you left us. "we have been visiting a little to norris's, godwin's, and last night we did not come home from captain burney's till two o'clock; the _saturday night_ was changed to friday, because rickman could not be there to-night. we had the best _tea things_, and the litter all cleared away, and everything as handsome as possible, mrs. rickman being of the party. mrs. rickman is much increased in size since we saw her last, and the alteration in her strait shape wonderfully improves her. phillips was there, and charles had a long batch of cribbage with him, and upon the whole we had the most chearful evening i have known there a long time. to-morrow we dine at holcroft's. these things rather fatigue me; but i look for a quiet week next week, and hope for better times. we have had mrs. brooks and all the martins, and we have likewise been there, so that i seem to have been in a continual bustle lately. i do not think charles cares so much for the martins as he did, which is a fact you will be glad to hear, though you must not name them when you write; always remember when i tell you anything about them, not to mention their names in return. "we have had a letter from your brother by the same mail as yours i suppose; he says he does not mean to return till summer, and that is all he says about himself; his letter being entirely filled with a long story about lord nelson--but nothing more than what the papers have been full of--such as his last words, &c. why does he tease you with so much _good advice_; is it merely to fill up his letters, as he filled ours with lord nelson's exploits? or has any new thing come out against you? has he discovered mr. curse-a-rat's correspondence? i hope you will not write to that _news-sending_ gentleman any more. i promised never more to give my _advice_, but one may be allowed to _hope_ a little; and i also hope you will have something to tell me soon about mr. white. have you seen him yet? i am sorry to hear your mother is not better, but i am in a hoping humour just now, and i cannot help hoping that we shall all see happier days. the bells are just now ringing for the taking of the _cape of good hope_. "i have written to mrs. coleridge to tell her that her husband is at naples. your brother slightly named his being there, but he did not say that he had heard from him himself. charles is very busy at the office; he will be kept there to-day till seven or eight o'clock; and he came home very _smoky and drinky_ last night, so that i am afraid a hard day's work will not agree very well with him. "o dear! what shall i say next? why, this i will say next, that i wish you was with me; i have been eating a mutton chop all alone, and i have just been looking in the pint porter-pot which i find quite empty, and yet i am still very dry. if you was with me, we would have a glass of brandy and water; but it is quite impossible to drink brandy and water by one's-self; therefore, i must wait with patience till the kettle boils. i hate to drink tea alone, it is worse than dining alone. we have got a fresh cargo of biscuits from captain burney's. i have---- "may .--here i was interrupted, and a long, tedious interval has intervened, during which i have had neither time nor inclination to write a word. the lodging, that pride of your heart and mine, is given up, and _here he is again_--charles, i mean--as unsettled and undetermined as ever. when he went to the poor lodging after the holidays i told you he had taken, he could not endure the solitariness of them, and i had no rest for the sole of my foot till i promised to believe his solemn protestations that he could and would write as well at home as there. do you believe this? "i have no power over charles; he will do what he will do. but i ought to have some little influence over myself; and, therefore, i am most manfully resolving to turn over a new leaf with my own mind. your visit, though not a very comfortable one to yourself, has been of great use to me. i set you up in my fancy as a kind of _thing_ that takes an interest in my concerns; and i hear you talking to me, and arguing the matter very learnedly when i give way to despondency. you shall hear a good account of me and the progress i make in altering my fretful temper to a calm and quiet one. it is but once being thorowly convinced one is wrong, to make one resolve to do so no more; and i know my dismal faces have been almost as great a drawback upon charles's comfort, as his feverish, teazing ways have been upon mine. our love for each other has been the torment of our lives hitherto. i am most seriously intending to bend the whole force of my mind to counteract this, and i think i see some prospect of success. "of charles ever bringing any work to pass at home, i am very doubtful; and of the farce succeeding, i have little or no hope; but if i could once get into the way of being chearful myself, i should see an easy remedy in leaving town and living cheaply, almost wholly alone; but till i do find we really are comfortable alone, and by ourselves, it seems a dangerous experiment. we shall certainly stay where we are till after next christmas; and in the meantime, as i told you before, all my whole thoughts shall be to _change_ myself into just such a chearful soul as you would be in a lone house, with no companion but your brother, if you had nothing to vex you; nor no means of wandering after _curse-a-rats_. do write soon; though i write all about myself, i am thinking all the while of you, and i am uneasy at the length of time it seems since i heard from you. your mother and mr. white is running continually in my head; and this _second winter_ makes me think how cold, damp, and forlorn your solitary house will feel to you. i would your feet were perched up again on our fender." ... if ever a woman knew how to keep on the right side of that line which, in the close companionship of daily life is so hard to find, the line that separates an honest faithful friend from "a torment of a monitor," and could divine when and how to lend a man a helping hand against his own foibles, and when to forbear and wait patiently, that woman was mary lamb. times were changed indeed since lamb could speak of himself as "alone, obscure, without a friend." now friends and acquaintance thronged round him, till rest and quiet were almost banished from his fire-side; and though they were banished for the most part by social pleasures he dearly loved--hearty, simple, intellectual pleasures--the best of talk, with no ceremony and the least of expense, yet they had to be paid for by mary and himself in fevered nerves, in sleep curtailed and endless interruptions to work. there were, besides, "social harpies who preyed on him for his liquors," whom he lacked firmness to shake off, in spite of those "dismal faces" consequent in mary, of which she penitently accuses herself. apart from external distractions, the effort to write, especially any sort of task work, was often so painful to his irritable nerves that, as he said, it almost "teazed him into a fever," whilst mary's anxious love and close sympathy made his distress her own. there is a letter to godwin deprecating any appearance of unfriendliness in having failed to review his _life of chaucer_, containing a passage on this subject, which the lover of lamb's writings and character (and who is one must needs be the other) will ponder with peculiar interest:-- "you, by long habits of composition, and a greater command over your own powers, cannot conceive of the desultory and uncertain way in which i (an author by fits) sometimes cannot put the thoughts of a common letter into sane prose. any work which i take upon myself as an engagement will act upon me to torment, _e.g._ when i have undertaken, as three or four times i have, a schoolboy copy of verses for merchant taylors' boys at a guinea a copy, i have fretted over them in perfect inability to do them, and have made my sister wretched with my wretchedness for a week together. as to reviewing, in particular, my head is so whimsical a head that i cannot, after reading another man's book, let it have been never so pleasing, give any account of it in any methodical way. i cannot follow his train. something like this you must have perceived of me in conversation. ten thousand times i have confessed to you, talking of my talents, my utter inability to remember, in any comprehensive way, what i read. i can vehemently applaud, or perversely stickle at _parts,_ but i cannot grasp a whole. this infirmity may be seen in my two little compositions, the tale and my play, in both which no reader, however partial, can find any story.... if i bring you a crude, wretched paper on sunday, you must burn it and forgive me; if it proves anything better than i predict, may it be a peace-offering of sweet incense between us." the two friends whose society was always soothing, were far away now. coleridge, who could always 'wind them up and set them going again,' as mary said, was still wandering they knew not where on the continent, and manning had, at last, carried out a long-cherished scheme and gone to china for four years which, however, stretched to twelve, as lamb prophesied it would. "i didn't know what your going was till i shook a last fist with you," says lamb, "and then 'twas just like having shaken hands with a wretch on the fatal scaffold, for when you are down the ladder you never can stretch out to him again. mary says you are dead, and there's nothing to do but to leave it to time to do for us in the end what it always does for those who mourn for people in such a case: but she'll see by your letter you are not quite dead. a little kicking and agony, and then--martin burney _took me out_ a walking that evening, and we talked of manning, and then i came home and smoked for you; and at twelve o'clock came home mary and monkey louisa from the play, and there was more talk and more smoking, and they all seemed first-rate characters because they knew a certain person. but what's the use of talking about 'em? by the time you'll have made your escape from the kalmucks, you'll have stayed so long i shall never be able to bring to your mind who mary was, who will have died about a year before, nor who the holcrofts were. me, perhaps, you will mistake for phillips, or confound me with mr. dawe, because you saw us together. mary, whom you seem to remember yet, is not quite easy that she had not a formal parting from you. i wish it had so happened. but you must bring her a token, a shawl or something, and remember a sprightly little mandarin for our mantel-piece as a companion to the child i am going to purchase at the museum.... o manning, i am serious to sinking almost, when i think that all those evenings which you have made so pleasant are gone perhaps for ever.... i will nurse the remembrance of your steadiness and quiet which used to infuse something like itself into our nervous minds. mary used to call you our ventilator." mary's next letters to miss stoddart continue to fulfil her promise of writing a kind of journal:-- "june nd. "you say truly that i have sent you too many make-believe letters. i do not mean to serve you so again if i can help it. i have been very ill for some days past with the tooth-ache. yesterday i had it drawn, and i feel myself greatly relieved, but far from being easy, for my head and my jaws still ache; and being unable to do any business, i would wish to write you a long letter to atone for my former offences; but i feel so languid that i fear wishing is all i can do. "i am sorry you are so worried with business, and i am still more sorry for your sprained ancle. you ought not to walk upon it. what is the matter between you and your good-natured maid you used to boast of? and what the devil is the matter with your aunt? you say she is discontented. you must bear with them as well as you can, for doubtless it is your poor mother's teazing that puts you all out of sorts. i pity you from my heart. "we cannot come to see you this summer, nor do i think it advisable to come and incommode you when you for the same expense could come to us. whenever you feel yourself disposed to run away from your troubles, come to us again. i wish it was not such a long, expensive journey, and then you could run backwards and forwards every month or two. i am very sorry you still hear nothing from mr. white. i am afraid that is all at an end. what do you intend to do about mr. turner?... william hazlitt, the brother of him you know, is in town. i believe you have heard us say we like him. he came in good time, for the loss of manning made charles very dull, and he likes hazlitt better than anybody, except manning. my tooth-ache has moped charles to death; you know how he hates to see people ill.... "when i write again, you will hear tidings of the farce, for charles is to go in a few days to the managers to inquire about it. but that must now be a next year's business too, even if it does succeed, so it's all looking forward and no prospect of present gain. but that's better than no hopes at all, either for present or future times.... charles smokes still, and will smoke to the end of the chapter. martin [burney] has just been here. my _tales_ (_again_) and charles' farce have made the boy mad to turn author, and he has made the _winter's tale_ into a story; but what charles says of himself is really true of martin, for he can _make nothing at all of it_, and i have been talking very eloquently this morning to convince him that nobody can write farces, &c. under thirty years of age; and so, i suppose, he will go home and new-model his farce. "what is mr. turner, and what is likely to come of him? and how do you like him? and what do you intend to do about it? i almost wish you to remain single till your mother dies, and then come and live with us, and we would either get you a husband, or teach you how to live comfortably without. i think i should like to have you always, to the end of our lives, living with us; and i do not know any reason why that should not be, except for the great fancy you seem to have for marrying, which after all is but a hazardous kind of affair; but, however, do as you like; every man knows best what pleases himself best. "i have known many single men i should have liked in my life (_if it had suited them_) for a husband; but very few husbands have i ever wished was mine, which is rather against the state in general; but one never is disposed to envy wives their good husbands. so much for marrying--but, however, get married if you can. "i say we shall not come and see you, and i feel sure we shall not; but if some sudden freak was to come into our wayward heads, could you at all manage? your mother we should not mind, but i think still it would be so vastly inconvenient. i am certain we shall not come, and yet _you_ may tell me when you write if it would be horribly inconvenient if we did; and do not tell me any lies, but say truly whether you would rather we did or not. "god bless you, my dearest sarah! i wish for your sake i could have written a very amusing letter; but do not scold, for my head aches sadly. don't mind my head-ache, for before you get this it will be well, being only from the pains of my jaws and teeth. farewell." "july nd. "charles and hazlitt are going to sadler's wells, and i am amusing myself in their absence with reading a manuscript of hazlitt's, but have laid it down to write a few lines to tell you how we are going on. charles has begged a month's hollidays, of which this is the first day, and they are all to be spent at home. we thank you for your kind invitations, and were half-inclined to come down to you; but after mature deliberation, and many wise consultations--such as you know we often hold--we came to the resolution of staying quietly at home, and during the hollidays we are both of us to set stoutly to work and finish the tales. we thought if we went anywhere and left them undone, they would lay upon our minds, and that when we returned we should feel unsettled, and our money all spent besides; and next summer we are to be very rich, and then we can afford a long journey somewhere; i will not say to salisbury, because i really think it is better for you to come to us. but of that we will talk another time. "the best news i have to send you is that the farce is accepted; that is to say, the manager has written to say it shall be brought out when an opportunity serves. i hope that it may come out by next christmas. you must come and see it the first night; for if it succeeds it will be a great pleasure to you, and if it should not we shall want your consolation; so you must come. "i shall soon have done my work, and know not what to begin next. now, will you set your brains to work and invent a story, either for a short child's story, or a long one that would make a kind of novel, or a story that would make a play. charles wants me to write a play, but i am not over-anxious to set about it. but, seriously, will you draw me out a sketch of a story, either from memory of anything you have read, or from your own invention, and i will fill it up in some way or other.... "i met mrs. fenwick at mrs. holcroft's the other day. she looked placid and smiling, but i was so disconcerted that i hardly knew how to sit upon my chair. she invited us to come and see her, but we did not invite her in return, and nothing at all was said in an explanatory sort, so that matter rests for the present." [perhaps the little imbroglio was the result of some effort on mary's part to diminish the frequency of the undesirable mr. fenwick's visits. he was a good-for-nothing; but his wife's name deserves to be remembered because she nursed mary wollstonecraft tenderly and devotedly in her last illness.] "i am sorry you are altogether so uncomfortable; i shall be glad to hear you are settled at salisbury: that must be better than living in a lone house companionless, as you are. i wish you could afford to bring your mother up to london, but that is quite impossible. mrs. wordsworth is brought to bed, and i ought to write to miss wordsworth and thank her for the information, but i suppose i shall defer it till another child is coming. i do so hate writing letters. i wish all my friends would come and live in town. it is not my dislike to writing letters that prevents my writing to you, but sheer want of time, i assure you, because you care not how stupidly i write so as you do but hear at the time what we are about. "let me hear from you soon, and do let me hear some good news, and don't let me hear of your walking with sprained ancles again; no business is an excuse for making yourself lame. "i hope your poor mother is better, and aunty and maid jog on pretty well; remember me to them all in due form and order. charles's love and our best wishes that all your little busy affairs may come to a prosperous conclusion." "friday evening. "they (hazlitt and charles) came home from sadler's wells so dismal and dreary dull on friday evening, that i gave them both a good scolding, _quite a setting to rights_; and i think it has done some good, for charles has been very chearful ever since. i begin to hope the _home hollidays_ will go on very well. write directly, for i am uneasy about your _lovers_; i wish something was settled. god bless you." ... sarah's lovers continued a source of lively if 'uneasy' interest to mary. the enterprising young lady had now another string to her bow; indeed, matters this time went so far that the question of settlements was raised and mary wrote a letter in which her "advising spirit" shows itself as wise as it was unobtrusive, as candid as it was tolerant. dr. stoddart clearly estimated her judgment and tact, after his fashion, as highly as coleridge and wordsworth did after theirs. mary wrote:-- "october . "i thank you a thousand times for the beautiful work you have sent me. i received the parcel from a strange gentleman yesterday. i like the patterns very much. you have quite set me up in finery; but you should have sent the silk handkerchief too; will you make a parcel of that and send it by the salisbury coach? i should like to have it in a few days, because we have not yet been to mr. babb's, and that handkerchief would suit this time of year nicely. i have received a long letter from your brother on the subject of your intended marriage. i have no doubt but you also have one on this business, therefore it is needless to repeat what he says. i am well pleased to find that, upon the whole, he does not seem to see it in an unfavourable light. he says that if mr. dowling is a worthy man he shall have no objection to become the brother of a farmer; and he makes an odd request to me, that i shall set out to salisbury to look at and examine into the merits of the said mr. d., and speaks very confidently as if you would abide by my determination. a pretty sort of an office truly! shall i come? the objections he starts are only such as you and i have already talked over--such as the difference in age, education, habits of life, &c. "you have gone too far in this affair for any interference to be at all desirable; and if you had not, i really do not know what my wishes would be. when you bring mr. dowling at christmas, i suppose it will be quite time enough for me to sit in judgment upon him; but my examination will not be a very severe one. if you fancy a very young man, and he likes an elderly gentlewoman, if he likes a learned and accomplished lady, and you like a not very learned youth, who may need a little polishing, which probably he will never acquire; it is all very well, and god bless you both together, and may you be both very long in the same mind! "i am to assist you too, your brother says, in drawing up the marriage settlements, another thankful office! i am not, it seems, to suffer you to keep too much money in your own power, and yet i am to take care of you in case of bankruptcy; and i am to recommend to you, for the better management of this point, the serious perusal of _jeremy taylor_, his opinion on the marriage state, especially his advice against _separate interests_ in that happy state; and i am also to tell you how desirable it is that the husband should have the entire direction of all money concerns, except, as your good brother adds, in the case of his own family, when the money, he observes, is very properly deposited in mrs. stoddart's hands, she being better suited to enjoy such a trust than any other woman, and therefore it is fit that the general rule should not be extended to her. "we will talk over these things when you come to town; and as to settlements, which are matters of which i--i never having had a penny in my own disposal--never in my life thought of; and if i had been blessed with a good fortune, and that marvellous blessing to boot, a good husband, i verily believe i should have crammed it all uncounted into his pocket. but thou hast a cooler head of thine own, and i daresay will do exactly what is expedient and proper; but your brother's opinion seems somewhat like mr. barwis's, and i daresay you will take it into due consideration; yet, perhaps, an offer of your own money to take a farm may make _uncle_ do less for his nephew, and in that case mr. d. might be a loser by your generosity. weigh all these things well, and if you can so contrive it, let your brother _settle_ the _settlements_ himself when he returns, which will most probably be long before you want them. "you are settled, it seems, in the very house which your brother most dislikes. if you find this house very inconvenient, get out of it as fast as you can, for your brother says he sent you the fifty pounds to make you comfortable; and by the general tone of his letter i am sure he wishes to make you easy in money matters; therefore, why straiten yourself to pay the debt you owe him, which i am well assured he never means to take? thank you for the letter, and for the picture of pretty little chubby nephew john. i have been busy making waiskoats and plotting new work to succeed the _tales_; as yet i have not hit upon anything to my mind. "charles took an emendated copy of his farce to mr. wroughton, the manager, yesterday. mr. wroughton was very friendly to him, and expressed high approbation of the farce; but there are two, he tells him, to come out before it; yet he gave him hopes that it will come out this season; but i am afraid you will not see it by christmas. it will do for another jaunt for you in the spring. we are pretty well and in fresh spirits about this farce. charles has been very good lately in the matter of _smoking_. "when you come bring the gown you wish to sell, mrs. coleridge will be in town then, and if she happens not to fancy it, perhaps some other person may. "coleridge, i believe, is gone home, he left us with that design; but we have not heard from him this fortnight.... "my respects to coridon, mother, and aunty. farewell. my best wishes are with you. "when i saw what a prodigious quantity of work you had put into the finery, i was quite ashamed of my unreasonable request. i will never serve you so again, but i do dearly love worked muslin." so coleridge was come back at last. "he is going to turn lecturer, on taste, at the royal institution," charles tells manning. and the farce came out and failed. "we are pretty stout about it," he says to wordsworth; "but, after all, we had rather it had 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 merely did as a task, because it was wanted, and set no great store by; and _mr. h._!! the number of friends we had in the house, my brother and i being in public offices, was astonishing, but they yielded at length to a few hisses. a hundred hisses! (d--n the word, i write it like kisses--how different!) a hundred hisses outweigh a thousand claps. the former come more directly from the heart. well 'tis withdrawn and there is an end. better luck to us." sarah's visit came to pass, and proved an eventful one to her. for at the lambs she now saw frequently their new friend, quite another william than he of "english partridge memory," william hazlitt; and the intercourse between them soon drifted into a queer kind of courtship, and finally the courtship into marriage. mary's next letters give piquant glimpses of the wayward course of their love-making. if her sympathies had been ready and unfailing in the case of the unknown lovers, messrs. white, dowling, turner, and mysterious _curse-a-rat_, this was an affair of deep and heartfelt interest:-- "oct. . "i am two letters in your debt, but it has not been so much from idleness, as a wish to see how your comical love affair would turn out. you know i make a pretence not to interfere, but like all old maids i feel a mighty solicitude about the event of love stories. i learn from the lover that he has not been so remiss in his duty as you supposed. his effusion, and your complaints of his inconstancy, crossed each other on the road. he tells me his was a very strange letter, and that probably it has affronted you. that it was a strange letter i can readily believe; but that you were affronted by a strange letter is not so easy for me to conceive, that not being your way of taking things. but, however it may be, let some answer come either to him or else to me, showing cause why you do not answer him. and pray, by all means, preserve the said letter, that i may one day have the pleasure of seeing how mr. hazlitt treats of love. "i was at your brother's on thursday. mrs. stoddart tells me she has not written, because she does not like to put you to the expense of postage. they are very well. little missy thrives amazingly. mrs. stoddart conjectures she is in the family-way again, and those kind of conjectures generally prove too true. your other sister-in-law, mrs. hazlitt, was brought to bed last week of a boy, so that you are likely to have plenty of nephews and nieces. yesterday evening we were at rickman's, and who should we find there but hazlitt; though if you do not know it was his first invitation there, it will not surprise you as much as it did us. we were very much pleased, because we dearly love our friends to be respected by our friends. the most remarkable events of the evening were, that we had a very fine pine apple, that mr. phillips, mr. lamb, and mr. hazlitt played at cribbage in the most polite and gentlemanly manner possible, and that i won two rubbers at whist. "i am glad aunty left you some business to do. our compliments to her and to your mother. is it as cold at winterslow as it is here? how do the lions go on? i am better, and charles is tolerably well. godwin's new tragedy [antonio] will probably be damned the latter end of next week [which it was]. charles has written the prologue. prologues and epilogues will be his death. if you know the extent of mrs. reynolds' poverty, you will be glad to hear mr. norris has got ten pounds a year for her from the temple society. she will be able to make out pretty well now. "farewell. determine as wisely as you can in regard to hazlitt, and if your determination is to have him, heaven send you many happy years together. if i am not mistaken i have concluded letters on the corydon courtship with this same wish. i hope it is not ominous of change; for, if i were sure you would not be quite starved to death nor beaten to a mummy, i should like to see hazlitt and you come together if (as charles observes) it were only for the joke's sake. write instantly to me." "dec. . "i have deferred answering your last letter in hopes of being able to give you some intelligence that might be useful to you; for i every day expected that hazlitt or you would communicate the affair to your brother; but as the doctor is silent upon the subject, i conclude he knows nothing of the matter. you desire my advice, and therefore i tell you i think you ought to tell your brother as soon as possible; for, at present, he is on very friendly visiting terms with hazlitt and, if he is not offended by too long concealment, will do everything in his power to serve you. if you chuse that i should tell him i will; but i think it would come better from you. if you can persuade hazlitt to mention it, that would be still better; for i know your brother would be unwilling to give credit to you, because you deceived yourself in regard to corydon. hazlitt, i know, is shy of speaking first; but i think it of such great importance to you to have your brother friendly in the business that, if you can overcome his reluctance, it would be a great point gained. for you must begin the world with ready money--at least an hundred pounds; for if you once go into furnished lodgings, you will never be able to lay by money to buy furniture. if you obtain your brother's approbation he might assist you, either by lending or otherwise. i have a great opinion of his generosity, where he thinks it would be useful. "hazlitt's brother is mightily pleased with the match, but he says you must have furniture, and be clear in the world at first setting out, or you will be always behind-hand. he also said he would give you what furniture he could spare. i am afraid you can bring but few things away from your own house. what a pity that you have laid out so much money on your cottage, that money would just have done. i most heartily congratulate you on having so well got over your first difficulties; and now that it is quite settled, let us have no more fears. i now mean not only to hope and wish but to persuade myself that you will be very happy together. endeavour to keep your mind as easy as you can. you ought to begin the world with a good stock of health and spirits; it is quite as necessary as ready money at first setting out. do not teize yourself about coming to town. when your brother learns how things are going on, we shall consult him about meetings and so forth; but at present, any hasty step of that kind would not answer, i know. if hazlitt were to go down to salisbury, or you were to come up here without consulting your brother, you know it would never do. charles is just come into dinner: he desires his love and best wishes." perhaps the reader will, like mary, be curious to see one of the lover's letters in this "comical love affair." fortunately one, the very one, it seems, which sarah's crossed and was preserved at mary's particular request, is given in the hazlitt _memoirs_ and runs thus:-- "my dear love, "above a week has passed and i have received no letter--not one of those letters 'in which i live or have no life at all.' what is become of you? are you married, hearing that i was dead (for so it has been reported)? or are you gone into a nunnery? or are you fallen in love with some of the amorous heroes of boccaccio? which of them is it? is it chynon, who was transformed from a clown into a lover, and learned to spell by the force of beauty? or with lorenzo the lover of isabella, whom her three brethren hated (as your brother does me), who was a merchant's clerk? or with federigo alberigi, an honest gentleman who ran through his fortune, and won his mistress by cooking a fair falcon for her dinner, though it was the only means he had left of getting a dinner for himself? this last is the man; and i am the more persuaded of it because i think i won your good liking myself by giving you an entertainment--of sausages, when i had no money to buy them with. nay now, never deny it! did not i ask your consent that very night after, and did you not give it? well, i should be confoundedly jealous of those fine gallants if i did not know that a living dog is better than a dead lion; though now i think of it boccaccio does not in general make much of his lovers; it is his women who are so delicious. i almost wish i had lived in those times and had been a little _more amiable_. now if a woman had written the book, it would not have had this effect upon me: the men would have been heroes and angels, and the women nothing at all. isn't there some truth in that? talking of departed loves, i met my old flame the other day in the street. i did dream of her _one_ night since, and only one: every other night i have had the same dream i have had for these two months past. now if you are at all reasonable, this will satisfy you. "_thursday morning_.--the book is come. when i saw it i thought that you had sent it back in a huff, tired out by my sauciness and _coldness_ and delays, and were going to keep an account of dimities and sayes, or to salt pork and chronicle small beer as the dutiful wife of some fresh-looking rural swain; so that you cannot think how surprised and pleased i was to find them all done. i liked your note as well or better than the extracts; it is just such a note as such a nice rogue as you ought to write after the _provocation_ you had received. i would not give a pin for a girl 'whose cheeks never tingle,' nor for myself if i could not make them tingle sometimes. now though i am always writing to you about 'lips and noses' and such sort of stuff, yet as i sit by my fireside (which i generally do eight or ten hours a day) i oftener think of you in a serious sober light. for indeed i never love you so well as when i think of sitting down with you to dinner on a boiled scrag of mutton and hot potatoes. you please my fancy more then than when i think of you in ----; no, you would never forgive me if i were to finish the sentence. now i think of it, what do you mean to be dressed in when we are married? but it does not much matter! i wish you would let your hair grow; though perhaps nothing will be better than 'the same air and look with which at first my heart was took.' but now to business. i mean soon to call upon your brother _in form_, namely, as soon as i get quite well, which i hope to do in about another _fortnight_; and then i hope you will come up by the coach as fast as the horses can carry you, for i long mightily to be in your ladyship's presence to vindicate my character. i think you had better sell the small house, i mean that at £ s., and i will borrow £ , so that we shall set off merrily in spite of all the prudence of edinburgh. "good-bye, little dear!" poor sarah! that "want of a certain dignity of action," nay, of a due "respect for herself," which mary lamented in her, had been discovered but too quickly by her lover and reflected back, as it was sure to be, in his attitude towards her. charles, also, as an interested and amused spectator of the unique love-affair, reports progress to manning in a letter of feb. th, :-- "mary is very thankful for your remembrance of her; and with the least suspicion of mercenariness, as the silk, the _symbolum materiale_ of your friendship, has not yet appeared. i think horace says somewhere _nox longa_. i would not impute negligence or unhandsome delays to a person whom you have honoured with your confidence; but i have not heard of the silk or of mr. knox save by your letter. may be he expects the first advances! or it may be that he has not succeeded in getting the article on shore, for it is among the _res prohibitæ et non nisi smuggle-ationis viâ fruendæ_. but so it is, in the friendships between _wicked men_ the very expressions of their good-will cannot but be sinful. a treaty of marriage is on foot between william hazlitt and miss stoddart. something about settlements only retards it. she has somewhere about £ a year, to be £ when her mother dies. he has no settlement except what he can claim from the parish. _pauper est tamen, sed amat._ the thing is therefore in abeyance. but there is love a-both sides." in the same month mary wrote sarah a letter showing she was alive to the fact that a courtship which appeared to on-lookers, if not to the lover himself, much in the light of a good joke, was not altogether a re-assuring commencement of so serious an affair as marriage. she had her misgivings, and no wonder, as to how far the easy-going, comfort-loving, matter-of-fact sarah, was fit for the difficult happiness of life-long companionship with a man of ardent genius and morbid, splenetic temperament, to whom ideas were meat drink and clothing, while the tangible entities bearing those names were likely to be precariously supplied. still mary liked both the lovers so well she could not choose but that hope should preponderate over fear. meeting as they did by the lambs' fireside, each saw the other to the best advantage. for, in the glow of mary's sympathy and faith and the fine stimulating atmosphere of charles' genius, hazlitt's shyness had first melted away; his thoughts had broken the spell of self-distrust that kept them pent in uneasy silence and had learned to flow forth in a strong and brilliant current, whilst the lowering frown which so often clouded his handsome, eager face was wont to clear off. there, too, sarah's unaffected good sense and hearty, friendly nature had free play, and perhaps mary's friendship even reflected on her a tinge of the ideal to veil the coarser side of her character:-- "i have sent your letter and drawing" [of middleton cottage, winterslow, where sarah was living], mary writes, "off to wem [hazlitt's father's in shropshire], where i conjecture hazlitt is. he left town on saturday afternoon without telling us where he was going. he seemed very impatient at not hearing from you. he was very ill, and i suppose is gone home to his father's to be nursed. i find hazlitt has mentioned to you the intention which we had of asking you up to town, which we were bent on doing; but, having named it since to your brother, the doctor expressed a strong desire that you should not come to town to be at any other house but his own, for he said it would have a very strange appearance. his wife's father is coming to be with them till near the end of april, after which time he shall have full room for you. and if you are to be married he wishes that you should be married with all the proper decorums _from his house_. now though we should be most willing to run any hazards of disobliging him if there were no other means of your and hazlitt's meeting, yet as he seems so friendly to the match it would not be worth while to alienate him from you and ourselves too, for the slight accommodation which the difference of a few weeks would make; provided always, and be it understood, that if you and h. make up your minds to be married before the time in which you can be at your brother's, our house stands open and most ready at a moment's notice to receive you. only we would not quarrel unnecessarily with your brother. let there be a clear necessity shown and we will quarrel with anybody's brother. "now, though i have written to the above effect, i hope you will not conceive but that both my brother and i had looked forward to your coming with unmixed pleasure, and are really disappointed at your brother's declaration; for, next to the pleasure of being married, is the pleasure of making or helping marriages forward. "we wish to hear from you that you do not take our seeming change of purpose in ill part, for it is but seeming on our part, for it was my brother's suggestion, by him first mentioned to hazlitt, and cordially approved by me; but your brother has set his face against it, and it is better to take him along with us in our plans, if he will good-naturedly go along with us, than not. "the reason i have not written lately has been that i thought it better to leave you all to the workings of your own minds in this momentous affair, in which the inclinations of a bystander have a right to form a wish, but not to give a vote. "being, with the help of wide lines, at the end of my last page, i conclude with our kind wishes and prayers for the best." the wedding day was fixed, and mary was to be bridesmaid. "do not be angry that i have not written to you," she says. "i have promised your brother to be at your wedding, and that favour you must accept as an atonement for my offences. you have been in no want of correspondence lately, and i wished to leave you both to your own inventions. "the border you are working for me i prize at a very high rate, because i consider it as the last work you can do for me, the time so fast approaching that you must no longer work for your friends. yet my old fault of giving away presents has not left me, and i am desirous of even giving away this your last gift. i had intended to have given it away without your knowledge, but i have intrusted my secret to hazlitt and i suppose it will not remain a secret long, so i condescend to consult you. "it is to miss hazlitt to whose superior claim i wish to give up my right to this precious worked border. her brother william is her great favourite and she would be pleased to possess his bride's last work. are you not to give the fellow border to one sister-in-law, and therefore has she not a just claim to it? i never heard, in the annals of weddings (since the days of nausicaa, and she only washed her old gowns for that purpose) that the brides ever furnished the apparel of their maids. besides i can be completely clad in your work without it; for the spotted muslin will serve both for cap and hat (_nota bene_, my hat is the same as yours), and the gown you sprigged for me has never been made up, therefore i can wear that--or, if you like better, i will make up a new silk which manning has sent me from china. manning would like to hear i wore it for the first time at your wedding. it is a very pretty light colour, but there is an objection (besides not being your work, and that is a very serious objection), and that is, mrs. hazlitt tells me that all winterslow would be in an uproar if the bridesmaid was to be dressed in anything but white, and although it is a very light colour, i confess we cannot call it white, being a sort of dead-whiteish bloom colour. then silk, perhaps, in a morning is not so proper, though the occasion, so joyful, might justify a full dress. determine for me in this perplexity between the sprig and the china-manning silk. but do not contradict my whim about miss hazlitt having the border, for i have set my heart upon the matter. if you agree with me in this, i shall think you have forgiven me for giving away your pin--that was a _mad_ trick; but i had many obligations and no money. i repent me of the deed, wishing i had it now to send to miss h. with the border; and i cannot, will not give her the doctor's pin, for having never had any presents from gentlemen in my young days, i highly prize all they now give me, thinking my latter days are better than my former. "you must send this same border in your own name to miss hazlitt, which will save me the disgrace of giving away your gift, and make it amount merely to a civil refusal. "i shall have no present to give you on your marriage, nor do i expect i shall be rich enough to give anything to baby at the first christening; but at the second or third child's, i hope to have a coral or so to spare out of my own earnings. do not ask me to be godmother, for i have an objection to that; but there is, i believe, no serious duties attaching to a bridesmaid, therefore i come with a willing mind, bringing nothing with me but many wishes, and not a few hopes, and a very little fear of happy years to come." if, as may be hoped, the final decision was in favour of the 'dead-whiteish-bloom-china-manning' silk the winterslow folk were spared all painful emotions on the subject, as the wedding took place at st. andrew's, holborn (may-day morning, ), dr. and mrs. stoddart and charles and mary lamb the chief, perhaps the only guests. the comedy of the courtship merging into the solemnity of marriage was the very occasion to put lamb into one of his wildest moods; "i had like to have been turned out several times during the ceremony," he confessed to southey afterwards. "anything awful makes me laugh. i misbehaved once at a funeral. yet can i read about these ceremonies with pious and proper feelings. the realities of life only seem the mockeries." chapter x. _mrs. leicester's school_.--a removal.--_poetry for children_. - .--Æt. - . the _tales from shakespeare_ were no sooner finished than mary began, as her letters show, to cast about for some new scheme which should realise an equally felicitous and profitable result. this time she drew upon her own invention: and in about a year a little volume of tales for children was written, called _mrs. leicester's school_, to which charles also contributed. the stories, ten in number, seven by mary and three by her brother, are strung on a connecting thread by means of an introductory dedication to the young ladies at amwell school, who are supposed to beguile the dreariness of the first evening at a new school by each telling the story of her own life, at the suggestion of a friendly governess who constitutes herself their "historiographer." there is little or no invention in these tales; but a "tenderness of feeling and a delicacy of taste"--the praise is coleridge's--which lift them quite above the ordinary level of children's stories. and in no way are these qualities shown more than in the treatment of the lights and shades--the failings and the virtues--of the little folk, which appear in due and natural proportion; but the faults are treated in a kindly, indulgent spirit, not spitefully enhanced as foils to shining virtue, after the manner of some even of the best writers for children. there are no unlovely impersonations of naughtiness pure and simple, nor any equally unloveable patterns of priggish perfection. but the sweetest touches are in the portrayal of the attitude of a very young mind towards death, affecting from its very incapacity for grief, or indeed for any kind of realisation, as in this story of _elizabeth villiers_ for instance:-- "the first thing i can remember was my father teaching me the alphabet from the letters on a tombstone that stood at the head of my mother's grave. i used to tap at my father's study door: i think i now hear him say, 'who is there? what do you want, little girl?' 'go and see mamma. go and learn pretty letters.' many times in the day would my father lay aside his books and his papers to lead me to this spot, and make me point to the letters, and then set me to spell syllables and words: in this manner, the epitaph on my mother's tomb being my primer and my spelling-book, i learned to read. "i was one day sitting on a step placed across the churchyard stile, when a gentleman passing by heard me distinctly repeat the letters which formed my mother's name and then say _elizabeth villiers_ with a firm tone as if i had performed some great matter. this gentleman was my uncle james, my mother's brother: he was a lieutenant in the navy, and had left england a few weeks after the marriage of my father and mother, and now returned home from a long sea-voyage, he was coming to visit my mother--no tidings of her decease having reached him, though she had been dead more than a twelvemonth. "when my uncle saw me sitting on the stile, and heard me pronounce my mother's name, he looked earnestly in my face and began to fancy a resemblance to his sister, and to think i might be her child. i was too intent on my employment to notice him, and went spelling on. 'who has taught you to spell so prettily, my little maid?' said my uncle. 'mamma,' i replied; for i had an idea that the words on the tombstone were somehow a part of mamma, and that she had taught me. 'and who is mamma?' asked my uncle. 'elizabeth villiers,' i replied; and then my uncle called me his dear little niece and said he would go with me to mamma: he took hold of my hand intending to lead me home, delighted that he had found out who i was, because he imagined it would be such a pleasant surprise to his sister to see her little daughter bringing home her long-lost sailor uncle. "i agreed to take him to mamma, but we had a dispute about the way thither. my uncle was for going along the road which led directly up to our house: i pointed to the churchyard and said that was the way to mamma. though impatient of any delay he was not willing to contest the point with his new relation; therefore he lifted me over the stile, and was then going to take me along the path to a gate he knew was at the end of our garden; but no, i would not go that way neither: letting go his hand i said, 'you do not know the way--i will show you'; and making what haste i could among the long grass and thistles, and jumping over the low graves, he said, as he followed what he called my _wayward steps_-- "'what a positive little soul this niece of mine is! i knew the way to your mother's house before you were born, child.' at last i stopped at my mother's grave, and pointing to the tombstone said 'here is mamma!' in a voice of exultation as if i had now convinced him i knew the way best. i looked up in his face to see him acknowledge his mistake; but oh! what a face of sorrow did i see! i was so frightened that i have but an imperfect recollection of what followed. i remember i pulled his coat, and cried 'sir! sir!' and tried to move him. i knew not what to do. my mind was in a strange confusion; i thought i had done something wrong in bringing the gentleman to mamma to make him cry so sadly, but what it was i could not tell. this grave had always been a scene of delight to me. in the house my father would often be weary of my prattle and send me from him; but here he was all my own. i might say anything and be as frolicsome as i pleased here; all was cheerfulness and good humour in our visits to mamma, as we called it. my father would tell me how quietly mamma slept there, and that he and his little betsy would one day sleep beside mamma in that grave; and when i went to bed, as i laid my little head on the pillow i used to wish i was sleeping in the grave with my papa and mamma, and in my childish dreams i used to fancy myself there; and it was a place within the ground, all smooth and soft and green. i never made out any figure of mamma, but still it was the tombstone and papa and the smooth green grass, and my head resting on the elbow of my father.".... in the story called _the father's wedding day_, the same strain of feeling is developed in a somewhat different way, but with a like truth. landor praised it with such genial yet whimsical extravagance as almost defeats itself, in a letter to crabb robinson written in :--"it is now several days since i read the book you recommended to me, _mrs. leicester's school_, and i feel as if i owed you a debt in deferring to thank you for many hours of exquisite delight. never have i read anything in prose so many times over within so short a space of time as _the father's wedding day_. most people, i understand, prefer the first tale--in truth a very admirable one--but others could have written it. show me the man or woman, modern or ancient, who could have written this one sentence: 'when i was dressed in my new frock, i wished poor mamma was alive, to see how fine i was on papa's wedding day; and i ran to my favorite station at her bedroom door.' how natural in a little girl is this incongruity--this impossibility! richardson would have given his clarissa and rousseau his heloïse to have imagined it. a fresh source of the pathetic bursts out before us, and not a bitter one. if your germans can show us anything comparable to what i have transcribed, i would almost undergo a year's gurgle of their language for it. the story is admirable throughout--incomparable, inimitable." the second tale,--_louisa manners, or the farm house_, has already been spoken of (p. ); for in louisa's pretty prattle we have a reminiscence of mary's happiest childish days among "the brutons and the gladmans" in hertfordshire; and in _margaret green, or the young mahometan_ (pp. - ), of her more sombre experiences with grandmother field at blakesware. the tales contributed by charles lamb are _maria howe, or the effect of witch stories_, which contains a weird and wonderful portrait of aunt hetty; _susan yates, or first going to church_ (see pp. - ), and _arabella hardy, or the sea voyage_. it may be worth noting that mary signs her little prelude, the _dedication to the young ladies_, with the initials of her boy-favourite martin burney; a pretty indication of affection for him. many years after the appearance of _mrs. leicester's school_, coleridge said to allsop: "it at once soothes and amuses me to think--nay, to know--that the time will come when this little volume of my dear and well-nigh oldest friend, mary lamb, will be not only enjoyed but acknowledged as a rich jewel in the treasury of our permanent english literature; and i cannot help running over in my mind the long list of celebrated writers, astonishing geniuses, novels, romances, poems, histories, and dense political economy quartos which, compared with _mrs. leicester's school_, will be remembered as often and prized as highly as wilkie's and glover's _epics_ and lord bolingbroke's _philosophics_ compared with _robinson crusoe_." but a not unimportant question is--what have the little folk thought? the answer is incontrovertible. the first edition sold out immediately, and four more were called for in the course of five years. it has continued in fair demand ever since; though there have not been anything like so many recent reprints as of the _tales from shakespeare_. it is one of those children's books which to re-open in after life is like revisiting some sunny old garden, some favourite haunt of childhood where every nook and cranny seems familiar, and calls up a thousand pleasant memories. _mrs. leicester's school_ was published at godwin's juvenile library, skinner street, christmas ; and, stimulated by its immediate success and by godwin's encouragement, mary once more set to work, this time to try her hand in verse. but, meanwhile, came the domestic upset of a removal, nay of two. the landlord of the rooms in mitre court building wanted them for himself, and so the lambs had to quit. march , , charles writes to manning: "while i think on it let me tell you we are moved. don't come any more to mitre court buildings. we are at southampton buildings, chancery lane, and shall be here till about the end of may; then we remove to no. , inner temple lane, where i mean to live and die; for i have such a horror of moving that i would not take a benefice from the king if i was not indulged with non-residence. what a dislocation of comfort is comprised in that word 'moving.' such a heap of little nasty things, after you think all is got into the cart: old dredging-boxes, worn-out brushes, gallipots, vials, things that it is impossible the most necessitous person can ever want, but which the women who preside on these occasions will not leave behind if it was to save your soul. they'd keep the cart ten minutes to stow in dirty pipes and broken matches to show their economy. then you can find nothing you want for many days after you get into your new lodgings. you must comb your hair with your fingers, wash your hands without soap, go about in dirty gaiters. were i diogenes i would not move out of a kilderkin into a hogshead, though the first had had nothing but small beer in it, and the second reeked claret." the unwonted stress of continuous literary work and the turmoil and fatigue of a double removal produced the effect that might have been anticipated on mary. in june ( ) lamb wrote to coleridge of his change "to more commodious quarters. i have two rooms on the third floor," he continues, "and five rooms above, with an inner staircase to myself, new painted and all for £ a year! i came into them on saturday week; and on monday following mary was taken ill with the fatigue of moving; and affected i believe by the novelty of the house, 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-by. the rooms are delicious, and the best look backwards into hare court where there is a pump always going. just now it is dry. hare court trees come in at the window, so that 'tis 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 mansion. they are in their infancy to me; i do not feel them yet; no hearth has blazed to them yet. how i hate and dread new places!... let me hear from some of you, for i am desolate. i shall have to send you, in a week or two, two volumes of juvenile poetry done by mary and me within the last six months, and that tale in prose which wordsworth 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.... our little poems are but humble, but they have no name. you must read them, remembering they were 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." lamb left his friends to guess which were his and which mary's. were it a question of their prose the task were easy. the brother's "witty delicacy" of style, the gentle irony under which was hid his deep wisdom, the frolicsome, fantastic humours that often veiled his tenderness, are individual, unique. but in verse, and especially in a little volume of "task-work," those fragments of mary's which he quotes in his letters show them to have been more similar and equal. it is certain only that _the three friends_, _queen oriana's dream_, and the lines _to a river in which a child was drowned_ were his, and that his total share was "one-third in quantity of the whole." also that _the two boys_ (reprinted by lamb in his _detached thoughts on books and reading_), _david in the cave of adullam_, and _the first tooth_ are certainly mary's. through all there breathes a sweet and wise spirit; but sometimes, and no doubt on mary's part, the desire to enforce a moral is too obtrusive, and the teaching too direct, though always it is of a high and generous kind; never pragmatic and pharisaic after the manner of dr. watts. that difficult art of artlessness and perfect simplicity, as in blake's _songs of innocence_, which a child's mind demands and a mature mind loves, is rarely attained. yet i think _the beasts in the tower_, _crumbs to the birds_, _motes in the sunbeam_, _the coffee slips_, _the broken doll_, _the books and the sparrow_, _blindness_, _the two boys_, and others not a few, must have been favourites in many a nursery. _the text_, in which a self-satisfied little gentleman who listens to and remembers all the sermon is contrasted, much to his disadvantage, with his sister who did not hear a word, because her heart was full of affectionate longing to make up a quarrel they had had outside the church-door,--is very pretty in a moral, if not in a musical point of view. this and the three examples which i subjoin were certainly mary's. the lullaby calls up a picture of her as a sad child nursing her little charles, though he was no orphan: nursing. o hush, my little baby brother; sleep, my little baby brother; sleep, my love, upon my knee. what though, dear child, we've lost our mother; that can never trouble thee. you are but ten weeks old to-morrow: what can _you_ know of our loss? the house is full enough of sorrow, little baby, don't be cross. peace! cry not so, my dearest love; hush, my baby-bird, lie still; he's quiet now, he does not move, fast asleep is little will. my only solace, only joy, since the sad day i lost my mother, is nursing her own willy boy, my little orphan brother. the gentle raillery of the next seems equally characteristic of mary:-- feigned courage. horatio, of ideal courage vain, was flourishing in air his father's cane, and, as the fumes of valour swelled his pate, now thought himself _this_ hero, and now _that_: "and now," he cried, "i will achilles be, my sword i brandish; see, the trojans flee. now i'll be hector, when his angry blade a lane through heaps of slaughtered grecians made! and now, by deeds still braver, i'll evince i am no less than edward the black prince: give way, ye coward french."--as thus he spoke, and aimed in fancy a sufficient stroke to fix the fate of cressy or poictiers (the muse relates the hero's fate with tears); he struck his milk-white hand against a nail, sees his own blood, and feels his courage fail. ah! where is now that boasted valour flown, that in the tented field so late was shown? achilles weeps, great hector hangs the head, and the black prince goes whimpering to bed! the last is so pretty a little song it deserves to be fitted with an appropriate melody:-- crumbs to the birds. a bird appears a thoughtless thing, he's ever living on the wing, and keeps up such a carolling, that little else to do but sing a man would guess had he. no doubt he has his little cares, and very hard he often fares, the which so patiently he bears, that, listening to those cheerful airs, who knows but he may be in want of his next meal of seeds? i think for _that_ his sweet song pleads. if so, his pretty art succeeds, i'll scatter there among the weeds all the small crumbs i see. _poetry for children, entirely original, by the author of mrs. leicester's school_, as the title-page runs, was published in the summer of , and the whole of the first edition sold off rapidly; but instead of being reprinted entire, selections from it only--twenty-six out of the eighty-four pieces--were incorporated by a schoolmaster of the name of mylius in two books called _the first book of poetry_ and _the poetical class book_, issued from the same juvenile library in . these went through many editions, but ultimately dropped quite out of sight, as the original work had already done. writing to bernard barton in lamb says: "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 money." fifty years later such specimens of these poems as could be gathered from the mylius collections and from lamb's own works, were republished by mr. w. carew hazlitt and also by richard herne shepherd; when, at last in , there came to hand from australia a copy of the original edition: it had been purchased at a sale of books and furniture at plymouth in and thence carried to adelaide. it was reprinted entire by mr. shepherd (chatto and windus, ), with a preface from which the foregoing details have been gathered. a new england publisher early descried the worth of the _poetry for children_; for it was reprinted in boston--eighty-one pieces, at least, out of the eighty-four--in . a copy of this american edition also has recently come to light. this was mary's last literary undertaking in book form; but there is reason to think she wrote occasional articles for periodicals for some years longer. one such, at any rate, on _needle-work_, written in , is mentioned by crabb robinson, of which more hereafter. chapter xi. the hazlitts again.--letters to mrs. hazlitt, and two visits to winterslow.--birth of hazlitt's son. - .--Æt. - . hazlitt and his bride had, for the present, settled down in sarah's cottage at winterslow; so mary continued to send them every now and then a pretty budget of gossip:-- "dec. , . "i hear of you from your brother, but you do not write yourself, nor does hazlitt. i beg that one or both of you will amend this fault as speedily as possible, for i am very anxious to hear of your health.... you cannot think how very much we miss you and h. of a wednesday evening. all the glory of the night, i may say, is at an end. phillips makes his jokes, and there is none 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 quarter whatsoever. hazlitt was most brilliant, most ornamental as a wednesday-man; but he was a more useful 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 drunk 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 invitation and proposal from t. s. that c. l. should write some scenes in 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, that is, i mean, if charles' 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 refusing 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 writing letters, he said. i wanted him to tell your husband about a great work which godwin is going to publish, [an _essay on sepulchres_] to enlighten the world once more, and i shall not be able to make out what it is. he (godwin) took his usual walk one evening, a fortnight since, to the end of hatton garden and back again. during that walk a thought came into his mind which he instantly set 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 qualifications. 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 was, in case of an insurrection among the people, or any other cause by which a city or country may be destroyed, to be carefully preserved, and then when things got again into their usual order, the white-cross-wooden-slab-makers were to go to work again and set them 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, which is followed by very fine writing on the benefits he conjectures would follow if it were done. very excellent thoughts on death and on our feelings concerning dead friends and the advantages an old country has over a new one, even in the slender memorials we 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 on. tell us how you go on and how you like winterslow and winter evenings. noales (knowles) has not got back again, but he is in better spirits. john hazlitt was here on wednesday, very sober. our love to hazlitt. "there came this morning a printed prospectus from s. t. coleridge, grasmere, of a weekly paper to be called _the friend_--a flaming prospectus--i have no time to give the heads of it--to commence first saturday in january. there came also a notice of a turkey from mr. clarkson, which i am more sanguine in expecting the accomplishment of than i am of coleridge's prophecy." a few weeks after the date of this letter sarah had a little son. he lived but six months; just long enough for his father's restless, dissatisfied heart to taste for once the sweetness of a tie unalloyed with any bitterness, and the memory of it never faded out. there is a pathetic allusion in one of his latest essays to a visit to the neglected spot where the baby was laid, and where still "as the nettles wave in a corner of the churchyard over his little grave, the welcome breeze helps to refresh me and ease the tightness at my breast." in march of this year, too, died one of the most conspicuous members of lamb's circle, thomas holcroft; dear to godwin, but not, perhaps, a great favourite with the lambs. he was too dogmatic and disputatious,--a man who would pull you up at every turn for a definition, which, as coleridge said, was like setting up perpetual turnpikes along the road to truth. hazlitt undertook to write his life. the visit to winterslow which had been so often talked of before sarah's marriage was again under discussion and, on june nd, mary, full of thoughtful consideration for her hosts that were to be, writes jointly with martin burney:-- "'you may write to hazlitt that i will _certainly_ go to winterslow, as my father has agreed to give me £ to bear my expences, and has given leave that i may stop till that is spent, leaving enough to defray my carriage on th july.' "so far martin has written, and further than that i can give you no intelligence, for i do not yet know phillips' intentions; nor can i tell you the exact time when we can come; nor can i positively say we shall come at all; for we have scruples of conscience about there being so many of us. martin says if you can borrow a blanket or two he can sleep on the floor without either bed or mattress, which would save his expenses at the hut; for if phillips breakfasts there he must do so too, which would swallow up all his money. and he and i have calculated that if he has no inn expenses he may as well spare that money to give you for a part of his roast beef. we can spare you also just five pounds. you are not to say this to hazlitt, lest his delicacy should be alarmed; but i tell you what martin and i have planned that if you happed to be empty-pursed at this time, you may think it as well to make him up a bed in the best kitchen. i think it very probable that phillips will come, and if you do not like such a crowd of us, for they both talk of staying a whole month, tell me so, and we will put off our visit till next summer. "thank you very much for the good work you have done for me. mrs. stoddart also thanks you for the gloves. how often must i tell you never to do any needle-work for anybody but me?... "i cannot write any more, for we have got a noble life of lord nelson, lent us for a short time by my poor relation the bookbinder, and i want to read as much of it as i can." the death of the baby and one of mary's severe attacks of illness combined to postpone the visit till autumn; but, when it did come to pass, it completely restored her, and left lasting remembrance of its pleasures both with hosts and guests. charles tells coleridge (oct. ): "the journey has been of infinite service to mary. 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 just six weeks; it left her weak, but the country has made us whole." and mary herself wrote to sarah (nov. ): "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 drawbacks 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 unaccompanied; but sorry i am to add, it is soon followed by the pipe and the gin-bottle. we smoked the very first night of our arrival. "great news! i have just been interrupted by mr. dawe, who comes to tell me he was yesterday elected an academician. he said none of his own friends voted for him; he got it by strangers who were pleased with 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, dawe was in a prodigious sweat 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 window, and my died manning silk cut out. "yesterday was an eventful day, for yesterday, too, martin burney was to be examined by lord eldon, previous to his being admitted as an attorney; but he has not been here yet to announce his success. "i carried the baby-caps to mrs. john hazlitt. she was much pleased and vastly thankful. mr. h. got fifty-four guineas at rochester, and has now several pictures in hand. "i am going to tell you a secret, for ---- says she would be sorry to have it talked of. one night ---- came home from the ale-house, bringing with him a great rough, ill-looking fellow, whom he introduced to ---- as mr. brown, a gentleman he had hired as a mad-keeper to take care of him at forty pounds a year, being ten pounds under the usual price for keepers, which sum mr. brown had agreed to remit out of pure friendship. it was with great difficulty and by threatening to call in the aid of a watchman and constables that ---- could prevail on mr. brown to leave the house. "we had a good chearful meeting on wednesday; much talk of winterslow, its woods and its nice sunflowers. i did not so much like phillips at winterslow as i now like him for having been with us at winterslow. we roasted the last of his 'beach 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 like 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 upon 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 well and return you my sincere thanks for my good health and improved looks, which have almost made mrs. godwin 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 your suppers when you come to town again. she, jane, broke two of the hogarth glasses while we were away; whereat i made a great noise. "farewell. love to william, and charles' love and good wishes for the speedy arrival of the life of holcroft and the bearer thereof. charles told mrs. godwin hazlitt had found a well in his garden which, water being scarce in your country, would bring him in two hundred a year; and she came in great haste the next morning to ask me if it were true." hazlitt, too, remembered to the end of his life those golden autumn days; "lamb among the villagers like the most capricious poet ovid among the goths;" the evening walks with him and mary to look at 'the claude lorraine skies melting from azure into purple and gold, and to gather mushrooms that sprung up at our feet to throw into our hashed mutton at supper.' when lamb called to congratulate mr. dawe on his good fortune his housekeeper seemed embarrassed, owned that her master was alone, but ushered in the visitor with reluctance. for why? "at his easel stood d. with an immense spread of canvas before him, and by his side--a live goose. under the rose he informed me that he had undertaken to paint a transparency for vauxhall, against an expected visit of the allied sovereigns. i smiled at an engagement so derogatory to his new-born honours; but a contempt of small gains was never one of d.'s foibles. my eyes beheld crude forms of warriors, kings rising under his brush upon this interminable stretch of cloth. the volga, the don, the dnieper were there, or their representative river gods, and father thames clubbed urns with the vistula. glory with her dazzling eagle was not absent, nor fame nor victory. the shade of rubens might have evoked the mighty allegories. but what was the goose? he was evidently sitting for a something. d. at last informed me that he could not introduce the royal thames without his _swans_. that he had inquired the price of a live swan, and it being more than he was prepared to give for it, he had bargained with the poulterer for the _next thing to it_, adding significantly that it would do to roast after it had served its turn to paint swans by." (lamb's _recollections of a royal academician_.) the following year the visit to winterslow was repeated, but not with the same happy results. in a letter written during his stay to mr. basil montague charles says: "my head has received such a shock by an all-night journey on the top of the coach that i shall have enough to do to nurse it into its natural pace before i go home. i must devote myself to imbecility; i must be gloriously useless while i stay here. the city of salisbury is full of weeping and wailing. the bank has stopped payment, and everybody in the town kept money at it or has got some of its notes. some have lost all they had in the world. it is the next thing to seeing a city with the plague within its walls; and i do suppose it to be the unhappiest county in england this, where i am making holiday. we purpose setting out for oxford tuesday fortnight, and coming thereby home. but no more night-travelling; my head is sore (understand it of the inside) with that deduction from my natural rest which i suffered coming down. neither mary nor i can spare a morsel of our rest, it is incumbent on us to be misers of it." the visit to oxford was paid, hazlitt accompanying them and much enhancing the enjoyment of it, especially of a visit to the picture gallery at blenheim. "but our pleasant excursion has ended sadly for one of us," he tells hazlitt on his return. "my sister got home very well (i was very ill on the journey) and continued so till monday night, when her complaint came on, and she is now absent from home. i think i shall be mad if i take any more journeys with two experiences against it. i have lost all wish for sights." it was a long attack; at the end of october mary was still "very weak and low-spirited," and there were domestic misadventures not calculated to improve matters. "we are in a pickle," says charles to wordsworth. "mary, from her affectation of physiognomy, has hired a stupid, big, country wench, who looked honest as she thought, and has been doing her work some days, but without eating; and now it comes out that she was ill when she came, with lifting her mother about (who is now with god) when she was dying, and with riding up from norfolk four days and nights in the waggon, and now she lies in her bed a dead weight upon our humanity, incapable of getting up, refusing to go to an hospital, having nobody in town but a poor asthmatic uncle, and she seems to have made up her mind to take her flight to heaven from our bed. oh for the little wheelbarrow which trundled the hunchback from door to door to try the various charities of different professions of mankind! here's her uncle just crawled up, he is far liker death than she. in this perplexity such topics as spanish papers and monkhouses sink into insignificance. what shall we do?" the perplexity seems to have cleared itself up somehow speedily, for in a week's time mary herself wrote to mrs. hazlitt, not very cheerfully, but with no allusion to this particular disaster:-- "nov. , . "i have taken a large sheet of paper, as if i were going to write a long letter; but that is by no means my intention, for i have only time to write three lines to notify what i ought to have done the moment i received your welcome letter; namely, that i shall be very much joyed to see you. every morning lately i have been expecting to see you drop in, even before your letter came; and i have been setting my wits to work to think how to make you as comfortable as the nature of our inhospitable habits will admit. i must work while you are here, and i have been slaving very hard to get through with something before you come, that i may be quite in the way of it, and not teize you with complaints all day that i do not know what to do. "i am very sorry to hear of your mischance. mrs. rickman has just buried her youngest child. i am glad i am an old maid, for you see there is nothing but misfortunes in the marriage state. charles was drunk last night, and drunk the night before; which night before was at godwin's, where we went, at a short summons from mr. g., to play a solitary rubber, which was interrupted by the entrance of mr. and little mrs. liston; and after them came henry robinson, who is now domesticated at mr. godwin's fireside, and likely to become a formidable rival to tommy turner. we finished there at twelve o'clock, charles and liston brim full of gin and water and snuff, after which henry robinson spent a long evening by our fireside at home, and there was much gin and water drunk, albeit only one of the party partook of it, and h. r. professed himself highly indebted to charles for the useful information he gave him on sundry matters of taste and imagination, even after charles could not speak plain for tipsiness. but still he swallowed the flattery and the spirits as savourily as robinson did his cold water. "last night was to be a night, but it was not. there was a certain son of one of martin's employers, one young mr. blake, to do whom honour mrs. burney brought forth, first rum, then a single bottle of champaine, long kept in her secret hoard; then two bottles of her best currant wine, which she keeps for mrs. rickman, came out; and charles partook liberally of all these beverages, while mr. young blake and mr. ireton talked of high matters, such as the merits of the whip club, and the merits of red and white champaine. do i spell that last word right? rickman was not there, so ireton had it all his own way. "the alternating wednesdays will chop off one day in the week from your jolly days, and i do not know how we shall make it up to you, but i will contrive the best i can. phillips comes again pretty regularly, to the great joy of mrs reynolds. once more she hears the well-loved sounds of 'how do you do, mrs. reynolds? and how does miss chambers do?' "i have spun out my three lines amazingly; now for family news. your brother's little twins are not dead, but mrs. john hazlitt and her baby may be for anything i know to the contrary, for i have not been there for a prodigious long time. mrs. holcroft still goes about from nicholson to tuthill, and tuthill to godwin, and from godwin to nicholson, to consult on the publication or no publication of the life of the good man, her husband. it is called _the life everlasting_. how does that same life go on in your parts? goodbye, god bless you. i shall be glad to see you when you come this way. "i am going in great haste to see mrs. clarkson, for i must get back to dinner, which i have hardly time to do. i wish that dear, good, amiable woman would go out of town. i thought she was clean gone, and yesterday there was a consultation of physicians held at her house to see if they could keep her among them here a few weeks longer." the concluding volumes of this same _life everlasting_ remained unprinted somewhere in a damp hamper, mr. carew hazlitt tells us: for, in truth, the admirable fragment of autobiography holcroft dictated on his death-bed contained the cream of the matter, and was all the public cared to listen to. mary continuing "in a feeble and tottering condition," charles found it needful to make a decisive stand on her behalf against the exhaustion and excitement of incessant company, and especially against the disturbed rest, which resulted from sharing her room with a guest. "nov. , . "mary has been very ill indeed since you saw her," he wrote to hazlitt, "as ill as she can be to remain at home. but she is a good deal better now, owing to a very careful regimen. she drinks nothing but water, and never goes out; she does not even go to the captain's. her indisposition has been ever since that night you left town, the night miss wordsworth came. her coming, and that d----d mrs. godwin coming and staying so late that night so overset her that she lay broad awake all that night, and it was by a miracle that she escaped a very bad illness, which i thoroughly expected. i have made up my mind that she shall never have any one in the house again with her, and that no one shall sleep with her, not even for a night; for it is a very serious thing to be always living with a kind of fever upon her, and therefore i am sure you will take it in good part if i say that if mrs. hazlitt comes to town at any time, however glad we shall be to see her in the day-time, i cannot ask her to spend a night under our roof. some decision we must come to; for the harassing fever that we have both been in, owing to miss wordsworth's coming, is not to be borne, and i would rather be dead than so alive. however, owing to a regimen and medicines which tuthill has given her, who very kindly volunteered the care of her, she is a great deal quieter, though too much harassed by company, who cannot or will not see how late hours and society teaze her." the next letter to sarah is a cheerful one, as the occasion demanded. it is also the last to her that has been preserved, probably the last that was written; for, a few months later, hazlitt fairly launched himself on a literary career in london, and took up his abode next door to jeremy bentham, at york street, westminster,--once milton's house. "oct. , . "i have been a long time anxiously expecting the happy news that i have just received. i address you because, as the letter has been lying some days at the india house, i hope you are able to sit up and read my congratulations on the little live boy you have been so many years wishing for. as we old women say, 'may he live to be a great comfort to you!' i never knew an event of the kind that gave me so much pleasure as the little long-looked-for-come-at-last's arrival; and i rejoice to hear his honour has begun to suck. the word was not distinctly written, and i was a long time making out the solemn fact. i hope to hear from you soon, for i am anxious to know if your nursing labours are attended with any difficulties. i wish you a happy _getting-up_ and a merry christening! "charles sends his love; perhaps, though, he will write a scrap to hazlitt at the end. he is now looking over me. he is always in my way, for he has had a month's holiday at home. but i am happy to say they end on monday, when mine begin, for i am going to pass a week at richmond with mrs. burney. she has been dying, but she went to the isle of wight and recovered once more, and she is finishing her recovery at richmond. when there, i mean to read novels and play at piquet all day long." "my blessing and heaven's be upon him," added charles, "and make him like his father, with something a better temper and a smoother head of hair, and then all the men and women must love him."... chapter xii. an essay on needle-work. .--Æt. . towards the end of crabb robinson called on mary lamb and found her suffering from great fatigue after writing an article on needle-work for the _british lady's magazine_, which was just about to start on a higher basis than its predecessors. it undertook to provide something better than the usual fashion plates, silly tales and sillier verses then generally thought suitable for women; and, to judge by the early numbers, the editor kept the promise of his introductory address and deserved a longer lease of life for his magazine than it obtained. mary's little essay appeared in the number for april ; and is on many accounts interesting. it contains several autobiographic touches; it is the only known instance in which she has addressed herself to full-grown readers, and it is sagacious and far-seeing. for mary does not treat of needle-work as an art, but as a factor in social life. she pleads both for the sake of the bodily welfare of the many thousands of women who have to earn their bread by it, and of the mental well-being of those who have not so to do, that it should be regarded, like any other mechanical art, as a thing to be done for hire; and that what a woman _does_ work at should be real work, something, that is, which yields a return either of mental or of pecuniary profit. she also exposes the fallacy of the time-honoured maxim "a penny saved is a penny earned," by the ruthless logic of experience. but the reader shall judge for himself; the _magazine_ has become so rare a book that i will here subjoin the little essay in full:-- on needle-work. mr. editor, "in early life i passed eleven years in the exercise of my needle for a livelihood. will you allow me to address your readers, among whom might perhaps be found some of the kind patronesses of my former humble labours, on a subject widely connected with female life--the state of needle-work in this country. "to lighten the heavy burthen which many ladies impose upon themselves is one object which i have in view; but, i confess, my strongest motive is to excite attention towards the industrious sisterhood to which i once belonged. "from books i have been informed of the fact upon which _the british lady's magazine_ chiefly founds its pretensions; namely, that women have, of late, been rapidly advancing in intellectual improvement. much may have been gained in this way, indirectly, for that class of females for whom i wish to plead. needle-work and intellectual improvement are naturally in a state of warfare. but i am afraid the root of the evil has not, as yet, been struck at. work-women of every description were never in so much distress for want of employment. "among the present circle of my acquaintance i am proud to rank many that may truly be called respectable; nor do the female part of them in their mental attainments at all disprove the prevailing opinion of that intellectual progression which you have taken as the basis of your work; yet i affirm that i know not a single family where there is not some essential drawback to its comfort which may be traced to needle-work _done at home_, as the phrase is for all needle-work performed in a family by some of its own members, and for which no remuneration in money is received or expected. "in money alone, did i say? i would appeal to all the fair votaries of voluntary housewifery whether, in the matter of conscience, any one of them ever thought she had done as much needle-work as she ought to have done. even fancy-work, the fairest of the tribe! how delightful the arrangement of her materials! the fixing upon her happiest pattern, how pleasing an anxiety! how cheerful the commencement of the labour she enjoys! but that lady must be a true lover of the art, and so industrious a pursuer of a predetermined purpose, that it were pity her energy should not have been directed to some wiser end, who can affirm she neither feels weariness during the execution of a fancy piece, nor takes more time than she had calculated for the performance. "is it too bold an attempt to persuade your readers that it would prove an incalculable addition to general happiness and the domestic comfort of both sexes, if needle-work were never practised but for a remuneration in money? as nearly, however, as this desirable thing can be effected, so much more nearly will woman be upon an equality with men as far as respects the mere enjoyment of life. as far as that goes, i believe it is every woman's opinion that the condition of men is far superior to her own. "'they can do what they like,' we say. do not these words generally mean they have time to seek out whatever amusements suit their tastes? we dare not tell them we have no time to do this; for if they should ask in what manner we dispose of our time we should blush to enter upon a detail of the minutiæ which compose the sum of a woman's daily employment. nay, many a lady who allows not herself one quarter of an hour's positive leisure during her waking hours, considers her own husband as the most industrious of men if he steadily pursue his occupation till the hour of dinner, and will be perpetually lamenting her own idleness. "_real business_ and _real leisure_ make up the portions of men's time:--two sources of happiness which we certainly partake of in a very inferior degree. to the execution of employments in which the faculties of the body or mind are called into busy action there must be a consoling importance attached, which feminine duties (that generic term for all our business) cannot aspire to. "in the most meritorious discharges of those duties the highest praise we can aim at is to be accounted the helpmates of _man_; who, in return for all he does for us, expects, and justly expects, us to do all in our power to soften and sweeten life. "in how many ways is a good woman employed in thought or action through the day that her _good man_ may be enabled to feel his leisure hours _real_, _substantial holiday_ and perfect respite from the cares of business! not the least part to be done to accomplish this end is to fit herself to become a conversational companion; that is to say, she has to study and understand the subjects on which he loves to talk. this part of our duty, if strictly performed, will be found by far our hardest part. the disadvantages we labour under from an education differing from a manly one make the hours in which we _sit and do nothing_ in men's company too often anything but a relaxation; although as to pleasure and instruction time so passed may be esteemed more or less delightful. "to make a man's home so desirable a place as to preclude his having a wish to pass his leisure hours at any fireside in preference to his own, i should humbly take to be the sum and substance of woman's domestic ambition. i would appeal to our british ladies, who are generally allowed to be the most jealous and successful of all women in the pursuit of this object, i would appeal to them who have been most successful in the performance of this laudable service, in behalf of father, son, husband or brother, whether an anxious desire to perform this duty well is not attended with enough of _mental_ exertion, at least, to incline them to the opinion that women may be more properly ranked among the contributors to than the partakers of the undisturbed relaxation of men. "if a family be so well ordered that the master is never called in to its direction, and yet he perceives comfort and economy well attended to, the mistress of that family (especially if children form a part of it), has, i apprehend, as large a share of womanly employment as ought to satisfy her own sense of duty; even though the needle-book and thread-case were quite laid aside, and she cheerfully contributed her part to the slender gains of the corset-maker, the milliner, the dress-maker, the plain worker, the embroidress and all the numerous classifications of females supporting themselves by _needle-work_, that great staple commodity which is alone appropriated to the self-supporting part of our sex. "much has been said and written on the subject of men engrossing to themselves every occupation and calling. after many years of observation and reflection i am obliged to acquiesce in the notion that it cannot well be ordered otherwise. "if, at the birth of girls, it were possible to foresee in what cases it would be their fortune to pass a single life, we should soon find trades wrested from their present occupiers and transferred to the exclusive possession of our sex. the whole mechanical business of copying writings in the law department, for instance, might very soon be transferred with advantage to the poorer sort of women, who, with very little teaching, would soon beat their rivals of the other sex in facility and neatness. the parents of female children who were known to be destined from their birth to maintain themselves through the whole course of their lives with like certainty as their sons are, would feel it a duty incumbent on themselves to strengthen the minds, and even the bodily constitutions, of their girls so circumstanced, by an education which, without affronting the preconceived habits of society, might enable them to follow some occupation now considered above the capacity, or too robust for the constitution of our sex. plenty of resources would then lie open for single women to obtain an independent livelihood, when every parent would be upon the alert to encroach upon some employment, now engrossed by men, for such of their daughters as would then be exactly in the same predicament as their sons now are. who, for instance, would lay by money to set up his sons in trade, give premiums and in part maintain them through a long apprenticeship; or, which men of moderate incomes frequently do, strain every nerve in order to bring them up to a learned profession; if it were in a very high degree probable that, by the time they were twenty years of age, they would be taken from this trade or profession, and maintained during the remainder of their lives by the _person whom they should marry_. yet this is precisely the situation in which every parent whose income does not very much exceed the moderate, is placed with respect to his daughters. "even where boys have gone through a laborious education, superinducing habits of steady attention accompanied with the entire conviction that the business which they learn is to be the source of their future distinction, may it not be affirmed that the persevering industry required to accomplish this desirable end causes many a hard struggle in the minds of young men, even of the most hopeful disposition? what, then, must be the disadvantages under which a very young woman is placed who is required to learn a trade, from which she can never expect to reap any profit, but at the expense of losing that place in society to the possession of which she may reasonably look forward, inasmuch as it is by far the most _common lot_, namely, the condition of a _happy_ english wife? "as i desire to offer nothing to the consideration of your readers but what, at least as far as my own observation goes, i consider as truths confirmed by experience, i will only say that, were i to follow the bent of my own speculative opinion, i should be inclined to persuade every female over whom i hoped to have any influence to contribute all the assistance in her power to those of her own sex who may need it, in the employments they at present occupy, rather than to force them into situations now filled wholly by men. with the mere exception of the profits which they have a right to derive by their needle, i would take nothing from the industry of man which he already possesses. "'a penny saved is a penny earned,' is a maxim not true unless the penny be saved in the same time in which it might have been earned. i, who have known what it is to work for _money earned_, have since had much experience in working for _money saved_; and i consider, from the closest calculation i can make, that a _penny saved_ in that way bears about a true proportion to a _farthing earned_. i am no advocate for women who do not depend on themselves for subsistence, proposing to themselves to _earn money_. my reasons for thinking it not advisable are too numerous to state--reasons deduced from authentic facts and strict observations on domestic life in its various shades of comfort. but if the females of a family _nominally_ supported by the other sex find it necessary to add something to the common stock, why not endeavour to do something by which they may produce money _in its true shape_? "it would be an excellent plan, attended with very little trouble, to calculate every evening how much money has been saved by needle-work _done in the family_, and compare the result with the daily portion of the yearly income. nor would it be amiss to make a memorandum of the time passed in this way, adding also a guess as to what share it has taken up in the thoughts and conversation. this would be an easy mode of forming a true notion and getting at the exact worth of this species of _home_ industry, and perhaps might place it in a different light from any in which it has hitherto been the fashion to consider it. "needle-work taken up as an amusement may not be altogether unamusing. we are all pretty good judges of what entertains ourselves, but it is not so easy to pronounce upon what may contribute to the entertainment of others. at all events, let us not confuse the motives of economy with those of simple pastime. if _saving_ be no object, and long habit have rendered needle-work so delightful an avocation that we cannot think of relinquishing it, there are the good old contrivances in which our grand-dames were wont to beguile and lose their time--knitting, knotting netting, carpet-work, and the like ingenious pursuits--those so often praised but tedious works which are so long in the operation that purchasing the labour has seldom been thought good economy. yet, by a certain fascination, they have been found to chain down the great to a self-imposed slavery, from which they considerately or haughtily excused the needy. these may be esteemed lawful and lady-like amusements. but, if those works more usually denominated useful yield greater satisfaction, it might be a laudable scruple of conscience, and no bad test to herself of her own motive, if a lady who had no absolute need were to give the money so saved to poor needle-women belonging to those branches of employment from which she has borrowed these shares of pleasurable labour. sempronia." had mary lived now she would, perhaps, have spoken a wiser word than has yet been uttered on the urgent question of how best to develop, strengthen, give free and fair scope to that large part of a woman's nature and field of action which are the same in kind as man's, without detriment to the remaining qualities and duties peculiar to her as woman. she told crabb robinson that "writing was a most painful occupation, which only necessity could make her attempt; and that she had been learning latin merely to assist her in acquiring a correct style." but there is no trace of feebleness or confusion in her manner of grasping a subject; no want of latin, nor of anything else to improve her excellent style. she did enough to show that had her brain not been devastated for weeks and latterly for months in every year by an access of madness, she would have left, besides her tales for children, some permanent addition to literature, or given a recognisable impetus to thought. as it was, mary relinquished all attempt at literary work when an increase in charles' income released her from the duty of earning; and as her attacks became longer and more frequent her "fingers grew nervously averse" even to letter-writing. chapter xiii. letters to miss betham and her little sister.--to wordsworth.--manning's return.--coleridge goes to highgate.--letter to miss hutchinson on mary's state.--removal to russell street.--mary's letter to dorothy wordsworth.--lodgings at dalston.--death of john lamb and captain burney. - .--Æt. - . in a letter to southey, dated may th, , lamb says: "have you seen matilda betham's _lay of marie_? i think it very delicately pretty as to sentiment, &c." matilda, the daughter of a country clergyman of ancient lineage (author of learned and laborious _genealogical tables_, &c. &c.), was a lady of many talents and ambitions; especially of the laudable one, not so common in those days, to lighten the burthen of a large family of brothers and sisters by earning her own living. she went up to london, taught herself miniature painting, exhibited at somerset house, gave shakespeare readings, wrote a _biographical dictionary of celebrated women_, contributed verses to the magazines; and, last not least, by her genuine love of knowledge, and her warm and kindly heart, won the cordial liking of many men of genius, notably of coleridge, southey, and the lambs. when this same _lay of marie_ was on the stocks, mary took an earnest interest in its success, as the following letter prettily testifies:-- "my brother and myself return you a thousand thanks for your kind communication. we have read your poem many times over with increased interest, and very much wish to see you to tell you how highly we have been pleased with it. may we beg one favour? i keep the manuscript, in the hope that you will grant it. it is that either now, or when the whole poem is completed, you will read it over with us. when i say with _us_, of course i mean charles. i know that you have many judicious friends, but i have so often known my brother spy out errors in a manuscript which has passed through many judicious hands, that i shall not be easy if you do not permit him to look yours carefully through with you; and also you _must_ allow him to correct the press for you. if i knew where to find you i would call upon you. should you feel nervous at the idea of meeting charles in the capacity of a _severe censor_, give me a line, and i will come to you anywhere and convince you in five minutes that he is even timid, stammers, and can scarcely speak for modesty and fear of giving pain when he finds himself placed in that kind of office. shall i appoint a time to see you here when he is from home? i will send him out any time you will name; indeed i am always naturally alone till four o'clock. if you are nervous about coming, remember i am equally so about the liberty i have taken, and shall be till we meet and laugh off our mutual fears." "i return you by a careful hand the mss.," wrote charles. "did i not ever love your verses? the domestic half will be a sweet heirloom to have in the family. 'tis fragrant with cordiality. what friends you must have had, or dreamed of having! and what a widow's cruse of heartiness you have doled among them!" but as to the correction of the press, that proved a rash suggestion on mary's part; for the task came at an untoward time, and charles had to write a whimsical-repentant letter, which must have gone far to atone for his shortcoming:-- "all this while i have been tormenting myself with the thought of having been ungracious to you, and you have been all the while accusing yourself. let us absolve one another and be quiet. my head is in such a state from incapacity for business, that i certainly know it to be my duty not to undertake the veriest trifle in addition. i hardly know how i can go on. i have tried to get some redress by explaining my health, but with no great success. no one can tell how ill i am, because it does not come out to the exterior of my face, but lies in my skull, deep and invisible. i wish i was leprous, and black-jaundiced skin-over, or that all was as well within as my cursed looks. you must not think me worse than i am. i am determined not to be overset, but to give up business rather, and get 'em to allow me a trifle for services past. oh, that i had been a shoemaker, or a baker, or a man of large independent fortune. oh, darling laziness! heaven of epicurus! saint's everlasting rest! that i could drink vast potations of thee through unmeasured eternity. _otium cum vel sine dignitate._ scandalous, dishonourable, any kind of _repose_. i stand not upon the _dignified sort_. accursed, damned desks, trade, commerce, business. inventions of that old original busy-body, brain-working satan--sabbathless, restless satan. a curse relieves; do you ever try it? a strange letter to write to a lady, but more honeyed sentences will not distil. i dare not ask who revises in my stead. i have drawn you into a scrape, and am ashamed, but i know no remedy. my unwellness must be my apology. god bless you (tho' he curse the india house and fire it _to the ground_), and may no unkind error creep into _marie_. may all its readers like it as well as i do, and everybody about you like its kind author no worse! why the devil am i never to have a chance of scribbling my own free thoughts in verse or prose again? why must i write of tea and drugs, and price goods and bales of indigo? farewell...." miss betham possessed the further merit of having a charming little sister, for such she must surely have been to be the cause and the recipient of such a letter as the following from mary. barbara betham was then fourteen years old:-- "november , . "it is very long since i have met with such an agreeable surprise as the sight of your letter, my kind kind young friend, afforded me. such a nice letter as it is too; and what a pretty hand you write! i congratulate you on this attainment with great pleasure, because i have so often felt the disadvantage of my own wretched handwriting. you wish for london news. i rely upon your sister ann for gratifying you in this respect, yet i have been endeavouring to recollect whom you might have seen here, and what may have happened to them since, and this effort has only brought the image of little barbara betham, unconnected with any other person, so strongly before my eyes, that i seem as if i had no other subject to write upon. now i think i see you with your feet propped upon the fender, your two hands spread out upon your knees--an attitude you always chose when we were in familiar confidential conversation together--telling me long stories of your own home, where now you say you are 'moping on with the same thing every day,' and which then presented nothing but pleasant recollections to your mind. how well i remember your quiet, steady face bent over your book. one day, conscience-stricken at having wasted so much of your precious time in reading, and feeling yourself, as you prettily said, 'quite useless to me,' you went to my drawers and hunted out some unhemmed pocket-handkerchiefs, and by no means could i prevail upon you to resume your story-books till you had hemmed them all. i remember, too, your teaching my little maid to read, your sitting with her a whole evening to console her for the death of her sister, and that she, in her turn, endeavoured to become a comforter to you, the next evening, when you wept at the sight of mrs. holcroft, from whose school you had recently eloped because you were not partial to sitting in the stocks. those tears, and a few you dropped when my brother teased you about your supposed fondness for an apple-dumpling, were the only interruptions to the calm contentedness of your unclouded brow. "we still remain the same as you left us, neither taller, nor wiser, or perceptibly older; but three years must have made a great alteration in you. how very much, dear barbara, i should like to see you! "we still live in temple lane, but i am now sitting in a room you never saw. soon after you left us we were distressed by the cries of a cat, which seemed to proceed from the garrets adjoining to ours, and only separated from ours by a locked door on the farther side of my brother's bed-room, which you know was the little room at the top of the kitchen stairs. we had the lock forced, and let poor puss out from behind a panel of the wainscot, and she lived with us from that time, for we were in gratitude bound to keep her, as she had introduced us to four untenanted, unowned rooms, and by degrees we have taken possession of these unclaimed apartments, first putting up lines to dry our clothes, then moving my brother's bed into one of these more commodious than his own rooms; and last winter, my brother being unable to pursue a work he had begun, owing to the kind interruptions of friends who were more at leisure than himself, i persuaded him that he might write at ease in one of these rooms, as he could not then hear the door-knock, or hear himself denied to be at home, which was sure to make him call out and convict the poor maid in a fib. here, i said, he might be, almost really not at home. so i put in an old grate, and made him a fire in the largest of these garrets, and carried in his own table and one chair, and bid him write away and consider himself as much alone as if he were in a lodging in the midst of salisbury plain, or any other wide, unfrequented place where he could expect few visitors to break in upon his solitude. i left him quite delighted with his new acquisition, but in a few hours he came down again, with a sadly dismal face. he could do nothing, he said, with those bare white-washed walls before his eyes. he could not write in that dull unfurnished prison! "the next day, before he came home from his office, i had gathered up various bits of old carpeting to cover the floor; and to a little break the blank look of the bare walls i hung up a few old prints that used to ornament the kitchen; and after dinner, with great boast of what improvement i had made, i took charles once more into his new study. a week of busy labours followed, in which i think you would not have disliked to be our assistant. my brother and i almost covered the walls with prints, for which purpose he cut out every print from every book in his old library, coming in every now and then to ask my leave to strip a fresh poor author, which he might not do, you know, without my permission, as i am elder sister. there was such pasting, such consultation upon these portraits, and where the series of pictures from ovid, milton, and shakspeare would show to most advantage, and in what obscure corners authors of humble rank should be allowed to tell their stories. all the books gave up their stores but one, a translation from ariosto, a delicious set of four and twenty prints, and for which i had marked out a conspicuous place; when lo, we found at the moment the scissors were going to work, that a part of the poem was printed at the back of every picture! what a cruel disappointment! to conclude this long story about nothing, the poor despised garret is now called the print room, and is become our most familiar sitting-room.... the lions still live in exeter change. returning home through the strand, i often hear them roar about twelve o'clock at night. i never hear them without thinking of you, because you seemed so pleased with the sight of them, and said your young companions would stare when you told them you had seen a lion. "and now, my dear barbara, farewell. i have not written such a long letter a long time, but i am very sorry i had nothing amusing to write about. wishing you may pass happily through the rest of your schooldays and every future day of your life, "i remain, "your affectionate friend, "m. lamb. "my brother sends his love to you. you say you are not so tall as louisa--you must be; you cannot so degenerate from the rest of your family" ["the measureless bethams," lamb called them]. "now you have begun i shall hope to have the pleasure of hearing from you again. i shall always receive a letter from you with very great delight." the next is a joint letter to wordsworth, in acknowledgment of an early copy of _the excursion_, in which charles holds the pen and is the chief spokesman; but mary puts in a judicious touch of her own:-- "august th, . "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 mr. burney 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 on my memory (a bad term for the remains of an impression so recent) is the tales of the churchyard; 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 antipathies 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 first saw you 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 we saw on salisbury plain five years ago, that drew phillips from the card-table, where he had sat from the rise of that luminary to its unequalled set; but neither he nor i had gifted eyes to see those symbols of common things glorified, such as the prophet saw them in that sunset--the wheel, the potter's clay, the wash-pot, the wine-press, the almond-tree rod, the basket of figs, the four-fold visaged head, the throne and him that sat thereon." [it was a mist glorified by sunshine, not a sunset, which the poet had described, as lamb afterwards discovered.] "one feeling i was particularly struck with, as what i recognised so very lately at harrow church on entering it after a hot and secular day's pleasure, the instantaneous coolness and calming, almost transforming, properties of a country church 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. 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 matter 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 remark 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. "c. lamb and sister." manning, who had latterly been "tarrying on the skirts of creation" in far thibet and tartary, beyond the reach even of letters, now at last, in , appeared once more on the horizon at the "half-way house" of canton, to which place lamb hazarded a letter,--a most incomparable "lying letter," and another to confess the cheat to st. helena:--"have you recovered the breathless, stone-staring astonishment into which you must have been thrown upon learning at landing that an emperor of france was living in st. helena? what an event in the solitude of the seas! like finding a fish's bone at the top of plinlimmon.... mary reserves a portion of your silk, not to be buried in (as the false nuncio asserts), but to make up spick and span into a bran new gown to wear when you come. i am the same as when you knew me, almost to a surfeiting identity. this very night i am going to _leave off tobacco_! surely there must be some other world in which this unconquerable purpose shall be realised. the soul hath not her generous aspirings implanted in her in vain." manning brought with him on his return much material for compiling a chinese dictionary; which purpose, however, remained unfulfilled. he left no other memorial of himself than his friendship with lamb. "you see but his husk or shrine. he discloses not, save to select worshippers, and will leave the world without anyone hardly but me knowing how stupendous a creature he is," said lamb of him. henceforth their intercourse was chiefly personal. coleridge also, who of late had been almost as much lost to his friends as if he too were in tartary or thibet, though now and then "like a re-appearing star" standing up before them when least expected, was at the beginning of april once more in london, endeavouring to get his tragedy of _remorse_ accepted at covent garden. "nature, who conducts every creature by instinct to its best end, has skilfully directed c. to take up his abode at a chemist's laboratory in norfolk street," writes lamb to wordsworth. "she might as well as have sent a _helluo liborum_ for cure to the vatican. he has done pretty well as yet. tell miss hutchinson my sister is every day wishing to be quietly sitting down to answer her very kind letter, but while c. stays she can hardly find a quiet time; god bless him!" but coleridge was more in earnest than lamb supposed in his determination to break through his thraldom to opium. either way, he himself believed that death was imminent: to go on was deadly, and a physician of eminence had told him that to abstain altogether would, probably, be equally fatal. he therefore found a medical man willing to undertake the care of him: to exercise absolute surveillance for a time and watch the results. it is an affecting letter in which he commits himself into mr. gillman's hands:--"you will never _hear_ anything but truth from me, prior habits render it out of my power to tell an untruth, but unless carefully observed i dare not promise that i should not, with regard to this detested poison, be capable of acting one.... for the first week i must not be permitted to leave your house, unless with you. delicately or indelicately, this must be done, and both the servants and the assistant must receive absolute commands from you. the stimulus of conversation suspends the terror that haunts my mind; but when i am alone the horrors i have suffered from laudanum, the degradation, the blighted utility, almost overwhelm me. if (as i feel for the _first time_ a soothing confidence it will prove) i should leave you restored to my moral and bodily health, it is not myself only that will love and honour you; every friend i have (and thank god! in spite of this wretched vice i have many and warm ones, who were friends of my youth and have never deserted me) will thank you with reverence." that confidence was justified, those thanks well earned. in the middle of april coleridge took up his abode with the gillmans at no. the grove, at highgate, and found there a serene haven in which he anchored for the rest of life; freeing himself by slow degrees from the opium bondage, though too shattered in frame ever to recover sound health; too far spent, morally and mentally, by the long struggles and abasements he had gone through to renew the splendours of his youth. that "shaping spirit of imagination" with which nature had endowed him drooped languidly, save in fitful moments of fervid talk; that "fertile, subtle, expansive understanding" could not fasten with the long-sustained intensity needful to grapple victoriously with the great problems that filled his mind. the look of "timid earnestness" which carlyle noted in his eyes expressed a mental attitude--a mixture of boldness and fear, a desire to seek truth at all hazards, yet also to drag authority with him, as a safe and comfortable prop to rest on. but his eloquence had lost none of its richness and charm, his voice none of its sweetness. "his face, when he repeats his verses, hath its ancient glory, an archangel a little damaged," says lamb to wordsworth. "he is absent but four miles, and the neighbourhood of such a man is as exciting as the presence of fifty ordinary persons. 'tis enough to be within the whiff and wind of his genius for us not to possess our souls in quiet." besides the renewed proximity of these two oldest and dearest of friends, two new ones, both very young, both future biographers of lamb, were in these years added to the number of his intimates,--talfourd in , proctor in . leigh hunt had become one probably as early as ; crabb robinson in ; thomas hood, who stood in the front rank of his younger friends, and bernard barton, the quaker poet, lamb's chief correspondent during the last ten years of his life, not until - . the years did not pass without each bringing a recurrence of one, sometimes of two severe attacks of mary's disorder. in the autumn of charles repeats again the sad story to miss hutchinson:-- "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 favourable symptoms. the return of her disorder has been frightfully 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 we shall have to live together. i don't know but the recurrence of these illnesses might help me to sustain her death better than if we 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 we may be taking our meal together, or sitting in the 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 assailable; we are strong for the time as rocks,--'the wind is tempered to the shorn lambs.' poor c. lloyd" [he was suffering from the same dread malady], "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' misfortunes. but i feel all i can--all the kindness i can towards you all." more and more sought by an enlarging circle of friends, chambers in the temple offered facilities for the dropping in of acquaintance upon the lambs at all hours of the day and night, which, social as they were, was harassing, wearing and, to mary, very injurious. this it was, doubtless, which induced them to take the step announced by her in the following letter to dorothy wordsworth:-- "november , . "your kind letter has given us very great pleasure; the sight of your handwriting 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 will 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 inconveniences 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. , in russell street, covent garden, a place all alive with noise and bustle; drury lane theatre in sight from our front, and covent garden 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 carriages, and the squabbles of the coachmen and linkboys. 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 place, or i should have many misgivings about leaving the temple. i look forward with great pleasure to the prospect of seeing my good friend, miss hutchinson. i wish rydal mount, with all its inhabitants enclosed, were to be transplanted with her, and to remain stationary in the midst of covent garden. i passed through the street lately where mr. and mrs. wordsworth lodged; several fine new houses, which were then just rising out of the ground, are quite finished, and a noble entrance made that way into portland place. i am very sorry for mr. de quincey. what a blunder the poor man made when he took up his dwelling among the mountains! i long to see my friend pypos. coleridge is still at little hampton with mrs. gillman; he has been so ill as to be confined to his room almost the whole time he has been there. "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 their hanging round the room, which has been a great mortification to me. in vain i tried to console myself with looking at our new chairs and carpets, for we have got new chairs and carpets covering all over our two sitting rooms; i missed my old friends, and could not be comforted. 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 off from the sea, not even to look in a book: i had not seen the sea for sixteen years. mrs. morgan, 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 dreamed of--for, like as is the case in the neighbourhood of london, after the first two or three miles we are sure to find ourselves in a perfect solitude. i hope we shall meet before the walking faculties of either of us fail; you say 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. morgan could accomplish. god bless you and yours. love to all and each one." in the spring of the lambs took lodgings at stoke newington without, however, giving up the russell street home,--for the sake of rest and quiet; the change from the temple to covent garden not having proved much of a success in that respect, and the need grown serious. even lamb's mornings at the office and his walk thence were besieged by officious acquaintance: then, as he tells wordsworth, "up i go, mutton on table, hungry as a hunter, hope to forget my cares, and bury them in the agreeable abstraction of mastication. knock at the door; in comes mr. hazlitt, or mr. burney, or morgan demi gorgon, or my brother, or somebody, to prevent my eating alone--a process absolutely necessary to my poor wretched digestion. o the pleasure of eating alone! eating my dinner alone! let me think of it. but in they come, and make it absolutely necessary that i should open a bottle of orange; for my meat turns into a stone when any one dines with me if i have not wine. wine can mollify stones; then _that_ wine turns into acidity, acerbity, misanthropy, a hatred of my interrupters--(god bless 'em! i love some of 'em dearly)--and with the hatred a still greater aversion to their going away. bad is the dead sea they bring upon me, choking and deadening; but worse is the deader dry sand they leave me on if they go before bed-time. come never, i would say to these spoilers of my dinner; but if you come, never go!... evening company i should always like had i any mornings, but i am saturated with human faces (_divine_ forsooth!) and voices all the golden morning; and five evenings in a week would be as much as i should covet to be in company; but i assure you that is a wonderful week in which i can get two or one to myself. i am never c. l., but always c. l. & co. he who thought it not good for man to be alone preserve me from the more prodigious monstrosity of being never by myself! i forget bed-time, but even there these sociable frogs clamber up to annoy me."... it was during the russell street days that the lambs made the acquaintance of vincent novello. he had a little daughter, mary victoria, afterwards mrs. cowden-clarke, whose heart mary won, leaving many sweet and happy impressions of herself graven there, which eventually took shape in her _recollections of writers_. mrs. novello had lost a baby in the spring of , and from the quiet of stoke newington mary wrote her a sweet letter of condolence:-- "spring, . "since we heard of your sad sorrow, you have been perpetually in our thoughts; therefore you may well imagine how welcome your kind remembrance of us must be. i know not how to thank you for it. you bid me write a long letter; but my mind is so possessed with the idea that you must be occupied with one only thought, that all trivial matters seem impertinent. i have just been reading again mr. hunt's delicious essay [_deaths of little children_], which, i am sure, must have come so home to your hearts. i shall always love him for it. i feel that it is all that one can think, but which no one but he could have done so prettily. may he lose the memory of his own babies in seeing them all grow old around him. together with the recollection of your dear baby the image of a little sister i once had comes as fresh into my mind as if i had seen her lately.... i long to see you, and i hope to do so on tuesday or wednesday in next week. percy street! i love to write the word. what comfortable ideas it brings with it! we have been pleasing ourselves, ever since we heard this unexpected piece of good news, with the anticipation of frequent drop-in visits and all the social comfort of what seems almost next-door neighbourhood. "our solitary confinement has answered its purpose even better than i expected. it is so many years since i have been out of town in the spring that i scarcely knew of the existence of such a season. i see, every day, some new flower peeping out of the ground, and watch its growth; so that i have a sort of intimate friendship with each. i know the effect of every change of weather upon them--have learned all their names, the duration of their lives, and the whole progress of their domestic economy. my landlady, a nice, active old soul that wants but one year of eighty, and her daughter, a rather aged young gentlewoman, are the only labourers in a pretty large garden; for it is a double house, and two long strips of ground are laid into one, well stored with fruit trees, which will be in full blossom the week after i am gone, and flowers, as many as can be crammed in, of all sorts and kinds. but flowers are flowers still; and i must confess i would rather live in russell street all my life, and never set my foot but on the london pavement, than be doomed always to enjoy the silent pleasures i now do. we go to bed at ten o'clock. late hours are life-shortening things, but i would rather run all risks, and sit every night--at some places i could name--wishing in vain at eleven o'clock for the entrance of the supper tray, than be always up and alive at eight o'clock breakfast as i am here. we have a scheme to reconcile these things. we have an offer of a very low-rented lodging a mile nearer town than this. our notion is to divide our time in alternate weeks between quiet rest and dear london weariness. we give an answer to-morrow; but what that will be at this present writing i am unable to say. in the present state of our undecided opinion, a very heavy rain that is now falling may turn the scale.... dear rain, do go away, and let us have a fine chearful sunset to argue the matter fairly in. my brother walked seventeen miles yesterday before dinner. and, notwithstanding his long walk to and from the office, we walk every evening; but i by no means perform in this way so well as i used to do. a twelve mile walk, one hot sunday morning, made my feet blister, and they are hardly well now...." "a fine cheerful sunset" did smile, it seems, upon the project of permanent country lodgings; for during the next three years the lambs continued to alternate between "dear london weariness" in russell street, and rest and quiet work at dalston. years they were which produced nearly all the most delightful of the _essays of elia_. the year closed gloomily;--"i stepped into the lambs' cottage at dalston," writes crabb robinson in his diary, nov. ; "mary pale and thin, just recovered from one of her attacks. they have lost their brother john, and feel the loss." and the very same week died fine old captain burney. he had been made admiral but a fortnight before his death. these gaps among the old familiar faces struck chill to their hearts. in a letter to wordsworth of the following spring lamb says: "we are pretty well, save colds and rheumatics, and a certain deadness to everything, which i think i may date from poor john's loss, and another accident or two at the same time that have made me almost bury myself at dalston, where yet i see more faces than i could wish. deaths overset one, and put one out long after the recent grief. two or three have died within the last two twelvemonths, and so many parts of me have been numbed. one sees a picture, reads an anecdote, starts a casual fancy, and thinks to tell of it to this person in preference to every other; the person is gone whom it would have peculiarly suited. it won't do for another. every departure destroys a class of sympathies. there's captain burney gone! what fun has whist now? what matters it what you lead if you can no longer fancy him looking over you? one never hears anything, but the image of the particular person occurs with whom alone, almost, you would care to share the intelligence. thus one distributes oneself about, and now for so many parts of me i have lost the market." it was while john's death was yet recent that lamb wrote some tender recollections of him (fact and fiction blended according to elia's wont) in _dream children, a reverie_, telling how handsome and spirited he had been in his youth, "and how when he died, though he had not been dead an hour, it seemed as if he had died a great while ago, such a distance there is betwixt life and death; and how i bore his death, as i thought pretty well at first, but afterwards it haunted and haunted me; and though i did not cry or take it to heart as some do, and as i think he would have done if i had died, yet i missed him all day long and knew not till then how much i had loved him. i missed his kindness and i missed his crossness, and wished him to be alive again to be quarrelling with him (for we quarrelled sometimes) rather than not have him again." chapter xiv. hazlitt's divorce.--emma isola.--mrs. cowden clarke's _recollections_ of mary.--the visit to france.--removal to colebrook cottage.--a dialogue of reminiscences. - .--Æt. - . for some years matters had not gone smoothly between sarah hazlitt and her husband. he was hard to live with, and she seems to have given up the attempt to make the best of things, and to have sunk into a kind of apathy in which even the duties of a housewife were ill-performed; but his chief complaint was that "she despised him and his abilities." in this hazlitt was, probably, unjust to sarah; for she was neither stupid nor unamiable. from onwards he had absented himself from home continually, living either at the huts, a small inn on the edge of salisbury plain, or in london lodgings. but in this year of his unhappy passion for sarah walker brought about a crisis; and what had been only a negative kind of evil became unendurable. he prevailed upon sarah to consent to a divorce. it was obtained, in edinburgh, by mrs. hazlitt taking what, in scotch law, is called "the oath of calumny" which,--the suit being undefended,--entitled her to a dissolution of the marriage tie. they then returned singly to winterslow, he to the huts and she to her cottage. if they married with but little love, they seem to have parted without any hate. one tie remained--the strong affection each had for their son, who was sometimes with one, sometimes with the other. hazlitt's wholly unrequited passion for sarah walker soon burned itself to ashes; and in two years time he tried another experiment in marriage which was even less successful than the first; for his bride, like milton's, declined to return home with him after the wedding tour, and he saw her face no more. but, unlike milton, he was little discomposed at the circumstance. sarah, grown a wiser if not a more dignified woman, did not renew the scheming ways of her youth. she continued to stand high in the esteem of hazlitt's mother and sister, and often stayed with them. the lambs abated none of their old cordiality; mary wrote few letters now, but charles sent her a friendly one sometimes. it was to her he gave the first account of absent-minded george dyer's feat of walking straight into the new river, in broad daylight, on leaving their door in colebrook row. towards hazlitt, also, their friendship seemed substantially unchanged let him be as splenetic and wayward as he might. "we cannot afford to cast off our friends because they are not all we could wish," said mary lamb once when he had written some criticisms on wordsworth and coleridge, in which glowing admiration was mixed with savage ridicule in such a way that, as lamb said, it was "like saluting a man,--'sir, you are the greatest man i ever saw,' and then pulling him by the nose." but it needed only for hazlitt himself to be traduced and vilified, as he so often was, by the political adversaries and critics of those days, for lamb to rally to his side and fearlessly pronounce him to be, "in his natural and healthy state, one of the wisest and finest spirits breathing." as a set-off against the already mentioned sorrows of this time, a new element of cheerfulness was introduced into the lamb household; for it was in the course of the summer of that, during a visit to cambridge, they first saw emma isola, a little orphan child of whom they soon grew so fond that eventually she became their adopted daughter, their solace and comfort. to mary especially was this a happy incident. "for," says mrs. cowden clarke in the _recollections_ already alluded to, "she had a most tender sympathy with the young,"--as the readers of _mrs. leicester's school_ will hardly need telling. "she was encouraging and affectionate towards them, and won them to regard her with a familiarity and fondness rarely felt by them for grown people who are not their relations. she threw herself so entirely into their way of thinking and contrived to take an estimate of things so completely from _their_ point of view, that she made them rejoice to have her for their co-mate in affairs that interested them. while thus lending herself to their notions she, with a judiciousness peculiar to her, imbued her words with the wisdom and experience that belonged to her maturer years; so that while she seemed but the listening, concurring friend, she was also the helping, guiding friend. her monitions never took the form of reproof, but were always dropped in with the air of agreed propositions, as if they grew out of the subject in question, and presented themselves as matters of course to both her young companions and herself." the following is a life-like picture, from the same hand, of mary among the children she gathered round her in these russell street days,--hazlitt's little son william, victoria novello (mrs. clarke herself), and emma isola. victoria used "to come to her on certain mornings, when miss lamb promised to hear her repeat her latin grammar, and hear her read poetry with the due musically rhythmical intonation. even now the breathing murmur of the voice in which mary lamb gave low but melodious utterance to those opening lines of the _paradise lost_:-- of man's first disobedience, and the fruit of that forbidden tree, whose mortal taste brought death into the world and all our woe,-- sounding full and rounded and harmonious, though so subdued in tone, rings clear and distinct in the memory of her who heard the reader. the echo of that gentle voice vibrates, through the lapse of many a revolving year, true and unbroken in the heart where the low-breathed sound first awoke response, teaching together with the fine appreciation of verse music the finer love of intellect conjoined with goodness and kindness.... "one morning, just as victoria was about to repeat her allotted task, in rushed a young boy who, like herself, enjoyed the privilege of miss lamb's instruction in the latin language. his mode of entrance--hasty and abrupt--sufficiently denoted his eagerness to have his lesson heard at once and done with, that he might be gone again; accordingly miss lamb, asking victoria to give up her turn, desired the youth--hazlitt's son--to repeat his pages of grammar first. off he set, rattled through the first conjugation post-haste; darted through the second without drawing breath; and so on right through in no time. the rapidity, the volubility, the triumphant slap-dash of the feat perfectly dazzled the imagination of poor victoria, who stood admiring by, an amazed witness of the boy's proficiency. she herself, a quiet plodding little girl, had only by dint of diligent study and patient, persevering poring been able to achieve a slow learning and as slow a repetition of her lessons. this brilliant, off-hand method of despatching the latin grammar was a glory she had never dreamed of. her ambition was fired, and the next time she presented herself book in hand before miss lamb, she had no sooner delivered it into her hearer's than she attempted to scour through her verb at the same rattling pace which had so excited her admiration. scarce a moment and her stumbling scamper was checked. 'stay, stay! how's this? what are you about, little vicky?' asked the laughing voice of mary lamb. 'oh, i see. well, go on; but gently, gently; no need of hurry.' she heard to an end and then said, 'i see what we have been doing--trying to be as quick and clever as william, fancying it vastly grand to get on at a great rate as he does. but there's this difference: it's natural in him while it's imitation in you. now, far better go on in your old staid way--which is your own way--than try to take up a way that may become him, but can never become you, even were you to succeed in acquiring it. we'll each of us keep to our own natural ways, and then we shall be sure to do our best.'" and when victoria and emma isola met there, mary entered into their girlish friendship, let them have their gossip out in her own room if tired of the restraint of grown-up company and once, before emma's return to school, took them to dulwich and gave them "a charming little dinner of roast fowl and custard pudding." ... "pleasant above all," says the surviving guest and narrator, "is the memory of the cordial voice which said in a way to put the little party at its fullest ease, 'now, remember, we all pick our bones. it isn't considered vulgar here to pick bones.' "once, when some visitors chanced to drop in unexpectedly upon her and her brother," continues mrs. clarke, "just as they were sitting down to their plain dinner of a bit of roast mutton, with her usual frank hospitality she pressed them to stay and partake, cutting up the small joint into five equal portions, and saying in her simple, easy way, so truly her own, 'there's a chop apiece for us, and we can make up with bread and cheese if we want more.'" the more serious demands upon her sympathy and judgment made, after childhood was left behind, by the young, whether man or woman, she met with no less tenderness, tact, and wisdom. once, for instance, when she thought she perceived symptoms of an unexplained dejection in her young friend victoria, "how gentle was her sedate mode of reasoning the matter, after delicately touching upon the subject and endeavouring to draw forth its avowal! more as if mutually discussing and consulting than as if questioning, she endeavoured to ascertain whether uncertainties or scruples of faith had arisen in the young girl's mind and had caused her preoccupied abstracted manner. if it were any such source of disturbance, how wisely and feelingly she suggested reading, reflecting, weighing; if but a less deeply-seated depression, how sensibly she advised adopting some object to rouse energy and interest! she pointed out the efficacy of studying a language (she herself at upwards of fifty years of age began the acquirement of french and italian) as a remedial measure, and advised victoria to devote herself to a younger brother she had, in the same way that she had attended to her own brother charles in his infancy, as the wholesomest and surest means of all for cure." allsop, coleridge's friend, speaks in the same strain of how when a young man overwhelmed with what then seemed the hopeless ruin of his prospects, he found charles and mary lamb not wanting in the hour of need. "i have a clear recollection," says he, "of miss lamb's addressing me in a tone which acted at once as a solace and support, and after as a stimulus, to which i owe more perhaps than to the more extended arguments of all others." on the whole mary was a silent woman. it was her forte rather to enable others to talk their best by the charm of an earnest, speaking countenance and a responsive manner; and there are but few instances in which any of her words have been preserved. in that memorable conversation at lamb's table on "persons one would like to have seen," reported by hazlitt, when it was a question of women, "i should like vastly to have seen ninon de l'enclos," said mary. when queen caroline's trial was pending and her character and conduct the topic in every mouth, mary said she did not see that it made much difference whether the queen was what they called guilty or not--meaning, probably, that the stream was so plainly muddy at the fountain-head it was idle to enquire what ill places it had passed through in its course. or else, perhaps, that, either way, the king's conduct was equally odious. the last observation of hers i can find recorded, is at first sight, unlike herself:--"how stupid old people are!" it was that unimaginative incapacity to sympathise with the young, so alien to her own nature, no doubt, which provoked the remark. of her readiness to help all that came within her reach there is a side-glimpse in some letters of lamb's,--the latest to see the light,--which come, as other interesting contributions to the knowledge of lamb's writings have done (notably those of the late mr. babson), from over the atlantic. in _the century_ magazine for september are seven letters to john howard payne, an american playwright, whom lamb was endeavouring to help in his but partially successful struggle to earn a livelihood by means of adaptations for the stage in london and paris. mrs. cowden-clarke speaks of this mr. payne as the acquaintance whom mary lamb, "ever thoughtful to procure a pleasure for young people," had asked to call and see the little victoria, then at school at boulogne, on his way to paris. he proved a good friend to mary herself during that trip to france which, with a courage amounting to rashness, she and charles undertook in the summer of . "i went to call on the lambs to take leave, they setting out for france next morning," writes crabb robinson in his diary, june th. "i gave miss lamb a letter for miss williams, to whom i sent a copy of _mrs. leicester's school_. the lambs have a frenchman as their companion and miss lamb's nurse, in case she should be ill. lamb was in high spirits; his sister rather nervous." the privation of sleep entailed in such a journey combined with the excitement, produced its inevitable result and mary was taken with one of her severest attacks in the _diligence_ on the way to amiens. there, happily, they seem to have found mr. payne, who assisted charles to make the necessary arrangements for her remaining under proper care till the return of reason, and then he went on to paris, where he stayed with the kennys, who thought him dull and out of sorts, as well he might be. two months afterwards we hear of mary as being in paris. charles, his holiday over, had been obliged to return to england. "mary lamb has begged me to give her a day or two," says crabb robinson. "she comes to paris this evening, and stays here a week. her only male friend is a mr. payne, whom she praises exceedingly for his kindness and attentions to charles. he is the author of _brutus_, and has a good face." it was in the following year that most of the letters to mr. payne, published in the _century_, were written. they disclose mary and her brother zealous to repay one good turn with another by watching the success of his dramatic efforts and endeavouring to negociate favourably for him with actors and managers. "_ali pacha_ will do. i sent my sister the first night, not having been able to go myself, and her report of its effect was most favourable.... my love to my little wife at versailles, and to her dear mother.... i have no mornings (my day begins at p.m.) to transact business in, or talents for it, so i employ mary, who has seen robertson, who says that the piece which is to be operafied was sent to you six weeks since, &c. &c. mary says you must write more _showable_ letters about these matters, for with all our trouble of crossing out this word, and giving a cleaner turn to th' other, and folding down at this part, and squeezing an obnoxious epithet into a corner, she can hardly communicate their contents without offence. what, man, put less gall in your ink, or write me a biting tragedy!"... the piece which was sent to mr. payne in paris to be "operafied" was probably _clari, the maid of milan_. bishop wrote or adapted the music: it still keeps possession of the stage and contains "home sweet home," which plaintive, well-worn ditty earned for its writer among his friends the title of the "homeless poet of home." he ended his days as american consul at tunis. this year's holiday ( ), spent at hastings, was one of unalloyed pleasure and refreshment. "i have given up my soul to walking," lamb writes. "there are spots, inland bays, &c., which realise the notions of juan fernandez. the best thing i lit upon, by accident, was a small country church (by whom or when built unknown), standing bare and single in the midst of a grove, with no house or appearance of habitation within a quarter of a mile, only passages diverging from it through beautiful woods to so many farm-houses. there it stands, like the first idea of a church, before parishioners were thought of, nothing but birds for its congregation; or, like a hermit's oratory (the hermit dead), or a mausoleum; its effect singularly impressive, like a church found in a desert isle to startle crusoe with a home image.... i am a long time reconciling to town after one of these excursions. home is become strange, and will remain so yet awhile; home is the most unforgiving of friends, and always resents absence; i know its cordial looks will return, but they are slow in clearing up." the "cordial looks," however, of the russell street home never did return. the plan of the double lodgings, there and at dalston, was a device of double discomforts; the more so as "at my town lodgings," he afterwards confesses to bernard barton, "the mistress was always quarrelling with our maid; and at my place of rustication the whole family were always beating one another, brothers beating sisters (one, a most beautiful girl, lamed for life), father beating sons and daughters, and son again beating his father, knocking him fairly down, a scene i never before witnessed, but was called out of bed by the unnatural blows, the parricidal colour of which, though my morals could not but condemn, yet my reason did heartily approve, and in the issue the house was quieter for a day or so than i had ever known." it was time, indeed, for brother and sister to have a house of their own over their heads, means now amply sufficing. a few weeks after their return lamb took colebrook cottage, at islington. it was detached, faced the new river, had six good rooms, and a spacious garden behind. "you enter without passage," he writes, "into a cheerful dining-room, all studded over and rough with old books, and above is a lightsome drawing-room, full of choice prints. i feel like a great lord, never having had a house before." a new acquaintance, a man much after lamb's heart, at whose table he and mary were, in the closing years of his life, more frequent guests than at any other--"mr. carey, the dante man"--was added to their list this year. "he is a model of a country parson, lean (as a curate ought to be), modest, sensible, no obtruder of church dogmas, quite a different man from southey," says lamb of him. "quite a different man from southey" had a peculiar sting in it at this moment, for southey had just struck a blow at _elia_ in the _quarterly_, as unjust in purport as it was odious in manner,--detraction in the guise of praise. lamb answered him this very autumn in the _london magazine_: a noble answer it is, which seems to have awakened something like compunction in southey's exemplary but pharisaic soul. at all events he made overtures for a reconciliation, which so touched lamb's generous heart, he was instantly ready to take blame upon himself for having written the letter. "i shall be ashamed to see you, and my sister, though innocent, still more so," he says, "for the folly was done without her knowledge, and has made her uneasy ever since. my guardian angel was absent at that time." by which token we know that mary did not escape the usual sad effects of change and fatigue in the removal to colebrook cottage. means were easy, home comfortable now; but many a wistful backward glance did brother and sister cast to the days of early struggle, with their fuller life, keener pleasures, and better health. it was not long after they were settled in colebrook cottage that they opened their hearts on this theme in that beautiful essay by elia called _old china_--wordsworth's favourite,--in which charles, for once, made himself mary's--or as he calls her cousin bridget's--mouthpiece. whilst sipping tea out of "a set of extraordinary blue china, a recent purchase,"... writes elia, "i could not help remarking how favourable circumstances had been to us of late years that we could afford to please the eye, sometimes, with trifles of this sort; when a passing sentiment seemed to overshade the brow of my companion;--i am quick at detecting these summer clouds in bridget. "'i wish the good old times would come again,' she said; 'when we were not quite so rich. i do not mean that i want to be poor; but there was a middle state'--so she was pleased to ramble on--'in which i am sure we were a great deal happier. a purchase is but a purchase now that you have money enough and to spare. formerly it used to be a triumph. when we coveted a cheap luxury (and o how much ado i had to get you to consent in those times!), we were used to have a debate two or three days before, and to weigh the _for_ and _against_, and think what we might spare it out of, and what saving we could hit upon that should be an equivalent. a thing was worth buying then, when we felt the money that we paid for it. "'do you remember the brown suit which you made to hang upon you till all your friends cried shame upon you, it grew so threadbare--and all because of that folio beaumont and fletcher, which you dragged home late at night from barker's in covent garden? do you remember how we eyed it for weeks before we could make up our minds to the purchase, and had not come to a determination till it was near ten o'clock of the saturday night, when you set off from islington, fearing you should be too late,--and when the old bookseller with some grumbling opened his shop, and by the twinkling taper (for he was setting bedwards) lighted out the relic from his dusty treasures,--and when you lugged it home, wishing it were twice as cumbersome,--and when you presented it to me,--and when we were exploring the perfectness of it (_collating_, you called it),--and while i was repairing some of the loose leaves with paste, which your impatience would not suffer to be left till daybreak,--was there no pleasure in being a poor man? or can those neat black clothes which you wear now, and are so careful to keep brushed since we have become rich and finical, give you half the honest vanity with which you flaunted it about in that over-worn suit, your old corbeau, for four or five weeks longer than you should have done to pacify your conscience for the mighty sum of fifteen--or sixteen shillings, was it?--a great affair we thought it then--which you had lavished on the old folio? now you can afford to buy any book that pleases you, but i do not see that you ever bring me home any nice old purchases now. "'when you came home with twenty apologies for laying out a less number of shillings upon that print after lionardo which we christened the "lady blanch," when you looked at the purchase and thought of the money, and thought of the money and looked again at the picture--was there no pleasure in being a poor man? now you have nothing to do but to walk into colnaghi's and buy a wilderness of lionardos. yet, do you? "'then do you remember our pleasant walks to enfield, and potter's bar, and waltham when we had a holiday--holidays and all other fun are gone now we are rich--and the little hand-basket in which i used to deposit our day's fare of savory cold lamb and salad,--and how you would pry about at noontide for some decent house where we might go in and produce our store--only paying for the ale that you must call for--and speculated upon the looks of the landlady, and whether she was likely to allow us a table-cloth, and wish for such another honest hostess as izaak walton has described many a one on the pleasant banks of the lea when he went a-fishing--and sometimes they would prove obliging enough and sometimes they would look grudgingly upon us--but we had cheerful looks still for one another, and would eat our plain food savorily, scarcely grudging piscator his trout hall? now, when we go out a day's pleasuring, which is seldom moreover, we _ride_ part of the way, and go into a fine inn and order the best of dinners, never debating the expense--which after all never has half the relish of those chance country snaps, when we were at the mercy of uncertain usage and a precarious welcome. "'you are too proud to see a play anywhere now but in the pit. do you remember where it was we used to sit when we saw the battle of hexham, and the surrender of calais, and bannister and mrs. bland in the children in the wood,--when we squeezed out our shillings a-piece to sit three or four times in a season in the one-shilling gallery, where you felt all the time that you ought not to have brought me, and more strongly i felt obligation to you for having brought me--and the pleasure was the better for a little shame--and when the curtain drew up what cared we for our place in the house, or what mattered it where we were sitting, when our thoughts were with rosalind in arden or with viola at the court of illyria? you used to say that the gallery was the best place of all for enjoying a play socially,--that the relish of such exhibitions must be in proportion to the infrequency of going,--that the company we met there, not being in general readers of plays, were obliged to attend the more, and did attend, to what was going on on the stage, because a word lost would have been a chasm which it was impossible for them to fill up. with such reflections we consoled our pride then--and i appeal to you whether as a woman i met generally with less attention and accommodation than i have done since in more expensive situations in the house? the getting in, indeed, and the crowding up those inconvenient stair-cases was bad enough--but there was still a law of civility to woman recognized to quite as great an extent as we ever found in the other passages--and how a little difficulty overcome heightened the snug seat and the play afterwards! now we can only pay our money and walk in. you cannot see, you say, in the galleries now. i am sure we saw, and heard too, well enough then--but sight and all i think is gone with our poverty. "'there was pleasure in eating strawberries before they became quite common--in the first dish of peas while they were yet dear--to have them for a nice supper, a treat. what treat can we have now? if we were to treat ourselves now--that is to have dainties a little above our means--it would be selfish and wicked. it is the very little more that we allow ourselves beyond what the actual poor can get at, that makes what i call a treat--when two people living together as we have done, now and then indulge themselves in a cheap luxury which both like, while each apologises and is willing to take both halves of the blame to his single share. i see no harm in people making much of themselves in that sense of the word. it may give them a hint how to make much of others. but now--what i mean by the word--we never do make much of ourselves. none but the poor can do it. i do not mean the veriest poor of all, but persons, as we were, just above poverty. "'i know what you were going to say--that it is mighty pleasant at the end of the year to make all meet,--and much ado we used to have every thirty-first night of december to account for our exceedings--many a long face did you make over your puzzled accounts, and in contriving to make it out how we had spent so much--or that we had not spent so much--or that it was impossible we should spend so much next year--and still we found our slender capital decreasing; but then, betwixt ways and projects and compromises of one sort or another, and talk of curtailing this charge and doing without that for the future--and the hope that youth brings and laughing spirits (in which you were never poor till now), we pocketed up our loss, and in conclusion, with "lusty brimmers" (as you used to quote it out of _hearty, cheerful mr. cotton_, as you called him) we used to "welcome in the coming guest." now we have no reckonings at all at the end of the old year--no flattering promises about the new year doing better for us.' "bridget is so sparing of her speech on most occasions, that when she gets into a rhetorical vein, i am careful how i interrupt it. i could not help, however, smiling at the phantom of wealth which her dear imagination had conjured up out of a clear income of poor--hundred pounds a year. 'it is true we were happier when we were poorer, but we were also younger, my cousin. i am afraid we must put up with the excess, for if we were to shake the superflux into the sea, we should not much mend ourselves. that we had much to struggle with as we grew up together, we have reason to be most thankful. it strengthened and knit our compact closer. we could never have been what we have been to each other, if we had always had the sufficiency which you now complain of. the resisting power, those natural dilations of the youthful spirit, which circumstances cannot straiten--with us are long since passed away. competence to age is supplementary youth, a sorry supplement indeed, but i fear the best that is to be had. we must ride where we formerly walked; live better and lie softer--and we shall be wise to do so--than we had means to do in those good old days you speak of. yet could those days return--could you and i once more walk our thirty miles a day,--could bannister and mrs. bland again be young, and you and i be young again to see them,--could the good old one-shilling gallery days return--they are dreams, my cousin, now--but could you and i at this moment, instead of this quiet argument, by our well-carpeted fireside, sitting on this luxurious sofa, be once more struggling up those inconvenient stair-cases, pushed about and squeezed and elbowed by the poorest rabble of poor gallery scramblers,--could i once more hear those anxious shrieks of yours, and the delicious '_thank god we are safe_,' which always followed when the topmost stair conquered let in the first light of the whole cheerful theatre down beneath us--i know not the fathom-line that ever touched a descent so deep as i would be willing to bury more wealth in than croesus had, or the great jew r. is supposed to have, to purchase it."... these fire-side confidences between brother and sister bring back, in all the warmth and fulness of life, that past mid which the biographer has been groping and listening to echoes. chapter xv. lamb's ill-health.--retirement from the india house, and subsequent illness.--letter from mary to lady stoddart.--colebrook cottage left.--mary's constant attacks.--home given up.--board with the westwoods.--death of hazlitt.--removal to edmonton.--marriage of emma isola.--mary's sudden recovery.--ill again.--death of coleridge.--death of charles.--mary's last days and death. - .--Æt. - . the year was one of the best mary ever enjoyed. alas! it was not the precursor of others like it, but rather a farewell gleam before the clouds gathered up thicker and thicker till the light of reason was permanently obscured. in november charles wrote to miss hutchinson: "we had promised our dear friends the monkhouses" [relatives of mrs. wordsworth]--"promised ourselves, rather--a visit to them at ramsgate; but i thought it best, and mary seemed to have it at heart too, not to go far from home these last holidays. it is connected with a sense of unsettlement, and secretly i know she hoped that such abstinence would be friendly to her health. she certainly has escaped her sad yearly visitation, whether in consequence of it, or of faith in it, and we have to be thankful for a good , to get such a notion in our heads may go a great way another year. not that we quite confined ourselves; but, assuming islington to be head-quarters, we made timid flights to ware, watford, &c., to try how trouts tasted, for a night out or so, not long enough to make the sense of change oppressive, but sufficient to scour the rust of home." with lamb it was quite otherwise. the letters of this year show that health and spirits were flagging sorely. he had, ever since , been working at high pressure; producing in steady, rapid succession, his matchless _essays_ in the _london magazine_, and this at the end of a long day's office work. his delicate, nervous organisation could not fail to suffer from the continued strain; not to mention the ever present and more terrible one of his sister's health. at last his looks attracted the notice of one of his chiefs, and it was intimated that a resignation might be accepted; as it was after some anxious delays; and a provision for mary, if she survived, was guaranteed in addition to his comfortable pension. the sense of freedom was almost overwhelming. "mary wakes every morning with an obscure feeling that some good has happened to us," he writes. "leigh hunt and montgomery, after their releasements, describe the shock of their emancipation much as i feel mine. but it hurt their frames; i eat, drink, and sleep as sound as ever." a reaction did come, however. lamb continued pretty well through the spring, but in the summer he was prostrated by a severe attack of nervous fever. in july he wrote to bernard barton: "my nervous attack has so unfitted me that i have not courage to sit down to a letter. my poor pittance in the _london_ you will see is drawn from my sickness" (_the convalescent_, which appeared july ). one more glimpse of mary in a letter from her own hand. again the whole summer was being spent in lodgings at enfield, whence mary wrote to congratulate her old friend mrs., now lady, stoddart--her husband having become chief justice of malta--on the marriage of a daughter:-- "august , . "my dear lady-friend,--my brother called at our empty cottage [colebrook] yesterday, and found the cards of your son, and his friend mr. hine, under the door; which has brought to my mind that i am in danger of losing this post, as i did the last, being at that time in a confused state of mind--for at that time we were talking of leaving, and persuading ourselves that we were intending to leave town and all our friends, and sit down for ever, solitary and forgotten here.... here we are, and we have locked up our house, and left it to take care of itself; but, at present, we do not design to extend our rural life beyond michaelmas. your kind letter was most welcome to me, though the good news contained in it was already known to me. accept my warmest congratulations, though they come a little of the latest. in my next i may probably have to hail you grand-mama, or to felicitate you on the nuptials of pretty mary who, whatever the beaux of malta may think of her, i can only remember her round shining face, and her 'o william! dear william!' when we visited her the other day at school. present my love and best wishes--a long and happy married life to dear isabella--i love to call her isabella; but in truth, having left your other letter in town, i recollect no other name she has. the same love and the same wishes--_in futuro_--to my friend mary. tell her that her 'dear william' grows taller, and improves in manly looks and man-like behaviour every time i see him. what is henry about? and what should one wish for him? if he be in search of a wife, i will send him out emma isola. "you remember emma, that you were so kind as to invite to your ball? she is now with us; and i am moving heaven and earth, that is to say, i am pressing the matter upon all the very few friends i have that are likely to assist me in such a case, to get her into a family as governess; and charles and i do little else here than teach her something or other all day long. "we are striving to put enough latin into her to enable her to begin to teach it to young learners. so much for emma--for you are so fearfully far away that i fear it is useless to implore your patronage for her.... "i expect a pacquet of manuscript from you. you promised me the office of negociating with booksellers and so forth for your next work." [lady stoddart published several tales under the name of blackford.] "is it in good forwardness? or do you grow rich and indolent now? it is not surprising that your maltese story should find its way into malta; but i was highly pleased with the idea of your pleasant surprise at the sight of it. i took a large sheet of paper, in order to leave charles room to add something more worth reading than my poor mite. may we all meet again once more." it was to escape the "dear weariness" of incessant friendly visitors, which they were now less than ever able to bear, that they had taken refuge in the enfield lodging. "we have been here near three months, and shall stay two more if people will let us alone; but they persecute us from village to village," lamb writes to bernard barton in august. at the end of that time they decided to return to colebrook cottage no more, but to take a house at enfield. the actual process of taking it was witnessed by a spectator, a perfect stranger at the time, on whose memory it left a lively picture. "leaning idly out of a window, i saw a group of three issuing from the 'gambogy-looking' cottage close at hand,--a slim, middle-aged man, in quaint, uncontemporary habiliments, a rather shapeless bundle of an old lady, in a bonnet like a mob cap, and a young girl; while before them bounded a riotous dog (hood's immortal 'dash'), holding a board with 'this house to let' on it in his jaws. lamb was on his way back to the house-agent, and that was his fashion of announcing that he had taken the premises. "i soon grew to be on intimate terms with my neighbours," continues the writer of this pleasant reminiscence--mr. westwood, in _notes and queries_, vol. x.--"who let me loose in his library.... my heart yearns even now to those old books. their faces seem all familiar to me, even their patches and blotches--the work of a wizened old cobbler hard by--for little wotted lamb of roger parkes and charles lewises. a cobbler was his book-binder, and the rougher the restoration the better.... when any notable visitors made their appearance at the cottage, mary lamb's benevolent tap at my window-pane seldom failed to summon me out, and i was presently ensconced in a quiet corner of their sitting-room, half hid in some great man's shadow. "of the discourse of these _dii majores_ i have no recollection now; but the faces of some of them i can still partially recall. hazlitt's face, for instance, keen and aggressive, with eyes that flashed out epigram. tom hood's, a methodist parson's face, not a ripple breaking the lines of it, though every word he dropped was a pun, and every pun roused roars of laughter. leigh hunt's, parcel genial, parcel democratic, with as much rabid politics on his lips as honey from mount hybla. miss kelly [the little barbara s. of _elia_], plain but engaging, the most unprofessional of actresses and unspoiled of women; the bloom of the child on her cheek undefaced by the rouge, to speak in metaphors. she was one of the most dearly welcome of lamb's guests. wordsworth's, farmerish and respectable, but with something of the great poet occasionally breaking out, and glorifying forehead and eyes...." mary did not escape her usual seizure. "you will understand my silence," writes lamb to his quaker friend, "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 this, we have the snuggest, most comfortable house, with everything most compact and desirable. colebrook is a wilderness. the books, prints, &c. are come here, and the new river came down with us. the familiar prints, the busts, the milton, seem scarce to have changed their rooms. one of her last observations was, 'how frightfully like this is to our room at islington,'--our upstair room she meant. we have tried quiet here for four months, and i will answer for the comfort of it enduring." and again, later: "i have scarce spirits to write. nine weeks are completed, and mary does not get any better. it is perfectly exhausting. enfield and everything is very gloomy. but for long experience, i should fear her ever getting well." she did get "pretty well and comfortable again" before the year was quite out, but it did not last long. times grew sadder and sadder for the faithful brother. there are two long, oft-quoted letters to bernard barton, written in july , which who has ever read without a pang? "my sister is again taken ill," he says, "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 school-fellow of hers that was with her. still the house is not the same, though 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.... but town, with all my native hankering after it, is not what it was.... i was frightfully convinced of this as i passed houses and places--empty caskets now. i have ceased to care almost about anybody. the bodies i cared for are in graves or dispersed.... less than a month i hope will bring home mary. she is at fulham, looking better in her health than ever, but sadly rambling, and scarce showing any pleasure in seeing me, or curiosity when i should come again. but the old feelings will come back again, and we shall drown old sorrows over a game of picquet again. but 'tis a tedious cut out of a life of fifty-four to lose twelve or thirteen weeks every year or two. and, to make me more alone, our ill-tempered maid is gone [becky] who, with all her airs, was yet a home-piece of furniture, a record of better days. the young thing that has succeeded her is good and attentive, but she is nothing; and i have no one here to talk over old matters with. scolding and quarrelling have something of familiarity and a community of interest; they imply acquaintance; they are of resentment which is of the family of dearness. well, i shall write merrier anon. 'tis the present copy of my countenance i send, and to complain is a little to alleviate. may you enjoy yourself as far as the wicked world will let you, and think that you are not quite alone as i am." to the friends who came to see him he made no complaints, nor showed a sad countenance; but it was hard that he might not relieve his drear solitude by the sights and sounds of beloved london. "o never let the lying poets be believed," he writes to wordsworth, "who 'tice men from the cheerful haunts of streets; or think they mean it not of a country village. in the ruins of palmyra i could gird myself up to solitude, or muse to the snorings of the seven sleepers; but to have a little teazing image of a town about one; country folks that do not look like country folks; shops two yards square; half-a-dozen apples and two penn'orth of over-looked ginger-bread for the lofty fruiterers of oxford street; and for the immortal book and print stalls, a circulating library that stands still, where the show-picture is a last year's valentine.... the very blackguards here are degenerate; the topping gentry, stock-brokers; the passengers too many to insure your quiet or let you go about whistling or gaping, too few to be the fine, indifferent pageants of fleet street.... a garden was the primitive prison till man, with promethean felicity and boldness, luckily sinned himself out of it. thence followed babylon, nineveh, venice, london, haberdashers, goldsmiths, taverns, satires, epigrams, puns,--these all came in on the town part and the thither side of innocence...." in the same letter he announces that they have been obliged to give up home altogether, and have "taken a farewell of the pompous, troublesome trifle called house-keeping, and settled down into poor boarders and lodgers at next door with an old couple, the baucis and baucida of dull enfield. here we have nothing to do with our victuals but to eat them, with the garden but to see it grow, with the tax-gatherer but to hear him knock, with the maid but to hear her scolded. scot and lot, butcher, baker, are things unknown to us save as spectators of the pageant. we are fed, we know not how; quietists, confiding ravens.... mary must squeeze out a line _propria manu_, but indeed her fingers have been incorrigibly nervous to letter-writing for a long interval. 'twill please you all to hear that, though i fret like a lion in a net, her present health and spirits are better than they have been for some time past. she is absolutely three years and a half younger since we adopted this boarding plan!... under this roof i ought now to take my rest, but that back-looking ambition, more delightful, tells me i might yet be a londoner! well, if ever we do move, we have encumbrances the less to impede us; all our furniture has faded under the auctioneer's hammer, going for nothing, like the tarnished frippery of the prodigal, and we have only a spoon or two left to bless us. clothed we came into enfield, and naked we must go out of it. i would live in london shirtless, bookless." now that mary was recovered they did venture to try once more the experiment of london lodgings at southampton buildings, holborn, where hazlitt had often stayed. but the result was worse even than could have been anticipated. may , , lamb writes: "i have brought my sister to enfield, being sure she had no hope of recovery in london. 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 neither 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. i dare not write or receive a letter in her presence." another old friend, the one whom, next to coleridge, wordsworth and manning, lamb valued most, died this year. hazlitt's strength had been for some time declining; and during the summer of he lay at his lodgings, frith street, soho, languishing in what was to prove his death illness, though he was but fifty-two; his mind clear and active as ever, looking back, as he said, upon his past life which 'seemed as if he had slept it out in a dream or shadow on the side of the hill of knowledge, where he had fed on books, on thoughts, on pictures and only heard in half-murmurs the trampling of busy feet or the noises of the throng below.' 'i have had a happy life,' were his last words. unfortunate in love and marriage, perhaps scarcely capable of friendship, he found the warmth of life, the tie that bound him to humanity in the fervour of his admiration for all that is great, or beautiful, or powerful in literature, in art, in heroic achievement. his ideas, as he said of himself, were "of so sinewy a character that they were in the nature of realities" to him. lamb was by his death-bed that th of september. godwin still lived, but there seems to have been little intercourse between the old friends. manning was often away travelling on the continent. martin burney maintained his place 'on the top scale of the lambs' friendship ladder, on which an angel or two were still climbing, and some, alas! descending,' and oftenest enlivened the solitude of enfield. he "is as good and as odd as ever," writes charles to mrs. hazlitt. "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-favouredly, because 'we did not know how indispensable it was for a barrister to do all those things well. those little things were of more consequence than we supposed.' so he goes on, harassing 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 deserves one; may-be he has tired him out." a cheerful glimpse of the brother and sister occurs now and then in the diary of their old friend, crabb robinson, in these days when the dark times were so long and the bright intervals so short and far between. march he writes:--"i walked to enfield and found the lambs in excellent state,--not in high health, but, what is far better, quiet and cheerful. i had a very pleasant evening at whist. lamb was very chatty and altogether as i could wish." and again in july, "... reached lamb at the lucky moment before tea. after tea lamb and i took a pleasant walk together. he was in excellent health and tolerable spirits, and was to-night quite eloquent in praise of miss isola. he says she is the most sensible girl and the best female talker he knows ... he is teaching her italian without knowing the language himself." two months later the same friend took walter savage landor to pay them a visit. "we had scarcely an hour to chat with them, but it was enough to make landor express himself delighted with the person of mary lamb and pleased with the conversation of charles lamb, though i thought him by no means at his ease, and miss lamb was quite silent." scarcely ever did charles leave home for many hours together when mary was there to brighten it; not even for the temptation of seeing the wordsworths or coleridge. "i want to see the wordsworths," he writes, "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 to coleridge, who had been hurt by the long interval since he had seen them, lamb writes:--"not an unkind thought has passed in my brain about you; but i have been wofully neglectful of you.... old loves to and hope of kind looks from the gillmans when i come. if ever you thought an offence, much more wrote it against me, it must have been in the times of noah and the great waters swept it away. mary's most kind love, and may be a wrong prophet of your bodings! here she is crying for mere love over your letter. i wring out less but not sincerer showers." the spring of brought to charles and mary only the return of dark days. lamb writes to wordsworth:-- "your letter, save in what respects your dear sister's health, cheered me in my new solitude. mary is ill again. her illnesses encroach yearly. the last was three months followed by two of depression most dreadful. i look back upon her earlier attacks with longing: nice little durations of six weeks or so, followed by complete restoration,--shocking as they were then to me. in short, half her life she is dead to me, and the other half is made anxious with fears and lookings forward to the next shock. with such prospects it seemed to me necessary that she should no longer live with me and be fluttered with continual removals; so i am come to live with her at a mr. walden's and his wife [at edmonton], 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 lachrymæ 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 my old and only walk companion, whose 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 under 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 the westwoods and 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 will avail myself. i have few friends left there, one or two, though, most beloved. but london streets and faces cheer me inexpressibly, though not one known of the latter were remaining.... i am feeble but cheerful in this my genial hot weather. walked sixteen miles yesterday. i can't read much in summer-time." there was no sense of being "pulled up by the roots" now in these removals. lamb had and could have no home since she who had been its chief pride was in perpetual banishment from him and from herself. the following notelet which talfourd, in his abundance, probably did not think worth publishing, at any rate shows with mournful significance how bitter were his recollections of enfield, to which they had gone full of hope. it was written to mr. gillman's eldest son, a young clergyman, desirous of the incumbency of enfield:-- "by a strange occurrence we have quitted enfield _for ever!_ oh! the happy eternity! who is vicar or lecturer for that detestable place concerns us not. but asbury, surgeon and a good fellow, has offered to get you a mover and seconder, and you may use my name freely to him. except him and dr. creswell, i have no respectable acquaintance in the dreary village. at least my friends are all in the _public_ line, and it might not suit to have it moved at a special vestry by john gage at the crown and horseshoe, licensed victualler, and seconded by joseph horner of the green dragon, ditto, that the rev. j. g. is a fit person to be lecturer, &c. "my dear james, i wish you all success, but am too full of my own emancipation almost to congratulate anyone else." miss isola's wedding-day came, and still mary's mind was under eclipse; but the announcement of the actual event restored her as by magic; and here is her own letter of congratulation to the bride and bridegroom,--the last from her hand:-- "my dear emma and edward 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 ventured 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 electric shock, 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." to which beautiful last words charles adds:-- "dears again--your letter interrupted a seventeenth game at picquet which _we_ were having after walking to wright's and purchasing shoes. we pass our time in cards, walks, and reading. we attack tasso soon. never was such a calm or such a recovery. 'tis her own words undictated." not tasso only was attacked, but even dante. "you will be amused to hear," he tells carey, "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 un-made-out. 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." the year , the last of lamb's life, opened gloomily. early in february was written one of the saddest and sweetest of all his utterances concerning mary. with the exception of a brief, mournful allusion to her in his latest letter to wordsworth these were his last written words about her, and they breathe the same tenderness and unswerving devotion at the close of his life-long struggle and endurance for her sake as those he wrote when it began. the letter is to miss fryer, an old school-fellow of emma isola:--"your letter found me just returned from keeping my birthday (pretty innocent!) at dover street [the moxons]. i see them pretty often. in one word, be less uneasy about me; i bear my privations very well; i am not in the depths of desolation as heretofore. your admonitions are not lost upon me. your kindness has sunk into my heart. have faith in me! it is no new 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 discern 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 thousands from the ten years she lived before me. what took place from early girlhood to her coming of age principally live 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, truth and errors huddled together, a medley between inspiration and possession. what things we are! i know you will bear with me talking of things. it seems to ease me, for i have nobody to tell these things to now...." a week later was written that last little letter to wordsworth (the reader will recognize louisa martin--monkey--so prettily described in lamb's first letter to hazlitt):--"i write from a house of mourning. 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 louisa martin. for thirty years she has been tried by me, and on her behaviour i would stake my soul. oh! if you could 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 you 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. poor mary is ill again, after a short, lucid interval of four or five months. in short, i may call her half dead to me. good you are to me. yours, with fervour of friendship, for ever." the dearest friend of all, coleridge, long in declining health--the "hooded eagle, flagging wearily," was lying this spring and summer in his last painful illness--heart disease chiefly, but complicated with other sources of suffering--borne with heroic patience. thoughts of his youth came to him, he said, 'like breezes from the spice islands;' and under the title of that poem written in the glorious nether stowey days when charles was his guest,--_this lime-tree bower my prison_,--he wrote a little while before he died:-- charles and mary lamb, dear to my heart, yea, as it were _my heart_. s. t. c. Æt. , . ---- years! he drew his last breath on the th of july. at first lamb seemed wholly unable to grasp the fact that he was gone. "coleridge is dead!" he murmured continually, as if to convince himself. he 'grieved that he could not grieve.' "but since," he wrote in that beautiful memorial of his friend--the last fragment shaped by his hand--"but since, i feel how great a part of me he was. his great and dear spirit haunts me.... he was my fifty-year old friend without a dissension. never saw i his likeness, nor probably the world can see it again. i seem to love the house he died at more passionately than when he lived. i love the faithful gillman's more than while they exercised their virtues towards him living. what was his mansion is consecrated to me a chapel." a month after this was written charles lamb followed his friend. a seemingly slight accident, a fall which wounded his face, brought on erysipelas, and he sank rapidly, dying the th december . for once, mary's affliction befriended her. though her mind was not wholly obscured at the time, for she was able to show the spot in edmonton churchyard where her brother had wished to be buried, yet it was so far deadened that she was unable to comprehend what had befallen her; and thus she remained for nearly a year. none thought of mary with tenderer sympathy than landor, or strove with more sincerity to offer "consolation to the finest genius that ever descended on the heart of woman," as he fervently described her. "when i first heard of the loss that all his friends, and many that never were his friends, sustained in him," he wrote to crabb robinson, "no thought took possession of my mind except the anguish of his sister. that very night, before i closed my eyes, i composed this:-- to the sister of charles lamb. comfort thee, o thou mourner! yet awhile again shall elia's smile refresh thy heart, whose heart can ache no more. what is it we deplore? he leaves behind him, freed from grief and years, far worthier things than tears, the love of friends without a single foe; unequalled lot below! his gentle soul, his genius, these are thine; shalt thou for these repine? he may have left the lowly walks of men; left them he has: what then? are not his footsteps followed by the eyes of all the good and wise? though the warm day is over, yet they seek upon the lofty peak of his pure mind, the roseate light that glows o'er death's perennial snows. behold him! from the spirits of the blest he speaks: he bids thee rest. about a month after her brother's death, their faithful old friend, crabb robinson, went to see mary. "she was neither violent nor unhappy," he wrote in his diary, "nor was she entirely without sense. she was, however, out of her mind, as the expression is, but she could combine ideas, though imperfectly. on my going into the room where she was sitting with mr. walden, she exclaimed, with great vivacity, 'oh! here's _crabby_.' she gave me her hand with great cordiality, and said, 'now this is very kind--not merely good-natured, but very, very kind to come and see me in my affliction.' and then she ran on about the unhappy, insane family of my old friend ----. her mind seemed to turn to subjects connected with insanity as well as to her brother's death. she spoke of charles, of his birth, and said that he was a weakly but very pretty child." in a year's time she was herself once more; calm, even cheerful; able, now and then, to meet old friends at the moxons'. she refused to leave edmonton. "_he_ was there asleep in the old churchyard, beneath the turf near which they had stood together, and had selected for a resting-place; to this spot she used, when well, to stroll out mournfully in the evening, and to this spot she would contrive to lead any friend who came in summer evenings to drink tea, and went out with her afterwards for a walk." out of very love she was content to be the one left alone; and found a truth in wordsworth's beautiful saying, that "a grave is a tranquillising object; resignation, in course of time, springs up from it as naturally as the wild flowers besprinkle the turf." lucid intervals continued, for a few years longer, to alternate with ever-lengthening periods of darkness. that mysterious brain was not even yet wholly wrecked by the eighty years of storms that had broken over it. even when the mind seemed gone the heart kept some of its fine instincts. she learned to bear her solitude very patiently, and was gentle and kind always. towards her friends persuaded her to remove to alpha road, st. john's wood, that she might be nearer to them. thirteen years she survived her brother, and then was laid in the same grave with him at edmonton, may th, ; a scanty remnant of the old friends gathering round,--"martin burney refusing to be comforted." coleridge looked upon lamb "as one hovering between heaven and earth, neither hoping much nor fearing anything." or, as he himself once, with infinite sweetness, put it, "poor elia does not pretend to so very clear revelations of a future state of being. he stumbles about dark mountains at best; but he knows at least how to be thankful for this life, and is too thankful indeed for certain relationships lent him here, not to tremble for a possible resumption of the gift." of mary it may be said that she hoped all things and feared nothing,--wisest, noblest attitude of the human soul toward the unknown. list of authorities. _life, letters, and writings of charles lamb._ _edited by percy fitzgerald, m.a., f.s.a._ . _the works of charles lamb._ _edited by charles kent_ [in which, for the first time, the dates and original mode of publication were affixed to the essays, &c.]. . _poetry for children, by charles and mary lamb._ _edited by richard herne shepherd._ . _mrs. leicester's school, by charles and mary lamb._ _tales from shakespeare, by charles and mary lamb._ . _final memorials of charles lamb, by talfourd._ . _charles lamb: a memoir, by barry cornwall._ . _mary and charles lamb, by w. carew hazlitt._ . _my friends and acquaintance, by p. g. patmore._ . _letters, conversations, and recollections of coleridge, by thomas allsop._ third edition. . _early recollections of coleridge, by j. cottle._ . _biographia literaria, by coleridge._ second edition. . _life of coleridge, by gillman._ vol. i. . _memoirs and letters of sara coleridge._ _edited by her daughter._ . _life of wordsworth, by rev. dr. c. wordsworth._ . _a chronological list of the writings of hazlitt and leigh hunt, preceded by an essay on lamb, and list of his works, by alex. ireland; printed for private circulation._ (the copy used contains many ms. additions by the author.) . _recollections of writers, by charles and mary cowden clarke._ . _six life studies of famous women, by m. betham edwards._ . _diary, reminiscences, and correspondence of henry crabb-robinson._ _edited by dr. sadler._ . _memoir of william hazlitt, by w. carew hazlitt._ . _spirit of the age._ & _table talk._ by _hazlitt._ , . _autobiographical sketches._ & _lakes and lake poets._ by _de quincey._ . _william godwin, his friends and contemporaries, by kegan paul._ . london printed by w. h. allen and co., waterloo place. transcriber's note: contemporary spellings, old word forms, and punctuation rules have been retained, even when inconsistent. the list of authorities has been moved to the end of the volume.