Class _Piii. Rnok: ■ A X OOPYRIOHT DEPOSIT I r THE ENFIELD EDITION. THE COMPLETE WOEKS OF CHAELES LAMB CONTAINING HIS LETTEES, ESSAYS, POEMS, ETC. WITH A if,#0ff|b|if*. BY SIR THOMAS NOOIT TALFOURD, D.C.L., ONE OP HIS EXECUTORS : AUTHOR OF " HISTORY OF GREECE," ETC. TO WHICH HAS BEEN ADDED PEESONAL EEMINISCENCES OF LAMB, COLERIDGE, SOUTHEY, WORDSWORTH, AND THEIR EARLY FRIEND AND PUBLISHER, JOSEPH COTTLE. BY K^ AMEEICAN FEIEND OF THE POETS. WITH PORTRAITS AND OTHER STEEL PLATE ENGRAVINGS By WhitecJiiirch, Lawrence, Hall, and others. V;, 1879. / , PHILADELPHIA: ' ^l w^' ''-^ ■ f: WILLIAM T. AMIES, No. 1420 Chestnut Street. 1. I COPYRltillT. GEORGE R. FAGAN. 1S79. MARY ANNE LAMB, THESE LETTERS THE MEMORIALS OF MANY YEARS WHICH SHE SPENT WITH THE WRITER IN UNDIVIDED AFFECTION ; OF THE SORROWS AND THE JOTS SHE SHARED, OF THE GENIUS WHICH SHE CHERISHED, AND OF THE EXCELLENCES WHICH SHE BEST KNEW ; RESPECTFULLY AND AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED BY THE EDITOR. PREFACE. THE share of the Editor in these volumes can scarcely be regarded too slightly. The successive publications of Lamb's works form almost the only events of his life which can be recorded ; and upon these criticism has been nearly exhausted. Little, therefore, was necessary to accompany the Letters,' except such thread of narrative as might connect them together ; and such explanations as might render their allusions generally understood. The reader's gratitude for the pleasure which he will derive from these memorials of one of the most delightful of English writers is wholly due to his correspondents, who have kindly entrusted the precious relics to the care of the Editor, and have permitted them to be given to the world ; and to Mr. Moxon, by whose interest and zeal they have been chiefly collected. He may be allowed to express his personal sense of the honour which he has received in such a trust from men, some of whom are among the greatest of Eng- land's living authors, — to Wordsworth, Southey, Manning, Barton, Procter, Gil- man, Patmore, Walter Wilson, Field, Eobinson, Dyer, Gary, Ainsworth, to Mr. Green, the executor of Coleridge, and to the surviving relatives of Hazlitt. He is also most grateful to Lamb's esteemed schoolfellow, Mr. Le Grice, for supplying an interesting part of his history. Of the few additional facts of Lamb's history, the chief have been supplied by Mr. Moxon, in whose welfare he took a most aflectionate interest to the close of his life ; and who has devoted some beautiful sonnets to his memory. The recentness of the period of some of the letters has rendered it necessary to omit some portions of them, in which the humour and beauty are interwoven with personal references, which, although wholly free from anything which, rightly understood, could give pain to any human being, touch on subjects too sacred for public exposure. Some of the personal allusions which have been retained, may seem, perhaps, too free to a stranger ; but they have been retained only in cases in which the Editor is well assured the parties would be rather gratified than displeased at seeing their names connected in life-like association with one so dear to their memories. PREFACE. The italics and the capitals are invariably those indicated by the MSS. It is to be regretted that in the printed letters the reader must lose the curious varieties of writing with which the originals abound, and which are scrupulously adapted to the subjects. Many letters yet remain unpublished, which will further illustrate the character of Mr. Lamb, but which must be reserved for a future time, when the Editor hopes to do more justice to his own sense of the genius and the excellence of his friend, than it has been possible for him to accomplish in these volumes. T. N. T. Russell Sqcare. CONTENTS. Page PERSONAL REMINISCENCES OP LAMB, COLERIDGE, SOUTHEY, 'WORDSWORTH, AND THEIR EARLY FRIEND AND PUBLISHER, JOSEPH COTTLE xix LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. Chapter I. — [1775 to 1796.] LAMB'S PARENTAGE, SCHOOL DAYS, AND YOUTH, TO THE COMMENCEMENT OF HIS *^* CORRESPONDENCE WITH COLERIDGE 19 Chapter II. — [1796.] LETTERS TO COLERIDGE 25 Chapter HI. — [1797.] LETTERS TO COLERIDGE 34 Chapter IV. — [1798.] LAMB'S LITERARY EFFORTS AND CORRESPONDENCE WITH SOUTHEY 42 Chapter V. — [1799, 1800.] LETTERS TO SOUTHEY, COLERIDGE, MANNING, AND WORDSWORTH 61 Chapter VI. — [1800.] LETTERS TO MANNING AFTER LAMB'S REMOTAL TO THE TEMPLE ..65 Chapter VIL — [1801 to 1804.] LETTERS TO MANNING, WORSWORTH, AND COLERIDGE; JOHN WOODVIL REJECTED, PUBLISHED, AND REVIEWED gg Chapter VIIL — [1804 to 1806.] LETTERS TO MANNING, WORDSWORTH, HICKMAN, AND HAZLITT. — « MR. H." WRIT- TEN, — ACCEPTED, — DAMNED Of. CONTENTS. Chapter IX. — [1807 to 1814.] Page LETTERS TO MANNING, MONTAGUE, WORDSWORTH, AND COLERIDGE 87 Chapter X. — [1815 to 1817.] LETTERS TO WORDSWORTH, SOUTHET, AND MANNING 107 Chapter XI. — [1818 to 1820.] LETTERS TO WORDSWORTH, SODTIIET, MANNING AND COLERIDGE 117 Chapter XII. — [1820 to 1823.] LETTERS TO WORDSWORTH, COLERIDGE, FIELD, WILSON, AND BARTON 124 Chapter XIIL — [1823.] LAMB'S CONTROVERSY WITH SOUTHEY 134 Chapter XIV. — [1823 to 1825.] LETTERS TO AINSWORTH, BARTON, AND COLERIDGE 1-15 Chapter XV. — [1825.] / LAMB'S EMANCIPATION FROM THE INDIA HOUSE 153 / Chapter XVI. — [1826 to 1828.] LETTERS TO ROBINSON, CARY, COLERIDGE, PATMORE, PROCTER, AND BARTON 15S Chapter XVIL — [1829, 1830.] LETTERS TO ROBINSON, PROCTER, BARTON, WILSON, OILMAN, WORDSWORTH, AND DYER , 168 Chapter XVIII. — [1830 to 1834.] LAMBS LAST LETTERS AND DEATH ..> CONTENTS. FINAL MEMORIALS. Chapter L IJ^TTERS OF LAMB TO COLERIDGE, IN THE SPRING AND SUMMER OF 1796 203 Chapter II. LETTERS OF LAMB TO COLERIDGE, CniEFLY RELATING TO THE DEATH OF MRS. LAMB AND MISS LAMB'S SUBSEQUENT CONDITION 215 Chapter III. LETTERS TO COLERIDGE AND MANNING IN LAMB'S FIRST YEARS OF LIFE WITH HIS SISTER — 1797 to 1800., Chapter IV. MISCELLANEOUS LETTERS TO MANNING, COLERIDGE, AND WORDSWORTH — 1800 TO 1805 225 233 Chapter V. LETTERS TO HAZLITT, ETC., -1805 to 1810 243 Chapter VI. LETTERS TO WORDSWORTH, ETC., CHIEFLY RESPECTING WORDSWORTH'S POEMS — 1815 TO 1818 _ 251 Chapter VII. THE LONDON MAGAZINE — CHARACTER AND FATE OF MR. JOHN SCOTT, ITS EDITOR — GLIMPSE OF MR. THOMAS GRIFFITHS WAINWRIGHT, ONE OF ITS CON- TRIBUTORS-MISCELLANEOUS LETTERS OF LAMB TO WORDSWORTH, COLE- RIDGE, AND OTHERS — 1818 to 1825 „ ^ _,. 2^2 Chapter VIII. LETTERS OF LAMB'S LAST YEARS-1S25 to 183i 2T0 Chapter the Last. LABIB'S WEDNESDAY NIGHTS COMPARED WITH THE EVENINGS OF HOLLAND HOUSE — HIS DEAD COMPANIONS, DYER, GODWIN, THELWALL, HAZLITT, BARNES, HAYDON, COLERIDGE, AND OTHERS — LAST GLIMPSES OF CHARLES AND MARY LAMB 203 CONTENTS. ESSAYS OF ELIA. Page THE SOUTU-SEA HOUSE , 3J9 OXFORD IN THE VACATION 343 CHRISrS HOSPITAL FIVE-AND-TUIRTY YEARS AGO 33G THE TWO RACES OF MEN 342 KEW-YEAR'3 EVE • 345 MRS. BATTLE'S OPINIONS ON WHIST 345 A CHAPTER ON EARS 352 ALL FOOL'S DAY 354 A QUAKER'S MEETING .- 356 THE OLD AND THE NEW SCHOOLMASTER 358 IMPERFECT SYMPATHIES.... 363 WITCHES, AND OTHER NIGHT FEARS 364 VALENTINE'S DAY 370 MY RELATIONS 372 MACKERY END, IN HERTFORDSHIRE ;. 375 MY FIRST PLAY 377 MODERN GALLANTRY 3S0 THE OLD BENCHERS OF THE INNER TEMPLE 3S2 GRACE BEFORE MEAT 3S7 DREAM-CHILDREN; A REVERIE , 391 DISTANT CORRESPONDENTS 393 THE PRAISE OF CinMNEY-SWEEPERS 366 A COMPLAINT OF THE DECAY OP BEGGARS IN THE METROPOLIS 399 A DISSERTATION UPON ROAST PIG..T^ 403 A BACHELOR'S COMPLAINT OF THE BEHAVIOUR OF MARRIED PEOPLE 406 ON SOME OF THE OLD ACTORS 410 ON THE ARTIFICIAL COMEDY OF THE LAST CENTURY 416 ON THE ACTING OF MUNDEN 420 CONTENTS. THE LAST ESSAYS OF ELIA. Page BLAKESMOOR IN H SHIRE 425 POOR RELATIONS ,. 409 DETACHED THOUGHTS ON BOOKS AND. READING 433 STAGE ILLUSION 434 TO THE SHADE OF ELLISTON 433 ELLISTONIANA 439 THE OLD MARGATE HOY 44O THE CONVALESCENT 442 SANITY OF TRUE GENIUS 446 CAPTAIN JACKSON , 447 THE SUPERANNUATED MAN 45O THE GENTEEL STYLE IN WRITING 4g2 BARBARA S .^....™;^... „ 453 THE TOMBS IN THE ABBEY ._ 45g AMICUS REDIVIVUS ^gg SOME SONNETS OF SIR PHILIP SYDNEY 422 NEWSPAPERS THIRTY-FIVE YEARS AGO 465 BARRENNESS OF THE IMAGINATIVE FACULTY IN THE PRODUCTIONS OF MODERN ART 469 THE WEDDING • 4T5 REJOICINGS UPON THE NEW YEAR'S COMING OF AGE 478 /old china ^gg THE CHILD ANGEL; A DREAM , ^33 CONFESSIONS OF A DRUNKARD 4g5 POPULAR FALLACIES :— I. THAT A BULLY IS ALWAYS A COWARD 489 n. THAT ILL-GOTTEIf GAIN NEVER PROSPEKS 489 m. THAT A MAN MUST NOT LAUGH AT HIS OWN JEST 489 IV. THAT SUCH A ONE SHOWS HIS BREEDING. — THAT IT IS EASY TO PERCEIVE HE IS NO GENTI.KMAN 490 V. THAT THE POOR COPY THE VICES OF THE RICH 490 IV. THAT ENOUGH IS AS GOOD AS A FEAST 491 Vn, OF TWO DISPUTANTS THE WARMEST IS GENERALLY IN THE WRONG 491 CONTENTS. POPULAR FALLACIES — coH^umccZ. Page VIII. THAT VERBAL ALICSIOSS ARE NOT WIT, BECAUSE THET WILL NOT BEAR A TRANSLATION 492 IS. THAT Tire WORST PCN3 ARE TUE BEST., 492 X. THAT BA>-I)SOME 18 THAT HANDSOME DOES 493 II. THAT WE MOST NOT LOOK A GIFT-UORSE IN THE MOUTU 494 Xn. THAT HOME IS HOME THOUGH IT IS NEVER SO HOMELY 495 Xin. THAT YOU MOST LOVE ME, AND LOVE MY DOG 497 XIV. THAT WE 6U0CLD RISE WITH THE LARK 499 XV. tSaT WE SHOULD LIE DOWN WITH THE LAJIB 500 XVI. TU.\T A SULKY TEMPER 13 A MISFORTUNE 501 ROSAMUND GRAY, ESSAYS, Etc. ROSAMUND GRAY 505 ESSAYS:— RECOLLECTIONS OF CHRIST'S HOSPITAL 523 ON THE TRAOEDIES OP 8HAKSPEAKE, CONSIDEEED 'WITH REFERENCE TO THEIR FITNESS FOR STAGE- REPRESENTATION 529 CHARACTERS OP DRAMATIC WRITERS, CONTEMPORARY WITH SHAKSPE;VRE 540 SPECIMENS FROM THE WRITINGS OF FULLER, THE CHURCH HISTORI.iN 547 ON THE GENIUS AND CHARACTER OF HOGARTH ; WITH SOME REMARKS ON A PASSAGE IN THE WRITINGS OF' THE LATE MR. BARRY 552 ON TEE POETICAL WORKS OP GEORGE WITHER 562 LETTERS, UNDER ASSUMED SIGNATURES, PUBLISHED IN " THE REFLECTOR :"— THE LONDONER 565 ON BURIAL SOCIETIES: AND THE CHARACTER OF AN UNDERTAKER 6C6 ON THE DANGER OP CONFOUNDING MORAL WITH PERSON.U, DEFORSHTY; WITH A HINT TO THOSE WHO HAVE THE FRAMING OF ADVERTISEMENTS FOR APPREHENDING OFFENDERS :. 569 ON THE INCONVENIENCES RESULTING FROM BEING HANGED 572 ON THE MELANCHOLY OP TAILORS 577 ■ BOSPITA ON THE IMMODERATE INDULGENCE OF THE PLEASURES OF THE PALATE 679 EDAX ON APPETITE 5S1 CURIOUS FRAGMENTS, EXTRACTED FROM A COMMON-PLACE BOOK WHICH BELONGED TO ROBERT BURTON, THE FAMOUS AUTHOR OF THE ANATOJIY OF MELANCHOLY 585 MR. n ., A FARCE, IN TWO ACTS 689 CONTENTS. POEMS. [TJiose marl-ed with an asierisJi: are hy the Author's Sister.'] Page HESTER ^.. 605 TO CHARLES LLOYD, AN UNEXPECTED VISITOR , 605 THE THREE FRIENDS 606 TO A RIVER IN WHICH A CHILD WAS DROWNED 608 THE OLD FAMILIAR FACES ...-. _ 608 *HELEN 608 A VISION OF REPENTANCE 608 *DIALOGUE BETWEEN A MOTHER AND CHILD 609 QUEEN ORIANA'S DREAM 609 A BALLAD NOTING THE DIFFERENCE OF RICH AND POOR, IN THE WAYS OP A RICH NOBLE'S PALACE AND A POOR WORKHOUSE 610 HYPOCHONDRIACUS 610 A FAREWELL TO TOBACCO 611 TO T. L. H., A CHILD 612 BALLAD, FROM THE GERMAN 613 ^DAVID IN THE CAVE OF ADULLAM 613 *SALOME 613 *LINES SUGGESTED BY A PICTURE OF TWO FEMALES, BY LIONARDO DA VINCI 614 *LINES ON THE SAME PICTURE BEING REMOVED TO MAKE PLACE FOR A PORTRAIT OF A LADY BY TITIAN 614 *LINES ON THE CELEBRATED PICTURE BY LIONARDO DA VINCI, CALLED THE VIRGIN OP THE ROCKS 614 *0N THE SAME 614 SONNETS:— L TO MISS KELLY 615 II. ON THE SIGHT OF SWANS IN KENSINGTON GARDEN 615 ni , 615 IV 615 V : ^..; 615 VI. THE FAMILY NAME 615 CONTENTS. SONNETS — con^jHwecZ. Page Vn 616 VIII 616 IX. TO JOUN LAMB, ESQ., OF TUE SODTUSEA HOUSE 616 X 616 XI 616 BLANK VERSE:— CniLDHOOD 617 TUE GRAXDAME 617 THE SABBATH BELLS „ 61J, FANCY EMPLOYED ON DIVINE SUBJECTS 617 COMPOSED AT MIDNIGHT 618 JOHN ■\T00D\T:L, a tragedy 619 THE WITCH, A DRAMATIC SKETCH OF THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY 633 ALBUM VERSES, WITH A FEW OTHERS, IN THE AUTOGRAPH BOOK OF MRS. SERGEANT W C34 TO DORA W , ON BEING ASKED BY HER FATHER TO WRITE IN HER ALBUM 634 IN THE, ALBUM OF A CLERGYMAN'S LADY 634 IN TELE ALBUM OF EDITH S 635 IN THE ALBUM OF ROTUA Q 635 IN THE ALBUM OF CATHERINE ORKNEY 635 IN THE ALBUM OF LUCY BARTON 635 IN THE ALBUM OF MRS. JANE TOWERS 635 IN THE ALBUM OP MISS 635 IN MY OWN ALBUM „ 636 MISCELLANEOUS : ANGEL HELP , 636 ON AN INFANT DYING AS SOON AS BORN 636 THE CmaSTENINQ G37 THE YOUNG CATECIHST 637 TO A YOUNG FRIEND ON HER TWENTY-FIRST BIRTHDAY 638 SHE IS GOING 638 CONTENTS. xvii SONNETS :— Page HARMONY IN UNLIKENESS 038 WRITTEN AT CAMBRIDGE 638 TO A CELEBRATED FEMALE PERFORMER IN THE "BLIND BOY" 638 WORK 639 LEISURE 639 TO SAMUEL ROGERS, ESQ „ 639 THE GIPSY'S MALISON 639 COMMENDATORY VERSES, &c.— TO J. S. ENOWLES, ESQ., ON HIS TRAGEDY OF VIRGINIUS 639 TO THE AUTHOR OF POEMS, PUBLISHED UNDER THE NA:mE OF BARRY CORNWALL 640 TO THE EDITOR OF THE "ETERY-DAY BOOK" 640 TO T. STOTHARD, ESQ., ON HIS ILLUSTRATIONS OF THE POEMS OF MR. ROGERS 640 I 10 A FRIEND ON HIS MARRIAGE 6i0 "0 LIFT WITH REVERENT HAND" 641 THE SELF-ENCHANTED 641 TO LOUISA M , WHOM I USED TO CALL "MONKEY" 641 TRANSLATIONS FROM THE LATIN OF VINCENT BOURNE:— THE BALLAD SINGERS 642 TO DAVID COOK, OF THE PARISH OF ST. MARGARETS, WESTMINSTER, WATCHMAN 642 ON A SEPULCHRAL STATUE OF AN INFANT SLEEPING 643 EPITAPH ON A DOG 643 THE RIVAL BELLS 643 NEWTON'S PRINCIPIA 643 THE HOUSEKEEPER 644 ON A DEAF AND DUMB ARTIST 614 THE FEMALE ORATORS , 644 PINDARIC ODE TO THE TREAD-MILL 644 GOING OR GONE 645 FREE THOUGHTS ON SEVERAL EMINENT COMPOSERS 646 THE WIFE'S TRIAL; or, THE INTRUDING WIDOW. A Dramatic Poem „„ ; 647 1* LAMB'S RESIDENCE AT ENFIELD. PERSONAL REMINISCENCES. BY AN AMERICAN. PERSONAL REMINISCENCES OF LAMB, COLERIDGE, SOUTHEY, WOEDSWORTH, AND THEIR EARLY FRIEO AND PUBLISHER, JOSEPH COTTLE. BY AN AMERICAN FRIEND OF THE POETS. A YOUNG man in drab coat and broad-brimmed hat is loaning over the counter in the sliop of Mr. Joseph Cottle, the young Bristol bookseller, in earnest discourse with the proprietor. The subject of conversation is the problem — ever old, yet always new — of the reorganization and reconstruction of society. Tliis great problem, says •Mr. Lovell (the young gentleman in the drab coat), is now upon the point of solution. A perfect social state is about to be constituted, wliicli shall be free from all the evils and turmoils whicli have always agitated the world — never so much so as at the present day ; for it is in the year of grace 179-1, and the terrific experiment of the French revolution is working itself out. Mr. Lovell is not the author of the scheme he is so zealously expounding. That honor belongs to two young friends of his, both University men — Mr. Coleridge, of Cambridge, and Mr. Southey, of Oxford. The latter of these is Mr. Lovell's most in- timate friend, and indeed is affianced to Edith Fricker, his wife's sister. But this is a great secret for the present, as Mr. Southey has aristocratic friends who would not be well pleased to learn that he was about to marry a milliner of Bath. The honor of propounding the scheme belongs mainly to Mr. Coleridge, who is a famous Greek scliolar, and has invented a couple of names which accurately describe it. He calls it Pantisockacy, signifying the " equal government of all," or Asphetism, im- plying the "generalization of all individual property." The outlines of the scheme are these: A chosen band are to form a social colony on the banks of the Susquehanna, in America. None are to be admitted except per- sons of tried and incorruptible character. Selfishness is to be utterly proscribed; all property is to be absolutely in common ; government is to be conducted not by formal laws, but by excluding all deteriorating passions ; and liuman nature is to have a fail' chance of developing its inherent perfectibility. Mr. Coleridge, so says Mr. Lovell, notwithstanding his wonderful genius — (for he is the first poet of his age ; and Mr. Southey, by the way, is hardly his inferior) — is no mere cloistered projector, but a cool and careful reasoner. He lias gone into the most minute calculations, and is fully satisfied that in this new country the labor of two hours each day will be amply sufficient to supply all the necessities of life. But PERSONAL REMINISCENCES OF as the adventurers are to be all young and vigorous, they will proljably choose to de- vote some additional labor to extending and improving their domain. They will hew down the stately lbrest,s; the loppings and trimmings of the trees will supply fuel for their cheerful winter tire, and the trunks cut up into planks will afford materials for their outbuildings, reserving the finest for constructing their own picturesque habita- tions. All this will cost barely the labor of cutting and hewing. Making all due allowance for these voluntary labors, there will be ample leisure for each individual to employ as he may choose in reading, study, and conversation ; or even in writing books, if any one has a gift that way. In these calculations Coleridge and his friend Southey have been greatly aided by a young man who has resided some years in America, and has now returned to Eng- land for the purpose of selling land upon the banks of this very Susquehanna. He spends almost every evening in their company — for the sake of benefiting by their conversation, he says — and in return he gives them a deal of valuable information. Six hundred dollars, he assures them, is all that will be requisite to purchase a thou- sand acres of land, and to build houses thereupon. Twelve men can easily clear tlxree hundred acres in four or five months. The Susquehanna country he recommends on many accounts — (how lucky it is that the lands he has to sell are located just there) — such as its wonderful beauty, and its perfect security from any incursions of hostile Indians. He has heard of bisons, but has never seen one himself; at all events, he can assure them that they are not dangerous. One annoyance he cannot in con- science deny to exist in this favored land. That is the mosquitoes; but, after all, they are less troublesome than the gnats in England ; and when a person gets used to them, why, he will not mind them at all. "And as for literary characters," con- tinues the ingenuous young man, " they make lots of money there." In answer to Mr. Cottle's inquiries, Mr. Lovell informs him that it has been deter- mined that the young adventurers shall charter a ship at Bristol in the ensuing spring, for it is far in autumn, and set sail. It is true that just now they are rather short of funds to carry out the scheme ; but there are yet some months before the time set for departure, and he shall introduce the two great pioneers to all his friends in Bristol, where they are to arrive in a few days. By great good fortune, he happens to have in his pocket some manuscript copies of the poems of his friends, which he would like to read to Mr. Cottle. The book- seller would be happy to hear them, for he has a taste for literature ; and, to tell the truth, has just then in press a small volume of poems of his own composition. This volume is neither of his two stupendous epics of "Alfred," and th-e "Fall of Cambria," in twenty-four books each, which belong to a much later period, but a small collec- tion of miscellaneous poems, chiefly descriptive. Not very long after this conversation, Mr. Southey arrives in Bristol, and is duly introduced to Mr. Cottle. A most fascinating young man is this Mr. Robert Southey. Tall and dignified, with a prominent aquiline nose, piercing eyes, and a countenance full of genius, kindliness, and intelligence, possessing great suavity of manners, he quite answers to the young bookseller's idea of what a poet should be, and is most cordially received. After awhile, it is announced that on the following day Mr. Cole- ridge himself is expected in Bristol. When he arrives, Mr. Cottle is delighted with him. Such a brow, such a forehead, was never before worn by man. Mr. Cottle in- troduces them both to his friends, and they speedily become quite the rage in Bristol, Mr. Coleridge especially, who is the most brilliant converser ever listened to. Mr. Cottle, who knows something of business, has all along feared that the pecu- niary resources of his young friends are inadequate to allow them to charter a vessel LAMB, COLERIDGE, SOUTHEY, AND WORDSWORTH and provide the outfit for their voyage. He is in the course of a couple of months confirmed in this opinion by receiving a note from Mr. Coleridge, asking for a loan of five pounds to enable them to pay for their lodgings in Bristol; the whole bill amounts to eleven pounds — decidedly more than they had anticipated. He is too happy to make the required loan ; and finding that Mr. Coleridge is in a desponding mood, advises him to publish a volume of his poems, in order to raise funds. Mr. Coleridge has thought of that, and has already oflfered them to sundry London book- sellers, who will not even look at " the article," declaring that poetry is " quite a drug in the market." One does, however, condescend to look at the manuscripts, and offers him six guineas for them — a very liberal proposition, when we remember for how much " Paradise Lost " was sold. "Well, then," says Mr. Cottle, "I will give you twenty guineas." Mr. Coleridge's countenance grows radiant at once. " Nay," adds Mr. Cottle, " I will give you thirty guineas, and will pay you the money as your occasions require, without waiting for the completion of the work." A most liberal publisher is Mr. Cottle, as is still further evinced by his making a similar offer to Mr. Southey, who accepts it with the greatest pleasure. Nor does his liberality stop here. Mr. Southey has read to him portions of his completed poem, " Joan of Arc," for which he is now soliciting subscriptions. He offers to publish it in quarto, giving the author fifty guineas, and fifty copies of the work for his subscribers. This offer is accepted, and Robert Southey's destiny is fixed. He is to be a man of letters. Meanwhile the two young poets have recourse to sundry expedients to recruit their finances. They project a series of public lectures. Southey chooses historical themes ; Coleridge expatiates on moral and political subjects : such as the Slave Trade, the Hair-Powder Tax, the French and English Revolutions, the Liberty of the Press ; draws parallels between Charles I. and Louis XVI., Cromwell and Robespierre, Maza- rine and Pitt, and sundry other historical characters. He also proposes to deliver a course of theological lectures. Upon one occasion he volunteers to take the place of his friend Southey, and deliver one of the lectures of his historical course ; but un- fortunately fails to make his appearance at the appointed time. It is much to be regretted that this brilliant young man is so little to be depended upon, as Mr. Cottle finds to his cost; for the volume of poems, which has been paid for, does not make its appearance for two whole years. On Saturday he promises that the printer shall have copy in profusion by Monday morning — a whole printed sheet a day, if he wants it. No copy makes its appearance, but a letter instead, ask- ing the bookseller to send four pipes, as the poet has " an impulse to fumigate;" and by the succeeding morning copy shall be forthcoming, which, however does ]iot arrive. So many excuses he has, too: now he is unwell; now he must go marketing — will Mr. Cottle take tea with him this evening? — now he will come to Mr. Cottle's to tea, and after tea he will write ; the publisher may lock him up in a chamber if he will,' and not let him out till a due quantity of copy is produced ; and so on, and so on. Things have gone on thus for eighteen months or so, when it is announced that the young poet is about to be married to Sarah Fricker, the sister of -his friend Southey's affiancee. This intelligence excites some surprise, for the poet is supposed to be deeply enamored with a certain Mary Evans; and it is not many months ago that, in a fit of despair at his unprosperous suit to her, added to pecuniary embarrassments, he had suddenly left the University, and enlisted as a private soldier, under the name of .Silas Tomkyn Comberbatch. From this uncongenial position he has been released just in time to form this famous scheme of Pantisocracy. Mr. Cottle is a true friend PERSONAL REMINISCENCES OF in this emergency, and promises to pay him a guinea and a half for every hundred lines of poetry he will furnish — after the completion of the volume so long promised. On the strength of this promise, the rite is performed, and the new-married pair take up their abode in a cottage which the groom has hired. Mr. Coleridge has not thought of tlie requisite furnishing of his home ; and two days after taking pos- session of it, writes to the ever-prompt Cottle to send him down the following list of household plenishing : "A riddle-slice; a candle-box; two ventilators; two glasses for the wash-hand stand; one tin dust-pan; one small tin tea-kettle; one pair of candlesticks ; one carpet brush ; one llour-drcilge ; three tin extinguishers ; two mats ; a pair of slippers ; a cheese-toaster; two large tin spoons; a Bible ; a keg of porter ; collee; raisins; cur- rents; catsup; nutmegs; allspice; cinnamon; rice; ginger, and mace." Meet place for a poet was this cottage home, as Coleridge has pictured it in two of his most exquisite poems. Who does not know that cot overgrown with Avhite- flowered jasmine and broad-leaved myrtle, the simple lute placed lengthways in the casement; the tall rose peeping into the casement window, the faint murmur of the sea, audible in the distance? Who has not climbed from the low dell up the bare bleak mountain, and watched the gray clouds, the river, the Channel, flecked with white sails, and all the beauty which the inland view affords? Whose heart has not been soothed and tranquillized, at the picture of the " pensive Sara " with her soft cheek reclined upon the poet's arm ; while her mild eye darted reproof upon his impetuous imaginings? And what young manly, heart has not echoed the thanks- giving for the mercy which vouchsafed him the possession of peace and that cot, and the heart-honored maid. Alas, that romance should be such unsubstantial food. Alas that this rosy morn- ing of connubial love should be so soon overclouded; that mother and children should so soon be forsaken by the husband and father. Coleridge soon grew weary of his pretty cot. It was too far from the provincial town; friends were too distant, tattling neighbors too near; and perhaps certain festive scenes which he had learned to love were too inaccessible. So back to Bristol he goes, and the rose-embowered cottage knows him no more forever. It is very true that man lives not by bread alone ; still it is no less true that with- out bread he cannot live at all. Such schemes of intellectual activity did Coleridge then, as ever after, form ! It was in these days that he once showed to his friend Cottle that leaf from his pocket-book upon which he had written a list of the works he had then determined -to write. Eighteen of them in all, a number to be in quarto; and first and foremost the great work ; not that "Great Work " which for a score of years he was so fond of promising his friends and disciples — nor yet that other "Great Work" of " Imitations," of which he elsewhere speaks — but a work on the darling scheme of " Pantisocracy." Eighteen works at once ! Yet no one who listened to his inspired conversation, could doubt that that wonderful mind was amply furnished with materials for them all. At any evening, over a steaming pot of "egg-hot" with pipes of " Oroonoko," he would talk half a volume. Yet conversation, though as wonderful as that of Coleridge, will not furnish the arms with which the battle of life is to be waged. Of the eighteen works not one gets to the pen's point, to say nothing of type and press. The poetry at one and a half guinea the hundred lines, is not forthcoming. But something must be done. Cole- ridge projects a monthly publication, to be called the "Watchman," embracing the characteristics of a Register, Review, and Newspaper ; and he sets off to canvass for subscribers; combining with the character of agent that of preacher. He is at that LAMB, COLERIDGE, SOUTHET, AND AVORDSWORTH. time an undoubting Socinian ; and the holders of that faith wish to see him an occu- pant of their pulpit, for preachers of their doctrines are quite too few, owing, as we are told — we hope with a spice of exaggeration — to the fact that the greater number of the young men who commence the study of that form of doctrine, turn out infidels in the course of their studies. Coleridge canvasses and preaches, with rather indif- ferent success in both departments of exertion. The " Watchman" makes its appear- ance, but breaks down at the close of the tenth number. It does not pay expenses ; and Mr. Cottle pockets the loss, without a murmur. The glorious scheme, of Pantisocracy does not in the meanwhile succeed well. The projectors of the new golden age have bickerings. Coleridge and Lovell meet without speaking like perfect strangers. Lovell thinks the marriage of his friend is hardly a prudent thing. Coleridge is outraged, and calls him a villain. Kind Mr, Cottle acts the part of peacemaker, and eff'ects a reconciliation ; and in good time too, for in a few days after, Lovell is attacked by a fever, and sets fortli on the long voyage for the Silent Land. Mr. Southey also grows cold in the faith of Pantisocracy, and informs Coleridge that he has abandoned the scheme of American Colonization, and shall accompany his uncle to Portugal. Coleridge is wrathful, charges his associate with desertion, and they part in anger. "When Southey returns, after an absence of a year, he makes overtures for a reconciliation. He sends to Coleridge a slip of paper upon which he has written in German, a line from Schiller : " Fiesco, Fiesco, thou leavest a void in my bosom, whicli the whole world, thrice-told, cannot replace." The overture is accepted, and a reconciliation takes place, much to the joy of their friend Cottle. But the old terms of cordial intimacy appear never to have been fully re-established ; and each goes on in his own separate path of life. Upon the morning of his embarkation, Southey was privately married to his Edith. The ever-helpful Cottle furnished the means for paying the wedding fees and purchas- ing the wedding-ring, and afterward received the young wife into his own loving household, as Southey long after, when he had won for himself a name and station, gratefully acknowledged. And the young Avife, suspending her wedding-ring from her neck, parts at the church-door from her husband. This marriage under such untoward circumstances was no idle freak of passion. Southey knew that the deli- cate feelings of his beloved would shrink from receiving support from one not legally her husband ; and besides he was assured that in the event of his death while abroad, the prejudices of his kindred would yield to the anguish of affection, and they would love and cherish his widow on account of the dead husband. The union consum- mated under such ill auspices proved the joy of the poet's life. For more than forty years Edith proved herself a true helpmate through joy and through sorrow. In these days another poet is added to the list of Mr. Cottle's friends. He is a tall, quiet, self-composed young man, with a countenance indicative of calm contempla- tion rather than of genius. He has already published a couple of small volumes of poetry ; and is now meditating another volume of poems, and a tragedy of which Coleridge speaks in terms of enthusiastic admiration. It is wonderful ; there are touches of humanity in it which he finds three or four times in Schiller, often in Shakespeare, but not elsewhere. He has, moreover, written twelve hundred lines of blank verse superior to anything in the language which at all resembles it. His name is Wordsworth. Mr. Cottle desires to publish the " Lyrical Ballads " which Wordsworth has nearly ready for the press. If, his verses and epics notwithstanding, he is himself destitute of the true poetic fire, he can appreciate poetry; and he wisely thinks it will be no small credit to a provincial bookseller to introduce to the world three such poets as PERSONAL REMINISCENCES OF Colcri(ly:e, Southey, aiul Wordsworth. The volume accordingly appears; but for any immediate honor which the author receives, he might as well have been a prophet. So slow is their sale that when, a few years after, the publisher upon retiring from business disposes of his copyrights, that of the " Ballads" is reckoned as of no value. Mr. Cottle thereupon requests the purchaser, the great London publisher, Longman, to give it to him, that he may present it to the author. "You are quite welcome to it," replies the famous l)ibliopole. The name of Charles Lamb now begins to be spoken among the circle of the friends of Mr. Cottle, though he is personally known only to Coleridge; for Lamb ia a clerk in London, and is tied to his daily task at the desk of the India House. He had been a schoolfellow of Coleridge, artd reverences him almost to idolatry. Slight in form, awkward in demeanor, and afflicted with an impediment in his speech, none as yet recognize in him one of the most genial spirits and delicate humorists of the time. Few who listened to the quaint conceits and delicate fancies of Lamb, knew that he was endowed with a moral heroism which enabled him cheerfully to fulfil the sternest duties ever imposed upon man ; that he was daily enacting a part in one of the deepest tragedies of human life ; and that over him and his brooded a more unre- lenting tate than that which in the old Greek drama overhung the doomed house of Atreus. He was now just entering upon manhood, and his scanty salary as a junior clerk was the chief support of his family. His father had fiiUen into a state of almost utter imbecility ; his mother was afflicted with a disease which deprived her of the use of her limbs; and his sister, ten years older than himself, in addition to daily attendance and nightly watching with their mother, endeavored to add to their re- sources by needlework. There was a hereditary taint of insanity in the family, which had not long before developed itself in Charles Lamb. To Coleridge he writes, at this time: " I know not what suflering 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 passed very agreeably in a mad-house. I ara somewhat rational now, and don't bite any one. But mad I was. It may convince you of my regard for you when I tell you that my head ran on you in my madness almost as much as on another person, who, I am inclined to thiiik, was the more immediate cause of my temporary phrensy." A recurrence of these attacks was reasonably to have been anticipated. But any tendency to mental aberration was crushed by the weight of a great calamity which suddenly fell upon him, and by the pressure of the duties which it involved. Those who in after years win their way to the friendship of Lamb are impressed by the anxious and yearning love which exists between him and his sister. They are all the world to each other. But it is fully a half centurj' before any, save the most select few, know the nature of the mournful tie that binds them together. It was only when the death of the survivor removed the obstacles which tenderness for the living interposed, that the iniblication of Talfourd's " Final Memorials of Lamb " unvailed the mystery. Mary Lamb, one of the gentlest and most loving souls that ever breathed, had more than once manifested the taint of insanity latent in her family. At the period of which we speak, in one of these paroxysms, induced by incessant toil and watch- fulness, she had stabbed her own mother to the heart, and inflicted a wound upon her lather. Lamb writes to Coleridge : " My poor, dear, dearest sister has been tjie 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 LAMB, SOUTHEY, COLERIDGE, AND WORDSWORTH. removed to a hospital. I am very composed and calm, and able to do the best that remains to do. Write me 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 some- thing more to do than to feel. You look after your own family. I have my reason and strength left me 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." And again: "God be praised, wonderful as it is to tell, I have never once been otherwise than collected and calm, even on that dreadful day; even in the midst of the terrible scene, I preserved a tranquillity which bystanders may have construed into indifierence — a tranquillity not of despair. I felt that I had some- 'thing else to do than to regret. I closed not my eyes in sleep that night, but lay without terrors and without despair. I have lost no sleep since." Need enough was there that Lamb should possess his soul in calmness, for every- thing rested upon him. So deeply had his father sunk into dotage that in a single day he had wholly forgotten what had occurred, and while the coroner's inquest was sitting, he was playing at cribbage in the next room. Lamb stands alone in the world to confront this terrible fate, and he does it unflinchingly. His dead are buried from his sight ; his sister is removed to the asylum, where she soon recovers from the paroxysm of insanity, and rightly looks upon what has occurred as a calamity, not as a crime ; but for her own and her father's sake she must not return home at pres- ent. From his scanty earnings the brother makes liberal provision for her wants, and himself toils at his desk till far into the night. When he comes home, faint and overwearied, he must play at cribbage with his father. " If you won't play with me, you might as well not come home at all," says the poor old man. In the course of a few months, death relieves the father from his weary and un- profitable life, and Lamb resolves to bring his sister to his home. This wish meets with opposition. It is hinted that she should be kept in perpetual confinement, for no assurance can be afi'orded against the return of her insanity. But Lamb persists, and by entering into a solemn engagement to take her for life under his charge, suc- ceeds in effecting her release. And so, at the age of twenty-two, with an income of barely a hundred pounds, hardly won at the desk, he binds upon himself the cross of daily martyrdom, crushes within his heart the germs of a first love, and sets out upon the long pilgrimage of life, a man foredoomed to lone estate. How nobly and • unflinchingly this self-imposed task was fulfilled, and what a rich return of love was given back to him, the " Life of Lamb," as recorded by his loving biographer, will inform us. For almost half a century this unwearied care was continued; and as the fortunes of the brother improved, his first solicitude was to make provision that in the event of her surviving him, as she did for many years, her comfort should be secured. To the lasting honor of the East India Company, in whose service he was, be it recorded, that upon his death the pension which, according to their rules, would have been paid to his widow, had he left one, was continued to his sister. The paroxysms of insanity of his sister returned through life with increasing fre- quency and duration. It is impossible to read with dry eyes, in his published letters, the touching allusions to her illness, and the fervent prayers for her recovery, when we know that these illnesses were returns of her insanity. The recurrences of these paroxysms were forewarned by certain premonitory symptoms, which grew to be too well known. When these symptoms made their appearance, the sister took her way, accompanied by her brother, to the mad-house, where she remained till the madness had passed, when she again returned to their home. More than once were they seen together on their way in this touching pilgrimage. PERSONAL REMINISCENCES OF Coleridge at this period passed some time in London, and Lamb's chief deUght was in his conversation ; when he returns to the country the lonely clerk writes to him the most touching expressions of love and homage: "You are the only cor- respondent, 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." Poor Lamb ! By-and-by Coleridge proposes that a few poems which Lamb has written should be printed in a volume with his own, to be published by the kindly Cottle. This is acceded to, and Lamb inscribes his portion " with all a brother's fondness to Mary •Ann Lamb, the Author's best Friend and Sister." Let us now overleap a score of years, and look again upon the Hiir brotherhood of poets. Southcy has long ago taken up his residence in-his beautiful home at Kes- wick, where he labors as diligently and persistently with his pen as does any laborer in broad England with spade or hammer. Yet he is changed. The Robert Southey of the olden time, the man of high hopes and brilliant aspirations, is dead. The poetical fire has burnt itself out. The verse which he will yet write compares sadly with the productions of his youth: with ''Joan of Arc" and "Madoc," with the won- derful creation of "Thalaba" and the gorgeous Oriental splendor of the "Curse of Kehama." Instead of these he produces the feeble "Vision of Judgment," an apotheosis of the third and most stupid of the Georges. The Pantisocrat has sub- sided into the strict Conservative and rigid Churchman. The author of "Wat Tyler" has grown into a firm upholder of the powers that be; and, for the rest, is one of the main writers for the Ultra-Tory " Quarterly Review." "Wordsworth has calmly and conscientiously fathomed his own powers; and from his still retreat among the lakes has sent forth to the world those poems which, fall- ing at first unheeded, have now, like the winged seed, sprung up into so glorious a harvest of renown. The " Excursion " has just made its appearance. The " Edinburgh Review" has oracularly pronounced that it will never do. But the critic might as well attempt to crush the Alps by stamping his foot upon them, as to crush that poem by a sneer. Unmoved alike by calumny or neglect, the great philosoi)liical poet goes serenely on his way, confident of future fame. He asks "fit audience though few" for his strains, and gains far more than he asks. This year, ISIG, marks the darkest period in the life of Coleridge. That wonderful genius which, in its youth, had created the "Ancient Mariner" and " Christabel," which in its glorious prime had given birth to the solemn " Ode to the Departing Year," and the sublime "Hymn in the Vale of Chamouny;" which had reproduced the great work of Schiller's manhood so grandly that we know not Avhich most to admire, the original or the translation ; which had uttered the serene and stately wisdom of the "Friend;" which had apparently swept the circle of metaphj-sical inquiry, and flung a bridge of light across the abysses of " fate, freewill, foreknowledge absolute : " that genius which had done all this, and which had shown itself adequate to achievements far higher than any or all of these, was now suffering under disas- trous eclipse. This year is the crisis and culminating point of Coleridge's opium- eating. Biography has few pages so mournful as those which relate this passage in the life of Coleridge. Cottle, who has for years lost sight of his early friend, learned a couple of years ago that he would soon make his appearance at Bristol as an itinerant lec- turer. When he comes, the fearful state to which he is reduced becomes apparent. Most earnestly does Cottle remonstrate with him, urging him to abandon the perni- cious habit, and to return to that family whom for years he has utterly abandoned. LAMB, SOUTHEY, COLERIDGE, AND WORDSWORTH. What a depth of tragedy lies in Coleridge's letters on this subject. "For ten years," he says, " the anguish of my spirit has been indescribable, the sense of my danger staring, but the consciousness of my guilt worse. I have prayed with drops of agony on my brow, trembling not only before the justice of my God, but even before the mercy of my Redeemer." Try to abstain from the use of the drug! He has tried, till life itself has seemed to him at peril. Could he but obtain a paltrj'- sum of money to maintain him in a private mad-house, how gladly would he add external •restraint to his shattered will, and then there might be hope. For his disorder is madness — a derangement not of the intellect, but of the will. You bid me rouse myself, he says; "Go bid a man paralytic in both arms to rub them briskly together, and that will cure him. ' Alas ! ' he would reply, ' that I cannot move my arms is my complaint and my misery.' May God bless you, and your unfortunate and most miserable S. T. Coleridge." Again : " You have no conception of the dreadful hell of my mind, and conscience, and body. You bid me to pray. Oh, I do pray to be able to pray." ..." I have resolved to place myself in any situation in which I can remain for a month or two, as a child, wholly in the power of others; but alas, I have no money; " and then follow entreaties that this old schoolfellow and that other "affectionate friend to worthless me," would consult together on his behalf. Does not this exceed in tragic pathos the spectacle of Swift in his old age of madness? Swift was mad, but unconscious of his fate. Coleridge was a conscious, remorseful madman, praying for the restraint of an asylum. Southey's narrower but well-balanced mind cannot comprehend this state of Cole- ridge. He is not a proper object for charitable aid; he can work, and find profitable employment, if he will. " I work, and by my daily labor win bread for myself and those dependent upon me, including even the wife and children of Coleridge, who has absolutely forsaken them. He promises, but does nothing. New friends may perhaps aid him with money, but those who know him well know his habits. All that he needs is to leave off opium, and do his duty." Yes ! All that a man dying of consumption needs, is to breathe deeply and freely — all that a lunatic needs, is to act sanely! It is useless, and worse than useless, he thinks, to supply Coleridge with money to expend himself. But let him come to him and his own family at Keswick. " Here he ought to be. He knows in what manner he would be received : by his children with joy; by his wife not with tears, if she can control them — certainly not with reproaches; by myself only with encouragement." In this sad wreck of the vital power of the will, it is not strange that the moral nature of Coleridge in a measure participated. While throwing himself on the char- ity of his old friends, professing, and doubtless feeling, the deepest anxiety to reform, he was secretly and by stealth procuring the drug, whose use was both consequence and cause of his ruin. What a mournful letter is that to a friend whom he had thus deceived: "Dear sir — for I am unworthy to call any good man friend — much less you, whose hospitality and love I have abused ; accept, however, my entreaties for your forgiveness and for your prayers. Conceive a poor miserable wretch who for many years has been attempting to beat off pain by a constant recurrence to the vice that reproduces it. Conceive a spirit in hell, employed in tracing out for others the road to that heaven from which his crimes exclude him. In short, conceive whatever is most wretched, helpless, and hopeless, and you will form as tolerable a notion of my state as it is possible for any good man to have. ... In the one crime of Opium what crime have I not made mj^self guilty of? Ingratitude to my Maker, and to my benefactors — injustice and unnatural cruelty to my poor children — self-contempt for my repeated promise-breach ; nay, too often, actual falsehood." PERSONAL REMINISCENCES OF Alas, that the great philosopher should have occasion to write as a mendicant to his old friend ; to lay bare his distress, his poverty. Can Mr. Cottle advance him thirty or forty pounds on the pledge of his manuscripts? He has already enough poems to make an additional volume; besides, what few or none have ever seen, a series of Odes on the Lc^-d's Prayer; and more than all, he has the materials all col- lected for the Great Work, " Christianity Considered as Philosophy, and as the Only Philosophy." He has all the materials collected, and in no small part reduced to form, and written out; but how can he complete the work? what can he do when he is so poor, when he must turn momently from those high themes to scribble for daily bread — and, alas ! that it should be so for daily opium, though of that he says noth- ing. He is five and twenty pounds in debt, his expenses are fifty shillings a week — and he never in his life had fifty pounds beforehand; not even when young De Quincey (afterward to be known as "The Opium Eater"), years ago, presented him with three hundred pounds — all was forestalled. Can his old friend Cottle assist him, for he would rather die than be subject as a slave to a club of subscribers to his poverty ! No: Mr. Cottle for the first time refuses to advance the required amount of money — he knows where that poor man's money must go to, who uses from two to three quarts of laudanum weekly. All he dares do is to send him five pounds. Three days after the date of the last letter, and before the answer has been received, Cole- ridge writes still more piteously. He has exhausted the slender resources of the friends whose hospitality he has enjoyed. He has humbled himself to ask the assist- ance of four or five of his old associates and friends. If he succeeds, he will try to earn his daily bread bj' receiving or waiting on day-pupils: but even for this he can- not wait without some assistance to meet his immediate and pressing necessities. If he succeeds in obtaining that, he will take cheajD lodgings somewhere, and will receive or wait on twenty pupils, partly children and partly those more advanced in years. The children he will instruct in the elements of the English, Latin, and Greek languages; the elder jDupils he will instruct upon a systematic plan of general knowl- edge. So many hours each day and evening he will devote to his j)upils. To these, or any other merely mechanical duties, he is sure he can attend with the strictest regularity. But composition is no voluntary business. The fact that he must do a thing robs him of the power to do it. Had he only possessed a competency he should have been a voluminous writer. As for the pupils, he thinks that fifteen pounds a year from each would not be more than he might venture to ask. Exclud- ing holidays and vacations, this would amount to little more than a paltry shilling a day. What a spectacle for gods and men ! The mightiest, the most gifted, the most richly stored intellect of the time — scarcely equalled in any or all time — looking forward with trembling hope to a lowly lodging, and the duties of the humblest usher, at a shilling a day for each pupil. This sad letter is the last that Coleridge ever adilressed to his old friend, Mr. Cottle. It bears date March 10, 1815. How the next year passed we know not, but in the spring of 1816 Coleridge made his state known to an eminent London physician. The physician writes to a brother in the profession — Mr. Gillman, of Highgate — that a very learned, but in one respect very unfortunate, gentleman has made a singular application to him. He has for many years made use of large quantities of opium; he has for some time endeavored to break off the habit, but liis friends have not sufficient firmness to absolutely pre- vent him from obtaining the drug. He wishes to put himself under the control of some medical man who will firmly refuse to allow him to use it. The unfortunate gentleman is possessed of a very communicative disposition, and his society will be LAMB, SOUTHEY, COLERIDGE, AND WORDSWORTH. found interesting and useful. Will Mr. Gillman undertake the charge? Mr. Gillman consents, and in April, 1816, Coleridge becomes an inmate of his family, a dear friend and honored guest for nineteen years. Coleridge was now but four-and- forty — in the very prime of life. Thanks to the care of his new friends, the fearful habit which had acquired such jDower over him was overcome; and the world might still hope that the bright promise held out by the "logician, metaphysician, bard," would yet be fulfilled. But though the weapon had been withdrawn, the infixed barb remained behind. Physical agony, incapacity for continuous mental exertion or refeolute effort, were his portion daily and nightly. His life's work was done. A mighty work it was, in itself considered, for he has stamped his own impress upon the thought of his age ; and given form and color to the rising literature of his own country, and still more to that of ours. But what he has accomplished is almost nothing when measured by the capacities which lay within him, or by the plans of his early manhood, in the " bright dayspring of his fancy, with hope like a fiery column before him — the dark pillar not yet turned." The seven volumes of his Works, which have been first brought together upon our side of the Atlantic, comprise the direct results of his intellectual life. Few and scanty are those which were produced after the close of his forty-fifth year. The "Aids to Eeflection," a short tract or two, a few brief and tender verses, such as the "Lines Suggested by the Last Words of Berengarius," the "Blossoming of the Solitary Date Tree," "Work without Hope," "Love, Hope, and Patience in Education" — all most touching as exponents of his own states of mind — are the sum of what the world has to show of the last seventeen years of the life of the most profound genius of his age. Of the last ten years of this life, not as many pages exist. - These four lines, intended as an " Inscription for a Time-piece," are probably the last he ever wrote : Now! — it is gone. Our brief hours travel post, Each with its thought or deed, its Why or How: — But know, each parting hour gives up a ghost To dwell within Thee — an eternal Now! What Coleridge wrote of himself long years before was true retrospectively; but an added emphasis of truth lay therein prophetically-enfolded : " past youth, and manhood come in vain; And genius given, and knowledge won in vain. And all which I had won in wood-walks wild, And all which patient toil had reared — but flowers Strewed on my corse, and borne upon my bier, In the same coffin, for the selfsame grave." Yet he still discoursed of that "Great Work," which was to be the crown and com- plement of his intellectual life. But three j^ears before his death he penned that sol- emn prayer, closing with the petition : "If the purpose and aspiration of my heart be upright before Thee, who alone knowest the heart of man, oh, in Thj^ mercy vouch- safe me yet in this my decay of life an interval of ease ai;id strength, if so — Thy grace disposing and assisting — I may make compensation to Thy church for the unused talents Thou hast entrusted to me, for the neglected opportunities which Thy loving kindness had provided. Oh, let me be found a laborer in Thy vineyard, though of the late hour, when the Lord and Heir of the vintage, Christ Jesus, calleth for His servant." His friends and admirers still hoped that the "Great Work " would be put forth — a work which should be a possession to mankind forevermore. But of it no PERSONAL REMINISCENCES. trace or fragment exists. Yet the absolute powei-s of Coleridge's intellect were unim- paired. The abode of the worthy Gillnian became a Mecca to which, year after year, thronged the young and the enthusiastic, the earnest and the hopeful, to listen to his marvellous discourse. From these high colloquies they returned bearing away pre- (•ions and weighty fragments of tliought, as travellers gather richly sculptured marbles and mutilated statuary from the ruined temples of antiquity — fragments indeed, but more valuable than the unbroken works of later ages. So passed away the swift years, until the 25th July, 1834, when " every mortal power of Coleridge ■ Was frozen at its marvellous source." He had written his own epitaph in these words : "Stop, Christian passer by; stop, child of God, And read with gentle breast. Beneath this sod A poet lies, or that which once seemed he. Oh, lift a thought in prayer for S. T. C. Tiiat he who many a year with toil of breath Found death in life, may here find life in death. Mercy for praise — to be forgiven for fame, , He asked, and hoped through Christ. Do thou the same." Reqidescat in pace. Lamb mourned the death of his early friend with intense sorrow. " Coleridge is dead," he would break forth at intervals. But in a little more than two years his lonely pilgrimage closed, and he was summoned to pass the por- tals of the Silent Land. Still a few years longer, and the overtasked brain of Southey began to give way. Memory grew feeble, and his recollection of things receded farther and farther toward the days of his childhood. His conversation grew wandering and unconnected. Slowly and reluctantly he ceased from his wonted labors, dreaming, long after the power of execution was extinct, of completing his unfinished woi'ks, and ever plan- ning new ones. He ceased to write; but still continued mechanically to read, after the fliculty of comprehension had gone; and when unable to read even, he still loved to wander vacantly among the long files of his beloved volumes, gazing dreamily at them. Thus for three years the vail grew closer and darker, until the closing year, during which all knowledge of outward things seemed to have vanished. So it was with joy rather than sorrow that on the 21st day of March, 1843, his loving friends saw the thread of life loosed, and knew that he had passed from the darkness of this' world into the brightness of the Life Beyond. Among the few who followed the remains of Southey to the grave, was a calm-eyed man whose tall form was scarcely bent by the weight of more than threescore years and ten. It was Wordsworth, who had walked over the hills that wild and stormy March morning, in reverence for an unbroken friendship of half a century. Yet a few years more, and he, the greatest — greatest in performance, though not greatest in capability — the eldest-born of the circle of poets, and the survivor of them all, having rounded the full circle of fourscore years, joined on the 23d of April, 1850, the still throng of the Lumortals. In 1853, INIr. Cottle, the firm and faitlvful friend of Coleridge, and Southey, and Wordsworth, and Lamb, rejoined their companionship beyond the portals of time. THE LETTERS CHARLES LAMB. gi BMtli at l]is Sift SIR THOMAS NOON TALFOURD, D. C L. 0N£ OF HIS EXECUTORS. THE LETTERS OF CHAELES LAMB. CHAPTER I. [1775 to 1796.] lamb's parentage, school-days, and YOITTH, TO THE COMMBNCEMi^NT OF HIS CORRESPONDENCE WITH COLERIDGE. Charles Lamb was born on 10th February, 1775, in Crown OiBce Row, in the Inner Temple, where he spent the first seven years of his life. His parents were in a hum- ble station, but they were endued with sen- timents and with manners which might well become the gentlest blood ; and fortune, which had denied them wealth, enabled them to bestow on their children some of the hap- piest intellectual advantages which wealth ever confers. His father, Mr. John Lamb, who came up a little b.)y from Lincoln, fortunately both for himself and his master, entered into the service of Mr. Salt, ouje of the benchers of the Inner Temple, a widower, who, growing old within its precincts, was enabled to appreciate and to reward his devotedness and intelligence ; and to whom he became, in the language of his son, "his clerk, his good servant, his dresser, his friend, his flapper, his guide, stop-watch, auditor, treasurer."* Although contented with his * Lamb has given characters of his father (nnfler the name of Level), and of Mr. Salt, in one of the most ex- quisite of all the Essays of Elia — "Tlie Olrl Benchers of ■the Inner Temple." Of Lovel, he says, " 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. He once wrested a sword out of the hand of a man of quality that had drawn upon him ; and pummelled hiin severely with the hilt of it. The swordsman had of- fered insult to a female — an occasion upon which no odds against him could have prevented the interference of Lovel. He would stand next day bare-headed to the same person, modestly to excuse his interference — for L. never lot, and discharging its duties with the most patient assiduity, he Avas not without literary ambition; and having written some occasional verses to grace the festivities of a benefit society of which he was a member, was encouraged by his brother iliei#bers to pub- lish, in a thin quarto, " Poetical Pieces on several occasions."- This volume contains a lively picture of the life of a lady's footman of the last century; the " History of Joseph," told in well-measured heroic couplets ; and a pleasant piece, after the manner of " Gay's Fables," entitled the " Sparrow's Wedding," which was the author's favorite, and which, Avhen he fell into the dotage of age, he delighted to hear Charles read.f His wife forgot rank, where something better was not concerned. L. was the liveliest little fellow breathing; had a face as grey as GarricU's, whom he was said greatly to resemble; (I have a portrait of him which confirms it ;) possessed a fine turn for humorous poetry — next to Swift and Prior; moulded heads in clay or plaster of Paris to admiration, l)y the dint of natural genius merely; turned cribbage- boards and such small cabinet toys to perfection ; took a hand at quadrille or bowls with equal facility ; made punch better than any man of his degree in England ; had the merriest quips and conceits ; and was altogether as brimful of rogueries and inventions as you cuulJ desire. He was a brother of the angle, moreover; and just such a free, hearty, honest companion as Mr. Izjiak Walton Mould have chosen to go a fishing with." t The following little poem, entitled "A Letter from a Child to its Grandmother," written by Mr. John Lamb for his eldest son, though possessing no merit beyond simplic- ity of expression, may show the manner in which he en- deavoured to discharge his parental duties: — " Dear Grandam, Pray to God to bless Your grandson dear, with happiness ; That, as I do advance each year, I may be taught my God to fear ; My little frame from passion free To man's estate from infancy ; 19 20 PARENTAGE, SCHOOL-DAYS, AND YOUTE. was a woman of appearance 80 matronly and commanding, that, according to the recollec- tion of one of Lanil)'8 dearest schoolmates, " she might be taken for a sister of Mrs. Sid- dons." This excellent couple were blessed with three children, John, Mary, and Charles ; John being twelve and Mary ten years older than Charles. John, who is vividly described in the essay of Elia entitled " My Relations," under the name of James Elia, rose to fill a lucrative office in the South Sea House, and died a few years ago, having to the last fulfilled the affectionate injunction of Charles, to " keep the elder brother up in state." Mary (the Bridget of the same essay) still survives, to mourn the severance of a life- long association, as free from every alloy of selfishness, as remarkable for moral beauty, as this world ever witnessed in brother and sister. On the 9tfc of October, 1782, when Charles Lamb had attained the age of seven, he was presented to the school of Christ's Hospital, by Timothy Yeates, Esq., Governor, as "the son of John Lamb, scrivener, and Elizabeth his wife," and remained a scholar of that noble establishment till he had entered into his fifteenth year. Small of stature, delicate of frame, and constitutionally nervous and timid, he would seem unfitted to encounter the discipline of a school formed to restrain some hundreds of lads in the heart of the metropolis, or to fight his way among them. But the sweetness of his dispc^sition won him favour from all ; and although the antique peculiarities of the school tinged his opening imagination, they did not sadden his child- hood. One of his schoolfellows, of whose genial qualities he has made affectionate mention in his " Recollections of Christ's Hospital," Charles V. Le Grice, now of Trerieft?, near Penzance, has supplied me with some particulars of his school-days, for which friends of a later date will be grateful. " Lamb," says Mr. Le Grice, "was an amiable pentle boy, very sensible nnd keenly observing, indulged by hia schoolfellows and by his From vii'o, that turns n youth n.«i(le, And to linve wipiiom for my (tuiJe; That I mny neither lie nor .swear. But in the path of virtue etccr; My actions penerous. firm, and just, Be always faithful to my trust; And thee the Lord will ever hlcss. Your grandson dear, JouN L , tlie Less. master on account of his infirmity of speech. His countenance was mild; his complexion clear brown, with an expression which 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 blood -stone. His step was plantigrade, which made his walk slow and peculiar, adding to the staid appearance of his figure. I never heard his name men- tioned without the addition of Charles, although, as there was no other boj' 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." " His delicate frame and his difficulty of utterance, which was increased by agitation, unfitted him for joining in any boisterous sport. The description which he gives, in his ' Recollections of Christ's Hospital,' of the habits and feelings of the schoolboy, is a true one in general, but is more particularly a delineation of himself — the feelings were all in his own heart — the portrait was his own : ' While others were all fire and play, he stole along with all the self-concentration of a young monk.' These habits and feelings were awakened and cherished in him by peculiar circumstances : he had been born and bred in the Inner Temple ; and his parents continued to reside there while he was at school, so that he passed from cloister to cloister, and this was all the change his young mind ever knew. On every half- holiday (and there were two in the week) in ten minutes he was in the gardens, on the terrace, or at the fountain of the Temple ; here was his home, here his recreation ; and the influence they had on his infant mind is vividly shown in his description of the Old Benchers. He says, ' I was born and passed the first seven years of my lift in the Temple;' he might have added, that here he passed a great portion of the second seven years of his life, a portion which mixed itself with all his habits and enjoyments, and gave a bias to the whole. Here he found a happy home, affectionate parents, and a sister who watched over him to the latest hour of his existence (God be with her!) with the tenderest solici- tude ; and here he had access to the library ' of Mr. Salt, one of the Benchers, to whose PARENTAGE, SCHOOL-DAYS, AND YOUTH. 21 memory his pen has given, in return for this and greater favours — I do not think it extra- vagant to say — immortality. To use his own language, here he ' was tumbled into a spacious closet of good old English reading, where he browsed at will upon that fair and wholesome pasturage.' lie applied these words to his sister ; but there is no doubt they ' browsed ' together ; they had walked hand in hand from a time ' extending beyond the period of their memory.' " When Lamb quitted school, he was in the lower division of the second class — which in the language of the school is termed "being in Greek Form, but not Deputy Grecian." He had read Virgil, Sallust, Terence, selec- tions from Lucian's Dialogues, and Xenophon ; and had evinced considerable skill in the niceties of Latin composition, both in prose and verse. His docility and aptitude for the attainment of classical knowledge would have insured him an exhibition ; but to this the impediment in his speech proved an insu- perable obstacle. The exhibitions were given under the implied, if not expressed, condition of entering into the Church ; the whole course of education was preparatory to that end ; and therefore Lamb, who was unfitted by nature for the clerical profession, was not adopted into the class which led to it, and quitted school to pursue the uncongenial labour of the " desk's dull wood." To this apparently hard lot he submitted with cheerfulness, and saw his schoolfellows of his own standing depart, one after another, for the University without a murmur. This acquiescence in his different fortune must have been a hard trial for the sweetness of his disposition ; as he always, in after life, regarded the ancient seats of learning with the fondness of one who had been hardly divorced from them. He delighted, when other duties did not hinder, to pass his vacations in their neighbourhood, and indulge in that fancied association with them which he has so beautifully mirrored in his " Sonnet written at Cambridge."* What worldly * I was not train'd in academic Ijowers, And to those learned streams I nothino; owe Which copious from those twin fair founts do flow ; Mine have heen anything hut studious hours. Yet can I fancy, wandering 'mid thy towers. Myself a nursling, Granta, of thy lap; My brow seems tightening with the doctor's cap, And I walk gowned; feel unusual powers. success can, indeed, ever compensate for the want of timely nurture beneath the shade of one of these venerable institutions — for the sense of antiquity shading, not checking, the joyous impulses of opening manhood — for the refinement and the grace there interfused into the long labour of ambitious study — for young friendships consecrated by the asso- ciations of long past time ; and for liberal emulation, crowned by successes restrained from ungenerous and selfish pride by palpable symbols of the genius and tne learning of ages ? On 23rd November, 1789, Lamb finally quitted Christ's Hospital for the abode of his parents, who still resided in the Temple. At first he was employed in the South Sea House, under his brother John ; but on the 5th April, 1792, he obtained an appointment in the accountant's oflice of the East India Company. His salary, though then small, was a welcome addition to the scanty means of his parents ; who now were unable, by their own exertions, to increase it, his mother being in ill health, which confined her to her bed, and his father sinking into dotage. On their comfort, however, this, and what was more precious to him, his little leisure, were freely bestowed ; and his recreations were confined to a delightful visit to the two- shilling gallery of the theatre, in company with his sister, and an occasional supper with some of his schoolmates, when in town, from Cambridge. On one of these latter occasions he obtained the appellation of Guy, by which he was always called among them ; but of which few of his late friends heard till after his death. "In the first year of his clerk- ship," says Mr. Le Grice, in the communica- tion with which he favoured me, " Lamb spent the evening of the 5th November with some of his former schoolfellows, who being amused with the particularly large and flapping brim of his round hat, pinned it up on the sides in the form of a cocked-hat. Lamb made no alteration in it, but walked home in his usual sauntering gait towards the Temple. As he was going down Ludgate- Strange forms of logic clothe my admiring speech ; Old Eamus' ghost is busy at my hrain ; And my skull teems with notions infinite. Be still, ye reeds of Camus, while I teach Truths which transcend the searching schoolmen's vein, And half had stagger'd that stout Stagyritel 22 PARENTAGE, SCHOOL-DAYS, AND YOUTH. bill, some gaj younc; men, who seemed not to have passed the London Tavern without resting, exclaimed, 'The veritable Guy! — no man of straw !' and with this exclamation they took him up, making a ehair with their arms, carried him, seated him on a post in St. Paul's-churchyard, and there left him. This story Lamb told so seriously, that the truth of it was never doubted, lie wore his three-cornered hat many evenings, and retained the name of Guy, ever after. Like Nym, he quietly sympathized in the fun, and seemed to say, 'that was the humour of it.' A clergyman of the City lately wrote to me, ' I have no recollection of Lamb. There was a gentleman called Guy, to whom you once introduced me, and with whom i have occa- eionally interchanged nods for more than thirty years ; but how is it that I never met Mr. Lamb? If I was ever introduced to him, I wonder that we never came in contact during my residence for ten years in Edmon- ton.' Imagine this gentleman's surprise when I informed him that his nods to Mr. Guy had been constantly recipi'ocated by Mr. Lamb !" During these years, Lamb's most frequent companion was James White, or rather, Jem White, as he always called him. Lamb always insisted that for hearty joyous humour, tinged with Shaksperian fancy, Jem never had an equal. "Jem White!" said he, to Mr. Le Grice, when they met for the Inst time, after many years' absence, at the Bell at Edmonton, in June, 1833, " there never was his like ! We never shall see such days as those in which Jem flourished I" All that now remains of Jem is the celebration of the suppers which he gave the young chimney-sweepers in the Elia of his friend, and a thin duodecimo volume, which he published in 1796, under the title of the " Letters of Sir John Falstaff, with a dedi- cation (printed in black letter) to Master Samuel Irelaunde," which those who knew Lamb at the time believed to be his. " Wiiite's Letters," said Lamb, in a letter to a friend about this time, " are near publication. His frontispiece is a good conceit; Sir John learning to dance, to please Madame Page, in dress of doublet, &c., from the upper half, and modern pantaloons, with shoes of the eighteenth century, from the lower half, and the whole work is full of goodly quips and rare fancies, ' all deftly masked like hoar antiquity' — much superior to Dr. Kenrick's ' Falstafl"'s Wedding.' " The work was neglected, although Lamb exerted all the influence he subsequently acquired with more popular writers to obtain for it favour- able notices, as will be $cen from various passages in his letters. lie stuck, however, gallantly by his favourite prot6g6 ; and even when he could little afi'ord to disburse sixpence, he made a point of buying a copy of the book whenever he discovered one amidst the refuse of a bookseller's stall, and would present it to a friend in the hope of making a convert. He gave me one of these copies soon after I became acquainted with him, stating that he had purchased it in the morning for sixpence, and assuring me I should enjoy a rare treat in the perusal ; but if I must confess the truth, the mask of quaintness was so closely worn, that it nearly concealed the humour. To Lamb it was, doubtless, vivified by the eye and voice of his old boon companion, forming to him an undying commentary; without which it was comparatively spiritless. Alas ! how many even of his own most delicate fancies, rich as they are in feeling and in wisdom, will be lost to those who have not present to them the sweet broken accents, and the half playful, half melancholy smile of the writer ! But if Jem White was the companion of his lighter moods, the friend of his serious thoughts was a person of far nobler powers — Samuel Taylor Coleridge. It was his good fortune to be the schoolfellow of that extra- ordinary man ; and if no particular intimacy had been formed between them at Christ's Hospital, a foundation was there laid for a friendship to which the world is probably indebted for all that Lamb has added to its sources of pleasure. Junior to Coleridge by two years, and f\ir inferior to him in all scholastic acquirements, Lamb had listened to the rich discourse of " the inspired charity- boy" with a wondering delight, pure from all envy, and, it may be, enhanced by his sense of his own feebleness and difliculty of expression. While Coleridge remained at the University, they met occasionally on his visits to London ; and when he quitted it, and came to town, full of mantling hopes and glorious schemes, Lamb became his PARENTAGE, SCHOOL-DAYS, AND YOUTH. 23 admiring disciple. The scene of these happy meetings was a little public-house, called the Salutation and Cat, in the neighbourhood of Smithfield, where they used to sup, and remain long after they had " heard the chimes at midnight." There they discoursed of Bowles, who was the god of Coleridge's poetical idolatry, and of Burns and Cowper, who, of recent poets, in that season of com- parative barrenness, had made the deepest impression on Lamb. There Coleridge talked of "Fate, free-will, fore-knowledge absolute," to one who desired "to find no end" of the golden maze ; and there he recited his early poems with that deep sweetness of intonation which sunk into the heart of his hearer. To these meetings Lamb was accustomed at all periods of his life to revert, as the season when his finer intellects were quickened into action Shortly after they had terminated, with Coleridge's departure from London, he thus recalled them in a letter:* "When I read in your little volume your nineteenth effusion, or what you call 'the Sigh,' I think I hear you again. I imagine 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." This was early in 1796 ! and in 1818, when dedicating his works, then first collected, to his earliest friend, he thus spoke of the same meetings : " Some of the sonnets, which shall be carelessly turned over by the general reader, may happily awaken in you remembrances which I should be sorry should be ever totally extinct, — the memory 'of summer days and of delightful years,' even so far back as those old suppers at our old Inn, — when life was fresh, and topics exhaustless, — and you first kindled in me, if not the power, yet the love of poetry, and beauty, and kindliness." And so he talked of these unforgotten hours in that short interval during which death divided them ! The warmth of Coleridge's friendship supplied the quickening impulse to Lamb's genius ; but the germ enfolding all its nice peculiarities lay ready for the influence, and * This, rnd other passa.ces I hare interwoven with my own slender thrend of narration, are from letters which I have thought either too personal for entire publieation at present, or not of suffirient interest, in romparipon with others, to occupy a portion of the space, to which the letters are limited. expanded into forms and hues of its own. Lamb's earliest poetry was not a faint reflection of Coleridge's, such as the young lustre of original genius may cast on a polished and sensitive mind, to glow and tremble for a season, but was streaked with delicate yet distinct traits, which proved it an emanation from within. There was, indeed, little resemblance between the two, except in the afi"ection which they bore towards each other. Coleridge's mind, not laden as yet with the spoils of all systems and of all times, glowed, with the ardour of uncontrollable purpose, and thirsted for glorious achievement and universal know- ledge. The imagination, which afterwards struggled gloriously but perhaps vainly to overmaster the stupendous clouds of German philosophies, breaking them into huge masses, and tinting them with heavenly hues, then shone through the simple articles of Unitarian faith, the graceful architecture of Hartley's theory, and the well-compacted chain by which Priestley and Edwards seemed to bind all things in necessary connexion, as through transparencies of thought ; and, finding no opposition worthy of its activity in this poor foreground of the mind, opened for itself a bright succession of fairy visions, which it sought to realise on earth. In its light, oppression and force seemed to vanish like the phantoms of a feverish dream ; mankind were disposed in the picturesque groups of universal brotherhood ; and, in far distance, the ladder which Jacob saw in solemn vision connected earth with heaven. " and the angels of God were ascending and descending upon it." Lamb had no sympathy with these radiant hopes, except as they were part of his friend. He clung to the realities of life : to things nearest to him, which the force of habit had made dear; and caught tremblingly hold of the past. He delighted, indeed, to hear Coleridge talk of the distant and future : to see the palm-trees wave, and the pyramids tower in the long perspective of his style ; and to catch the prophetic notes of a universal harmony trembling in his voice ; but the pleasure was only that of admiration unalloyed by envy, and of the generous pride of friendship. The tendency of his mind to detect the beautiful and good in surrounding things, to nestle rather than to roam, was cherished by all the circura- 24 PARENTAGE, SCHOOL-DAYS, AND YOUTH. stances of his boyish days. He had become familiar Avith the vestiges of antiquity, both iu his school and in his home of the Temple ; and these became dear to him in his serious and affectionate childhood. But, perhaps, more even than those external associations, the situation of his parents, as it was elevated and graced by their character, moulded his young thoughts to the holy habit of a liberal obedience, and unaspiring self-respect, which led rather to the embellishment of what was near than to the creation of visionary forms. He saw at home the daily beauty of a cheerful submission to a state bordering on the servile ; he looked upward to his fother's master, and the old Benchers who walked with him on the stately terrace, with a modest erectness of mind ; and he saw in his own humble home how well the decencies of life could be maintained on slender means, by the exercise of generous principle. Another circumstance, akin to these, tended also to impart a tinge of venerableness to his early musings. His maternal grandmother was for many years housekeeper in the old and wealthy family of the Plumers of Hertfordshire, by whom she was held^'in true esteem ; and his visits to their ancient mansion, where he had the free range of every apartment, gallery and terraced-walk, gave him " a peep at the contrasting accidents of a great fortune," and an alliance with that gentility of soul, which to appreciate, is to share. He ha^ beautifully recorded his own recollections of this place in the essay entitled " Blakesmoor in H shire," in which he modestly vindicates his claim to partake in the associations of ancestry not his own, and ehows the true value of high lineage by detecting the spirit of nobleness which breathes around it, for the enkindling of generous affections, not only in those who may boast of its possession, but in all who can feel its influences. While the bias of the minds of Coleridge and Lamb thus essentially differed, it is singular that their opinions on religion, and on those philosophical questions which border on religious belief, and receive their colour from it, agreed, although probably derived from various sources. Both were Unitarians, ardent admirers of the writings and character of Dr. Priestley, and both believers in neces- sity, according to Priestley's exposition, and in the inference which he drew from that doctrine respecting moral responsibility, and the ultimate destiny of the human race. The adoption of this creed arose in Lamb from the accident of education ; he was brought up to receive and love it; and attended, when circumstances permitted, at the chapel at Hackney, of which Mr. Belsham, after- wards of I^ssex Street, was then the minister. It is remarkable that another of Lamb's most intimate friends, in whose conversation, next to that of Coleridge, he most delighted, Mr. Hazlitt, with whom he became acquainted at a subsequent time, and who came from a distant part of the countrj-, was educated in the same faith. With Coleridge, whose early impressions were derived from the rites and services of the Church of England, Unitarianism was the result of a strong conviction; so strong, that with all the ardour of a convert, he sought to win prose- lytes to his chosen creed, and purposed to spend his days in preaching it. Neither of these young men, however, long continued to profess it. Lamb, in his maturer life, rarely alluded to matters of religious doctrine ; and when he did so, evinced no sympathy with the professors of his once-loved creed. Hazlitt wrote to his father, who was a Unitarian minister at Wem, with honouring affection ; and of his dissenting associates with respect, but he had obviously ceased to think or feel with them ; and Coleridge's Remains indicate, what was well known to all who enjoyed the privilege of his conver- sation, that he not only reverted to a belief in the Trinitarian mysteries, but that he was accustomed to express as much distaste for Unitarianism, and for the spirit of its more active advocates, as the benignity of his nature would allow him to feel for any human opinion honestly cherished. Perhaps this solitary approach to intolerance in the universality of Coleridge's mind arose from the disapproval with which he might justly regard his own pride of understanding, as excited in defence of the doctrines he had adopted. To him there was much of devo- tional thought to be violated, many rever- ential associations, intertwined with tiie moral being, to be rent away in the struggle of the intellect to grasp the doctrines which were alien to its nurture. But to Lamb these formed the simple creed of his child- hood ; and slender and barren as they seem, LETTERS TO COLERIDGE. 25 to those who are united in religious sympatliy with the great body of their fellow-country- men, they sufficed for affections which had so strong a tendency to find out resting-places for themselves aa his. Those who only knew him in his latter days, and who feel that if ever the spirit of Christianity breathed through a human life, it breathed in his, will, nevertheless, trace vrith suprise the extra- ordinary vividness of impressions directly religious, and the self-jealousy with which he watched the cares and distractions of the world, which might efface them, in his first letters. If in a life of ungenial toil, diversified with frequent sorrow, the train of these solemn meditations was broken ; if he was led, in the distractions and labours of his course, to cleave more closely to surrounding objects than those early aspirations promised ; if, in his cravings after immediate sympathy, he rather sought to perpetuate the social circle which he charmed, than to expatiate in scenes of untried being : his pious feeling were only diverted, not destroyed. The stream glided still, the under current of thought sometimes breaking out in sallies which strangers did not understand, but always feeding and nourishing the most exquisite sweetness of disposition, and the most unobtrusive proofs of self-denying love. While Lamb was enjoying habits of the closest intimacy with Coleridge in London, he was introduced by him to a young poet whose name has often been associated with his — Charles Lloyd — the son of a wealthy banker at Birmingham, who had recently cast otf the trammels of the Society of Friends, and, smitten with the love of poetry, had Ijecome a student at the University of Cam- bridge. There he had been attracted to Coleridge by the fascination of his discourse ; and having been admitted to his regard, was inti'oduced by him to Lamb. Lloyd was endeared both to Lamb and Coleridge by a very amiable disposition and a pensive cast of thought ; but his intellect bore little resemblance to that of either. He wrote, indeed, pleasing verses and with great facility, — a facility fatal to excellence ; but his mind was chiefly remarkable for the fine power of analysis which distinguishes his " London," and other of his later compositions. In this power of discriminating and distinguishing — carried to a pitch almost of painfulness — Lloyd has scarcely been equalled ; and his poems, though rugged in point of versification, will be found by those who will read them with the calm attention they require, replete with critical and moral suggestions of the highest value. He and Coleridge were devoted wholly to literary pursuits ; while Lamb's days were given to accounts, and only at snatches of time was he able to cultivate the faculty of which the society of Colei-idge had made him imperfectly conscious. Lamb's first compositions were in verse — produced slowly, at long intervals, and with self-distrust which the encouragements of Coleridge could not subdue. With the exception of a sonnet to Mrs. Siddons, whose acting, especially in the character of Lady Randolph, had made a deep impression upon him, they were exclusively personal. The longest and most elaborate is that beautiful piece of blank verse entitled " The Gran- dame," in which he so affectionately celebrates the virtues of the "antique world" of the aged housekeeper of Mr. Plumer. A youthful passion, which lasted only a few months, and which he afterwards attempted to regard lightly as a folly past, inspired a few sonnets of very delicate feeling and exquisite music. On the death of hie parents, he felt himsielf called upon by duty to repay to his sister the solicitude with which she had watched over his infancy ; — and well indeed he per- formed it ! To her, from the age of twenty- one, he devoted bis existence ; — seeking thenceforth no connexion which could inter- fere with her supremacy in his affections, or impair his ability to sustain and to comfort her. CHAPTER IL [1796.] LETTERS TO COLERIDGE, In the year 1796, Coleridge, having married, and relinquished his splendid dream of emi- gration, was resident at Bristol ; and Lamb, who had quitted the Temple, and lived with his father, then sinking into dotage, felt his absence from London bitterly, and sought a correspondence with him as, almost, his only LETTERS TO COLERIDGE. comfort. " In your absence," he writes, in one of the earliest of his letters,* " I feel a stupor that makes me iniliiferent to the hopes and fears of this life. I sometimes wish to introduce a religious turn of mind; but habits are strono; 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." And again, a few days after : " You are the only corre- spondent, and, I might add, the only friend, I have in the world. I go no-whcre, and have no acquaintance. Slow of speech, and reserved of manners, no one seeks or cares for my society, and I am left alone. Cole- ridge, I devoutly wish that Fortune, which has made sport with you so long, may play one freak more, tlirow you into London, or some spot near it, and there snugify you for life. "Pis a selfish, but natural wish for me, ''ast as I am 'on life's wide plain friendless.'" These appeals, it may well be believed, were not made in vain to one who delighted in the lavish communication of the riches of his own mind even to strangers ; but none of the letters of Coleridge to Lamb have been preserved. lie had just published his " Religious Musings," and the glittering enthusiasm of its language excited Lanili's pious feelings, almost to a degree of pain. "I dare not," says he of this poem, " criticise it. 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 lover of true poetry — ' Pelievp thou, O my soul, Life is a vision shmlowy of truth ; And vinn, and ancuish, and the wormy grave, Sliape." of a dream.' I thank you for these lines in the name of a necessarian." To Priestley, Lamb repeatedly alludes as to the object of their common admiration. "In rending your 'Religious IVIusings,' " says he, " I felt a transient supe- riority over you : I have seen Priestlv. I love to see his name repeated in your writings; — I love and honour him almost *Thesi; and other passajre.'' are extracted from letters whioh are eithor too personal or not sufRcieiitly interesfinR for entire publication. profanely."* The same fervour glows in the sectarian piety of the following letter addressed to Coleridge, when fascinated with the idea of a cottage life. TO MR. COLERIDGE. "Oct. 24tJi, 1706. " 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 I only wish you were hit settled. Do con- tinue to write to me. I read your letters with my sister, and they give us both abund- ance 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 philasophy. than consistent with the humility of genuine piety. To instance now in your last letter — you say, 'it is by the press, that God hath given finite spirits both evil and good (I suppose you mean simpli/ bad men and good men), a portion aa 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 jMind 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 sub- ject to wants which momentarily remind him of dependence : man, a weak and igno- rant 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 * ITe proKnhly refers to the following lines in the Reli- gions Musings: — So Tricstley, their patriot, and saint, and sage, ITim, full of years, from his loved native land. Statesmen Wnod-stained. and priests idolatrous, Provp with vain hate. Calm, pityinc he return'd, And mused expectant on those promised years! LETTERS TO COLERIDGE. 27 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 5es< ^raV7e,) 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 birth-day, so lately past ; I thought you had been older. My kind thanks and remem- brances to Lloyd. " God love us all, and may He continue to be the father and the friend of the whole human race ! " C. Lamb. " Sunday Evening." The next letter, commencing in a similar strain, diverges to literary topics, and espe- cially alludes to " Walton's Angler," — a book which Lamb always loved as it were a living friend. TO MR. COLERIDGE. " Oct. 28th, 1796. "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 afiix to such phrases a meaning, which the primitive users of them, the simple fisher 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 W'hose very essence is unlimitedness. How can omni- presence 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 are doing, and how soon you are likely to be settled once for all. "Have you seen Bowie's new poem on ' Hope?' What character does it bear? Has he exhausted his stores of tender plaintive- ness ? 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 fur 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 inter- spersed 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 ma>le 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 under- 28 LETTERS TO COLERIDGE. valued its ^cit, or jou would have been more loud in its praises. Do not you think that in Slcnder's death and madness there is most exquisite humour, mingled with tenderness, that is irresistible, truly Skakspcrian? Be more full in your mention of it. Poor fellow, be has (very undeservedly) lost by it, nor do I see that it is likely ever to reimburse him ' the charge of printing, &c. Give it a lift, if you can. 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 pame. 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 1 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." Having been encouraged by Coleridge to entertain the thought of publishing his verses, he submitted the poem called " The Grandame" to his friend, with the following letter : — TO MR. COLERIDGE. '• Monday night. " Unfurnished at present with any sheet- filling subject, I_ shall continue my letter gradually and journal-wise. My second thoughts entirely coincide with your com- ments on 'Joan of Arc,' and I can only wonder at my childish judgment which over- looked the llit book and could prefer the 9th : not that I was insensible to the soberer beauties of the former, but the latter caught me with its glare of magic, — the former, how- ever, left a more pleasing general recollection in my mind. Let me add, the 1st book was the favourite of my sister — and I now, with Joan, often ' tiiink on Domremi and the fields of Arc' I must not pass over without acknow- ledging my obligations to your full and satis- factory 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 volum.e, with ' Religious Musings,' aijid 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 aljle 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 wc 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 compo- sition, 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 grand- mother (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 design- edly given in to her own way of feeling — and if she had a f\iiling, 'twas that she respected her master's family too much, not reverenced her Maker too little. The lines begin imper- fectly, 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 yo\x yours, for (sonnets and all) they won't LETTERS TO COLERIDGE. 29 make a thousand lines as I propose com- pleting 'em, and the substance must be wire-drawn." The following letter, written at intervals, will give an insight into Lamb's spirit at this time, in its lighter and gayer moods. It would seem that his acquaintance with the old English dramatists had just com- menced with Beaumont and Fletcher, and Massinger : — TO MR. COLERIDGE. " Tuesday evening. " To your list of illustrative personifica- tions, 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 80 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 parti-< cular, 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 with- out undoing, dwelt, and most happily, as I thought then, and blest the house a thousand times she divelt in. This beauty, in the blossom of my youth, when my first fire knew no adulterate inceiise, nor I no way to flatter but my fondness ; in all the bravery my friends could shoio 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, T sued and served ; long did I serve this lady, long was my travail, long my trade to win lier ; 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 abtised 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 xVrcite.' 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,' &c. — Is not the last circumstance exquisite? I niean not to lay myself open by saying they exceed Milton, and perhaps Collins, in sublimity. But don't you conceive all poets after Shaks- peare 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 Andro- mache. I long to know your opinion of that translation. The Odyssey especially is surely very Homeric. What nobler than the appear- ance 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 copy- right. The book itself not a week's work ! To-day's portion of my journalising epistle 30 LETTERS TO COLERIDGE. has been very dull and iJOverU'-stricken. will here end." " I have Ijcen drinking ogg-hot and smoking Oronooko, (associated circiinistances, which ever forcibly recall to my mind our evenings and nights at the Salutation,) my eyes and brain ure heavy and asleep, but my heart is awake ; and if Avords 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 friemlsliiiis we deplore, Ami loves of youth that are no more No after friendships e'er can raise Th' endearments of our eai-ly 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 equulhj understand, as you will be sober when you read it; but my sober and mij half-tipsy hours you are alike a sharer in. Good night. ' Then up rose our bard, like a prophet in drink, Oraigdoroch, thou'lt soar when creation shall sink.' Burns." " Thursday. " 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 u change of faces would do me good, even if that vscene were not to be Bristol, and those faces Coleridge's and his friends' ! In the words of Terence, a little altered, 'Taeflet me hujus quotidian! 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, "CUARLES La.MB." A proposal by Coleridge to print Lamb's poems with a new edition of his own (an association in which Lloyd was ultimately included) occasioned reciprocal communica- tions of each other's verses, and many ques- tions of small alterations suggested and argued on both sides. I have thought it better to omit much of this verbal criticism, which, not very interesting in itself, is un- intelligible without a contemporary reference to the poems which are its subject. The nest letter was written on hearing of Coleridge being afflicted with a painful disease. TO MR. COLERIDGE. " Nov. 8th, 1796. "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, deai'est 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 dis- appointments, 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 con- sidered those last verses as only the identical thoughts better clothed ; either way (in prose LETTERS TO COLERIDGE. 81 or verse) such poetry must be welcome to me. I love them as I love the Confessions of E-ousseau, 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 Avorthy of the place of friend-confessor, brother-confessor, to a man like Coleridge. This last is, I acknow- ledge, language too high for friendship ; but it is also, I declai'e, 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 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 ofl", 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 men- tion 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, and 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 notliing ; 'twas a weakness, concerning which I may say, in the words of Petrai-ch (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 com- pany. Now to my fragments. Lest you have lost my Grandarae, 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 what- soever 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 wns dcnr, And dearer was the mother for the child.' Cultivate simplicity, Coleridge; or rather, I should say, banish elaborateness ; for simpli- city springs spontaneous from the heart, and carries into day-light with its own modest buds, and genuine, sweet, and clea? 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-woi-k for an idle boy 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 remem- brances to your Sara. " Once more good nisht." A wish- to dedicate his portion of the volume to his sister gave occasion to the following touching letter : TO MR. COLERIDGE. " Nov. 14th, 1796. • " 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 uncom- LETTERS TO COLERIDGE. plaining melancholy, a dulicious regret for the past, or weave fine visions of that awful future, ' AVhon all the vanities of life's brief day Oblivion's hurryiiii; liaml 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 mono- tony in the affections, which people liviing 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 kind- ness 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 direc- tions how I should like to have 'em done. The title-page to stand thus : — POEMS, CHARLES LAMB, OP 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 repub- lican friend, who might advise none? May not a publican put up the sign of the Saracen's Head, even though his undiscerning neigh- bour should prefer, as more genteel, the Cat and Gridiron ? [Motto.] • This beaiity, in the blossom of my youth, When my first flro knew no adulterate incense, Nor I no way to flatter but my fondness, In the best lancruaKC my true tongue oouUl toll me, And all the broken sighs my sick heart lend me, I sued and served. Long did I love this lady.' M.issraoER. THE DKDICATION. THE FEW FOLLOWING POEMS, CREATtJRES 'of the FANCY AND THE FEELIKC IN life's more vacant Horos, PRODDCED, fob the MOST PAKT, BT LOVE AND IDLENESS, ABE, 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 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 oflBces 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 relation- ship: these shall give him peace at the last; these ai'e the best foundation for every species of benevolence. I rejoice to hear, by certain channels, that you, my friend, are reconciled with all 3'our 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." The following, written about this time, alludes to some desponding expression in a LETTERS TO COLERIDGE. letter which is lost, aud which Coleridge liad combated. TO MR. COLERIDGE. "Dep. 10th, 1796. " 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 sertse of it is yet warm ; for if I linger a day or two I may use the same phrase of acknowledgement, or similar, but the feeling that dictates it now will be gone. I shall send you a caput mortiium, 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 for- swearing their occupation. This though is not my case. 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 3 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 solitai-y luxury, by the fire-side 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 unintei-esting 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 ' com- pany ' together — never having read separate bot)ks, and few books together — what know- ledge 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 un- willing 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 ycu are moved ; and, of course, shall not, till you announce to me that event, think of writing myself. Love to Mrs. Coleridge and David 84 LETTERS TO COLERIDGE. Ilartlej', and my kind rcniembrance to Lloyd if he is with ymi. " C. Lamb. "I will get 'Nature and Art,' — have not seen it yet — nor any of Jeremy Taylor's works." CHAPTER in. [1797 ] LETTERS TO COLERIDGE. TnE volume which was to combine the early poetry of the thrre friends was not completed in the year 170G, and proceeded slowly through the press in the foUowinj:;; year ; Lamb occasionally submitting an additional sonnet, or correction of one already sent, to the judgment of Coleridge, and filling long letters with minute suggestions on Coleridge's share of the work, and high, but honest expressions of praise of particular images and thoughts. The eulogy is only interesting as indicative of the reverential feeling with which Lamb regarded the genius of Coleridge — but one or two specimens of the gentle rebuke which he ventured on, when the gorgeousness of Coleridge's lan- guage seemed to oppress his sense, are worthy of preservation. The following relates to a line in the noble Ode on the Departing Year, in which Coleridge had written of " Th' etlieral miiltitucle, Whope purple locks with snow-white glories shone." " ' Purple locks, and snow-white glories ;' — these are things the muse talks about when, to borrow II. Walpole's witty phrase, she is not finely frenzied, only a little light- headed, that's all — 'Purple locks!' They may manage things differently in fairyland ; but your golden tresses' are to my fancy." On this remonstrance Coleridge changed the "purple" into "golden," defending his original epithet ; and Lamb thus gave up the point : — "'Golden locks and snow-white glories' are as incongruous as your former; and if the great Italian painters, of whom m*y friend knows about as much as the man in the moon — if fhcse great gentleman be on your side, I see no harm in your 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 drah-coloured yellow — a dull gam- bogium. 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 concepti()n, nor just enough, I think, to reduce to painting. It is a rich line, you say ; and riches hide a many faults." And the word "wreathed" was ultimately adopted, instead of purple or golden ; but the snow- white glories remain. Not satisfied with the dedication of his portion of the volume to his sister, and the sonnet which had been sent to the press, Lamb urged on Coleridge the insertion of another, which seems to have been ultimately withheld as too poor in poetical merit for publication. The rejected sonnet, and the references made to it by the writer, have an interest now beyond what mere fancy can give. After various critical remarks on an ode of Coleridge, he thus introduced the subject : — " 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 yeai's and cliildish days, ^ly joys, my sorrows, thou with me hast shared, Companion dear ; and we alike have fared, Poor pilirrims we. throuirh life's unequal ways. It were unwisely done, should we refuse To cheer our path, as fcnlly as we may. — Our lonely path to cheer, as trareller? use. With merry sons, quaint tale, or roundelay. And we will sometimes talk past troubles o'er, Of mercies shown, and all our sickness heai'd And in his jud'jments fioil rememberinir love: And we will loarn to praise God evermore, Tor those " jjlad tidinfrs of g-reat joy." reveal'd By that sooth messenger, sent from above.' — 1797. " This has been a sad long letter of business, with no room in it for what honest Bnnyan 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 bo 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 LETTERS TO COLERIDGE. 35 sweet book that ' Nature and Art* is. — I am at present re-reading Priestley's Examina- tion of the Scotch Doctors: how the rogue strings 'era up ! three together ! You have no doubt read that clear, strong, humourous, 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 aiford ! God bless you and yours. " Monday uiorniug, at office." " Poor Mary is very unwell with a sore throat and a slight species of scarlet fever. God bless her too." He recurs to the subject in his next letter, which is also interesting, as urging Coleridge to attempt some great poem worthy of his genius. TO J[R. COLERIDGE. '•Jan. loth, 1797. " 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 inge- nious successor of the immortal Merlin, now living in good health and spirits, and flourish- ing 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 six last 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. — AVhat 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 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 some- thing more ample than the writing an occa- sional brief ode or sonnet; something 'to make yourself for ever known, — to make the age to come your own.' But I prate ; doubt- less 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 ampli- tude 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 reali^ your fiivourite Susquehannah 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. Favour me with your judgment of him, and tell me if his prose essays, in particular, as well as no incon- 86 LETTERS TO COLERIDGE. giderable part of his vcvse, be not delicious, i ence by letter, and personal intimaej', are I prefer the graceful rambling of his essays, very widely different. Do, do write to me, eten to the courtly elegance and ease of and do some good to my mind, already how Addison ; aljstracting from this the latter's [ much ' warped and relaxed' by the world ! exquisite humour. ***** " 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." In the commencement of this year, Cole- ridge removed from Bristol to a cottage at Nether Stowey, to embody his favourite dream of a cottage life. This change of place probably delayed the printing of the volume : and Coleridge, busy with a thousand specu- lations, became irregular in replying to the letters with writing which Lamb solaced his dreary hours. The following are the most interesting portions of the only letters which remain of this year. TO MR. COLERIDGE. '•Jan. 10th, 1797. " 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 grati- ficfition, to the life beyond the grave.' Is there a possible chance for such an one as I to realise in this world such friendships? Where am I to look for 'em ? What testi- monials 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 acquaint- ance: nut one Christian : not one, but under- values Christianity — singly what am I to do? Wesley (have you read his life?) was he not '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 literar.y occupations and pros- pects — in short, make me acquainted with every circumstance which, as relating to you, can be interesting to me. . Are j'ou 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 Repealed 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 discon- nected 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 ray neighbours, but I have a taste for religion, an occasional earnest aspiration after perfec- tion, 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 an elevated character? Wesley has said, j kind of friendship even, with the great and 'Religion is not a solitary thing.' Alas! it good. Books are to me instead of friends, necessarily is so with me, or next to solitary. I wish they did not resemble the latter in 'Tis true you write to me. But correspond- , their scarceness. LETTERS TO COLERIDGE. 37 "And how does little David Hartley? 'Ecquid in antiquam virtutcm?' 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 liave put to you in the course of the sheet? Write back just what you like, only write some- thing, 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 3'ou, my dear friend ; God love us all. Mary bears an affectionate remembrance of you. " CnARLES Lamb." A poem of Coleridge, emulous of Southey's " Joan of Arc." which he proposed to call the " Maid of Orleans," on which Lamb had made some critical remarks, produced the humourous recantation with which the follow- ing letter opens. TO MR. COLERIDGE. "Feb. 13th, 1797. " Your poem is altogether admirable — parts of it are even exquisite — in particular your personal account of the Maid far sur- passes any thing of the sort in Southey. I perceived all its excellences, on a first read- ing, as readily as now you have been removing a supposed film from my eyes. I was only struck with certain faulty dispro- portion, in the matter and the siyle, 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 sub- servience 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 over-looking, 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 Avas in the case of a man, whose friend has asked him his opinion of a certain young lady — the deluded wight gives judy;ment against her in toto — • don't like her face, her walk, her manners ; finds f^xult 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 pro- nunciation 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 familv 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 V 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, seconil book. " The solemn openings of it are with sounds, which LI. 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 subordi- nate 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 revo- lutions, 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 m-uch object to parts. Again, when you talk of building your fame on these lines 38 LETTERS TO COLERIDGE. in preferencu to the ' Relii^ious Musings, I cannot help conceiving of you, and of the author of that, as two dift'erent persons, and I tliink 3'ou a very vain man. " I have been re-reading your letter : much of it Leonid dispute, but with the latter part of it, in which you compare the two Joans witli respect to their predispositions for fanaticism, I, ioio 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 diiferenco between her describing them or i/oit 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 that it was a laugh of horror — such as I have laughed at Dante's picture of the famished Ugolino. Without f\ilsehood, I perceive an hundred beauties in Tour 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 l^lirase, which takes away all terror from it. I like that line, ' They closed their eyes in f^leep, 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 i 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 'Reli- gious 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 j-ourself. I shall become a convert to it, when 'tis finished. " This afternoon I attend the funeral of my poor old aunt, who died on Tliursday. I own I am thankful that the good creature has ended all her days of suflcring and infirmity. She was to me the 'cherisher of infancy,' and one must fall on those occasions into reflec- tions, which it would be common-place 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 particuhxr, on my aunt's living many j'ears ; she was a very hearty old woman. But she was a mere skeleton l)ef )re 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 begin- ning 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 ane, Lamb achieved bis loiij^-checked wish of vifsitinfi; Coleridge at Stovve}', in company with his sister, without whom he felt it almost a sin to enjoy anything. Coleridge,, shortly after, abandoned his scheme of a Cottage-life; and, in the following year, left England for Germany. Lamb, however, was not now so lonely as when he wrote to Cole- ridge iniploring his correspondimce as the only comfort of his sorrows and labours ; for, through the instrumentality of Coleridge, he was now rich in friends. Among them he marked George Dyer, the guileless and simple- hearted, whose love of learning was a passion, and who found, even in the forms of verse, objects of worship ; Southey, in the young vigour of his genius ; and Wordsworth, the great regenerator of English poetry, preparing for his long contest with the glittering forms of inane phraseology which had usurpsd the dominion of the public mind, and with the cold mockeries of scorn with which their supremacy was defended. By those the beauty of his character was felt ; the original cast of his powers was appreciated ; and his peculiar humour w'as detected and kindled into fitful life. CHAPTER IV. [1798.] lamb's literary efforts and correspondence with southey. I\ the year 1798, the blank verse of Lloyd and Lamb, which had been contained in the Volume published in conjunction with Cole- ridge, was, with some additions by Lloyd, published in a thin duodecimo, price 2s. 6rf., undi'r the title of "Blank Verse, by Charles Llovd and Charles Lamb." This unpre- tending book was honoured by a brief and scornful notice in the catalogue of "The Monthly Review," in the small print of which the works of the poets who are now recognised as the greatest ornaments of their age, and who have impressed it most deeply by their genius, were usually named to be dismissed witii a sneer. After a ccmtempt- uous notice of "The Mournful Muse" of Lloyd, Lamb receives his quidus in a line: — '■ Mr. Lamb, the joint author of this little volume, seems to be very properly associated with his plaintive companion."* In this year Lamb composed his prose tale, " Rosamund Gray," and published it in a volume of the same size and price with the last, under the title of " A Tale of Rosamund Gray and Old Blind Margaret," which, having a semblance of story, sold much better than his poems, and added a few pounds to his slender income. This miniature romance is unique in English literature. It bears the impress of a recent perusal of " The Man of Feeling," and " Julia de Roubigne ;" and while on the one hand it wants the graphic force and delicate touches of Mac- kenzie, it is informed with deeper feeling and breathes a diviner morality than the most charming of his tales. Lamb never possessed tbe faculty of constructing a plot either for drama or novel ; and while he luxuriated in the humour of Smollett, the wit of Fielding, or the solemn pathos of Richardson, he was not amused, but perplexed, by the attempt to thread the windings of story which cim- duct to their most exquisite passages thruugh the maze of adventure. In this ^icf BtfjBng is made out with distinctness,"^-ex<;ept the rustic piety and grace of the lovely girl and her venerable grandmother, which are pictured with such earnestness and simplicity as might beseem a fragment of the book of Ruth. The villain who lays waste their humble joys is a murky phantom without individuality ; the events are obscured by the haze of sentimentwhich hovers over them ; and the narrative gives way to the reflections of the author, who is mingled with the persons of the tale in visionary confusion, and gives to it the character of a sweet but disturbed dream. It has an interest now beyond that of fiction ; for in it we may trace, " as in a glass dai-kly," the characteristics of the mind and heart of the author, at a time when a change was coming upon them. There are the dainty sense of beauty just weaned from its palpable object, and quiver- ing over its lost images ; feeling grown * Moutlily Keviow, Sept. 1798. INTRODUCTION TO SOUTHEY. 43 retrospective before its time, and tinging till things with a strange solemnity ; hints of that craving after immediate appliances ■which might give impulse to a harassed frame, and confidence to struggling fancy, and of that escape from the pressure of agony into fiintastic mirth, which in after life made Lamb a problem to a stranger, while they endeared him a thousand-fold to those who really knew him. While' the fulness of the religious sentiments, and the scriptural cast of the language, still partake of his early manhood, the visit of the narrator of the tale to the churchyard where his parents lie buried, after his nerves had been strung for the endeavour by wine at the village inn, and the half-frantic jollity of his old heart-broken friend (the lover of the tale), whom he met there, with the exquisite benignity of thought breathing thi'ough the whole, prophesy the delightful peculiarities and genial frailties of an after day. The reflections he makes on the eulogistic cha- racter of all the inscriptions, are drawn from his own childhood ; for when a very little boy, walking with his sister in a churchyard, he suddenly asked her, " Mary, where do the naughty j^eople lie V " Rosamund Gray" remained unreviewed till August, 1800, when it received the following notice in " The Monthly Review's" catalogue, the manufacturer of which was probably more tolerant of heterodox com- position in prose than verse: — "In the perusal of this pathetic and interesting story, the reader who has a mind capable of enjoy- ing rational and moral sentiment will feel much gratification. Mr. Lamb has here proved himself skilful in touching the nicest feelings of the heart, and in affording great pleasure to the imagination, by exhibiting events and situations which, in the hands of a writer less conversant with the springs and energies of the moral sense, would make a very ' sorry figure.' " While we acknowledge this scanty praise as a redeeming trait in the long series of critical absurdities, we cannot help observing how curiously misplaced all the laudatory epithets are ; the sentiment being profound and true, but not "rational," and the " springs and energies of the moral sense" being substituted for a weakness which had a power of its own ! Lamb was introduced by Coleridge to Southey as early as the year 1795 ; but no intimacy ensued until he accompanied Lloyd in the summer of 1797 to the little village of Burton, near Christchurch, in Hampshire, where Southey was then residing, and where they spent a fortnight as the poet's guests. After Coleridge's departure for Germany, in 1798, a correspondence began between Lamb and Southey, which continued through that and part of the following year ; — Southey communicates to Lamb his Eclogues, which he was then preparing for the press, and Lamb repaying the confidence by submitting the products of his own leisure hours to his genial critic. If Sijuthey did not, in all respects, compensate Lamb for the absence of his earlier friend, he excited in him a more entire and active intellectual sympathy; as tlie character of Southey's mind bore more resemblance to his own than that of Coleridge. In purity of thought ; in the love of the minutest vestige of antiquity ; in a certain primness of style bounding in the rich humour which threatened to overflow it ; they were nearly akin : both alike reverenced childhood, and both had pre- served its best attributes unspotted from the world. If Lamb bowed to the genius of Coleridge with a fonder reverence, he felt more at home with Southey ; and although he did not pour out the inmost secrets of his soul in his letters to him as to Coleridge, he gave more scope to the "first sprightly runnings" of his humorous fancy. Here \s the first of his freaks : — TO MR. SOUTHEY. "My tailor has brought me home a nevp 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 half-pence, and a bundle of 44 LETTERS TO SOUTHEY. customi'i's' nioiisurps, wliicli tlioy swore were li.ink-notos. Thoy Hid not sJioot him, and when they rode off he addrost them with profound pratitude, making; a congee: 'Gentlemen. T wish you pood 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 ton buttons on a side, and a black velvet collar. — A cursed ninth of a scoundrel ! "When you write to Lloyd, he wishes his J.acobin correspondents to address him as Mr. C. L." The following letter — yet richer in fun — hears date Saturday. July 28th, 1798. In order to make its allusitms intelligible, it is only necessary to mention that Sou they was then contemplating a calendar illustrative of the remarkable days of the year. TO MR. SOUTHEY. " July 2Sth, 1798. " 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 Philips, 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 1st 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 birth-day is on the 10th 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 Avere living, who lies (or lyes) in some church in London (saints forgive me. but I have forgot wJiai 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 'Encyclopedia' at hand, but on such an occasion as going over to a German university, I could not refrain from sending him the fcjUowing propositions, to be by him defended or oppugned (or both) at Leipsic or Gottingen. THESES QUJEDAM THEOLOGIC^. I. " ' Whether God loves a lying augel better than a true man?' " ' Whether the archangel Uriel coidd knowingly affirm an untruth, and whether, if he could, he would?' ' Whether honesty be an angelic virtue, or not rather belonging to that class of qualities which the schoolmen term "virtutes minus splendida3, et hominis et terra3 nimis participes ?" ' IV. " ' AVhether the seraphim ardcntes do not manifest their goodness by the way of vision and theory? and whether practice be not a sub-celestial, and nierelv human virtue ?' " ' Whether the higher order of seraphim illuminati ever sneer?' "'Whether pure intelligences can love, or whether they can 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 jiresent attainments, and future capabilitiei. some- LETTERS TO SOUTTTEY. 45 thing in the maimer of mortal lookinj;- glasses ? ' VIIT. "'Whether an "immortal and anipnalile soul " may not come to be damned cd. last, and the man never suspect it heforeliand ?' " Samuel Taylor hath not deigned an answer; was it impertinent of me to avail myself of that offered source of knowledge? " Wishing Ma,doc 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." The two next letters to Southey illustrate strikingly the restless kindness and exquisite spirit of allowance in Lamb's nature ; the first an earnest pleading for a poor fellow whose distress actually haunted him ; the second an affecting allusion 'to the real good- ness of a wild untoward school-mate, and fine self-reproval — in this instance how unmerited ! TO MR. SOUTHEY. "Dear Southey, — Your friend John May has formerly made kind offers to Floyd of serving me m 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 ovi'n account, for my prospects are very comfortable. But I know a man, a young man, whom he could serve through 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 and worth) has lost two or three employments from illness, which he cannot regain : he was once insane, and, from the distressful uncertainty of his livelihood, has reason to apprehend a return of that malady. He has been for some time dependent 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 walked about the streets all night, rather than accept (jf her bed, which she offered him, and offered 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 favours, 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 disappoint- ment. 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 50Z. a year, or rather moro, but never rise ; a director can put in at any time a young man in this office, and it is by no means considered so great a favour 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 mentioned, but you will perceive that such an offer cannot authorise 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 1 shall feel it a crime not to strain all my petty interest to do him service, though 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. " C. Lamb." " Dear Southey, " 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, 46 LETTERS TO FOniTEY. and tears for nie. when I was in my p:rnato8t distress. But I have forgot that ! as, I fear, he has nigh forgot the awful scenes which ■were befire his eyes when he served the office of a comforter to me. No service was too moan 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 tinies, 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." Lamb now began to write the tragedy of John Woodvil. His admiration of the dramatists of Elizabeth's age was yet young, and had some of the indiscretion of an early love ; but there was nothing affected in the antique cast of his language, or the frequent roughness of his verse. His delicate sense of beauty had found a congenial organ in the style which he tasted with rapture ; and criticism gave him little encouragement to adapt it to the frigid insipidities of the time. " My tragedy," says he in the first letter to Southey, which alludes to the play, " will be a medley (or 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, 'tis not a fault in my intention if it does not comprehend most of these discordant atoms — Heaven send they dance not the dance of death!" In another letter he there introduces the delicious rhj^med passage in the " Forest Scene," which Godwin, having accidentally seen quoted, took for a choice fragment of an old dramatist, and went to Lamb to assist him in finding the author. Pl TO MR. POITHEY. " I just send you a few rhymes from my ay, the u\\\y rhymes in it. A forest-liver giving an acciunt of his amusements. ' What sports have you in the forest ? Not ninny, — snuii' few, — iis thus. To sue tin" sun to lied, and see him rise. Like some hot iiniourist with glowing eyes, Burstin;.' tlie ln/y Ijynils of sleep tliat bound him : With all his fires and travelling glories round him; Sometimes tlie moon on soft ni^lit 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 outstretched 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, wlien 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 societj' : Tn 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 unorigin- ality : the first line is almost Shakspeare's — ' To have my love to bed and to arise.' Midsummer Might's Dream. " I think there is a sweetness in the versi- fication 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.' Hosamtind's Epistle. " I shall anticipate all my play, and have nothing to show you. An idea for Leviathan — Commentators on Job have been puzzled to find out a meaning for Leviatlian, — '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." Ho seems also to have sent about this time the solemnly fantastic .poem of the " "Witch," as the following passage relates to one of its conceits : TO MR. SOUTHEY. " Your recipe for a Turk's poison is invaluable, and truly Marlowish Lloyd objects to ' shutting up the womb of LETTERS TO FOUTHEY. 47 his purse' in my curse, (which, for a Gliris- tian witch in an 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 oV)jects, 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." Here is a specimen of Lamb's criticism on Southey's poetical communications: — TO MR. SOUTIIEY. "I have read your Eclogue repeatedly, and cannot call it bald, or without interest; the cast of it, and the design, are completely original, and may set people upon thinkini:: 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 i-emould 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 word's 'growing wants,' you might, not uncon- nectedly, introduce ' look at that little chub' down to ' welcome one.' And, decidedly, I would have you end it somehow thus, ' Give tbem 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 sis years ago, the snugness of the bridegroom, the feastings. I the cheap merriment, the welcomings, and the secret envyings of the maidens — then dropping all this, recur to her present Int. 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 Avill be greater than the service ray remarks may do them. " Yours afi'ectionately, " C. Lamb. " I cut my letter short because I am called off to business." The fcdlowing, of the same character, is further interesting, as tracing the origin of his "Rosamund," and exhibiting his young enthusiasm for the old English drama, so nobl}' developed in his " Specimens :" — TO 5[R. SOUTHEY. " r>ear Southey, — T 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 thai Joanna's ruin is a catastrophe too trite: ant\ tiiis 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 bj^ the clumsy arts and rustic gifts of some country-follow? I am thinking, I believe, of the song, ' An old woman clothed in pray. Whose diinghter 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 yoii 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 48 LETTERS TO SOUTHEY. 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 Ithamore, 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 'em go pinioned along by my door. Being young, I studied physic, and began To practice first upon the Italian: There I enriched the priests with burials, And always kept the sexton's arms in use With digging graves, and ringing dead men's knells; And, after that, was I an engineer, And in the wars 'twixt France and Germany TJnder 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 filFd 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 himself for grief, Vinning upon his breast a long great scroll. How I with interest had tormented him. (Now nature.) hear Ithamore, the other gentle ITHAMORE. {A comical dng.) Faith, master, and I have spent my time 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 secretly would I steal To traveller's chambers, and there cut their throats. Once at Jerus.alem, where the pilgrims kneel'd, I strewed powder on the marble stones. And thei-ewithal their knee.s would rankle so. That I have laugh'd a good to see the cripples Go limping home to Christendom on stilts. B.ARABAS. 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. " Yours sincerely, "C. Lamb." The following letters, which must have been written after a short interval, show a rapid change of opinion, very unusual with Lamb (who stuck to his favourite books as he did to his friends), as to the relative merits of the "Emblems" of Wither and of Quarles : TO MR. SOUTHEY. « Oct. 18th, 1798. "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 anti- quaries and bane of bibliopical 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 ! ! ! tempora ! U^ctores! 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 LETTERS TO SOUTHEY. 49 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. Parke, &c. One of the happiest emblems, and eomicalest cuts, is the owl and little chirpers, page 63. " 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 V TO MR. SOUTHEY. " Nov. 8th, 1798. " 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 ' 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 4 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 he ?' — &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 dog- matical ; 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." In this year, Mr. Cottle proposed to publish an annual volume of fugitive poetry by various hands, under the title of the "Annual Anthology ;" to which Coleridge and Southey were principal contributors, the first volume of which was published in the following year. To this little work Lamb contributed a short religious effusion in blank verse, entitled " Living without God in the World." The following letter to Southey refers to this poem by its first words, " Mystery of God," and recurs to the rejected sonnet to his sister ; and alludes to an intention, afterwards changed, of entitling the proposed collection " Gleanings." TO MR. SOUTHEY, « Nov. 28th, 1798. " I can have no objection to your printing ' Mystery of God' with my name, and all due acknowledgements 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 50 ATTACKS OF THE ANTI-JACOBIN. forgotten. If the exact circumstances under ■which I wrote could be known or told, it 1 would be an interesting sonnet ; but, to an indiiferent and stranger reader, it must appear a very bald thing, certainly inadmis- sible in a compilation. I wish you could affix a different name to the volume ; there is a contemptible book, a wretched assort- ment of vapid feelings, entitled, Pratt's Glean- ings, 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 Bene- volence, 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." At this time Lamb's most intimate asso- ciates were Lloyd and Jem White, the author of the Falstaff Letters. When Lloyd was in town, he and White lodged in the same house, and were fast friends, though no two men could be more unlike, Lloyd having no drol- lery in his nature, and White nothing else. " You will easily understand," observes Mr. Southey, in a letter with which he favoured the publisher, " how Lamb could sympathise with both." The literary association of Lamb with Coleridge and Southey drew down upon him the hostility of the young scorners of the "Anti-Jacobin," who luxuriating in boyish pride and aristocratic patronage, tossed the arrows of their wit against all charged with innovation, whether in politics or poetry, and cared little whom they wounded. No one could be more innocent than Lamb of political heresy ; no one more strongly opposed to new theories in morality, which he always regarded with disgust; and yet he not only shared in the injustice which accused his friends of the last, but was confounded in the charge of the first, — his only crime being that he had published a few poems deeply coloured with religious enthusiasm, in conjunction with two other men of genius, who were dazzled by the glowing phantoms which the French Revolution had raised. The very first number of the " Anti-Jacobin Magazine and Review " was adorned by a caricature of Gilray's, in which Coleridge and Southey were introduced with asses' heads, and Lloyd and Lamb as toad and frog. In the number for July appeared the well-known poem of the " New Morality," in which all the prominent objects of the hatred of these champions of religion and order were intro- duced as offering homage to Lepaus, a French charlatan, — of whose existence Lamb had never even heard. " Couriers and Star?, sedition's evening host, Thon Morning Chronicle, and Morning Post, Whether ye make the ' Rights of Man' your theme. Your country libel, and your God blaspheme, Or dirt on private v>nrth and virtun throw. Still hlaspliemous or hlaclcguard, praise Lepaux. And ye five other wandering bards, that move In sweet accord of harmony and love, C dge and S-^th — y. L— d, and Ij — b and Co., Tune all your mystic harps to praise Lepaux !" Not conterwt with thus confounding persons of the most opposite opinions and the most various characters in one common libel, the party returned to the charge in the number for September, and thus denounced the young poets, in a parody on the " Ode to the Passions," under the title of " The Anarchists." "Next H — Ic — ft vow'd in doleful tone, No more to fire a thankless age: Oblivion mark'd his labours for her own. Neglected from the press, and damn'd upon the stage. 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 knavi.sh 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.' These effusions have the palliation which the excess of sportive wit, impelled by youth ful spirits and fostered by the applause of the great, brings with it ; but it will be difficult to palliate the coarse malignity of a passage in the prose department of the same work, in which the writer added to a state- ment that Mr. Coleridge was dishonoured at Cambridge for preaching Deism : " Since then he has left his native country, commenced citizen of the world, left his poor children LETTERS TO SOUTHEY. 51 fatherless, and his -wife destitute. Ex his disce, his friends Lamb and Southey." It •was surely rather too much even for partisans, when denouncing their political opponents as men who "dirt on private worth and virtue threw," thus to slander two young men of the most exemplary character — one, of an almost puritanical exactness of demea- nour and conduct — and the other, persevering in a life of noble self-sacrifice, chequered only by the frailties of a sweet nature, which endeared him even to those who were not admitted to the intimacy necessary to appre- ciate the touching example of his severer virtues ! If Lamb's acquaintance with Coleridge and Southey procured for him the scorn of the more virulent of the Anti-Jacobin party, he showed by his intimacy with another dis- tinguished object of their animosity, that he was not solicitous to avert it. He was introduced by Mr. Coleridge to one of the most remarkable persons of that stirring- time — the author of " Caleb Williams," and of the " Political Justice." The first meeting between Lamb and Godwin did not wear a promising aspect. Lamb grew warm as the conviviality of the evening advanced, and indulged in some freaks of humour which had not been dreamed of in Godwin's philo- sophy ; and the philosopher, forgetting the equanimity with which he usually looked on the vicissitudes of the world or the whist- table, broke into an allusion to Gilray's caricature, and asked, "Pray, Mr. Lamb, are you toad or frog?" Coleridge was appre- hensive of a rupture ; but calling the next morning on Lamb, he found Godwin seated at breakfast with him ; and an interchange of civilities and card-parties was established, which lasted through the life of Lamb, whom Godwin only survived a few months. Indif- ferent altogether to the politics of the age, Lamb could not help being struck with pro- ductions of its new-born energies, so remark- able as the works and the character of Godwin. He seemed to realise in himself what Wordsworth long afterwards described, " the central calm at the heart of all agita- tion." Through the medium of his mind the stormy convulsions of society were seen "silent as in a picture." Paradoxes the most daring wore the air of deliberate wisdom as he pronounced them. He foretold the future happiness of mankind, not with the inspiration of the poet, but with the grave and passionless voice of the oracle. There was nothing better calculated at once to feed and to make steady the enthusiasm of youthful patriots than the high specula- tions, in which he taught them to engage, on the nature of social evils and the great destiny of his species. No one would have suspected the author of those wild theories, which startled the wise and shocked the prudent, in the calm, gentlemanly person who rarely said anything above the most gentle common-place, and took interest in little beyond the whist-table. His peculiar opinions were entirely subservient to his love of letters. He thought any man who had written a book had attained a superiority over his fellows which placed him in another class, and could scarcely understand other distinctions. Of all his works Lamb liked his " Essay on Sepulchres" the best — a short development of a scheme for preserving in one place the memory of all great writers deceased, and assigning to each his proper station, — quite chimerical in itself, but accompanied with solemn and touching musings on life and death and fame, embodied in a style of singular refinement and beauty. CHAPTER V. [1799, 1800.] LETTERS TO SODTHEY, COLERIDGE, MANNING AND WORDSWORTH. The year 1799 found Lamb engaged during his leisure hours in completing his tragedy of John Woodvil, which seems to have been finished about Christmas, and transmitted to Mr. Kemble. Like all young authors, who are fascinated by the splendour of theatrical representation, he longed to see his concep- tions embodied on the stage, and to receive his immediate reward in the sympathy of a crowd of excited spectators. The hope was vain ; — but it cheered him in many a lonely hour, and inspired him to write when exhausted with the business of the day, and when the less powerful stimulus of the press would have been insufficient to rouse him. In the mean time he continued to correspond 52 LETTERS TO SOUTHEY. •with Mr. Southey, to send him portions of his play, and to reciprocate criticisms with him. The following three letters, addressed to Mr. Southey in the spring of this year, require no commentary. TO MR. SOUTHEY. " Jan. 2lRt, 1799. " I am to blame for not writing to you before on my own account; but I know you can dispense with the expi-essions of grati- tude 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 kind- ness 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 often lines, besides, since I saw you. A father, old Walter Woodvil, (the witch's protege) 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 nncle hy the mother's side, Who gave his youthful politics a hent Quite. /V'om 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 wi»h such a mirth into the field. To min.ile rivalship and acts of war Even with the sinewy masters of the art, — Yon 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 x^layers' foils, The rough fanatic and blood-practised soldiery * See ante, p. 45. 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 ' pourtrayed 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 7th, 8th, and 9th owe their origin to Shakspeare, though no image is borrowed. He says in Henry the Fourth — ' This infant Hotspur, Mars in swathing clothes.' 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." TO MR. SOUTHEY. " March 15th, 1799. "Dear Southey, — I have received your little volume, for which I thank you, though I do not entirely approve of this sort of inter- course, where the presents are all on 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 nie, I want to hear more of her; and of 'Joanna' you have given us still lees. But the picture of the rustics leaning over the bi-idge, and the old lady travelling abroad on 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 offe 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 pic- tures and realities. The remainder Eclogues, excepting only the ' Funeral,' I do not greatly admire. I miss one, which had at least as LETTERS TO SOUTHEY. 53 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 in- visibles. 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 ' Jas- par,' 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 Dor sweetness ; and, besides, sets all chrono- logy 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 ? ApoUyon 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 Bend the good ship into harbour,' at the con- clusion of our bills of lading. The finishing of the 'Sailor' is also imperfect. Any dis- senting 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 nnmeniioned, 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." TO MR. SOUTHET. « March 20th, 1799. " 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 life- time 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 loye's delightful dreams,' savour neither of Burns nor Q.uarles ; 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 ten -fold better recommended to the heart, comes there more like a neighbour or familiar, than thousands of Ilamnels 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 apostro- phised a fly; Burns hath his mouse and his louse ; Coleridge less successfully hath made overtures of intimacy to a jackass, therein 54 LETTERS TO MANNING. only following at unresembling distance, Sterne and greatei" 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 mankin'd. 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 apos- trophe to anglers, those patient tyrants,' meek inflicters 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 piinute come into my head ; but it strikes me instan- taneously 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." In the summer Lamb revisited the scenes in Hertfordshire, where, in his grandmother's time, he had spent so many happy holidays. In the following letter, he just hints at feelings which, many years after, he so beau- tifully developed in those essays of ' Elia,' — ' Blakesmoor,' and ' Mackery End.' TO MR. SOUTHEY. « Oct. 31st, 1799. "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 'Actseon spying Diana naked' the other. I could tell of an old marble hall, with Hogarth's prints, and the Roman Csesars 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 Arch's ; they will send them as soon as they can get them, but they do not seem quite familiar to their names. 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 had 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. L." In the autumn of this year Lamb's choice list of friends received a most important addition in Mr. Thomas Manning, then a mathematical tutor at Cambridge; of whom he became a frequent correspondent, and to whom he remained strongly attached through life. Lloyd had become a graduate of the university, and to his introduction Lamb was indebted for Manning's friendship. The following letters will show how earnestly, yet how modestly. Lamb sought it. TO MR. MANNING. " Dec. 1799. " Dear Manning, — The particular kindness, even up to a degree of attachment, which I have experienced from you, seems to claim some distinct acknowledgement on my part. I could not content myself with a bare LETTERS TO MANNING. 55 remembrance to you, conveyed in some letter ro Lloyd. "Will it be agreeable to yoa, if I occasion- ally recruit your memory of me, which must else soon fade, if you consider the brief inter- course 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 auspi- ciously 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." TO MR. MANNING. "Dec. 2Sth, 1799 " 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 Cam- bridge ? " 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 harpsichord), from the smile and the glimmer of half-sense and quarter-sense, to the grin and hanging lip of Betty Poy's own Johnny ? And does the face-dissolving curfew sound at twelve ? How unlike the great originals were your petty terrors in the postcript, not fearful enough to make a fairy shudder, or a Lilli- putian fine lady, eight months full of child, miscarry. Yet one of them, which had more beast than the rest, I thought faintly resem- bled 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 remem- brances. " By the by, I think you and Sophia both incorrect with regard to the title of the play* Allowing your objection (which is not neces- sary, 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 secrets all ties of blood, &c. &c., keeping of promises, the feeble mind's religion, binding our morning knowledge to the performance of what last nigJit'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. " 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." Early in the following year (1800), Lamb, with his sister, removed to Chapel-street, Pentonville. In the summer he visited Coleridge, at Stowey, and spent a few * It had been propoped to entitle John Woodvil "Pride's Cure." 56 LETTERS TO COLERIDGE. delightful holidays in his society and that of Wordsworth, who then resided in the neighbourhood. This was the first oppor- tunity Lamb had enjoyed of seeing much of the poet, who was destined to exercise a beneficial and lasting influence on the litera- ture and moral sense of the opening century. At this time Lamb was scarcely prepared to sympathise with the naked simplicity of the " Lyrical Ballads," which Wordsworth was preparing for the press. The " rich conceits" of the writers of Elizabeth's reign had been blended with his first love of poetry, and he could not at once acknowledge the serene beauty of a style, in which language was only the stainless mirror of thought, and which sought no aid either from the grandeur of artificial life or the pomp of words. In after days he was among the most earnest of this great poet's admirers, and rejoiced as he found the scoffers who sneered at his bold experiment gradually owning his power. How he felt when the little golden opportunity of conversation with Wordsworth and Coleridge had passed will appear from the following letter, which seems to have been addressed to Coleridge shortly after his return to London, TO MR. COLERIDGE. "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 Sarah's, are become ' familiar in my mouth as house- hold 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 wagon, if there be such a thing, directing for C. L., No. 45, 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 gi'ateful heart. I could not talk much, while I was Avith you, but my silence was not suUenness, 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 Cruikshanks, 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 Sarah — 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." Coleridge shortly after came to town, to make arrangements for his contributions to the daily press. The following note is addressed to him when in London. TO MR. COLERIDGE. " Jan. 2nd, 1800. " 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 LETTERS TO MANNING. 57 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 Sarah 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." Coleridge afterwards spent some weeks with Lamb, as appears from the following letter : — TO MR. MANNING. " March 17th, 1800. " Dear Manning, — I am living in a con- tinuous feast. Coleridge has been with me now for nigh three weeks, and the more I see of him in the quotidian undress and relax- ation 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 uncom- monly 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 tidip. 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 things! and the iidip 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 LI. 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 \" Coleridge, during this visit, recommended Lamb to Mr. Daniel Stuart, then editor of the " Morning Post," as a writer of light articles, by which he might add something to an income, then barely sufficient for the decent support of himself and his sister. It would seem from his next letter to Manning, that he had made an offer to try his hand at some personal squibs, which, ultimately, was not accepted. Manning need not have feared that there would have been a particle of malice in them ! Lamb afterwards became a correspondent to the paper, and has re- corded his experience of the misery of toiling after pleasantries in one of the "Essays of Elia," entitled "Newspapers thirty-five years ago." TO MR. MANNING. " C. L.'s moi-al sense presents her compli- ments 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, Words- worth. With him have flown all my splendid prospects of engagement with the ' Morning Post,' all my visionary guineas, the deceitful 58 LETTERS TO MANNING. wages of unborn scandal. In truth, I wonder you took it up so seriously. All my inten- tion was but to make a little sport with such public and fair game as Mr. Pitt, Mr. Wilber- force, 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 lamp-black, not nigrifying a negro primarily. After all, I cannot but regret my involuntary virtue. Hang virtue that's thrust upon us ; it behaves itself with such constraiut, till conscience opens the widow and lets out the goose. I had struck off two imitations of Burton, quite abstracted from any modern allusions, which was my intent only to lug in from time to time to make 'em popular. " Stuart has got these, with an introduc- tory letter ; but, not hearing from him, I have ceased from my labours, but I write to him to-day 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. Priscilla meditates going to see Pizarro at Drury Lane to-night, (from her uncle's) under cover of coming to dine with me .. Ziew .' temporal ?ieu 1 mores ! — I have barely time to finish, as I expect her and Robin every minute. — Yours as usual, "C. L." The following is an extract from a letter addressed about this time to Manning, who had taken a view of a personal matter relating to a common friend of both, directly contrary to that of Lamb. TO MR. MANNING. " Dear Manning, — 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 Cory- don and fair Amaryllis, for and , 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 amphi- bious 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 explain- ing 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 Briai'eus Centimanus, or a Tityus tall enough to pull Jupiter from his heavens. " 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 triOing as trifli7ig ; and believe me, sei-iously and deeply, — Your well-wisher and friend, "C. L." The following letter was addressed to Coleridge shortly after he had left London on a visit to Wordsworth, who in the meantime had settled on the borders of Grasmere. TO MR. COLERIDGE. " Aug. 6th, 1800. " Dear Coleridge, — I have taken to-day, and delivered to L. & Co., Imprimis: your books, viz., three ponderous German diction- LETTERS TO COLERIDGE. 59 aries, 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 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 ray 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 in- ferences 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 afi'ord 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 passion about i 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. Sara is obscure. Am I to understand by her letter, that she sends a hiss to Eliza B ? Pray tell your wife that a note of • interrogation on the superscription of a letter is highly ungrammatical — she proposes writing my name Lamb? 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 I'est 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 iL 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 trumpet- ings. 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-rsick sonneteer.* " I have hit ofi" the following in imitation of Old English poetry, which, I imagine, I am a dab at. The measure is unmeasurable : but it most resembles that beautiful ballad, 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.f " I can send you 200 pens and six quires of paper immediately, if they will answer the carriage by coach. It would be foolish to pack 'em up cum muliis libris et cceteris, — they would all spoil. I only wait your commands to coach them. I would pay five- and-forty thousand carriages to read Ws * This refers to a poem of Coleridge's, composed in 1797, and published in the Anthology of the year 1800, under the title of "This Lime-tree Bower my Prison," addressed to " Charles Lamb, of the India House, London." in -which Lamb is thus apostrophised, aa taking more pleasure in the country than Coleridge's other visitors — a compliment which even then he scarcely merited : — " But thou, methinks most glad, My gentle-hearted Charles ! For thou hast pined And linger'd after nature many a year, In the great city pent," — &c. f The quaint and pathetic poem, entitled " A Ballad, noticing the difference of rich and poor, in the ways of a rich noble's palace and a poor workhouse." 60 LETTERS TO COLERIDGE. tragedy, of which I have heard so much and Been so little — only what I saw at Stowey. Pray give me an order in writing on Long- man 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 swinging tails. "I'll just crowd in God bless you ! " C. Lamb." "John Woodvil" was now printed, although not published till a year after- wards ; probably withheld in the hope of its representation on the stage. A copy was sent to Coleridge for Wordsworth, with the following letter or cluster of letters, written at several times. The ladies referred to, in the exquisite description of Coleridge's blue- stocking friends, are beyond the reach of feeling its application ; nor will it be detected by the most apprehensive of their surviving friends. TO MR. COLERIDGE, " 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 direc- tion_to Miss W ; 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 ' Reali- ties.' 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 W , 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 W , 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 hut hunger about me, and whom found I closeted with Mary but a friend of this Miss W ', one Miss B e, or B y ; 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 pair of stairs in Street. Tea and cofiee, and macaroons — a kind of cake I much love. We sat down. Presently Miss B broke the silence, by declaring herself quite of a difierent opinion from D'Israeli, who sup- poses the differences of human intellect to be the mere effect of organisation. 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 Moore's book on education, which I had never , read. It seems Dr. Gregory, another oJ. Miss LETTERS TO COLERIDGE, 61, B 's friends, has fuund fault with one of Miss More's metaphors.. Miss Mure has been at some pains to vindicate herself, — -in the opinion of Miss B , not without success. it seems the Doctor is invariably against the use of broken or mixed metaphor, which he reprobates, against the authority of Shaks- peare 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 B y or B e advised Mary to take two of them home ; she thought it might aiford 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 Ms 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. " 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 um- brage at anything I have written. " G| Lamb, Umbra." " Land of Shadows, Shadow-montli the 16th or 17th, 1800." " 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 tip suddenly. The loTely lady Christahel :' and the lines, — ' She folded her arms beneath her cloak, And stole to the other side of the oak.' The trouble to you iviU 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, mor- tified 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 mis- chief. " I am, and will be, yours ever, in sober "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." TO MR. COLERIDGE. " Aug. 26th, ISOO. " 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. [Here Miss Lamb's little poem of Helen was introduced.] " 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 Mm. But this, I confess, is a refine- ment. Under any circumstances, alone, in Cold-Bath prison, or in the desert island, just when Prospero and his crew had set ofi", 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 bis trust 62 LETTERS TO MANNING. by giving me a sight of it. Lloyd is sadly deficient in some of those virtuous vices. " 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 pui'pose to make George the hero. I could hit him off to a hair." The tragedy which Lamb was thus anxious to read, has been perseveringly withheld from the world. A fine passage, quoted in one of Hazlitt's prose essays, makes ua share in his earnest curiosity : — " Action is momentary — a word, a blow — The motion of a muscle — this way or that ; Suffering is loilg,' drear, and infinite." Wordsworth's genius is perhaps more fitly employed in thus tracing out the springs of heroic passion, and developing the profound elements of human character, than in fol- lowing them out through their exhibition in violent contest or majestic repose. Surely he may now afford to gratify the world ! The next is a short but characteristic letter to Manning. TO MR. MANNING. "Aug. nth, 1800. " My dear fellow, (N. B. mighty familiar of late 1) for me to come to Cambridge now is one of Heaven's impossibilities. Metaphy- sicians tell us, even it 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-vitse, usquebaugh. Or whiskey a'nights : and for the after-dinner trick, I have eight bottles of genuine port, which, mathematically divided, gives 1| for every day you stay, provided you Btay 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.f 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, — ' Yeni cito, Domine Manning! ' " Think upon it. Excuse the paper, it is all I have. " C. Lame." Lamb now meditated a removal to the home place of his best and most solemn thoughts — the Temple ; and thus announced it in a letter to Manning. TO MR. MANNING. " You masters of logic ought to knov? (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 exprest 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 I 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, orpinventing 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 w^as 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 !) * " We, poets ! generally give light dinners." ■f No doubt the poet here alludes to port-wine at 38s the dozen. LETTERS TO COLERIDGE. 68 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 pip- kin, 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 lyrical muse this century can justly boast: for Wordsworth's L. B. were pub- lished, or at least written, before Christ- mas. " Please to advert to pages 291 to 296 for the most astonishing account of where Shak- speare's muse has been all this while. I thought she had been dead, and buried in Stratford Church, with the young man tliat kept her company, — 'But it seems, like the Devil, Buried in Cole Ilarljour, Some say she's risen asaiQ, 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, Stoddart, Esq. "N. B. the 2d. — 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 hack tingles from the northern castigation. " 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 with- out 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 urbane 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 Maho- metan paradise, London, whose dirtiest drab- frequented alley, and her lowest bowing tradesman, I would not exchange for Skid- daw, Helvellyn, James, Walter, and the parson into the bargain. ! 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, Lon- don! An'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 differ- ence. 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 iu crowds. " 'Tis half-pa"st twelve o'clock, and all sober people ought to be a-bed. " C. Lamb (as you may guess)." The following two letters appear to have been written during Coleridge's visit to Wordsworth. TO MR. COLERIDGE. " 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 Statins, and I detained him wilfully, out of a reverent regard to your style. Statins, 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 preg- nant. 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. 64 LETTER TO WORDSWORTH. " 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. " 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 immoi-tal precentor of St. Paul's, to teach us our quavers ; but, to the best of my recol- lection, there was no master of motions when we were at Christ's. " Farewell, in haste. "C. L." TO MR. WORDSWORTH. " Oct. 13th, 1800. "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 liquida- tion 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 I The books which you want, I calculate at about 81. Ben Johnson is " a guinea book. Beaumont and Fletcher, in folio, the right folio not now to be met with ; the octavos are about .3Z. As to any other dramatists, I do not know where to find them, except what are in Dodsley's Old Plays, which are about 3L 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, ai-e cheap and accessible. The works on Ireland I will inquire 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 and dramatists as will be prudent to buy ; for, I suppose you do not include the 20Z. edition of Hamlet, single play, which Kemble has. Marlowe'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 Shakspeare. Let me know your will and pleasure soon, for I have observed, riext 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 annexed. " C. Lamb." CHAPTER VL [1800.] LETTERS TO MANNING AFTER LAMB'S REMOVAL TO THE TEMPLE. In the year 1800, Lamb carried into effect his purpose of removing to Mitre-court Buildings, Temple. During this time he wrote only a few small poems, which he transmitted to Manning. In his letters to Manning a vein of wild humour breaks out, of which there are but slight indications in the correspondence with his more sentimen- tal friends ; as if the very opposition of Manning's more scientific power to his own force of sympathy provoked the sallies which the genial kindness of the mathematician fostered. The prodigal and reckless humour of some of these letters forms a striking contrast to the deep feeling of the earlier letters to Coleridge. His ' Essays of Elia ' show the harmonious union of both. The following letter contains Lamb's description of his new abode. TO MR. MANNING. " T was not aware that you owed me any- thing beside that guinea : but I dare say you are right. I live at No. 16, Mitre-court LETTERS TO MANNING. 65 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, fo;- 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 mathe- matics ; my turn, I confess, is more to poetry and the belies 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 asthraatical — and come in flannel, for it's pure airy up there. And bring your glass, and I will show 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 — ' (upholstei'ers' men,) &c. My tears will not give me leave to go on. But a bed I will get you, Manning, on con- dition you will be niy day-guest. "I have been ill more than a month, with a bad cold, which comes upon me (like a murderer's conscience) about midnight, and vexes me for many hours. I have succes- sively been drugged with Spanish licorice, opium, ipecacuanha, paregoi-ic, and tincture of foxglove (tinctura purpurse digitalis of the ancients). I am afraid I must leave off drinking." Lamb then gives an account of his visit to an exhibition of snakes — of a ft-ightful vivid- ness and interesting — as all details of these fascinating reptiles are, whom we at once loathe and long to look upon, as the old enemies and tempters of our race. TO MR. MANNING. " Oct. 16th, 1800. " 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 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 hia 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 hia 66 LETTERS TO MANNING. 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 impres- sion of the rest. He opened his cursed mouth, when he made at me, as wide as his head was broad. I halloed 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 form- ing 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 following are fragments from a letter chiefly on personal matters, the interest of M'hich is gone by : — TO MR. MANNING. " And now, when shall I catch a glimpse of your honest face-to-face countenance again ? Your fine dogmatical sceptical face by punch- light? 0! one glimpse of the human face, and shake off the human hand, is better than whole realms of this cold, thin correspondence ; yea, of more worth than all the letters that have sweated the fingers of sensibility, from Madame S6vigne and Balzac 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 sub- scribe 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." Lamb had engaged to spend a few days when he could obtain leave, with Manning at Cambridge, and, just as he hoped to accomplish his wish, received an invitation from Lloyd to give his holiday to the poets assembled at the Lakes. In the. joyous excitement of spirits which the anticipated visit to Manning produced, he thus plays off Manning's proposal on his friend, abuses mountains and luxuriates in his love of London : — TO MR. MANNING. "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 ! Amble- side ! Wordsworth ! Coleridge ! Hills, woods, lakes, and mountains, to the eternal devil. LETTERS TO MANNING. 67 I will eat snipes -with thee, Thomas Manning. Only confess, confess, a bite. " P. S. I think you named the 16th ; 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 Ou my poor pxirsie.' Bdens. 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 npon the gilded looking-glass (that strained my friend's purse-strings in the purchase) nor his five-shilling print over the mantel- piece 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 feces of industi-ious milliners, neat sempstresses, ladies cheapening, gentle- men 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 watchmen at night, with bucks reeling home drunk ; if you happen to wake at midnight, cries of Fire and Stop thief; inns of courts, 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, London ! with-the-many- sins. 0, city, abounding in , for these may Keswick and her giant brood go hang! " C. L." On this occasion Lamb was disappointed ; t)ut he was consoled by the acquisition of a new friend, in Mr. Hickman of the House of Commons, and exults in a strain which he never had reason to regret. This piece of rare felicity enabled him even to bear the loss of his manuscripts, and the delay of his hopes ; which, according to the old theatrical usage, he was destined to endure. TO MR. MANNING. " Nov. Srd, 1800. " Ecquid meditatur ArcMmedes ? What is Euclid doing? What hath 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 intellect? — or not (rather) most sharp and mortifying realities ? nuts in the Will's mouth too hard for her to crack? brick and stonewalls in her way, which she can by no means eat through ? sore lets, impedimenta viarum, no thoroughfares ? racemi Jiimium alte peridentes f Is the phrase classic? I allude to the grapes in iEsop, 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 difi"erent stations in life. 'Tis truly curious, and must be soothing to an aristocrat. I wonder it has never been hit on before my time. I have made an acquisi- tion 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 fatvi 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 any- body. 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 68 LETTERS TO MANNING. Dyer, nonsense with me, and anything with anybody ; a great farmer, somewhat con- cerned 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 Godv^in 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 Piickman 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 hemi- sphere 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 pre- sented 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 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 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 altera- tions, &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 London 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 bottoin.) " 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." Constant to the fame of Jem White, Lamb did not fail to enlist Manning among the admirers of the " Falstaff's Letters." The next letter, referring to them is, however, more interesting for the light which it casts on Lamb's indiiference to the politics of the time, and fond devotion to the past. TO MR. MANNING. "I hope by this time you are prepared to say the ' Falstaff'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, M'ith 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 LETTERS TO MANNING. 69 Frenchman, and. the Abbe Sifeyes 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 indiiference, 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 mem- bers. 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 fiing as far fro7)i 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 Shaks- peare. " My love to Lloyd and to Sophia. " C. L." While Lamb's dramatic destinies were in suspense, he was called on " to assist " at the production of a tragedy, by a friend, whose more mature reputation gave him readier access to the manager, but who had no better claim to success than himself. Mr. Godwin, whose powerful romance of Caleb Williams had supplied the materials for " The L'on Chest" of Colman, naturally aspired, on his own account, to the glory of the scene, and completed a tragedy under the title of "An- tonio, or the Soldier's Return," which was accepted at .Drury-Ltoe Theatre, and an- nounced for, representation on Saturday the 13th December in this year. Lamb supplied the epilogue, which he copied in the following letter addressed to Manning on the eventful day:— TO MR. MANNING. " Dec. 13th, ISOO. " 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 emended 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 Heaven's sake do not mention it — it is to come out in a feigned name, as one Tobin's. I will omit the intro- ductory 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 plaj'-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 — ' 70 GODWIN. Three stubborn fortnights Jack his promise kept, Was Jate and early in his shop, eat, slept, And walk'd and talk'd like ordinary men; No M'f'i, 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, luig, snuff-box— vieW 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 — ' 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 1 Nelson's * to be there to night.' " N. B. — This was intended for Jack Ban- nister 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 Cpon 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, AVhen Spanish honour through the world was blown, And Spanish beauty for the best was known, f In that romantic unenlighten'd time, A hi'eack 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 g fashion, That a dead father's dying inclination. Should live to thwart a living daughter's passion, || Unjustly on the sex ive f men exclaim. Kail 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 ? ff 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." Alas for human hopes ! Th^ play was de- cisively damned, and the epilogue shared its * '• A good clap-trap. Nelson has exhibited two or three times at both theatres — and advertised himself." f " Four easy lines." X " For which the heroine died.'' § " In Spain ! !" |( " Two neat lines." 1 " Or you." * * « Or our, as they have altered it." H " Antithesis!!" fate. The tragedy turned out a miracle of dulness for the world to wonder at, although Lamb always insisted it had one fine line, which he was fond of repeating — sole relic of the else forgotten play. Kemble and Mrs. Siddons, the brother and sister of the drama, toiled through four acts and a half without applause or disapprobation ; one speech was not more vapid than another ; and so dead was. the level of the dialogue, that, although its destiny was seen from afar, it presented no opportunity for hissing. But as the play drew towards a close, when, after a scene of frigid chiding not vivified by any fire of Kemble's own, Antonio drew his sword and plunged it into the heroine's bosom, the " sad civility " of the audience vanished, they started as at a real murder, and hooted the actors from the stage. " Philosophy," which could not " make a Juliet," sustained the author through the trial. He sat on one of the front beaches of the pit, unmoved amidst the storm. When the first act passed ofi' without a hand, he expressed his satisfaction at the good sense of the house ; " the proper season of applause had not arrived ;" all was .exactly as it should be. The second act proceeded to its close in the same uninterrupted calm ; his friends became uneasy, but still his optimism prevailed ; he could afi'ord to wait. And though he did at last admit the great move- ment was somewhat tardy, and that the audience seemed rather patient than inter- ested, he did not lose his confidence till the tumult arose, and then he submitted with quiet dignity to the fate of genius, too lofty to be understood by a world as yet in its childhood ! Notwithstanding this rude re- pulse, Mr. Godwin retained his taste for the theatre to the last. On every first night of a new piece, whether tragedy, comedy, or farce, whether of friend or foe, he sat with gentle-interest in a side-box, and bore its fate, whatever it might be, with resignation, as he had done his own. The following is Lamb's account of the catastrophe rendered to Manning, in which the facetious charge against the unlucky author of " Violent and Satanical pride of heart," has reference to some banter which Lamb had encountered among his friends by the purposed title of his own play, " Pride's Cure," and his dis- quisition in its defence. LETTERS TO MANNING. 71 TO MR. MANNING. " Dec. 16th, 1800. " We are damned ! — Not the facetious epilogue itself could save us. For, as the editor of the Morning Post, quick-sighted gentleman ! hath this morning truly ob- served, (I beg pardon if I falsify his words, their profound sense I am sure I retain,) both prologue and epilogue were worthy of accom- panying such a piece; and indeed (mark the profundity, Mr. Manning) were received with proper indignation by such of the audience only as thought either worth attending to. Professor, thy glories was 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 I'ead them. Professor, how different thy feelings now (quantum mutatus ab illo professore, qui in agris philosophiae tantas victorias acC[uisivisti), — bow 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 Pro- fessor 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, 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 Chris- tians and superstitious minds) ; nay, I be- lieve (if I can believe my memory), that the ambitious Encyclopedia itself was part of thy meditated acquisitions ; but many a playbook was there. All these visions are damned; and thou. Professor, must read Shakspeare 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 pos- sibly 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 500Z. ideal money out of pocket by this failure, besides 200Z. 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 200?. from thy bookseller changed to an uncertainty of his taking it at all, or giving thee full 50Z. The Professor has won my heart by this his mournful catastrophe. You remember Mar- shall, 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 perspiration ; 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 72 LETTERS TO MANNING. first humoured him with a specious proposi- tion, 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 Ms. " L." In another letter, a few days after, Lamb thus recurs to the subject, and closes the century in anticipation of a visit to his friend at Cambridge. TO MR. MANNING. " Dec. 27th, 1800. " 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 profes- sors ? Are poets sofeio 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 j-ustice ! Law- suits, 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 5th 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." CHAPTER VIL [1801 to 1804.] LETTERS TO MANNING, AVORnSWOHTH, AND COLERIDGE J JOHN WOODVIL REJECTED, PUBLISHED, AND RE- VIEWED. The ominous postponement of Lamb's thea- trical hopes was followed by their disappoint- ment at the commencement of the century. He was favoured with at least one inter- view by the stately manager of Drury-Iane, Mr. Kemble, who extended his high-bred courtesy even to authors, whom he inva- riably attended to the door of his house in Great Russell-street, and bade them " beware of the step." Godwin's catastrophe had probably rendered him less solicitous to encounter a similar peril ; which the fondest admirers of "John Woodvil" will not regret that it escaped. While the occasional rough- ness of its verse would have been felt as strange to ears as yet unused to the old dramatists whom Lamb's Specimens had not then made familiar to the town, the delicate beauties enshrined within it would scarcely have been perceived in the glare of the theatre. Exhibiting "the depth, and not the tumults of the soul," — presenting a female character of modest and retiring loveliness and noble purpose, but undistracted with any violent emotion, — and developing a train of circumstances which work out their gentle triumphs on the heart only of the hero, without stirring accident or vivid grouping of persons, — it would scarcely have supplied sufficient of coarse interest to disarm the critical sipirit which it would certainly have encountered in all its bitterness. Lamb cheerfully consoled himself by publishing it; and at the close of the year 1801 it appeared in a small volume of humble appearance, with the "Fragments of Burton," (to which Lamb alluded in one of his previous letters), EDINBURGH REVIEW. 73 two of his quarto ballads, and the " Helen " of his sister. The daring peculiarities attracted the notice of the Edinburgh reviewers, then in the infancy of their slashing career, and the volume was immolated, in due form, by the self-constituted judges, who, taking for their motto " Judex damnatur cum nocens absol- vitur," treated our author as a criminal con- victed of publishing, and awaiting his doom from their sentence. "With the gay reckless- ness of power, at once usurped and irrespon- sible, they introduced Lord Mansfield's wild construction of the law of libel into litera- ture ; like him, holding every man prima facie guilty, who should be caught in the act of publishing a book, and referring to the court to decide whether sentence should be passed on him. The article on "John Woodvil," which adorned their third num- ber, is a curious example of the old style of criticism vivified by the impulses of youth. We wonder now — and probably the writer of the article, if he is living, will wonder with us — that a young critic should seize on a little eighteen-penny book, simply printed, without any prefiice ; make elaborate merri- ment of its outline, and, giving no hint of its containing one profound thought or happy expression, leave the reader of the review at a loss to suggest a motive for' noticing such vapid absurdities. This article is written in a strain of grave banter, the theme of which is to congratulate the world on having a specimen of the rudest condition of the drama, " a man of the age of Thespis." " At length," says the reviewer, "even in compo- sition a mighty veteran has been born. Older than ^schylus, and with all the spirit of originality, in an age of poets who had before them the imitations of some thousand years, he comes forward to establish his claim to the ancient 7^tVcM5, and to satiate the mos't remote desires of the philosophic antiquary." On this text the writer proceeds, selecting for his purpose whatever, torn from its context, appeared extravagant and crude, and ending without the slightest hint that there is merit, or promise of merit, in the vi)lume. There certainly was no malice, or desire to give pain, in all this ; it was merely the result of the thoughtless adoption, by lads of gaiety and talent, of the old critical canons of the Monthly Reviews, which had been accustomed to damn all works of un- patronised genius in a more summary way, and after a duller fashion. These very critics wrought themselves into good-nature as they broke into deeper veins of thought ; grew gentler as they grew wiser: and sometimes, even when, like Balaam, they came to curse, like him, they ended with "blessing alto- gether," as in the review of the "Excursion," which, beginning in the old strain, " This will never do," proceeded to give examples of its noblest passages, and to grace them with worthiest eulogy. And now, the spirit of the writers thus ridiculed, especially of Wordsworth, breathes through the pages of this very Review, and they not seldom wear the "rich embroidery" of the lane;uage of the poet, once scoffed at by their literary corporation as too puerile for the nursery. Lamb's occasional connexion with news- papers introduced him to some of the editors and contributors of that day, who sought to repair the spirit wasted by perpetual exer- tion, in the protracted conviviality of the evening, and these associates sometimes left poor Lamb with an aching head, and a purse exhausted by the claims of their necessities upon it. Among those was Fenwick, immor- talised as the Bigod of " Elia," who edited several ill-fated newspapers in succession, and was the author of many libels, Avhich did his employers no good and his Majesty's government no harm. These connexions will explain some of the allusions in the following letters. . TO MR. MANNING. " I heard that you were going to China,* with a commission from the Wedgewoods to collect hints for their pottery, and to teach the Chinese ^erspeci(;"»e. 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 dTsubt be very interesting to his Imperial Majesty. It was written originally in English * Mr. Manning had begun to be haunted with the idea of China, and to talk of going thither, which he accomplished some years afterwards, without any motive but a desire to see that great nation. 74 LETTERS TO MANNING. 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 to 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 an opening to the ' Morning Chronicle ! ! !' Mr. Manning, by means of that common dispenser of benevolence. Mister Dyer. I have^ not seen Perry, the editor, ye^: but I am preparing a specimen. I shall have a difBcult job to manage, for you must know that Mr. 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;.! 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 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%irgent, that you might have stayed in Qreat Britain a year or two longer, to have seen him ; for, judging from my oion experience, I almost dare pronounce you never saAv 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 satisfac- tory you may be sure! for rating this man so highly at the expense of , and , and , and M , and , and , and . But Mr. Burke has explained this phenomenon of our nature very prettily in his letter lo a Member of the National Assembly, or else in 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 & 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. " 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 physi- cian from Edinbko', 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 Profes- sor's pride was cured. Oh ! monstrous and almost satanical pride ! "You will carefully keep all (except the Scotch Doctor's, toliich burn) in statu quo till I come to claim mine own. " C. Lamb." The following is in reply to a pressing invitation from Mr. Wordsworth, to visit him at the Lakes. TO MR. WORDSWORTH. "•Jan. oOth, 1801. " I ought before this to have replied to your very kind invitation into Cumberland. With you and your sister I could gang any- whei'e ; but I am afraid whether I shall ever be able to afi'ord so desperate a journey. Separate from the pleasure of your company, I don't much care if I never see a * Lamb aftei'wards, in some melancholy mooJ, de- stroyed all Coleridge's Letters, and was so vexed ■with what he had done, that he never preserved any letters which he received afterwards. LETTERS TO MANNING. 75 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 v\'ith dead nature. The lighted shops of the Strand and Fleet-street ; the innumerable trades, tradesmen, and customers, coaches, vs'aggons, 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 with- out 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 emo- tions 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 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 with anything. Your sun, and moon, and skies, and hills, and 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 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.f Thank you for liking my play ! " C. L." The next two letters were written to Manning when on a tour upon the Conti- nent. TO MR. MANNING. " TelD. 15th, 1802. "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. 1), and wind up with all with affection and humble servant at the end." [Hero was transcribed the essay called " The Londoner," which was published some years afterwards in " The Reflector," and which forms part of Lamb's collected works.] He then proceeds : — "'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 loill send Mm 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 pur- pose 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 * Alluding to the Inscription of Wordsworth's, entitled "Joanna," containing a magnificent description of the effect of laughter echoing amidst the great mountains of Westmoreland. t Alluding to Wordsworth's poem, " The Pet Lamh." 76 LETTERS TO COLERIDGE. our Englishman from the inoculation of frivolity and sin upon French earth. "Allans — or what is it you say, instead of good-bye ? " Mary sends her kind remembrance, and covets the remarks equally with me. " C. Lamb." TO MR. MANNING. "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-ou.t chaps of hell, — while I am medi- tating a quiescent letter to the honest post- master of 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 have often wished I lived in the golden age, when shepherds lay stretched upon flowers, ^ — the genius there is in a man's natural idle face, that has not learned his multiplication table ! before doqbt, and pro- positions, and corollaries, got into the world ! " Apropos : If you should go to Florence or to Kome, inquire what works are extant in gold, silver, bronze, or marble, of Benvenuto Cellini, a Florentine artist, whose Life, doubt- less, you have read ; or, if not, without con- troversy, 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 sup- pose. 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." In the summer of 1802, Lamb, in company with his sister, visited the Lakes, and spent three weeks with Coleridge at Keswick. There he also met the true annihilator of the slave-trade, Thomas Clarkson, who was then enjoying a necessary respite from his stupendous labours, in a cottage on tl>e borders of Ulswater. Lamb had no taste for oratorical philanthropy ; but he felt the grandeur and simplicity of Clarkson's character, and appreciated the unexampled self-denial with which he steeled his heart, trembling with nervous sensibility, to endure intimate acquaintance with the foulest details of guilt and wickedness which he lived, and could have died, to abolish. Wordsworth was not in the Lake-country during Lamb's visit ; but he made amends by spending some time in town after Lamb's return, and then quitted it for Yorkshire to be married. Lamb's following letters show that he made some advances towards fellowship with the hills which at a distance he had treated so cavalierly ; but his feelings never heartily associated with " the bare earth, and moun- tains bare," which sufficed Wordsworth ; he rather loved to cleave to the little hints and suggestions of nature in the midst of crowded cities. In his latter years I have heard him, when longing after London among the pleasant fields of Enfield, declare that his love of natural scenery would be abundantly satisfied by the patches of long waving grass, and the stunted trees, that blacken in the old-church-yard nooks which you may yet find bordering on Thames-street. TO MR. COLERIDGE. " Sept. 8tb, 1S02. " Dear Coleridge, — I thought of not writing till we had performed some of our commis- sions ; 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 difi'erence of going to a place, and comingyrom 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 reniemVjer any very strong impression while they were present; but, being gone, their mementos are shelved in my brain. LETTERS TO MANNING, We passed a very pleasant little time with the Clarksons. The Wordsworths are at Montague's rooms; near neighbours to us.* They dined with us yesterday, and I was their guide to Bartlemy Fair I" TO MR. MANNING. "24th, Sept. 1802, 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 intend never to learn the language ; therefore that could be no objection. How- ever, 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 Derby- shire, 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 en- veloped 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 fairy-land. But that went ofi" (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, * Mr. Basil Montai^ue and his lady, who were, during Lamb's life, among his most cordial and most honoured (riends. nor do I suppose that I 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 tc 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 ^olian 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. So we have seen ^Ceswick, Grasmere, Ambleside. Uls- water (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 illumina- tion. 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 a 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 * Patterdale. LETTERS TO COLERIDGE. 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 dream- ing 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 cer- tainly 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 mortifica- tions, changes the scene from indifferent and flat to bright and brilliant? — 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 shame- worthy 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 aow nearest my heart. F is a ruined man. He is hiding himself from his credi- tors, and has sent his wife and children into the country. , my other drunken com- panion (that has been : nam hie csestus artemque repono), is turned editor of a Naval Chronicle. Godwin continues a steady friend, though the same facility does not remain of visiting him often. Holcroft is not yet come to town. I expect to see him, and will deliver your message. 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 was fond of Latin composition when at school, and was then praised for it. He was always fond of reading Latin verse, and late in life taught his sister to read it. About this time he hazarded the following Latin letter to Coleridge, of whose classical acquire- ments he stood in awe. CAROLUS AGNUS COLERIDGIO SUO S. " Carissime, — Scribis, ut nunimos scilicet epistolarios solvam et postremo in Tartara abeam: immo tu potius Tartaricum (ut aiunt) deprehendisti, qui me vernaculS; meS, lingua pro scribS, conductitio per tot annos satis eleganter usum ad Latinfe impure et canino fere ore latrandum per tuasmet epis- tolas benfe compositas et concinnatas percellire studueris. Conaber tamen : Attamen vereor, ut ^des istas nostri Christi, inter quas tanta diligentiS, magistri improba bonis literulis, quasi per clysterem quendam injectis, infri suprt\que olim penitiis imbutus fui, Barnesii et Marklandii doctissimorum virorum nomin- ibus adhuc gaudentes, barbarismis meis peregrinis et aliunde qusesitis valde dehones- tavero. Sed pergere quocunque placet. Adeste igitur, quotquot estis, conjugatioaum declinationumve turmae, terribilia spectra, et tu imprimis ades, Umbra et Imago maxima obsoletse (Diis gratise) Virgse, qua novissinie in mentem recepta, horrescunt subito natales, et parum deest quo miniis braccas meas ultro usque ad crura demittam, et ipse puer pueril- iter ejulem. " Ista tua Carmina Chamouniana satis grandia esse mihi constat ; sed hoc mihi non- nihil displicit, quod in iis ill^e montium Grisosonum inter se responsiones totidein reboant anglicfe, God, God, baud aliter atque temet audivi tuas montes Cumbrianas resonare docentes. Tod, Tod, nempe Doctorera infelicem : vocem certe baud Deum Sonah- tem. Pro cseteris plaudo. " Itidem comparationes istas tuas satis callidas et Icpidas certfe novi : sed quid hoc LETTERS TO COLERIDGE. 70 ad verum ? cum illi Consulari viro et mentem irritabilem istum Julianum ; et etiam astutias frigidulas quasdem Augusto propriores, nequaquam congruenter uno afflatu compara- tionis caus§. insedisse affirmaveris : necnon nescio quid similitudinis ettani cum Tiberio tertio in loco solicite produxeris. Quid tibi equidem cum uno vel altero Csesare, cilm universi Duodecim ad comparationes tuas se ultro tulerint ? Praeterea, vetustati adnutans, comparationes iniquas odi. " Istas Wordsworthianas nuptias (velpotius cujusdam Edmimdii tui) te retulisse mirifi- cum gaudeo. Valeas, Maria, fortunata nimium, et antiquge illse Marias Virgini (comparatione plusquam CEesareana) forsitan comparanda, quoniam ' bcata inter mulieres :' et etiam fortasse Wordsworthium ipsum tuum raaritum Angelo Salutatori aequare fas erit, quoniam e Coelo (ut ille) descendunt et Musae et ipsae Musiqolas: at Wordsworthium Musarum observantissimum semper noyi. Necnon te quoque affinitate iiS,c novfi,, Doro- thea, gratulor: et tu certe alterum donum Dei. " Istum Ludum, quem tu, Coleridgi, Ameri- canum garris, a Ludo (ut Ludi sunt) maximfe abhorrentem prfetereo : nempe quid ad Ludum attinet, totius illje gentis Columbians, a nostrS, gente, eadem stirpe orta, ludi singuli causa voluntatem perperam alienare ? Quaeso ego materiam ludi: te Bella ingeris. "Denique valeas, et quid de Latinitate me§, putes, dicas : facias ut opossum ilium nostrum volantem vel (ut tu malis) quendam Piscem errabundum, a me salvum et pulcherrimum esse jubeas. Valeant uxor tua cum Ilartleiio nostro. Soror mea salva est et ego : vos et ipsa salvere jubet. Ulterius progrediri non liquet: homo sum aeratus. "P. S. Pene mihi exciderat, apud me esse Librorum a Johanno Miltono Latinfe scripto- rum volumina duo, quee (Deo volente) cum caeteris tuis libris ocyi^s citiiis per Maria ad te missura curabo ; sed me in hoc tali genere rerum nullo modo festinantem novisti: habes confitentem reum. Hoc solum dici restat, praedicta volumina pulchra esse et omnia opera Latina J. M. in se continere. Circa defensionem istam Pro Pop°. Ang". acerrimam in prsesens ipse praeclaro gaudio moror. " Jusa tua Stuartina faciam ut diligenter colam. " Iterum iterumque valeas. " Et facias memor sis nostri." The publication of the second volume of the "Anthology" gave occasion to the follow- ing letter : — TO MR. ■COLERIDGE. "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, stut- tering, or any other epithet which truly and properly belongs to the gentleman in question. And for Charles read Tom, or Bob, or Richard for mere delicacy. Hang 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, con- gregated, studied malice. You dog! your 141st 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 unintelli- gible 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 scan- dalous piece of private history about the angel and the Duche$s of Devonshire? If it is a fiction of your own, why truly it is a very modest one for you. Now I do afiBrm, 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 disen- thralled 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. Gaulberto 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 losi the letter which contained it. Now I am on the subject of Anthologies, I must say I am sorry the old pastoral way is fallen into 80 LETTERS TO COLERIDGE. disrepute. The gentry which now indite sonnets are certainly the legitimate descen- dants 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 Mis- cellanies. But miscellanies decaying, and the old pastoral way dying of mere want, their successors (driven from their paternal acres) now-a-days settle and live upon Magazines and Anthologies. This race of men are uncommonly addicted to superstition. Some of them ai-e idolators 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, Pallor, &c. 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 0, 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 for 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. C. L." The following fragment of a letter about this time to Coleridge refers to an offer of Coleridge to supply Lamb with literal trans- . lations from the German, which he might versify for the " Morning Post," for the increase of Lamb's slender income. TO MR. COLERIDGE. " Oct. nth, 1802. "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. [The letter refers to several articles and books which Lamb promised to send to Coleridge, and proceeds : — " You must write me word whether the Miltons are worth paying carriage for. Y'^ou 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 sot set up for a factor or general agent. As for fantastic debts of 15Z., I'll think you were dreaming, and not trouble myself seriously to attend to you. My bad Latin you properly correct ; but naiales 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 LETTERS TO COLERIDGE. 81 •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 lie 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 Pipos and his friends. " C. Lamb." The following letter embodies in strong language Lamb's disgust at the rational mode of educating children. While he gave utterance to a deep and hearted feeling of jealousy for the old delightful books of fancy, which were banished by the sense of Mrs. Barbauld, he cherished great respect for that lady's power as a true English prose writer ; and spoke often of her " Essay on Inconsistent Expectations," as alike bold and original in thought and elegant in style. TO MR. COLERIDGE. " Oct. 23rd, 1802. " 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 popu- Ivm. 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 shop- man 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 a child in the shape oi 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 him- self 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 childtiood, 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 50Z, 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 ybmgrra states? Cromwell's inter- ference for the Albigenses, B.'s against the Swiss. Then religion would come in ; and Milton and you could rant about our coun- trymen 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 * A nickname of endearment for little Hartley Coleridge. 82 LETTERS TO COLERIDGE. 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 hees 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. " What endless egression qfpTiro,ses 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, pour'd his heroic wreak On other squadrons of the foe, whileaiyet 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 Ilithise, that rule the painful frame Of human childbirth, pour on hiT ; the llithse 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 he, 'tis love's fruit, the end for ivhich she lives ; The mean to make herself new bom, what comforts will redound : So,' &c. " I will tell you more about Chapman and his peculiarities in my next. I am much interested in him. " Your ever affectionately, and Pi-Pos's, " C. L." TO MR. COLERIDGE. " Nov. 4th, 1802. " Observe, there comes to you, by the Kendal waggon to-morrow, the illustrious 5t.h 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 3s. 6d. ; 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 Laiina 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, ?'. e. of fhis 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 hand ultima Dei cura ca3ci — [we blind folks, I understand it ; noi nos forego) — sumus ; qui nos, quominus quicquam aliud prseter ipsum cernere valemus, eo clementius atque benig- nius respicere dignatur. V^e qui illudit nos,. v9e qui leedit, execratione publica devovendo; nos ab injuriis hominum non modo incolumes, sed pene sacros divina lex reddidit, divinus favor : nee tam ondorum bebetudine quam eadestium alarum vmbrd has nobis fecisse tenebras videtur, factas illustrare rursus interiore ac longe prgestabiliore lumine hand raro solet. Hue refero, quod et amici officio- LETTERS TO MANNTNG. sius nunc etiam quam solebant, colunt, observant, adsunt ; quod et nonnulli sunt, quibuscum Pyladeas atque Theseas alternare voces verorum amicorum liceat, " Vade p;ubernaculum mei pedis. Da maiium ministro amico. Da collo inanum tuam, ductor autem TiJB 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." The year 1803 passed without any event to disturb the dull current of Lamb's toilsome life. He wi'ote nothing this year, except some newspaper squibs, and the delightful little poem on the death of Hester Savory. This he sent to Manning at Paris, with the following account of its subject: — " 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 Abb6 de Lisle, you may get 'em translated : he has done as much for the Georgics." The verses must have been written in the very happiest of Lamb's serious mood. I cannot refrain from the luxury of quoting the conclusion, though many readers, have it by heart. " 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 ?" The following letters were written to Manning, at Paris, while still haunted with the idea of oriental adventure. TO MR. MANNING. " Feb. 19th, 1803. " 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 bi'anch 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 favourable specimen of his countrymen I 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, unconver- sable, 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 Cam- buscan, and the ring, and the horse of brass. Believe me, there is no such things, 'tis all the poet's invention; but if there were such darling things as old Chaucer sings, I would xifp 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 coun- sel is Horace's, 'twas none of my thought 84 LETTERS TO MANNING. 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 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 0. 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." to mr. manning. " Not a sentence, not a syllable of Trisme- gistus, shall be lost through my neglect. I am his word-banker, his store-keeper 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 * Captain, afterwards Admiral Burney, who became one of the most constant attendants on Lamb's parties, and whose son, Martin, grew up in his strongest regard, and received the honour of the dedication of the second volume of his works. memory, when you come back. You cannot write things so trifling, let them only be about Paris, which I shall not treasure. lu 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 cheer- fulness 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 ?i. few that look like rational of both sexes f 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 recol- lection, 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 i(Jea 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 dare LETTERS TO MANNING. 85 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, iempus abire est; I must cut closer, that's all. Mister Fell, or as you, with your usual facetiousness and drollery, call him Mr. F + H has stopped short in the middle of his play. Some Jt'iend has told him that it has not the least merit in it. ! that I had the rectifying of the Litany ! I would put in a libera nos {Scrip- tores videlicet) ab amicis ! That's all the news. Apropos (is it pedantry, writing to a Frenchman, to express myself sometimes by a French word, when an English one would riot do as well? methinks, my thoughts fall naturally into it)— C. L." TO MR. MANNING. " 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 mastifi"), lighted upon 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. I envy you your access to this great man, much more than your stances and conver- saziones, 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 (Jomedy, may possibly be more brisk and degage 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 loth to be so shaken ? This is John Bull's criterion, and it shall be mine. You are Frenchified. Both your taste and morals are corrupt and per- verted. 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 ortho- doxy. 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 re- member 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 reflec- tive glimmer across the channel. 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 a:!iv_e. 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 rfone, 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 long letters, and stuff 'em with amusement to the end. Too lonor 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 froni merry old England, on the day of her ' valiant patron St. George. " C. Lamb." 86 LETTERS TO MANNING. CHAPTER VIII. . [180i to 1806,] LETTERS TO MANNING. ■WORDSWORTH, HICKMAN, AND HAZIiTT. — "MR. H." WRITTEN, — ACCEPTED, — DAMNED. There is no vestige of Lamb's correspond- ence in the year 1804, nor does he seem to have written for the press. This year, how- ever, added to his list of friends — one in vrhose conversation he took great delight, until death severed them — William Hazlitt. This remarkable metaphysician and critic had then just completed his first work, the "Essay on the Principles of Human Action," but had not entirely given up his hope of excelling as a painter; After a pro- fessional tour through part of England, during which he satisfied his sitters better than himself, he remained some time at the house of his brother, then practising as a portrait painter with considerable success ; and while endeavouring to procure a pub- lisher for his work, painted a portrait of Lamb, of which an engraving is prefixed to the present volume.* It is one of the last of Hazlitt's efi'orts in an art which he after- wards illustrated with the most exquisite criticism which the knowledge and love of it could inspire. Among the vestiges of the early part of 1805, are the four following letters to Manning. If the hero of the next letter. Mr. Richard Hopkins, is living, I trust he will not repine at being ranked with those who " Do good by stealth, and blush to find it fame." TO MR. MANNING. " 16, Mitre-court Buildinsrs, " Saturday, 24th Feb. 1805. " Dear Manning, — I have been very unwell since I saw you. A sad depression of spirits, a most unaccountable nei'vousness ; 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 con- trived, with the greatest delicacy imaginable, to send me a present of Cambridge brawn. * Edition, 1837. 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 acci- dentally fallen into the straw, detected him in a moment. Dick, you know, was always remarkable for flourishing. His card im- ports, 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, 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, leveret's ears, and such pretty filchings common to cooks ; but these had been ordinary presents, the every-day courtesies of dish-washers to their sweethearts. Brawn was a noble thought. It is not every common gullet-fancier that can properly esteem of 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 tongue and feelers to find it out. It will be wooed, and not unsought be won. Now, ham-essence, lobsters, turtle, such popular minions, abso- lutely 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 imme- diately 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 LETTERS TO MANNING. 87 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 chesnuts, or a puff, or two pound of hair: just to remember him by. Gifts are like nails. Prgesens ut abscens ; that is, your present makes amends for your absence. " Yours, C. Lamb." TO MR. MANNING. " Dear Archimedes, — Things have gbue 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 sha'nt be cheated of my tea and liquors. Wind in the west, which promotes tran- quillity. 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. rind I can rhyme and reason too. Think of studying mathematics, to restrain the fire of tny 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 peas 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. ** Saturda}', » Hot Noon." TO MR. MANNING. " Dear Manning, — I sent to Brown's im- mediately. 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 nest 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 us her children, there happens to be another Mr. Lamb (that there should be two! !) in Mitre Court. " Farewell, and think upon it. C. L." TO MR. MANNING. " 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 extra- ordinary 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. C. L." LETTERS TO MISS WORDSWORTH. During the last five years, tobacco had been at once Lamb's solace and his bane. In the hope of resisting the temptation of late conviviality to which it ministered, he formed a resolution, the virtue of which can be but dimly guessed, to abandon its use, and em- bodied the floating fancies which had attended on his long wavering in one of the richest of his poems — " The Farewell to Tobacco." After many struggles he divorced himself from hi-s genial enemy : and though he after- wards renewed acquaintance with milder dalliance, he ultimately abandoned it, and was guiltless of a pipe in his later years. The following letter, addressed while his sister was laid up with severe and protracted illness, will show his feelings at this time. Its affecting self-upbraidings refer to no greater failings than the social indulgences against which he was manfully struggling. TO MISS WOKDSWORTH. " 14th June, 1805. " 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 mj' 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 per- plexity. 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 me, and all my wretched imper- fections I cover to myself by resolutely thinking on her goodness. She would share life and death, heaven and hell, with me. She lives but for 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 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 TINCI. ' Maternal Lady with thy virgin-grace. Heaven-born, thy Jesus seemeth sure, And thou a virgin pure. Lady most perfect, when thy angel face Bfen 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 he? Thou pretty art and fair. But with the Lady Blanch thou never must comparer 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 uiifair, 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 invita- tion. 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. 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." LETTER TO MR. AND MISS WORDSWORTH. 89 The " Farewell to Tobacco " was shortly after transmitted to Mr. and Miss Wordsworth with the following: — TO MR. AND MISS WORDSWORTH. " Sept. 28th, 1805. " 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 diflBcult 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 headaches 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 show 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, every- body will have seen it that I wish to see it, I having sent it to Malta. " I remain, dear W. and D., yours truly, '' C.Lamb." The following letter to Hazlitt bears date 18th Nov. 1805 :— TO MR. HAZLITT, " 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 fireside at night, (the winter hands of pork have begun,) gesture and emphasis might have talked into some importance. Some- thing about '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. 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 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 these four years ; and how it got leave to be called Miss, by grace : these, and such like ho-ws, 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. la ! your Leonardos of Oxford made my mouth water. I was hurried through 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 long eye, — that sort of peering curve, — the wicked Italian mischief ; the stick-at-nothing, Herodias' daughter-kind of grace. You un- derstand 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 ia 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 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 Mi's. P 's: 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 * The daughter of a friend, whom Lamb exceedingly liked from a child, and always called hy this epithet. 90 LETTERS TO HAZLITT. clown of Sadler's Wells. This was judicious, taking the spirit of the story rather than the fact: for doubtless God could communi- cate 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 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 pre- tence 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 learnt 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 stayed here, and now I go to find you. What other news is there, Mary? What puns have I made in the last fort- night? You never remember them. You have no relish of the comic. 'Oh! tell Hazlitt not to forget to send the American Farmer. I dare say it is not 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 pos- session to-morrow. We sup at 109, Russell- street, this evening. I wish your friend would not 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 lore me So may you blame some fair and crystal river, For that some melancholic distracted man Hath drown'd himself in It.' *' N. B. I shall expect a line from you, if but a bare line, whenever you write to Russell-street, 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." Lamb introduced Hazlitt to Godwin ; and we find him early in the following year thus writing respecting the offer of Hazlitt's work to Johnson, and his literary pursuits TO MR. HAZLITT. "Jan. 15th, 1806. " Dear Hazlitt, — Godwin went to Johnson's yestei'day 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 some- thing about a ' Life of Fawcett,' to be by you undertaken : the great Fawcett, as she explained to Manning, when he asked, ' What Fawcett?' He innocently thought Faiocett the Player. But Fawcett the divine is known to many people, albeit unknown to the Chinese inquirer. I should think, if you liked it, and Johnson declined it, that Phillips is the man. He is perpetually bringing out ■biographies, Richardson, Wilks, Foot, Lee, Lewis, without number ; little trim things in two easy volumes, price 12s. the two, maide up of letters to and from, scraps, posthumous trifles, anecdotes, and about forty pages of hard biography; you might dish up a Faw-« cettiad in three months and ask 60Z. or 80Z, for it. I dare say that Phillips would catch at it. I wrote 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 news- papers, and impromptus, which could not be got ready before the funeral. "As for news, 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, F — , my other quondam co-friend and drinker, will go to Newgate, LETTERS TO HAZLITT. 9] and his wife and four 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 tire and snug roof over our heads. Nullum numen ahest si sit Prudentia. Alas ! Prudentia is in the last quarter of her tutelary shining over me. A little time and I ; but maybe 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 do not want much. All I ask is time and leisure ; and I am cruelly ofi" 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 winds of a night: and without sleep and rest what should ensue ; Lunacy. But I trust it w^on't. " Yours, dear H., C. Lamb." TO MR. HAZLITT. « Feb. 19th, 1806. " Dear H. — Godwin has just been here in his M'ay from Johnson's. Johnson has had a fire in his house ; this happened about five weeks ago ; it was in the day-time, so it did not burn the house down, but it 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 adver- tised in May, WeUbore 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 announced for some months. Also the Marquis of Lans- downe's pictures in March ; and though infe- rior 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, wife, and daughter, their first visit at oui house. Your brother called last night. We keep up our intimacy. He is going to begin a large Madonna and child from Mrs. H. and baby. I fear he goes astray after ignes fatui. He is a clever man. By-the-by I saw a miniature of his as far excelling any in his show cupboard (that of your sister not excepted) as that show cupboard excels the show things you see in windows — an old woman — hang her name — but most superla- tive ; he has it to clean — I'll ask him the name — but the best miniature I ever saw. But for oil pictures ! — what has he to do with Madonnas ? — if the Virgin Mary were alive and visitable, he would not hazard himself in a Covent-Garden-pit-door-crowd to see her. It an'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 not gone to China, but talks of going this spring. God forbid. Coleridge not heard of. I am going to leave ofi" smoke. In the meantime I am so smoky with last night's ten 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 three shil- lings a-week, to be in between five and eight at night, to avoid my nocturnal alias knock- eternal visitors. The first-fruits of my retire- ment has been a farce which goes to manager to-morrow. Wish my ticket luck. God bless you and do write. — Yours, fumossissimus. " C. Lamb." The farce referred to in the foregoing letter is the delightful yet^-d'espnY, " Mx-. H.," destined to only one night's stage existence, but to become " good jest for ever." It must be confessed that it has not substance enough for a dramatic piece in two acts — a piece which must present a show of real interest — involve its pair of young lovers in actual perplexities — and te-rminate 'in the serious- ness of marriage ! It would be rare sport in Milton's "Limbo of Vanity," but is too 92 LETTER TO WORDSWOETH. airy for the ponderous sentimentalism of the modern school of farce. As Swift, in " Gulliver," brings everything to the standard of size, so in this farce everything is reduced to an alphabetical standard. Humour- is sent to school to learn its letters ; or, rather, letters are made instinct with the most delicate humour. It is the apotheosis of the alphabet, and teaches the value of a good name without the least hint of moral purpose. This mere pleasantry — this refining on sounds and letters — this verbal banter, and watery collision of the pale reflexions of words, could not succeed on a stage which had begun to require interest, moral or immoral, to be interwoven with the web of all its actions ; which no longer rejoiced in the riot of animal spirits and careless gaiety ; which no longer permitted wit to take the sting from evil, as well as the load from care ; but infected even its prince of rakes, Charles Surface, with a cant of sentiment which makes us turn for relief to the more honest hypocrite his brother. Mr. H. "'could never do;" but its composition was pleasant, and its acceptance gave Lamb some of the hap- piest moments he ever spent. Thus he announces it to Wordsworth, in reply to a letter communicating to him that the poet was a father. TO MR. WORDSWORTH. " Dear "Wordsworth, — We 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 honour; 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 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] ' 66, Gower Street, ' Wednesday, June 11, 1806.' "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 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 ai-e the best judges of pieces, and it would be insen- sible in me to affect a false modesty after the very flattering letter which I have received. i ADMIT TO BOXES. Mr. H. Ninth Night. Charles Lajib. " 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. " BOXJES, now I think on it, I'll have in LETTERS TO RICKMAN, 93 capitals. The rest, in a neat Italian hand. Or better, perhaps 3lJo):es, 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 a-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 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 happened to mention Epithalamiums, and that I could show him a very fine one of Spenser's. At the mention of this, my gentle- man, 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 ejacula- tion, 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?' ' AVhy, Spencer !' said he ; ' I've read the " Monody " he wrote on the occasion, and a very pretty thing it is.' This led to an ex- planation (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. 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 published with Lady Di. Bea'uclerk'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 o? Edm. Spenser, (to prevent mistakes,) I have copied from my own copy, and primarily from a book of Chalmers' on Shakspeare, a sonnet of Spen- ser'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." The interval between the completion of the farce, " and its first acting," though full of bright hopes of dramatic success, was not all a phantom. The following two letters to Mr. Rickman, now one of the Clerks of the House of Commons, show Lamb's unwearied kindness. TO MR. RICKMAN'. "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 F. 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 njan 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 Ms 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 Jiand, 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 con- versed with the philosophers. But from these follies I believe he is thoroughly awakened, and would bind himself by a ter- rible oath never to imagine liimself an extra- ordinary genius again. "Yours, &c. C. Lamb." TO MR. RICKMAN. " March, 1806. " Dear Rickman, — I send you some papers about a salt-water soap, for which the inventor is desirous of getting a parlia- mentary 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 pro- jectors is by patents and contracts. The patent, you see, he has got. A contract he 94 LETTERS TO MANNING. 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 ancl 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 wJien 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 tole- rably 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." Before the production of " Mr. H.," Lamb was obliged, in sad earnest, to part from Manning, who, after talking and thinking about China for years, took the heroic reso- lution of going thither, not to acquire wealth or fame, but to realise the phantom of his restless thought. Happy was he to have a friend, like Mr. Burney, to indulge and to soften his grief, which he thus expresses in his first letter to his friend. TO MR. MANNING. " May 10th, 1806. " 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 r. 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 mantel-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 book- seller 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,' 'Much Ado,' ' Two Gentlemen of Verona,' and Cymbe- line;' 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 prsestat ! but then, perhaps, you'll get mur- dered, 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 LETTERS TO MANNING. 95 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 for ever. Four years, you talk of, may be 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 dare say 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. Mar- riage, 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 express- ing 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 remem- brance of your steadiness and quiet, which used to infuse something like itself into our nervous minds. Mary called you our venti- lator. Farewell, and take her best wishes and mine. " Good-bye, C. L." Christmas approached, and Lamb then conveyed to Manning, now at the antipodes, news of poor Holcroft's failure in his play of "The Vindictive Man," and his own approach- ing trial. • TO MR. MANNING. " December 5th, 1806. "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 con- science to send you none but bran-new news (the latest edition), which will but grow the better, like oranges, for a sea voyage. Ob 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 fort- night since. It died in part of its own weak- ness, 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 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 woman of the town 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 \ 96 LETTERS TO MANNING. m 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 playbill exprest as much, not reckoning one woman — 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 draw- ing-room, and all those Vandykes, &c. God ehould temper the wind to the shorn connois- seur. 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 EUiston, 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, attending 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- drame 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. 11. — 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, ' Ilogsflesh,' 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 ascer- tained 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 fore- stalled. Do you find in all this stuff I have written anything like those feelings which LETTERS TO MANNING. 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 thread- bare 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 . " 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 200.Z. from the theatre if ' Mr. H.' has a good run, and I hope 1001. 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. 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, &c. "Come back one day. C. Lamb." 7 Wednesday, 10th December, 1806, was the wished-for evening which decided the fate of " Mr. H." on the boards of Drury. Great curiosity was excited by the announcement; the house was crowded to the ceiling; and the audience impatiently awaited the con- clusion of the long, dull, intolerable opera of "The Travellers," by which it was preceded. At length, Mr. Elliston, the hero of the farce, entered, gaily dressed, and in happiest spirits, — enough, but not too much, elated, — and delivered the prologue with great vivacity and success. The farce began ; at first it was much applauded ; but the wit seemed wire- drawn ; and when the curtain fell on the first act, the friends of the author began to fear. The second act dragged heavily on, as second acts of farces will do ; a rout at Bath, peopled with ill-dressed and over-dressed actors and actresses, increased the disposition to yawn ; and when the moment of disclosure came, and nothing worse than the name liogsflesh was heard, the audience resented the long play on their curiosity, and would hear no more. Lamb, with his sister, sat, as he anticipated, in the front of the pit, and having joined in encoring the epilogue, the brilliancy of which injured the farce, he gave way with equal pliancy to the common feeling, and hissed and hooted as loudly as any of his neighbours. The next morning's play-bill contained a veracious announcement, that " tlie new farce ofM.K. 11., performed for the first time last night, was received hy an overflowing audience with universal applause, and will he repeated for the second time to- morrow ;" but the stage lamps never that morrow saw! Elliston would have tried it again : but Lamb saw at once that the case was hopeless, and consoled his friends with a century of puns for the wreck of his dramatic hopes. CHAPTER IX. [1S07 to 1814.] LETTERS TO MANNING, MONTAGUE, WOUDSWORTH, AND COLERIDGE. From this period, the letters of Lamb, which have been preserved are comparatively few, with reference to the years through which they are scattered. He began to write in 98 LETTERS TO MANNING. earnest for the press, and the time thus occupied was withdrawn from his correspon- dents, while his thoughts and feelings were developed by a different excitement, and expressed in other forms. In the year 1807 the series of stories founded on the plays of Shakspeare, referred to in his last letter to Manning, was published ; in which the outlines of his plots are happily brought within the apprehension of children, and his language preserved wherever it was possible to retain it; a fit counterpoise to those works addressed to the young understanding, to which Lamb still cherished the strong distaste which bi^oke out ,in one of his previous letters. Of these tales, King Lear, Macbeth, Timon of Athens, Romeo and Juliet, Hamlet, and Othello, are by Charles, and the others by Mary Lamb ; hers being, as Lamb always insisted, the most felicitous, but all well adapted to infuse some sense of the nobleness of the poet's thoughts in the hearts of their little readers. Of two other works preparing for the press, he thus speaks in a letter which bears date 26th February, 1808, addressed, to Manning at Canton, in reply to a letter received thence, in which Manning informed Lamb, that he had consigned a parcel of silk to a Mr. Knox for him. TO MR. MANNING. " 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 mer- cenariness, as the silk, the symbolmn materiale of your friendship, has not yet appeared. I think Horace says somewhere, nox longa. I would not impute negligence or unhand- some delays to a person whona 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 articles on shore, fur it is among the res proliibiice et non nisi smuggle-ationes via fruendce. But so it is, in the friendships between micked men, the very expressions of their good-will cannot but be sinful. I suppose you know my farce was damned. The noise still rings in my ears. Was you ever in the pUIvU'y ?-^being damned is something like that. A treaty of marriage in on foot between William Hazlitt and Miss Stoddart. Something about settlements only retards it. 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 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 ' Shakspeare Tales' suggested the doing it. Godwin is in both those cases my book- seller. The other is done for Longman, and is ' Specimens of English Dramatic Poets contemporary with Shakspeare.' 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. Longman is to print it, and be at all the expense and risk, and I am to share the profits after all deductions, ?'. 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 qf 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 ofi" 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. Hang '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 LETTERS TO MANNING. 89 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 vrith, 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 laboui's of their fellow-creatures who are desirous to please them 1 Heaven be pleased to make the teeth rot out of them all, there- fore ! 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 follow Tom the Piper. I was insensible to music till he gave me a new sense. Oh 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 dervises, 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', 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 ! I made a pun the other day, and palmed it upon Ilolcroft, 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 jvere the best dramatic writers of the day, 'Hook and I.' Mr. Hook is author of several pieces, Tekeli, &c. You know what Jioohs and eyes are, don't you ? 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. White is at Christ's Hospital, a wit of the first magni- tude, 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 French- man was properly answered. I should just serve any member of the French Institute in the same manner, that wished to be intro- duced to me. "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 similar 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 Con-lege, a place where people read together. Wordsworth, the great poet, is coming to town ; he is to have apartments in the Mansion-House. 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." The two books referred to in this letter were shortly after published. " The Adven, tures of Ulysses" had some tinge of the quaintness of Chapman ; it gives the plot of the earliest and one of the most charming of romances, without spoiling its interest. The " Specimens of English Dramatic Poets who lived about the time of Shakspeare," were received with more favour than Lamb's previous works, though it was only by slow and imperceptible degrees that they won their way to the apprehensions of the most influential minds, and wrought out the genial purpose of the editor in renewing a taste for the great contemporaries of Shakspeare. 100 LETTERS TO MANNING. " The Monthly Review" vouchsafed a notice* in its large print, upon the v^hole favourable, according to the existing fashion of criticism, but still " craftily qualified." It will scarcely be credited,' without reference to the article itself, that on the notes the critic pronounces this judgment : " The notes before us indeed have nothing very remarkable, except the style, which is formally abrupt and elabo- rately quaint. Some of the most studied attempts to display excessive feeling we had noted for animadversion, but the task is unnecessary," &c. It is easy to conceive of readers strongly dissenting from some of the passionate eulo- gies of these notes, and even taking offence at the boldness of the allusions ; but that any one should read these essences of criticism, suggesting the profoundest thoughts, and replete throughout with fine imagery, and find in them " nothing remarkable," is a mystery which puzzles us. But when the same critic speaks of the heroine of the "Broken Heart" as "the light-heeled Ca- lantha," it is easy to appreciate his fitness for sitting in judgment on the old English drama and the congenial expositor of its grandeurs ! In this year Miss Lamb published her charming work, entitled " Mrs. Leicester's School," to which Lamb contributed three of the tales. The best, however, are his sister's, as he delighted to insist ; and no tales more happily adapted to nurture all sweet and child-like feelings in children were ever written. Another joint-publication, " Poetry for Children," followed, which also is worthy of its title. Early in 1809, Lamb removed from Mitre- court Buildings to Southampton Buildings, but only for a few months, and preparatory to a settlement (which he meant to be final) in the Temple. The next letter to Manning, (still in China,) of 28th March, 1809, is from Southampton Buildings. TO MR. MANNING. " 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 is dead. So there is one of your friends whom you will never see * April, 1809. 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, 14th June, &c. But I hope not. I should be sorry to give occasion to open a corres- pondence 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 34, Southampton Buildings, Chancei'y-lane, and shall be here till about the end of May, then we remove to No. 4, 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 hot indulged with non-residence. What a dis- location 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. 4, 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 news- papers, you will read about Mrs. Clarke. The sensation in London about this nonsensical S business is marvellous. I remember nothing in my life like it. Thousands of ballads, caricatures, lives of Mrs. Clarke, in every LETTERS TO MANNING. 101 blind alley. Yet in the midst of this stir, a sublime abstracted dancing-master, who attends a family we know at Kensington, being asked a question about the progress of the examinations 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 pro- spectus, 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 me. 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 ! How do you like the Mandarlnesses? Are you on some little footing with any of them ? This is Wednesday. On Wednesdays is my levee. The Captain, Martin, Phillips, (not the Sherifi",) 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." His next is after his removal to the Temple: — TO MR. MANNING. "Jan. 2nd, 1810. " Dear Manning, — When I last wrote you I was in lodgings. I am now in chambers. No. 4, 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 eo 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 mode 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 letter^, 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. TuthlU 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, 1, Mr. C. Lamb ; 2, C. Lamb, Esq.; 3, Sir C. Lamb, Bart.; 4, Baron Lamb of Stamford ; * 5, Viscount Lamb ; 6, Earl Lamb ; 7, Marquis Lamb ; 8, 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 9th, King Lamb; 10th, Emperor Lamb; 11th, 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, * " Where my family came from. 1 have chosen that, if ever I shouM have my choice." 102 LETTER TO MONTAGUE. that they must be very sharp set. But in geneval 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, 28th No- vember ; but he did not come, which makes me think the old fire-worshippers are a sect almost extinct in Persia. The Persian ambassador's nama 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 gen- tleman 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 sung 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 gentle- man and the angel, yet all these elements mixed up so kindly in him, that you could not tell which preponderated ; but he is gone, and one Phillips is engaged instead. Kate is vanished, but Miss B is always to be met with ! ' Queen drop away, while blue-legged Maukm 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 a,a private. Hazlitt has written a grammar for Godwin ; Godwin sells it bound up with a treatise of his own on language, but the grey Tnare is the better horse. I. don't alluds to Mrs. ■ , but to the word grammar, which comes near to grey mare, if you observe, in sound. That figure is called paranomasla in Greek. I am sometimes happy in it. An old woman begged of me for chai'ity. ' Ah ! sir,' said she, ' I have seen better days ;' ' So have I, good woman,' I replied : but I meant lite- rally, days not so rainy aud overcast as that on which she begged : she meant more prosperous days. Mr. Dawe is made asso- ciate of the Royal Academy. Bv what lav of association I can't guess. Mrs. Holcroft, Miss Hqlcroft, Mr. and Mrs, Godwin, Mr, and Mrs, Hazlitt, Mrs. Martin and Louisa, Mrs. Lum. Capt. Burney, Mrs. Burney, Martin Burney, Mr. Rickman, Mrs. Rickraan, Dr. Stoddart, William Dollin, Mr. Thomps^in, 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. " I remain yours ever, " Ch. Lamb." In the summer of 1810, Lamb and his sister spent their holidays with Hazlitt, who, having married Miss Stoddart, was living in a house belonging to his wife's family at Winterslow, on the border of Salisbury Plain. The following letter of 12th July, in this year, was addressed to Mr. Montague, who had urged him to employ a part of his leisure in a compilation. ESTABLISHMENT OF THE "REFLECTOR.' 103 TO MR. MONTAGUE. " Sarum, July 12th, 1810. "Dear Montague, — I have turned and twisted the MSS. in my head, and can make nothirig 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 anybody 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 road 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 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 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 propose 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. 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 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." The following is Lamb's postscript to a letter of Miss Lamb to Miss Wordsworth, after their return to London : "Mary has left a little space for me t< fill up with nonsense, as the geographers used to cram monsters in the voids of tho 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 ? Hang temperance and he that first invented it! — some Anti- Noahite. C has povi^dered 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." In the autumn of this year, the establish- ment of a Quarterly Magazine, entitled the "Reflector," opened a new sphere for Lamb's powers as a humourist and critic. Its editor, Mr. Leigh Hunt, having been educated in the same school, enjoyed many associations and friendships in common with him, and was thus able to excite in Lamb the greatest motive for exertion in the zeal of kindness. In this Magazine appeared some of Lamb's noblest efi"usions ; his essay "On Garrick and Acting," which contains the character of Lear, perhaps the noblest criticism ever written, and on the noblest human subject; his delightful " Essays on Hogarth ;" his " Farewell to Tobacco," and several of the choicest of his gayer pieces. The number of the Quarterly Review, for December, 1811, contained- an attack upon Lamb, which it would be difficult, as well as painful to characterise as it deserves. Mr. Weber, in his edition of " Ford," had extracted Lamb's note on the catastrophe of " The Broken Heart," in which Lamb, 104 TRIUMPH OF THE WHALE. speaking of that which he regarded as the highest exhibitien of tragic suffering which human genius had depicted, dared an allusion which was perhaps too bold for those who did not understand the peculiar feeling by which it was suggested, but which no unpre- judiced mind could mistake for the breathing of other than a pious spirit. In reviewing Mr. Weber, the critic, who was also the editor of the Review, thus complains of the quotation. — " We have a more serious charge to bring against the editor than the omission of points, or the misapprehension of words. He has polluted his pages with the blas- phemies of a poor maniac, who, it seems, once published some detached scenes of the ' Broken Heart.' For this unfortunate creature, every feeling mind will find an apology in his calamitous situation ; but for Mr. Weber, we know not where the warmest 3f his friends will find palliation or excuse." It would be unjust to attribute this paragraph to the accidental association of Lamb in literary undertakings with persons like Mr. Hunt, strongly opposed to the political opinions of Mr. Gifford. It seems rather the peculiar expression of the distaste of a small though acute mind for an original power which it could not appreciate, and which disturbed the conventional associations of which it vi'as master, aggravated by bodily weakness and disease. Notwithstanding this attack. Lamb was prompted by his admiration for Wordsworth's " Excursion" to contribute a review of that work, on its appearance, to the Quarterly, and he anticipated gi-eat pleasure in the poet's approval of his criti- cism ; but when_ the review appeared, the article was so mercilessly mangled by the editor that Lamb entreated Wordsworth not to read it. For these grievances Lamb at length took a very gentle revenge in the following SONNET. SAINT 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. AJl 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 teasing muses, which are still denying ; Making a stretching leather of your brain. St. Ci-ispin's Eve. Lamb, as we have seen, cared nothing for politics ; yet his desire to serve his friends sometimes induced him to adopt for a short time their view of public affairs, and assist them with a harmless pleasantry. The following epigram, on the disappointment of the Whig associates of the Regent, appeared in the " Examiner." Ye politicians, tell me, pray, W'hy thus with woe and care rent? This is the worst that you can say, Some wind has blown the Wig away And left the Hair Apparent. The following, also published in the same paper, would probably have only caused a smile if read by the Regent himself, and may now be republished without offence to any one. At the time when he wrote it, Lamb used to stop any passionate attacks upon the prince, with the smiling remark, " I love my Regent." THE TRIUMPH OF THE WHALE. lo ! Pfean ! lo ! sing, To the finny people's king. Not a mightier whale than this In the vast Atlantic is, Not a fatter fish than he Flounders round the Polar sea. See his blubber — at his gills What a world of drink he swills 1 From his trunk, as from a spout. Which next moment he pours out. Such his person. — Next declare, .s Muse, who his companions are : — Every fish of generous kind Scuds aside, or slinks behind; But about his presence keep All the monsters of the deep ; Mermaids, with their tails and singing His delightful fancy stinging ; Crooked dolphins, they surround him; Dog-like seals, they fawn. around him; Following hard, the progress mark Of the intolerant salt sea shark ; For his solace and relief. Flat-fish are his courtiers chief; Last, and lowest in his train, Ink-fish (libellers of the main) Their black liquor shed in spite: (Such on earth the things that write) In his stomach, some do say, No good thing can ever stay: Had it been the fortune of it To have swallow'd that old prophet. Three days there he'd not have dwell'd. But in one have been expell'd. Hapless mariners are they Who beguiled (as seamen say) Deeming him some rock or island, Footing sure, safe spot, and dry land. LETTER TO WORDSWORTH. 105 Anchor in his scaly rind — . Soon the difference they find ; Sudden, plumb! he sinks beneath them, Does to ruthless seas bequeath them. Name or title what has he? Is he Regent of the Sea ? From this difficulty free us, Buffon, Banks, or sage Linnteus. With his wondrous attributes Say wliat appellation suits? By his bulk, and by his size, By his oily qualities. This (or else my eyesight fails), This should be the Prince of W/iales. The devastation of the Parks in the summer of 1814, by reason of the rejoicings on the visit of the Allied Sovereigns, produced the following letter from Lamb to Wordsworth. TO MR. WORDSWORTH. • " Aug. 9th, 1814. " 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 countryfied 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 cii'cuit — the stench of liquors, had tobacco, dirty people and provisions, conquers the air, and we are all stifled and suflTocated 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 for ever. The whole beauty of the place is gone — that lake-look of the Sei'pentine — 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 1' 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 ban- ditti, 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 ™y lyi"g 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 . " Again let me thank you for your present, and assure you that fire-works 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 following are fragments of letters to Coleridge in the same month. The first is in answer'to a solicitation of Coleridge for a supply of German books. TO MR. COLERIDGE. « 13th Aug. 1814. "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. towards your wants, and you would have had it sooner but for an odd accident. I wrote for it three days ago, and 10-' LETTERS TO COLERIDGE. the Doctor, 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 Doctor laudably fills up those hours which he can steal from his medical avoca- tions. Chesterfield, Blair, Seattle, 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 men- tioned. The Doctor had no sooner discovered his error, than he dispatched 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 profes- sional austerity thus relaxing, thus im- proving ! 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 Kobinson is out upon his circuit, and his books are inaccessible without his leave and key. He Is attending the Norfolk 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 L 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? Per- haps 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. 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 * A mistake of Lamb's at which the excellent person referred to may smile, now that he has retired from his profession, and has no business but the offices of kindness. 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. Fur that life of the German con- juror which you speak of, ' Colerns de YitS, Doctoris vix-Intelligibilis,' I perfectly re- member 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 B. 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 housed 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. " I am going to eat turbot, turtle, venison, marrow pudding, — cold punch, claret, Ma- deira, — at our annual feast, at half-past four this day. 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 Architectonican 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." ,■ TO MR. COLERIDGE. " 26th August, 1814. "Let the hungry soul rejoice, there is corn in Egypt. Whatever thou hast been told to the contrary by designing friends, who per- haps 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' consump- tion ; 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 ofi" 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 'Re- morse,' 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 LETTERS TO COLERIDGE. 107 them as in old Ezra's shrievalty they did for a Bible, almost without effect till the great- great-grand-nieee (by the mother's side) of Jeremiah or Ezekiel (which was it?) re- membered 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 cus- tody is suj-e to give them, is to be heard of at his kinsmen, Messrs. Jameson and Aders, No, 7, 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 AUemagne, 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 fixntasies! But I will not forget to look for Proclus. It is a kind pf book when one meets with it one shuts the lid faster than one opened it. Yet I have some bastard kind of recollection that some where, some time ago, upon some stall or other, I saw it. It was either that or Plotinus, 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 to 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. 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 lOOOZ. 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 eiiiail it on thy posterity. •' Charles Lamb." CHAPTER X. [1815 to 1817.] LETTERS TO WORDSWORTH, SOUTHET, AND MANNING. It was at the beginning of the year 1815 that I had first the happiness of a personal acquaintance with Mr. Lamb. With his scattered essays and poems I had become familiar a few weeks before, through the instrumentality of Mr. Baron Field, now Chief Justice of Gibraltar, who had been brought into close intimacy with Lamb by the association of his own family with Christ's Hospital, of which his father was the surgeon, and by his own participation in the " Reflector." Living then in chambers in Inner Temple-lane, and attending those of Mr. Chitty, the special pleader, which were on the next staircase to Mr. Lamb's, I had been possessed some time by a desire to become acquainted with the writings of my gifted neighbour, which my friend was able only partially to gratify. " John Woodvil," and the number of the " Reflector" enriched with Lamb's article, he indeed lent me, but he had no copy of "Rosamund Gray," which I was most anxious to read, and which, after earnest search through all the bookstalls within the scope of my walks, I found, ex- hibiting proper marks of due appreciation, in the store of a little circulating library near Holborn. There was something in this little romance so entirely new, yet breathing the air of old acquaintance ; a sense of beauty so delicate and so intense ; and a morality so benignant and so profound, that, as I read it, my curiosity to see its author rose almost to the height of pain. The commencement of the new year brought me that gratification ; I was invited to meet Lamb at dinner, at the house of Mr. William 108 INTRODUCTION TO LAMB. Evans, a gentleman holding an office in the India House, who then lived in Wey- mouth-street, and who was a proprietor of the " Pamphleteer," to which I had con- tributed some idle scribblings. My duties at the office did not allow me to avail myself of this. invitation to dinner, but I went up at ten o'clock, through a deep snow, palpably congealing into ice, and waa amply repaid when I reached the hospitable abode of my friend. There was Lamb, preparing to de- part, but he staid half an hour in kindness to me, and then accompanied- me to our common home — the Temple. Methinks I see him before me now, as he appeared then, and as he continued, with scarcely 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. Hig black hair curled crisply about an ex- panded forehead ; his eyes, softly brown, twinkled with varying expression, though the prevalent feeling was sad ; and the nose slightly curved, and delicately carved at the nostril, with the lower outline of the face regularly oval, completed a head which was finely placed on the shoulders, and gave im- portance, and even dignity, to a diminutive and shadowy stem. Who shall describe his countenance — catch its quivering sweetness — and fix it for ever in words ? There are none, alas ! to answer the vain desire of friendship. Deep thought, striving with humour ; the lines of suffering wreathed into cordial mirth ; and a smile of painful sweet- ness, present an image to the mind it £an as little describe as lose. His personal appear- ance and manner are not unfitly characterised by what he himself says in one of his letters to Manning of Braham — " a compound of the Jew, the gentleman, and the angel." He took my arm, and we walked to the Temple, Lamb stammering out fine remarks as we walked ; and when we reached his staircase, he detained me with an urgency which would not be denied, and we mounted to the top story, where an old petted servant, called Becky, was ready to receive us. We were soon seated beside a cheerful fire ; hot water and its better adjuncts were before us; and Lamb insisted on my sitting with him while he smoked " one pipe" • — for, alas ! for poor human nature — he had resumed his acquaint- ance with his fair " traitress." How often the pipe and the glasses were replenished, I will not undertake to disclose ; but I can never forget the conversation : though the first, it was more solemn, and in higher mood, than any I ever after had with Lamb through the whole of our friendship. How it took such a turn between two strangers, one of them a lad of not quite twenty, I cannot tell ; but so it happened. We dis- coursed then of life and death, and our anti- cipation of a world beyond the grave. Lamb spoke of these awful themes with the simplest piety, but expressed his own fond cleavings to life — to all well-known accustomed things — and a shivering (not shuddering) sense of that which is to come, which he so finely indicated in his " New Year's Eve," years afterwards. It was two o'clock before we parted, when Lamb gave me a hearty invita- tion to renew my visit at pleasure ; but two or three months elapsed before I saw him again. In the meantime, a number of the "Pamphleteer" contained an "Essay on the Chief Living Poets," among whom on the title appeared the name of Lamb, and some page or two were expressly devoted to his praises. It was a poor tissue of .tawdry eulogies — a shallow outpouring of young enthusiasm in fine words, which it mistakes for thoughts ; yet it gave Lamb, who had hitherto received scarcely civil notice from reviewers, great pleasure to find that any one recognised him as having a place among poets. The next time I saw him, he came almost breathless into the office, and pro- posed to give me what I should have chosen as the greatest of all possible honours and delights — an introduction to Wordsworth, who I learned, with a palpitating heart, was actually at the next door. I hurried out with my kind conductor, and a minute after was presented by Lamb to the person whom in all the world I venerated most, with this preface : — " Wordsworth, give me leave to introduce to you my only admirer." The following letter was addressed to Wordsworth, after his return to Westmore- land from this visit : — LETTER TO WORDSWORTH. 109 TO MR. WORDSWORTH. " Aug. 9th, 1815. "Dear Wordsworth, — Mary and I felt quite queer after your taking leave (you W W.) of us in St. Giles's. "We wished we had seen more of you, but felt we had scarce been sufficiently acknowledging 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 pane- gyrist 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 some- thing 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 strait-laced. 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 through 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 anything in return, would be to reflect suspicion of mercenariness upon what I know he meant a free-will offering. Let him overcome me in bounty. In this strife a generous nature loves to be overcome. You wish me some of your leisure. I have a glimmering aspect, a chink-light of liberty before me, which I pray God 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 four 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 three 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. " Did you ever read ' Charon 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' accounts 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, Ca-Caliban,' like the emancipated monster, and go where I like, up this street or down that alley. Adieu, and pray that it may be my luck. " Good bye to you all. C. Lamb," The following letter was inclosed in the same parcel with the last. TO MR. SOUTHEY. « Aug. 9th, 1815. " 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, &c. 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 recol- lections of the fate of the excellent Dodd. I hear Bonaparte has sued his habeas corpus. 110 LETTERS TO SOUTHEY. 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. H., 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 fajicy 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 occa- sions ; I shall cei'tainly 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 invete- rate. 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." The following was addressed to Southey in acknowledgment of his "Roderick," the most Bustained and noble of his poems. TO MR. SOUTHEY. " May 6th, 1815. " 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, fiimiliar 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 1 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 unopencd-before systems and faiths ; 1 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 con- tests ; but your Oriental almighties ai'e 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 con- fess 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 williagly admit of strange beliefs, or out- of-the-way creeds or places. I never read books of travels, at least not farther than Paris, or Rome. I can just endure Moors, because of their connection as foes with Christians ; but Abyssinians, Ethiops, Esqui- maux, Dervises, and all that tribe, I hate. LETTER TO WORDSWORTH. Ill I believe I fear them in some manner. A Mahometan turban on the stage, though enveloping some well known face (Mr. Cook or Mr. Maddux, whom I see another day good Christian and English waiters, inn- keepers, &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 first and second readings, perhaps, are Florinda's palliation of Roderick's crime, confessed to him in his disguise — the retreat of the Balayos 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, Aad 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 break- fast, 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 w-hylear. " 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. Bethani's 'Lay of Marie ?' I think it very delicately pretty as to sentiment, &c." The following is an extract of a letter, addressed shortly afterwards, TO MR. WORDSWORTH. " Since I saw you I have had a treat in the reading way, which comes not every day ; the Latin poems of Vincent Bourne, which were quite new to me. What a heart that man had, all laid out upon town scenes, a proper counterpart to some people's extrava- gances. — 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 over a volume of fine words by , excel- lent 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 Elizabeth poets. From thence I turned to V. Bourne ; what a sweet, unpretending pretty-manner'd matterful 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 ?" The associations of Christmas increased the fervour of Lamb's wishes for Manning's return, which he now really hoped for. On Christmas-day he addressed a letter to him at Canton, and the next day another to meet 112 LETTERS TO MANNING. him half-way home, at St. Helena, &c. There seems the distance of half a globe between these letters. The first, in which Lamb pictures their dearest common friends as in a melancholy future, and makes it present — lying-like dismal truths — yet with a relieving consciousness of a power to dispel the sad enchantments he has woven, has per- haps more of what was peculiar in Lamb's cast of thought, than anything of the same length which he has left us. TO MR. MANNING. " Dec. 25tli, 1815. •' Dear old friend and absentee, — This is Christmas-day 1815 with us ; what it may be with you I don't know, the 12th 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 fire-sides. 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 fiices shine to the tune of unto us a child was born ; faces fragrant with the mince-pies of half a century, that alone oan 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-ohong-fo — and his foolish priesthood ! Come out of Babylon, my friend ! for her time is coniie, 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 j'ou 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 Struld- brug 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 obso- lete, 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 Mac- laurin, new-vamped up with what he bor- rowed 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 1 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 LETTERS TO MANNING. 113 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, metaphysics, and divi- vinity, but few of them in a state of comple- tion. 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 re- proaches 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 Crips, 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 thei*e 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." Here is the next day's reverse of the picture. Tg MR. MANNING, "Dee. 26th, 1815. " 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 trjuth as you come nearer home. A correspondence with the utter- most 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 8 old age, as that lying letter asserted, antici- pating 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 weU and in full and perfect comprehension of what is meant by Manning's coming home again. Mrs. never lets her tongue run riot more than in remembrances of you. Fanny expends her- self in phrases that can only be justified by her romantic nature. Mary reserves a por- tion 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. 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^ 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 fire-side 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 q;ood oysters. Cory is dead that kept the shop opposite St. Dunstan's, but the tougher matferials of the shop survive the perishing frame of its keeper. Oysters con- tinue to flourish there under as good auspices. Poor Cory ! But if you will absent yourself 114 COLERIDGE'S DISCOURSE. twenty years together, you must not expect numerically the same population to congratu- late 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," The years which Lamb passed in his chambers in Inner Temple Lane were, per- haps the happiest in his life. His salary was considerably augmented, his fame as an author was rapidly extending ; he resided near the spot which he best loyed ; and was surrounded by a motley group of attached friends, some of them men of rarest parts, and all strongly attached to him and to his sister. Here the glory of his Wednesday nights shone forth in its greatest lustre. If you did not meet there the favourites of fortune ; authors whose works bore the highest price in Paternoster Row, and who glittered in the circles of fashion ; you might find those who had thought most deeply ; felt most keenly ; and were destined to pro- duce the most lasting' influences on the lite- rature and manners of the age. There Hazlitt, sometimes kindling into fierce pas- sion at any mention of the great reverses of his idol Napoleon, at other times bashfully enunciated the finest criticism on art; or dwelt with genial iteration on a passage in Chaucer ; or, fresh from the theatre, ex- patiated on some new instance of energy in Kean, or reluctantly conceded a greatness to Kemble ; or detected some popular fallacy with the fairest and the subtlest reasoning. There Godwin, as he played his quiet rubber, or benignantly joined in the gossip of the day, sat an object of curiosity and wonder to the stranger, who had been at one time shocked or charmed with his high specula- tion, and at another awe-struck by the force and graphic power of his novels. There Coleridge sometimes, though rarely, took his seat; and then the genial hubbub of voices was still ; critics, philosophers, and poets, were contented to listen ; and toil-worn lavfyers, clerks from the India House, and members of the Stock Exchange, grew ro- mantic while he spoke. Lamb used to say that he was inferior then to what he had been in his youth ; but I can scarcely believe it ; at least there is nothing in his early writing which gives any idea of the richness of his mind so lavishingly poured out at this time in his happiest moods. Although he looked much older than he was, his hair being silvered all over, and his person tending to corpulency, there was about him no trace of bodily sickness or mental decay, but rather an air of voluptuous repose. His benignity of manner placed his auditors entirely at their ease ; and inclined them to listen de- lighted to the sweet low tone in which he began to discourse on some high theme. Whether he had won for his greedy listener only some raw lad, or charmed a circle of beauty, rank, and wit, who hung breathless on his words, he talked with equal eloquence; for his subject, not his audience, inspired him. At first his tones were conversational ; he seemed to dally with the shadows of the subject and with fantastic images which bor- dered it; but gradually the thought grew deeper, and the voice deepened with the thought ; the stream gathering strength, seemed to bear along with it all things which opposed its progress, and blended them with its current : and stretching away among regions tinted with ethereal colours, was lost at airy distance in the horizon of fancy. His hearers were unable to grasp his theories, which were indeed too vast to be exhibited in the longest conversation ; but they per- ceived noble images, generous suggestions, aiFecting pictures of virtue, which enriched their minds, and nurtured their best affec- tions. Coleridge was sometimes induced to recite portions of " Christabel," then en- shrined in manuscript from eyes profane, and gave a bewitching effect to its wizard lines. But more peculiar in its beauty than this, was his recitation of Kubla Khan. As he repeated the passage — A damsel with a dulcimer In Tision once I saw : It was an Abj'ssinian maid, And on hor dulcimer she played, Singiug ol" Mount Aboral EPISTLE TO AYRTON. 115 his voice seemed to mount, and melt into air, as the images grew more visionary, and the suggested associations more remote. He usually met opposition by conceding the point to the objector, and then went on vrith his high argument as if it had never been raised : thus satisfying his antagonist, himself, and all who heard him ; none of whom de- sired to hear his discourse frittered into points, or displaced by the near encounter even of the most brilliant wits. The first time I met him, which was on one of those Wednesday evenings, we quitted the party together between one and two in the morn- ing ; Coleridge took my arm and led me nothing loath, at a very gentle pace, to his lodgings, at the Gloucester Coffee-house, pouring into my ear the whole way an argument by which he sought to reconcile the doctrines of Necessity and Free-will, winding on through a golden maze of ex- quisite illustration ; but finding no end, except with the determination of that (to me) enchanted walk. He was only then on the threshold of the Temple of Truth, into which his genius darted its quivering and uncertain rays, but which he promised shortly to light up with unbroken lustre. "I understood a beauty in the words, but not the words :" " And when the stream of sound, Whioh overflowed the soul, had passed away, A consciousness survived that it had left, Deposited upon the silent shore Of memory, images and gentle thoughts, Which cannot die, and will not he destroyed." Men of " great mark and likelihood " — attended those delightful suppers, where the utmost freedom prevailed — including politi- cians of every grade, from Godwin up to the editor of the " New Times." Hazlitt has alluded con amore to these meetings in his Essay " On the Conversation of Authors," and has reported one of the most remarkable discussions which graced them in his Essay " On Persons one would wish to have seen," published by his son in the two volumes of his remains, which ivith so afi"ectionate a care he has given to the world. In this was a fine touch of Lamb's pious feeling, breaking through his fancies and his humours, which Hazlitt has recorded, but which cannot be duly appreciated, except by those who can recall to memory the suffused eye and quivering lip with which he stammered out a reference to the name which he would not utter. "There is \ only one other person I can ever think of after this," said he. " If Shakspeare was to come into the room, we should all rise to meet him ; but if That Person were to come into it, we should all fall down and kiss the hem of his garment." Among the frequent guests in Inner-Tenrff)le Lane was Mr. Ayrton, the director of the music at the Italian Opera. To him Lamb addressed the following rhymed epistle on 17th May, 1817. TO WILLIAM AYRTON, ESQ. 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 heing at the top of the fashion ; And seldom go to operas But in formcL pauperis I I go to the play In a very economical sort of a way, Bather 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 he 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. 116 LETTER TO FIELD. For who can confute A body that's mute? Or who would fight With a senseless sprite 1 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 — How 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 flery 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. One of Lamb's most intimate friends and warmest admirers, Barron Field, disappeared from the circle on being appointed to a judicial situation in New South Wales. In the following letter to him, Lamb renewed the feeling with which he had addressed Manning at the distance of a hemisphere. TO MR. FIELD. "Aug. 31st, 1S17. "My dear Barron, — The bearer of this letter so far across the seas is Mr. Lawrey, who comes out to you as a mis- sionary, 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 *" From this it may at first appear, that the author meant to ascribe vocal talents to his friend, the Director of the Italian Opera; but it is merely a "line for rhyme." For, though the public were indebted to Mr. A. for many fine foreign singers, we believe that he never claimed to be himself a singer. 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 j much. Well, and how does the land of t 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 inhabit- ants 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 ? Shakspeare'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-hanker- chief 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 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, 31st Aug., 1817, not Wednesday, 2nd Feb., 1818, 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 I LETTER TO MISS WORDSWORTH. 117 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 versa. 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." Lamb's intention of spending the rest of his days in the Middle Temple was not to be realised. The inconveniences of being in chambers began to be felt as he and his sister grew older, and in the autumn of this year they removed to lodgings in Russell -street, Covent Garden, the corner house, delightfully situated between the two great theatres. In November, 1817, Miss Lamb announced the removal to Miss Words- worth in a letter, to which Lamb added the following : — ■ TO MISS WORDSWORTH. « Nov. 21st, 1817. " 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 mould, and if they take us up from it, it will cost no blood and groans, like man-drakes pulled up. We are in the individual spot I like best, in all this great city. The theatres, with all their noises. Oovent Garden, dearer to me than any gardens of Alcinolis, M'here we are morally Bure 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 disversify a female life. " Mary has brought her part of this letter to an orthodox and loving conclusion, which is very well, for I have no room for pansiea and remembrances. What a nice holiday I got on Wednesday by favour of a princess dying 1 C. L." CHAPTER XL [1818 to 1820.] LETTERS TO WORDSWORTH, SOUTHEY, MANNING, AND COLERIDGE. Lamb, now in the immediate neighbour- hood of the theatres, renewed the dramatic associations of his youth, which the failure of one experiment had not chilled. Although he rather loved to dwell on the recollections of the actors who had passed from the stage, than to mingle with the happy crowds who hailed the successive triumphs of Mr. Kean, he formed some new and steady theatrical attachments. His chief favourites of this time were Miss Kelly, Miss Burrell of the Olympic, and Munden. The first, then the sole support of the English Opera, became a frequent guest in Great Russell- street, and charmed the circle there by the heartiness of her manners, the delicacy and gentleness of her remarks, and her unaffected sensibility, as much as she had done on the stage. Miss Burrell, a lady of more limited powers, but with a frank and noble style, was discovered by Lamb on one of the visits which he paid, on the invitation of his old friend Elliston, to the Olympic, where the lady performed the hero of that happy parody of Moncrieff's Giovanni in London. To her Lamb devote! a little article, which he sent to the Exa- miner, in which he thus addresses her : — "But Giovanni, free, fine, frank-spipited, single-hearted creature, turning all the mis- chief into fun as harmless as toys, or children's rnake believe, what praise can we 118 LETTER TO MISS WORDSWORTH. repay to you adequate to the pleasure which you have given us? We had better be silent, for you have no name, and our mention will but be thought fantastical. You have taken out the sting from the evil thing, by vrhat magic we know not, for. there are actresses of greater merit and likelihood than you. With you and your Giovanni our spirits will hold communion, whenever sorrow or suffer- ing shall be our lot. We have seen you triumph over the infernal powers ; and pain and Erebus, and the powers of darkness, are shapes of a dream." Miss Burrell soon married a person named Gold, and disap- peared from the stage. To Munden in prose, and Miss Kelly in verse, Lamb has done ample justice. Lamb's increasing celebrity, and universal kindness, rapidly increased the number of his visitors. He thus complained, in way- ward mood, of them to Mrs. Wordsworth ; — TO MRS. WORDSWORTH. " East-India House; ISth Feb., 1818. "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 lioises, 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 can- not 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 pestei-ed. 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 opera- tions 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 Belles Lettres — the gay science — who come to me as a sort of ren- dezvous, putting questions of criticism, of British Institutions, Lalla Rookhs, &c. — what Coleridge said at thie 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 Aute- Cadmeans born, or have lain sucking out the sense of an Egpytian 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 warm- ing-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. , or M , or Demi-gorgon, or my brother, or somebody, to prevent my eating alone — a process absolutely necessary to my poor wretched digestion. 0, 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. W^ine can mollify stones ; then that wine turns into acidity, acerbity, misan- thropy, 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, LETTER TO MRS. WORDSWORTH. 119 I would say of 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 weSk, 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 monstrosit}' 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, Avhere a set of singers, I take them to be chorus singers of the two theatres (it must be hoih of them), begin their orgies. They are a set of fellows (as I con- ceive) 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 ^ong, 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 cock-crow. 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 worlcl 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-corapanied. Not that I have any animosity against the srood creatures that are so anxious to drive aw'ay the harpy solitude from me. I like 'em, and cards, and a cheerful glass ; but 1 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 favoured with that kind northern visitation. My London faces and noises don't hear me — 1 mean no disrespect, or I should explain myself, that instead of their return 220 times a year, and the return of W. W., &c., vseven times in 104 weeks, some more equal distri- bution might be found. I have scarce room to put in Mary's kind love, and my poor name, C. Lamb." " S. T. C. is lecturing with success. 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 toge- ther 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 sud- denly fail the orator in the middle, as it did me at the dinner given in honour 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 realised. 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 — aqcountants' 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 120 LETTERS TO SOUTHEY AND COLERIDGE. of all our red-letter days, they had done their worst, but I was deceived in the length to which heads of of&cers, 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 thank- ful for liberty." Among Lamb's new acquaintances was Mr. Charles Oilier, a young bookseller of considerable literary talent, which he has since exhibited in the original and beautiful tale of "Inesilla," who proposed to him the publication of his scattered writings in a collected form. Lamb acceded ; and nearly all he had then written in prose and verse, were published this year by Mr. Oilier and his brother, in two small and elegant volumes. Early copies were despatched to Southey and Wordsworth ; the acknowledgements of the former of whom produced a reply, from which the following is an extract : — TO MR. SOUTHEY. " Monday, Oct. 26tli, 1818. " 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. 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." Lamb's interest was strongly excited for Mr. Kenney, on the production of his comedy entitled "J. Word to the Ladies." Lamb had engaged to contribute the prologue ; but the promise pressed hard upon him, and he pro- cured the requisite quantity of verse from a very inferior hand. Kenney, who had married Holcroft's widow, had more than succeeded to him in Lamb's regards. Holcroft had considerable dramatic skill ; great force and earnestness of style, and noble sincerity and uprightness of disposition ; but he was an austere observer of morals and manners ; and even his grotesque characters were hardly and painfully sculptured ; while Kenney, with as fine a perception of the ludicrous and the peculiar, was more airy, more indul- gent, more graceful, and exhibited more frequent glimpses of " the gayest, happiest attitude of things." The comedy met with less success than the reputation of the author and his brilliant experience of the past had rendered probable, and Lamb had to perform the ofiice of comforter, as he had done on the more unlucky event to Godwin. To this play Lamb refers in the following note to Coleridge, who was contemplating a course of lectures on Shakspeare, and who sent Lamb a ticket, with sad forebodings that the course would be his last. TO MR. COLERIDGE. "Dec. 24th, 1818. " 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'a 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 perma- nent pretensions less marketable ; But I trust to hear many a course yet. You excepted Christmas week, by which I understood next iveek ; 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., 3rd January, 1819 — 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 LETTER TO WORDSWORTH. 121 if then will be convenient. Can we secure a coach home ? " Believe me ever yours, " " C. Lamb." 'I have but one holiday, which is Christ- mas-day itself nakedly: no pretty garnish and fringes of St. John's-day, Holy Inno- cents, &c., that used to bestud it all around in the calendar. Improhe labor! I write six hours every day in this candle-light fog- den at Leadenhall." In the next year [1819] Lamb was greatly pleased by the dedication to him of Words- worth's poem of " The Waggoner," which Wordsworth had read to him in MS. thirteen years before. On receipt of the little volume, Lamb acknowledged it as follows: — TO MR. WORDSWORTH. " June 7th, 1819. "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 favourite ; there is a spirit of beautiful tolei-ance in it ; it is as good as it was in 1806 ; and it will be as good in 1829, 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 dedica- tion ; — but I will not enter into personal themes, else, substituting ********* for Ben, and the Honourable United Com- pany of Merchants trading to the East Indies, for the master of the misused team, it might seem, by fio 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. " 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) ; I can conceive him by command of Hiero or Perillus set down to pen an Isthmian or Nemean pane- gyric 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 twy- fount, where one line (the second) is for point and the first for rhyme. I think the alternation would assist, like a mould. I maintain it, you could not have written your stanzas on pre-existence with two inks. Try another ; and Rogers, 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 fervour of enthusiasm into the same subject than you can with your two ; he shall do it stans pede in lino, 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 Ryl- stone ;' the title should be always written at length, as Mary Sabilla N , 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. N , or M. only, dropping the A. ; which makes me think, with some other trifles, that she un- derstands something of human nature. My pen goes galloping on most rhapsodically, glad to have escaped the bondage of two inks. "Manning has 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 Words- worth's poem. I am got into the third 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. " I do not know which I like best, — the prologue (the latter part especially) to P. Bell, or the epilogue to Benjamin. Yes, I tell stories ; I do know I like the last best ; * "N. B. — M., from his peregrinations, is twelve or fourteen years behind in his knowledge of who has or has not written good verse of late." 122 LETTER TO MANNING. and the 'Waggoner' altogether is 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. " If, as you say, the ' Waggoner,' in some sort, came at my call, oh for a potent voice to call forth the ' Recluse' from his profound dormitory, whei'e 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. Crabb 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 choosing to part with my own. Mary's love. How do you all do, -amanuenses both — marital and sororal? C. Lamb," The next letter which remains is addressed to Manning (returned to England, and domi- ciled in Hertfordshire), in the spring of 1819. TO MR. MANNING. " 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, Mackery 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 quan- dary by the strange phenomenon of poor , 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, dozingj dreaming, walk-about, inoffensive chap ; a little too fond of the creature ; who isn't at times ? but had not brains to work off an over-night's surfeit by ten o'clock next morning, and 'unfortu- nately, in he wandered the other morning drunk with last night, and with a super- foetation of drink taken in since he set out * See " Mackery End, in Hertfordshire," — Essays of Mia, p. 100, — for a charming account of a visit to their cousin in the country with Mr. Baroa Field. 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 ofiice had been laughing at him, so strange did his own sounds strike upon his Tionsensorium. But has laughed his last laugh, and awoke the next day to find himself reduced from an abused income of 6001. 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. 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 Wheathamstead 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 Hert- fordshire bumpJdns. 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 LETTER TO MISS WORDSWORTH. 123 A. 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 wel- comer from you, from Paris or Macao. C. Lamb." The following letter, dated 25th November, 1819, is addressed to Miss Wordsworth, on Wordsworth's youngest son visiting Lamb in London. TO MISS ■WORDSTVORTH. "Dear Miss Wordsworth, — You will think me negligent: but I wanted to see more of Willy before I ventured to express a pre- diction. 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 inven- tions, 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 hon 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 ourang 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 figura- tive ; 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 imagina- tive reconciliation ; a something where the two ends of the brute matter (ivory), and their human and rather violent personifica- tion 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 L 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 tho tricktrack board, where the hits are figured, at first he did not perceive that 15 and 7 made 22, but by a little use he could com- bine 8 with 25, and 33 again with 16, 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 occa^ sion ; 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 124 BARRY CORNWALL. LONDON MAGAZINE." 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 Leaden- lialL "Yours, and yours most sincerely, "C. Lamb." CHAPTER XII. [1820 to 1S23.] LETTEES TO -WORDSWORTH;'cOLERIDGE, FIELD, WILSON, AND BARTON. The widening circle of Lamb's literary friends now embraced additional authors and actors, — famous or just bursting into fame. He welcomed in the author of the '^-Dramatic Scenes," who chose to appear in print as Barry Cornwall, a spirit most congenial with his own in its serious moods, — one whose o-enius he had assisted to impel towards its kindred models, the great dramatists of Elizabeth's time, and in whose success he received the first and best reward of the efforts he had made to inspire a taste for these old masters of humanity. Mr.Macready, who had just emancipated himself from the drudgery of representing the villains of tra- o-edy, by his splendid performance of Richard, was introduced to him by his old friend Charles Lloyd, who had visited London for change of scene, under great depression of spirits. Lloyd owed a debt of gratitude to Macready which exemplified the true uses of the acted drama with a force ^hich it would lake many sermons of its stoutest opponents to reason away. A deep gloom had gradually overcast his mind, and threatened wholly to encircle it, when he was induced to look in at Covent-Garden Theatre and witness the performance of i?o& Roij. The, picture which he then beheld of the generous outlaw, — the frank, gallant, noble bearing, — the aii- and movements, as of one " free of mountain solitudes," — the touches of manly pathos and irresistible cordiality, delighted and melted him, won him from his painful introspections, and brought to him the unwonted relief of tears. He went home " a gayer and a wiser man ;" returned again to the theatre, when ever the healing enjoyments could be renewed there ; and sought the acquaintance of the actor who had broken the melancholy spell in which he was enthralled, and had restored the pulses of his nature to their healthful beatings. The year 1820 gave Lamb an interest in Macready beyond that which he had derived from the introduction of Lloyd, arising from the power with which he ani- mated the first production of one of his oldest friends — " Virginius." Knowles had been a friend and disciple of Hazlitt from a boy j and Lamb had liked and esteemed him as a hearty companion ; but he had not guessed at the extraordinary dramatic power which lay ready for kindling in his brain, and still less at the delicacy of tact with which he had unveiled the sources of the most profound affections. Lamb had almost lost his taste for acted tragedy, as the sad realities of life had pressed more nearly on him ; yet he made an exception in favour of the first and happiest part of " Virginius," those paternal scenes, which stand alone in the modern di-ama, and which Macready informed with the fulness of a father's affection. The establishment of the " London Maga- zine," under the auspices of Mr. John Scott, occasioned Lamb's introduction to the public by the name, under colour of which he acquired his most brilliant reputation — "Elia." The adoption of this signature was purely accidental. His first contribution to the magazine was a description of the Old South-Sea House, where Lamb had passed a few month's novitiate as a clerk, thirty years before, and of its inmates who had long passed away; and remembering the name of a gay, light-hearted foreigner, who fluttered there at that time, he subscribed his name to the essay. It was afterwards affixed to sub- sequent contributions ; and Lamb used it until, in his " Last Essays of Elia," he bade it a sad farewell. The perpetual influx of visitors whom he could not repel ; whom indeed he was always glad to welcome, , but whose visits unstrung him, induced him to take lodgings at Dalston, to which he occasionally retired when he wished for repose. The deaths of some who were dear to him cast a melancholy tinge on his mind, as may be seen in the following ? — LETTER TO WORDSWORTH. 125 TO MR. WORDSWORTn. "March 20th, 1822. " My dear Wordsworth, — A letter from you is very grateful ; I have not seen a Kendal postmark so long ! We are pretty vrell, 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 T 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 pei'son is gone whom it would have peculiarly suited. It won't do for another. Every departure destroys a class of sympathies. There's Cap. 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 sufBce 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 subtrac- tion of interchangeables. I express myself muddily, capiie dolenie. 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. Tcedet me harum quotidianarum formarum, these pesti- lential 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 fo"ul enchanter , ' letters four do form his name' — Busirare 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 ; — Otiuvi 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 Isaac Walton morning, to Hoddesdon or Amwell, careless as a beggar; but walkinjr, 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 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 stoPy — 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 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 * See the account of the meeting between Dodd and Jem White, in Elia's Essay, "On some of the OJd Actors." 126 LETTER TO COLERIDGE. honour 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 encoun- ter with them, as I hope they shall yet and again, before all are closed. " Yours, with every kind remembrance. " 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. Hang me, but I would have it though ! " The following letter, containing the germ of the well-known " Dissertation on Roast Pig," was addressed to Coleridge, who had received a pig as a present, and attributed it erroneously to Lamb. TO MR. COLERIDGE. " 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 CEdipean avulsion ? Was the crackling the colour of the ripe pomegranate? Had you no cursed complement of boiled neck of mut- ton 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.O 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, musca- dines, I impart as freely unto my friends as to myself. They are but self-extended ; but pardon me if I stop somewhere where thi; 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 ingrati- tude by which, under the colour of a Chris- tian 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 mas- ticated, 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, remember- ing my temptation and my fall, I shall en- deavour to act towards it more in the spirit of the donor's purpose. " Yours (short of pig) to command in every- thing. C. L." In the summer of 1822, Lamb and his sister visited Paris. The following is a hasty letter addressed to Field on his return. TO MR. BARRON FIELD. " 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 tenor. Frogs are the nicest little delicate things — rabbity- flavoured. Imagine a Lilliputian rabbit I They fricassee them ; but in my mind, drest, LETTERS TO BARTON. 127 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 Edinbi'o' stone (0 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 401. 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 Shakspeare? At top — 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, arid intel- lectual 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 taken 40Z. for a thing, if authentic, worth 4000?.? 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." Soon after Lamb's return from Paris he became acquainted with the poet of the Quakers, Bernard Barton, who, like himself, was engaged in the drudgery of figures. The pure and gentle tone of the poems of his new acquaintance Avas welcome to Lamb, who had more sympathy with the truth of nature in modest guise than in the affected fury of Lord Byron, or the dreamy extravagancies of Shelley. Lamb had written in " Elia" of the Society of Friends with the freedom of one, who, with great respect for the principles of the founders of their faith, had little in common with a sect who shunned the pleasures while they mingled in the business of the world ; and a friendly expostulation on the part of Mr. Barton led to such cordial excuses as completely won the heart of the Quaker bard. Some expression which Lamb let fall at their meeting in London, from which Mr. Barton had supposed that Lamb objected to a Quaker's writing poetry as inconsistent with his creed, induced Mr. Barton to write to Lamb on his return to Woodbridge, who replied as follows : — TO BERN-ARD BARTON-. "India House, 11th Sept. 1S22. " 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 and Byronism, and your plain Quakerish beauty has capti- vated me. It is all wholesome cates, ay, and toothsome too, and withal Quakerish. If I were George Fox, and George Fox licenser 128 LETTERS TO BARTON. 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 galley thirty years, a long shot. I have almost gi"ovs^n to the wood. If no imaginative poet, I am sure I am a figurative one. Do ' Friends' allow puns? verbal equivocations? — they are un- justly 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 bound the free And holy-day 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 that dry drudgery at the desk's dead wood ? Who hut the being unblest, alien from good, Sabbathless Satan ! he who his unglad Task ever plies, 'mid rotatory burnings, Ihat round and round incalculably reel ; For wrath Divine hath made him like a wheel In that red realm from which are no returnings : Where, toiling and turmoiling, ever and aye, He and his thoughts keep pensive working-day.' " 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." Encouraged by Lamb's kindness, Mr. Barton continued the correspondence, which became the most frequent in which Lamb had engaged for many years. The following letter is in acknowledgment of a publication of Mr. Barton's chiefly directed to oppose the theories and tastes of Lord Byron and his friends : — TO BERNARD BARTON. " East-India House, 9th Oct. 1822. "Dear Sir, — I am ashamed 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 w^ould 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 excel- lence. Rich es 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 ^fe ! 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. " 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 remain, dear sir, yours truly, " C. Lamb." The next letter will speak for itself. TO BERNARD BARTON. "Dec. 23rd, 1822. " 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 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 after- LETTER TO WILSON. 129 wards. 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 enjoy- ment 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 ter- ritory 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, &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 ? Elwood, too, I must have. I rather grudge that S-= — 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 of that kind, as a counter- part 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 aU 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! or 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. Lajtb." In this winter Mr. Walter Wilson, one of the friends of Lamb's youth, applied to him for information respecting De Foe, whose 9 life he was about to write. The renewal of the acquaintance was very pleasant to Lamb ; who many years before used to take daily walks with Wilson, and to call him " brother." The following is Lamb's reply : — TO MR. WALTER WILSON, " B. L H., I6th December, 1822. " Dear Wilson, — Lightning, I was going to call you. You must have thought me negli- gent 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. " 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 remem- ber 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 fictioti 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 be 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 com- prehended, that when he has told" us a matter-of-fact, o^r a motive, in a line or two farther down he repeats it, wdth his favourite 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 130 LETTERS TO BARTON. the lower conditions of readers ; hence it is an especial favourite 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 M'hole 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 dpep 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 inter- est, though he left out the best part of it in subsequent editions from a foolish hyper- criticism of his friend Southerne. But ' Moll Flanders,' the ' Account of the Plague,' &c., are all of one family, and have the same stamp of character. Believe nie, with friendly recollections, Brother (as I used to call you), " Yours, C. Lamb." How bitterly Lamb felt his East-India bondage, has abundantly appeared from his letters during many years. Yet there never was wanting a secret consciousness of the benefits which it ensured for him, the pre- cious independence which he won by his hours of toil, and the freedom of his mind, to work only " at its own sweet will," which his confinement to the desk obtained. This sense of the blessings which a fixed income, derived from ascertained duties, confers, was nobly expressed in reference to a casual fancy in one of the letters of his fellow in clerkly as well as in poetical labours, Bernard Barton — a fancy as alien to the habitual thoughts of his friend, as to his own — for no one has pursued a steadier course on the wenrv way of duty tiian the poet whose brief dream of literary engrossment incited Lamb to make a generous amends to his ledger for all his unjust reproaches. The references to the booksellers have the colouring of fantas- tical exaggeration, by which he delighted to give efi'ect to the immediate feeling; but making allowance for this mere play of fancy, how just is the following advicp — how wholesome for every youth who hesitates whether he shall abandon the certain reward of plodding industry for the splendid miseries of authorship ! * *It is singular that, Fome years before. Mr. Barton had received similar advice from a very different poet — Lord Byron. As the letter has never loeen published, and it may be interesting to compare the expressions of two men so different on the same subject, I subjoin it here — "to BERNARD BARTON ESQ. " St. James' Street, .Tune 1, 1812. " Sir, — The most satisfactory answer to the concluding part of your letter is, that Mr. Murray will republish your volume, if you still retain your inclination for the experiment, which I trust will be successful. Some weeks ago my friend Mr. Kogers showed me some of the stanzas in MS., and I then expressed my opinion of their merit, which a further perusal of the printed volume has given me no reason to revoke. I mention this, as it may not be disagreeable to you to learn, that I enter tained a' very favourable opinion of your powers before I was aware that such sentiments were reciprocal. Waving your obliging expressions as to my own produc- tions, for which I thank you very sincerely, and assure you that I think not lightly of the praise of one whose approbation is valuable ; will you allow me to talk to you candidly, not critically, on the subject of yours? You will not suspect me of a wish to discourage, since I pointed cut to the publi.sher the propriety of complying with your wishes. I think more highly of your pontioal talents than it would perhaps gratify you to hear ex- pressed, for I believe, from what I observe of your mind, that you are above flattery. To come to the ' point, you deserve success ; but we knew before Addi.'^on 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, hut nmr trust entirely to authorship. If you have a profession, retain it : it will be like Prior's fellowship, a last and sure resourse. Compare Mr. Rogers with other authors of the day! assuredly he is among the first of living poets, but is it to that he owes his station in society, and his intimacy in the best circles? — no. it is to his prudence aod respect- ability. The world (a bad one, I ownl courts him be- cause he has no occasion to court it. He is a poet, nor is he less so because he is something more. I am not sorry to hear that you were not tempted by the vicinity of Capel LoPft. Esq.. — though, if he had done for you what lie has for the Bloomfields, I should never have laughed at his rage for patronizing. But a truly well- constituted mind will ever be independent. That you may be so is my sincei-e wish ; and if others thiiik aa well of your poetry as I do, you will have no cause to complain of your readers. Believe me, " Your obliged and obedient servant. " Byron." LETTERS TO BARTON. 131 TO BERNARD BARTON. " January 9th, 1S23. " ' 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 con- solatory minntes between the desk and the bed, make much of them, and live a century in them, rather than turn slave to the book- sellers. 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 — whatnot? 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 v,s. 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 journey- man, who really does the tine work, is in the back-ground : 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 con- tend that a bookseller has a relative honesty towards authors, not like his honesty to the rest of the world. "Keep to your bank, and the bank will keep you. Trust not to the public ; you may hang, starve, drown yourself, for any- thing 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 super- fluity 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 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 will much oblige me by this kindness. " Yours truly, C. Lamb." Lamb thus communicated to Mr. Barton his prosecution of his researches into Primitive Quakerism. TO BERNARD BARTON. "February 17th, 1823. "My dear Sir, — I have read quite through the ponderous folio of George Fox. 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 Sevfell. 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 132 LETTERS TO BARTON. completed till Woolman. A pretty little manual of Quaker language (with an endea- vour 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 vohime 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 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 ' Quakers' 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 everything I touch turns "into 'a lie?' I once quoted two lines from a translation of Dante, which Hazlitt very greatly admired, and quoted in a book as proof of the stupend- ous 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 mis-, fortune to have a lying memory ! Your description of Mr. Mitford's place makes me long for a pippin and some caraways, and a cup of sack in his orchard, when the sweets of the night come in. " Farewell. "C LaiIb." In the beginning of the year 1823, the "Essays of Elia," collected in a volume, were published by Messrs. Taylor and Hessey, who had become the proprietors of the " London Magazine." The book met with a rapid sale, while the magazine in which its contents had appeared, declined. The anecdote of the three Quakers gravely walking out of the inn where they had taken tea on the road, on an extortionate demand, one after the other, without paying anything,* had excited some gentle remonstrance on the part of Bar- ton's sister, to which Lamb thus replied. TO BERNARD BARTON. « March 11th, 1823. " 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 surpassing 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 ever be in town with your sister, mine bids me say, that she shall have great pleasure in being intro- duced to her. Your endeavour at explaining Fox's insight into the natures of animals must fail, as I shall ti-anscribe 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 Johnson 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. How did you like Hartley's sonnets ? The first, at least, is vastly fine. 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 withoiit * See " Imperfect Sympathies.' ' — Essays of Elia, p. 74. LETTERS TO BARTON AND PROCTER. 133 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 Protectoral arms of Cromwell. IIow 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 tal 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 mass 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." TO BERNARD BARTON. [No date.] " Dear B. B., — I am sure I cannot fill a letter, though 1 should disfurnish my skull to till it ; but you expect something, and shall have a notelet. Is Sunday, not divinely speaking, but humanly and holidaysically, 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 slipt into the notion of a holid-dj ? 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 nursery- maid 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 Caesars that which was his respective. Wise, beautiful, thoughtful, generous legis- lators 1 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 — 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 con- sideration of self-attention. We pity poverty, loss of friends, &c. — 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 Jiis lucubrations. What do you think of (for a title) Pteligio 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 congratu- late 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." TO BERNARD BARTON. " July 7th, 1824. "DearB.B., — I have been suffering under a severe inflammation of the eyes, notwith- standing 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), 1 dare not trust myself with long writiny;. The verses to Bloomfield are the 150 LETTERS TO BARTON. sweetest in the collection. Religion is some- times 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 einging metre, such as requires no deep ear to make; lilting measure, in which you have dune Woolraan injustice. Strike at less euperficial melodies. The piece on Nayler is more to my fancy. " My eye runs waters. Bat 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 ostenta- tious; a simple pipe preferable. " Farewell, and many thanks. "C Lamb." TO BERNARD BARTON. " August, 1824. Dear B.B.,-^— I congratulate you on getting a house over your head. I find the comfort of it I am sure. The ' Prometheus,' unbound, is a capital story. The literal rogue 1 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 have clapt on a brass clasp, no doubt. " 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 Mm again. His coy- ness 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 com- prehend '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 strong indisposition to write has stopt 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." Mr. Barton, having requested of Lamb some verses for his daughter's album, received the following with the accompanying letter beneath, on 30th September in this year. Surely the neat loveliness of female Quakerism never received before so delicate a compliment. " THE ALBUM OF LUCY BARTON. Little book, surnamed of white, Clean as yet, and fair to sight, • Keep thy attribution right. Never disproportion'd scrawl, Ugly, old, (that's worse than all,) On thy maiden clearness fall ! In each letter here design'd, Let the reader emhlem find Neatnass of the owner's mind. Gilded margins count a sin ; Let thy leaves attraction win By the golden rules within : Sayings fetch'd from sages old; Laws which Holy Writ unfold, Worthy to he graved 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. Kiddles dark, perplexing sense; Darker meanings of offence; What but shades — be banish'd hence 1 Whitest thoughts, in whitest dress, Candid meanings best express Mind of quiet Quakeress." TO BERNARD BARTON. " 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 began on another sheet of paper, and just as I had penned the second line of stanza two, an ugly blot fell, to illustrate LETTER TO COLERIDGE. 151 my counseL I am sadly given to blot, and modern blotting-paper gives no redress ; it only smears, and makes it worse. The only remedy is scratching out, vrhich gives it a clerkish look. The most innocent blots are made vrith red ink, and are rather orna- mental. 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 it through 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, Flibbertigibbet that gives the web, and I forget what else. " From my den, as Bunyan has it, 30th Sep. 1824. C. L." Here is a humorous expostulation with Coleridge for carrying away a book from the cottage, in the absence of its inmates. TO MR. COLERIDGE. [No date.J "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 explain- ing to him the estimate of it ; but was rather contented in giving a sort of corrobo- ration 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 Pros- elytes 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 have 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." The following preface to a letter, addressed to Miss Hutchinson, Mrs Wordsworth's .sister, playing on the pretended defects of Miss Lamb's handwriting, is one of those artifices of affection which, not finding scope 152 LETTERS TO MISS HUTCHINSON AND BARTON. in eulogistic epithets, take refuge in apparent abuse. Lamb himself, at this time, wrote a singularly neat hand, having greatly improved in the India House, where he also learned to flourish, — a facility he took a pride in, and sometimes indulged ; but his flourishes (wherefore it would be too curious to inquire) almost always shaped themselves into a visionary corkscrew, " never made to draw." TO MISS HUTCHINSON. "Dear Miss H., — Mary has such an invin- cible 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 abj^ctness 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, 1, 2, 3, 4, &c., where she has occasion to express numerals, as in the date (25th April, 1823), 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. 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 alw^ays to go through them (a second operation) to dot her i's, and cross her i's. T don't think she can 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 whisky that was of M.'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, &c.' &c. &c. fThe letter now begins.] "What a strange mingling of humour and solemn truth is there in the following reflection on Fauntleroy's fate, in a letter addressed to Bernard Barton ! TO BERNARD BARTON. " Dec. Ist, 1824. " 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 situa- tion, are exposed to a similarity of tempta- tion. 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 other's prop^fty. You think it impossible that you could ever commit so heinous an ofi'ence ; 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 hive 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 some- times 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. C. L." In the year 1824, one of Lamb's last ties EMANCIPATION FROM THE INDIA HOUSE. 153 to the theatre, as a scone of present enjoy- ment, was severed. Munden, the rich peculiarities of whose acting he has embalmed in one of the choicest " Essays of Elia," quitted the stage in the mellowness of his powers. His relish for Munden's acting was almost a new sense ; he did not compare him with the old comedians, as having common qualities with them, but regarded him as altogether of a different and original style. On the last night of his appearance. Lamb was very desirous to attend, but every place in the boxes had long been secured ; and Lamb was not strong enough to stand the tremendous rush, by enduring which, alone, he could hope to obtain a place in the pit; when Munden's gratitude for his exquisite praise anticipated his wish, by providing for him and Miss Lamb places in a corner of the orchestra, close to the stage. The play of the " Poor Gentleman," in which Munden played " Sir Robert Bramble," had concluded, and the audience were impatiently waiting for the farce, in which the great comedian was to delight them for the last time, when my attention was suddenly called to Lamb by Miss Kelly, who sat with my party far withdrawn into the obscurity of one of the upper boxes, but overlooking the radiant hollow which waved below us, to our friend. In his hand, directly beneath the line of stage- lights, glistened a huge porter-pot, which he was draining ; while the broad face of old Munden was seen thrust out from the door by which the musicians enter, watching the close of the draught, when he might receive and hide the portentous beaker from the gaze of the admiring neighbours. Some unknown benefactor had sent foiir pots of stout to keep up the veteran's heart during his last trial ; and, not able to drink them all, he bethought him of Lamb, and without considering the wonder which would be excited in the brilliant crowd who surrounded him, conveyed himself the cordial chalice to Lamb's parched lips. At the end of the same farce, Munden found himself unable to deliver from memory a short and elegant address which one of his sons had written for him ; but, provided against accidents, took it from his pocket, wiped his eyes, put on his spectacles, read it, and made his last bow. This was, perhaps, the last night when Lamb took a hearty interest in the present business scene ; for though he went now and then to the theatre to gratify Miss Isola, or to please an author who was his friend, his real stage henceforth only spread itself out in the selectest chambers of his memory. CHAPTER XV. [1825.] lamb's emancipation from the INDIA HOUSE. The year 1825 is marked by one of the principal events in Lamb's uneventful life — his retirement from the drudgery of the desk, with a pension equal to two-thirds of his now liberal salary. The following letters vividly exhibit his hopes and his apprehen- sions before he received this noble boon from the East India Company, and his bewilder- ment, of pleasure when he found himself in reality free. He has recorded his feelings in one of the most beautiful of his " Last Essays of Elia," entitled " The Superannuated Man ;" but it will be interesting to contem- plate them, " living as they rose," in the unstudied letters to which this chapter is devoted. A new Series of the London Magazine was commenced with this year, in an in- creased size and price ; but the spirit of the work had evaporated, as often happens to periodical works, as the store of rich fancies with which its contributors had begun, was in a measure exhausted. Lamb contributed a " Memoir of Listen," who occasionally enlivened ' Lamb's evening parties with his society ; and who, besides the interest which he derived from his theatrical fame, was recommended to Lamb by the cordial admi- ration he expressed for Munden, whom he used to imitate in a style delightfully blend- ing his own humour Avith that of his sometime rival. The " Memoir" is altogether a fiction — of which, as Lamb'did not think it worthy of republication, I will only give a specimen. After a ludicrously improbable account of his hero's pedigree, birth and early habits, Lamb thus represents his entrance on the life of an actor, " "We accordingly find him shortly after making his debut, as it is called, upon the 154 LETTERS TO BARTON. Norwich boards, in the season of that year, being then in the 22nd year of his age. Having a natural bent to tragedy, he chose the part of ' Pyrrhus,' in the ' Distrest Mother,' to Sally Parker's ' Hermione.' We find him afterwards as ' Barnwell,' ' Alta- mont,' ' Chamont,' &c. ; but, as if nature had destined him to the sock, an unavoidable infirmity absolutely discapacitated him for tragedy. His person at this latter period of which I have been speaking, was graceful, and even commanding ; his countenance set to gravity ; he had the power of arresting the attention of an audience at first sight almost beyond any other tragic actor. But he could not hold it. To understand this obstacle, we must go back a few years, to those appalling reveries at Charnwood. Those illusions, which had vanished before the dissipation of a less recluse life, and more free society, now in his solitary tragic studies, and amid the intense calls upon feeling incident to tragic acting, came back upon him ■with tenfold vividness. In the midst of some most pathetic passage — the parting of Jaffier with his dying friend, for instance — he would suddenly be surprised with a fit of violent horse laughter. While the spectators were all sobbing before him with emotion, suddenly one of those grotesque faces would peep out upon him, and he could not resist the impulse. A timely excuse once or twice served his purpose, but no audiences could be expected to bear repeatedly this violation of the continuity of feeling. He desci-ibes them (the illusions) as so many demons haunting him, and paralysing every effort. Even now, I am told, he cannot recite the famous soliloquy in Hamlet, even in private, without immoderate bursts of laughter. However, what he had not force of reason sufficient to overcome, he had good sense enough to turn to emolument, and determined to make a commodity of his distemper. He prudently exchanged the buskin for the sock, and the illusions instantly ceased, or, if they occurred for a short season, by their very co-operation, added a zest to his comic vein ; some of his most catching faces being (as he expresses it) little more than transcripts and copies of those extraordinary phantasmata." He completed his half century on the day when he addressed the following letter TO BERNARD BARTON. " February 10th, 1825. "Dear B. B., — 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. Home Tooke is a matchless portrait. My advice is, to borrow it rather than buy it. I have it. He has laid too many colours on my like- ness ; 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. 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 ranible about purposeless, as an idiot ! The author-mometer is a good fancy. I have caused great speculation in the dramatic (not thy) world by a lying ' Life of Listen,' all pure invention. The town has swallowed it, and it is copied into newspapers, play-bills, &c., as authentic. You do not know 'the Droll, and possibly missed reading the article (in our first numbei", 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 favourite way, but feel dry. I must laugh sometimes. I am poor Hyponchondriacus, and not Listen. " 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." " I am fifty years old this day. Drink my health." Freedom now gleamed on him, and he be- came restless with the approach of deliver- ance. LETTER TO WORDSWORTH. 155 TO BERNARD BARTON. " March 23rd, 1825. "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 v/ill 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. M 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 obliga- tion to S. T. C. for his knowledge of Gospel ti'uths, the nature of a Christian Church, &c., 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 ia 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." These tremors of painful hope were soon changed into certain joy. The following letters contain his own expressions of delight on his deliverance, as conveyed to several of his dearest friends. In the first his happiness is a little checked by the death of Mr. Monk- house, a relation of M>'s. Wordsworth, who had gradually won Lamb's affections, and who nobly deserved them. TO MR. WORDSWORTH. " Colebiook Cottage, 6th April, 1825. "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 441Z. a year for the remainder of my life, live I as long as John Dennis, who outlived his annuity and starved at ninety: 441Z., i.e., 450Z., with a deduction of 91. for a provision secured, to my sister, she being survivor, the pension guarranteed by Act Georgii Tertii, &e. " I came hom'e for ever 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. Ilolydays, 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 rest- less impulse for walkings. I am daily steady- ing, 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. " and , 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 156 LETTERS TO BARTON AND MISS HUTCHINSON. no anxious schemes for going hither and thither, but take things as they occur. Yes- terday 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 cha- racter I learned to love slowly, but it grew upon me, yearly, monthly, daily. What a chasm has it made in our pleasant parties ! Ilis 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. 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 day-light. In summer I had day- light evenings. The relief was hinted to me from a superior power when I, poor slave, had not a hope but that I mlist wait another seven years with Jacob — and lo ! the Eachel which I coveted is brought 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 Dedication shows it. " Communicate- my news to Southey, and beg his pardon for my being so long acknow- ledging his kind present of the ' Church,' which circumstances, 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. " Farewell ! and end at last, long selfish letter ! ' . C. Lamb." TO BERNARD BARTON. " April, 1825. " 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 for ever ! " 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 4411. 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 ; never- theless it's all true of somebody. " Address me, in future, Colebrook- cottage, Islington. I am really nervous (but that will wear ofi"), so take this brief announcement. " Yours truly, C. L." TO MISS HUTCHINSON. « April 18th, 1825. "Dear Miss Hutchinson, — You want to know all about my gaol delivery. Take it then. About tvrelve weeks since I had a sort * The true heroine of this beautiful story is still living, though she has left the stage. It is enough to make a severer quaker than B. B. feel " that therj is some soul of goodness"' in players. . LETTER TO SOUTHEY. 157 of intimation that a resigDation might be well accepted from me. This was a kind bird's whisper. On that hint I spake. G and T furnished me with certifi- cates of wasted health and sore spirits — not much more than the truth, I promise you • — and for nine 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 management and scribbling occa- sionally, I would not go back to my prison for seven years longer for 10,000Z. a year — seven years after one is fifty, is no trifle to give up. ^ Still I am a young pensioner, aiid have served but thirty-three years ; very few, I assure you, retire before forty, forty-five, or fifty years' service. " You will ask how I bear my freedom ? Faith, for some days I was staggered ; could not comprehend the magnitude of my deliv- erance ; 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 alas ! is the first. Our kindest remembrances to Mrs. Monkhouse, "And believe us yours most truly, "C. Lamb." In this summer Lamb and his sister paid a long visit to Enfield, which induced their removing thither, some time afterwards. The following letter is addressed thence, TO MR. SOUTHEY. " August 19th, 1825. " 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 corres- pondence gives no hint of such. In single- ness 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 Pro- testant, from Druid extirpation downwards. I call all good Christians the Church, Capilla- rians and all. But I am in too light a "I go about quiet, and have none of that humour to touch these matters. May all our churches flourish ! Two things staggeit;d 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, com- mencing ' 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. restless hunting after recreation, M'hich made holydays formerly uneasy joys. All being holydays, I feel as if I had none, as theji do in heaven, where 'tis all red-letter days.'* I liave a kind letter from the Wordsworths, congratulatory not a little. It is a damp, I do assure you, amid all my prospects, that I can receive 7ione from a quarter upon which I had calculated, almost more than from any, upon receiving congratulations. I had grown to like poor Monkhouse 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 answer- ing a load of letters to this morning, and this 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 parisli reckoning. But without inquiring further, (for 'tis ungracious to look into a lady's years, ) the dedication is evidently 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 158 LETTER TO SOUTHET. 4 May's death was a few years since in the papers. We think the tale one of the quietest, prettiest things we have seen. Yon 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 les- son 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 Lander's unfeeling allegor- ising 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 sacri- ficed 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 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, &c. But T am now in Mac Fleckno'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 Colebrook- 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." The farce referred to in this letter was founded on Lamb's essay "On the Inconveni- ence of being Hanged." It was, perhaps, too slight for the stage, and never was honoured by a trial ; but was ultimately published in " Blackwood's Magazine." CHAPTER XVL [1826 to 1828.] I.ETTERS TO ROBINSON, GARY, COLERIDGE, PATMORE, PROCTER, AND BARTON. When the first enjoyment of freedom was over, it may be doubted whether Lamb was happier for the change. He lost a. grievance on which he could lavish all the fantastical exaggeration of a sufierer without wounding LETTER TO ROBINSON. 159 the feelings of any individual, and perhaps the loss was scarcely compensated by the listless leisure which it brought him. When- ever the facile kindness of his disposition permitted, he fled from those temptations of society, which he could only avoid by flight ; and his evening hours of solitude were hardly so sweet as when they were the reliefs and resting-places of his mind, — "glimpses which might make him less forlorn" of the world of poetry and fomance. His mornings were chiefly occupied in long walks, sometimes extending to ten or twelve miles, in which at this time he was accompanied by a noble dog, the property of Mr. Hood, to whose humours Lamb became almost a slave,* and who, at last, acquired so portentous an ascendency that Lamb requested his friend Mr. Patmore to take him under his care. At length the desire of assisting Mr. Hone, in his struggle to support his family by antiquarian research and modern pleasantry, renewed to him the blessing of regular labour ; he began the task of reading through the glorious heap of dramas collected at the British Museum under the title of the " Garrick Plays," to glean scenes of interest and beauty for the work of his friend ; and the work of kindness brought with it its own reward. * The following allusion to Lamb's subservience to Dash is extracted from one of a series of' papers, written in a most cordial spirit, and with great characteristic power, by the friend to whom Dash was assigned, which appeared in the " Court Magazine." " During these interminable rambles — heretofore pleasant in virtue of their profound loneliness and freedom from restraint, Lamb made himself a perfect slave to the dog — whose habits were of the most extravagantly errant nature, for, generally speaking, the creature was half a mile off from his companion cither before or behind, scouring the iields or roads in all directions, scampering up or down 'all manner of streets,' and leaving Lamb in a perfect fever of irritation and annoyance ; for he was afraid of losing the dog when it was out of sight, and yet could not persuade himself to keep it in sight for a moment, by curbing its roving spirit. Dash knew Lamb's weakness in these particulars as well as he did himself and took a dog like advantage of it. In the Kegent's Park, in particular, Dash had his master com- pletely at his mercy ; for the moment they got into the ring, he used to get through the paling on the green sward, and disappear for a quarter or half an hour to- gether, knowing perfectly well that Lamb did not dare move from the spot where he (Dash) had disappeared, tin such time as he thoughjt proper to show himself egain. And they used to take this particular walk much oftener than they othowise would, precisely because Dash lixed it and Lamb did not." — Under his second master, we learn from the same source, that Dash " subsided inV the best bred and best behaved of his species." " It is a sort of office work to me," says Lamb, in a letter to Barton ; " hours ten to four, the same. It does me good'. Man must have regular occupation that has been used to it." The Christmas of 1825 was a melancholy season for Lamb. He had always from a boy spent Christmas in the Temple with Mr. Norris, an officer of the Inner Temple, and this Christmas was made wretched by the last illness of his oldest friend. Anxious to excite the sympathy of the Benchers of the Inn for the survivors. Lamb addressed the following letter to a friend as zealous aa himself in all generous offices, in order that he might show it to some of the Benchers. TO MR. H. C. ROBINSON. Colebrooke Row, Islington, " Saturday, 20th Jan. 1826. "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 constitu- tion ! 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 cham- ber. 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 ft-iend 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 plainliness 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 frojn beinj^ 360 LETTERS TO BARTON. 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 Chancer in the Temple Library, he laid it down and told me that — ■•n those old books, Charley, there is some- times a deal of very indifferent spelling;' and seemed to console himself in the reflec- tion ! His jokes, for he had his jokes, are now ended ; but they were old trusty peren- nials, staples that pleased after decies repetiia, 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 possi- bility of their coming over in darkness, and alluded to threats of an iuvasion many years blown over ; and when he came to the part ' We '11 still make 'em run, and we '11 still make 'em sweat, In spite of the devil, and Brussels Gazette 1 ' his eyes would sparkle as with the freshness of an impending event. And what is the Brussels Gazette now? I cry while I enu- merate these trifles. ' How shall we tell them in a stranger's ear?' " 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." In the spring of 1826, the following letters to Bernard Barton were written. TO BERNARD BARTON. "Feb. 7th, 1826. " 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 fort- night's sin upon my shoulders. I tell you with sincerity, that I think you have com- pletely 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 untristorify'd, I read them through 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 coxcombical phrase, con amore. I am par- ticularly pleased with the ' Spiritual Law,' pages 34 and 35. It reminded me of Quarles, and ' holy Mr. Herbert,' as Izaak AValton calls him ; the two best, if not only, of our devotional poets, though some prefer Watts, and some Tom Moore. I am far from Avell, 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 ' Popu- lar Fallacies,' and periodically crush a proverb or two, setting up my folly against the wis- dom 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 8. I do not like praise handed in by disparagement ; as I objected to a side cen- sure on Byron, &c. in the ' Lines on Bloom- field.' With these poor cavils excepted, your verses are without a flaw. C. Lamb." TO BERNARD BARTON. "March 20th, 1826. " 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 pot- hooks 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, &c., his gilt post LETTERS TO BARTON. 161 vrill bribe over the judges to him. All the time I TJras 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 Mesopotanios, I think it went hard with him, reflecting upon his old goodly orchai'd, 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 degi'ees of em,elope. I never enclosed one bit of paper in another, nor under- stood 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 tills, though, the best ministry we ever stumbled upon ; — gin reduced four shillings in the gallon, wine two shillings in the quart ! This comes home tomen'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 talked of somebody's insipid wife, without a corres- pondent object in my head: arid 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 Jthe Actors, but it is out of your way, so I recom- mend 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- .11 in from Woodbridge ; the sky dues not drop such larks every day. My very kindest wishes to you all three, with my sister's best love. C. Lamb." TO BERNARD BARTON. " May 16th, 1826. " 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 outlyers, honorary friends, like it very well. I have had my head and ears stuffed up with the east winds. A continual ringing in my brain of bells jangled, or the spheres touched by some raw angel. Is it not George the Third trying the Hundredth 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 weathercock, 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 f It is of a good-natured stupid-looking old gentleman, whom a footpad has stopped, 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 choose a very little bit of paper, for my ear hisoes 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 impercept- ibly 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 162 LETTERS TO COLERIDGE AND GARY. melt. What lies 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 that indicated the quarter. I hope these ill winds have blown over you as they do through me. " So A. K. keeps a school ; she teaches nothing wrong, I '11 answer for 't. I have a Dutch print of a school-mistress ; little old- fashioned Fleminglings, with only one face among them. She a princess of a school- mistress, 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. " Yours M-ith kindest wishes to your daughter and friend, In which Mary joins, " C. Lamb." About this time a little sketch was taken of Lamb, and published. It is certainly not flattering; but there is a touch of. Lamb's character in it. He sent one of the prints to Coleridge, with the following note. TO MR. COLERIDGE. "June 1st, 1826. " 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 un- guarded 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 painler, whoever ho 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 i-ather 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." In the following summer, Lamb and his sister went on a long visit to Enfield, which ultimately led to his giving up Colebrooke- cottage, and becoming a constant resident at that place. It was a great sacrifice to him, who loved London so well ; but his sister's health and his own required a secession from the crowd of visitors who pressed on him at Islington, and whom he could not help wel- coming. He thus invited Mr^ Cary, once librarian of the British Museum, to look in upon his retreat TO MR. GARY. "Dear Sir, — It is vehispered 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 A. C, to Enfield on Wednesday. You shall have her- mit'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 oifer 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 loves to Mrs. Cary, "C. Lamb." " D. knows all about the coaches. Oh, for a Museum in the wilderness ! The followins: letter was addressed about LETTERS TO COLERIDGE AND BARTON. 1G3 this time to Coleridge, who was seriously contemplating a poetical pantomime. TO MR. COLERIDGE. « 1826. "Dear C, — We will with great pleasure be with you on Thursday in the next week early. Your finding out my stj'le 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 befoi-e 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 any- thing out of it. Miss Gr— , with her kitten eyes, is an actress, though she shows it not at all ; and pupil to the former, whose ges- tures she mimics in comedy to the disparage- ment 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 uo 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 know- ing how stupendous a creature he is. I am perfecting myself in the 'Ode to Eton Col- lege' 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," Lamb's desire for dramatic success was not even yet wholly chilled. In this summer he wrote a little piece en the story of Crabbe's tale of the " Confidant," which was never produced, but ultimately published in " Blackwood's Magazine." It runs on agree- ably in melodious blank verse, entirely free from the occasional roughness of "John Woodvil," but has not sufficient breadth or point for the stage, following letter. He alludes to it in the TO BERNARD BARTON. " Aug. 10th, 1827. "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 importa- ticm 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 ! "M- 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 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 Isling- ton 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 abridg- ment 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, tBey seemed as if they were to stand for ever, as they had stood from the living days of Rome, in that 164 LETTERS TO BARTON AND PATMORE. 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 !" The following is an acknowledgment of some verses which Lamb had begged for Miss Isola's album. " Aug. 28th, 1827. "Dear B. B., — I am thankful to you for your ready compliance with my wishes. Emma is delighted with your verses ; I have sent them, with four album poems of my own, to a Mr. F , who is to be editor of a more superb pocket-book than has yet appeared, by far! the property of some wealthy booksellers ; ])Ut whom, or what its name, I forgot to ask. It is actually to have in it school-boy exercises by his present Majesty and the late Duke of York. Words- worth is named as a contributor. E , whom I have slightly seen, is editor of a forthcome 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 trum- pery, 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 in finery with beaux and belles, with ' future Lord Byrons and sweet L. E. Ls.' Your taste, I see, is less simple than mine, which the difference in our per- suasions has doubtless effected. In fact, of late you have so Frenchified your style, larding it with Jiors de combats, and mi deso- poirs, that o' my conscience the Foxian blood is quite dried out of you, and the skipping Monsieur spirit has been infused. "If you have anything you'd like to send further, I dare say an honourable place would be given to it; but I have not heard from F since I sent mine, nor shall probably again, and therefore 'I do not solicit it an 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 per- emptory doubts on that head. Your refusal to lend your poetical sanction to my 'Icon,' and your reasons to Evans, are most sensible. Maybe I may hit on a line or two of my own jocular; maybe not. Do you never London- ize 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 work 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 gener- ally, for I never was better, nor took more walks, fourteen miles a day on an average^ with a sporting dog. Dash. You would not know the plain poet, any more than he doth recognise James Naylor trick'd out au deser poy (how do you spell it?). " C. Lamb." The following was written to the friend to whom Lamb had intrusted Dash, a few days after the parting. TO MR. PATMORE. " Mrs. Leishman's, Chase, Eniield. " Dear P., — Excuse my anxiety, but how is Dash ? I should have asked if Mrs. P e 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'i Are his intellects sound, or does he wander a little in Ms 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 over- seers ; 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 LETTERS TO BARTON. 165 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-AWy^s, time. Do you get paunch for him? Take care the sheep was sane. You might pull out his teeth (if he Avould 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 humour with their own understanding. You might teach him the mad dance, set to the mad howl. Madge Ow?e^ would be nothing to him. 'My! how he capers!' \_In the margin is ivritten, ' 0}ie of the children speaks iJiis.'^''] * * * 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 sus- picion arises in your breast that all is not right with him, muzzle him and lead him in a string (common pack-thread 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 doaf, 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, * Here three lines are carefully erased. 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 knew 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." On the outside of the letter is written: " Seriously, I wish you would call upon Hood when you are that way. He's a capital fellow. I've sent him two 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. " Our kindest remembrance to Mrs. P." He thus, in December, expresses his misery in a letter. TO BERNARD BARTON. "December 4th. 1827. " My dear B. B., — I have scarce spirits to write, yet am harassed with not writing. 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 hor 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, under pain pf incivility. Would to the fifth heaven no coxcombess had invented Albums. '•I have not had a Bijoux, nor the slightest notice from about omitting four out of five 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 1G6 LETTER TO A LADY. know about us. Here is a comfortable house, but no tenants. One does not make a house- hold. Do not think I am quite in despair ; but, in addition to hope protracted, I have a etupifjing 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 remembrances. " Yours and theirs truly, " C. Lamb." A proposal to erect a memorial to Clarkson, upon the spot by the way-side where he stopped when on a journey from Cambridge to London, and formed the great resolution of devoting his life to the abolition of the slave-trade, produced from Lamb the follow- ing letter to the lady who had announced it to him : — "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 pillarise 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 Clarkson, I should never be able to walk or ride near the spot 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 : Mrs. £0 5 Procter 2 6 G. Dyer 10 Mr. Godwin Mrs. Godwin Mr. Irving a watch-chain. jjjj. _ f the proceeds of — \ first edition. £0 8 6 " I scribble in haste from here, where we shall be some time. Pray request Mr. ■ 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." " Frem Mrs. Leishman's, Chase, Enfield." The following appears to have been written in October, 1828, TO BERNARD BARTON. "Oct. nth, 1828. "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 cock'd beaver, and a jemmy cane ; his amice grey, to the last Regent-street cut: and his painful palmer's pace to the modern swagger. Stop thy friend's sacrilegious band. 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-oiit 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, dream- ing 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' pen. how unlike his own ! LETTERS TO BARTON. 167 Wnuldst thou divert thyself from melancholy? ■\Vuuldst thou be pleasant, yet be fur from folly? M'ouliist 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? AV'ouldst thou he 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 Icnowest not what, And yet know whether thou art blest or not By reading the same lines? then come hither. And lay my book, thy head, and heart together. John Buntan. 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 ine. I have been daily trying to write to you, but^^paralysed. You have spurred me on tliis tiny effort, and at intervals I hope to hear from and talk to you. But my spirits have been in an opprest 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 pro- perty, I could not refuse their appearing; but 1 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 caiididateship. Brought into so little space — in those old 'Londona,' a signature was lost in the wood of matter, the paper coarse (till latterly, which spoiled them); in short, 1 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 medi- tated Comic Annual for the 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, Gary has had the good sense to keep quite clear of 'em, with clergy-gen tle-maidy right 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 chea 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 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 washed their own feces 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." The following is of December, and closes the letters which remain of this year. TO BERNARD BARTON. " Dee. 5th, 1828, "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 miile is the garden of the Sluggard, nothing but weeds, or scarce they. Never- theless, 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 other- wise, 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 that the Church shall go a good deal more than half way over to the silent Meeting-house. I have ever said that the Quakers are the only^?-o/es.sor5 of Christian- ity, as I read it in the Evangiles ; I say pro- fessors — marry, as to practice, with their gaudy hot types and poetical vanities, they are much as one with the sinful. Martin's Frontispiece is a very fine thing, let 0. L. say notions. Don't think 1 set up for being | what he please to the contrary. Of the Poems 168 LETTERS TO BARTON. I like them as a volume, better than any one of the preceding ; particularly, ' Power and Gentleness'—' The Present'—' Lady Eussell ;' with the exception that I do not like the noble act of Curtius, true or false — one of the grand foundations of the old Roman pa- triotism — 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 mar- shalling them in anxious etiquettes of prece- dence. Would you make a poem on the story of Ruth, (pretty story!) and then say — Ay, but how much better is the story of Joseph and his brethren ! To go on, the stanzas to ' Chalon' want the name of Clark- 'son in the body of them; it is left to infer- ence. 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' 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 oppo- sition. ' Godiva' is delicately touched. I have always thought it a beautiful story, characteristic of the old English times. But I could not help amusing myself with the thought-T-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 par- liamentary grants to make them good ! Nevertheless, I like the frontispiece. ' The p]lephant' 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 in a book, till it becomes 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 dis- paraging 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. ' 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 eat me. Four times I 've tried to write — 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. Lamb." CHAPTER XVIL [1829, 1830.] LETTERS TO ROBINSON, PROCTER, BARTON, •WILSON, OILMAN, WORDSWORTH, AND DYER. Having decided on residing entirely at Enfield, Lamb gave up Colebrooke-cottage, and took what he described in a notelet to me as " an odd-looking gambogish-coloured house," at Chase-side, Enfield. The situation was far from picturesque, for the opposite side of the road only presented some middling tenements, two dissenting-chapels, and a public house decorated with a swinging sign of a Rising Sun ; but the neighbouring field- walks were pleasant, and the country, as he liked to say, quite as good as Westmoreland. He continued occasional contributions to the New Monthly, especially the series of " Popular Fallacies ;" wrote short articles in the Athenaeum ; and a great many acrostics on the names of his friends. He had now a neighbour in Mr. Serjeant Wilde, to whom he was introduced by Mr. Burney, and whom LETTERS TO ROBINSON AND PROCTER. 169 he held in high esteem, though Lamb cared nothing for forensic eloquence, and thought very little of eloquence of any kind ; which, it must be confessed, when printed is the most vapid of all reading. What political interest could not excite, personal regard produced in favour of his new friend ; and Lamb supplied several versified squibs and snatches of electioneering songs to grace Wilde's contests at Newark. With these slender avocations his life was dull, and only a sense of duty induced him to persist in absence from London. The following letter wag written in ac- knowledgment of a parcel sent to Miss Lamb, comprising (what she had expressed a wish to have) a copper coal-scoop, and a pair of elastic spectacles, accompanied by a copy of "Pamela," which having been bor- rowed and supposed to be lost, had been replaced by another in Lamb's library. TO MR. H. C. ROBINSON. "Enfield, Feb. 27th, 1829. '" Dear R., — Expectation was alert on the receipt of your strange-shaped present, while yet undisclosed from its fuse envelope. Some said, 'tis a viol da Ganiba, others pronounced it a fiddle ; I, myself, hoped it a liqueur case, pregnant with eaii-de-vie and such odd nectar. When midwifed into daylight, the gossips were at a 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 back-bone 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 superero- gatory. A second part of Pamela was enough in conscience. Two Pamelas in a house are too much, without two Mr. B.'s to reward 'cm, " Mary, 'who is handselling her new aerial perspectives upon a pair of old worsted stt is the most noble and triumphant piece of enthusiasm which we remember. It is as if the spirits of a whole crew of nameless heroes ' were swell- ing in his bosom.' We never felt so ardent and proud a sympathy with the valour of England as when we heard it. May health long be his, thus to do our hearts good — for we never saw any actor whose merits have the least resemblance to his even in species ; and when his genius is withdrawn from the stage, we shall not have left even a term by which we can fitly describe it." The following letter is TO MR. CARY. " Assidens est mihi bona soror, Euripiden evolvens, donum vestrum, carissime Gary, pro quo gratias agimus, lecturi atque iterum lecturi idem. Pergratus est liber ambobus, nerape ' Sacerdotis Commiserationis,' sacrum opus a te ipso Humanissimse Religionis Sacerdote dono datum. Lachrymantes gavi- suri sumus ; est ubi dolor fiat vuluptas ; nee semper dulce mihi est ridere ; aliquando commutandum est he! he! he! cum heu ! heu ! heu ! '• A Musis Tragicis me non penitus abhor- ruisse testis sit Carmen Calamitosum, nescio quo autore linguii prius vernacul^ scriptum, et nuperrimfe a me ipso Latine versum, scilicet, ' Tom Tom of Islington.' Tenuistine J ' Thomas Thomas de Islington, TJxorem duxit Die quadam Solis, Abduxit domum sequenti die, Emit baculum subsequenti, Vapulat ilia postera, .31grotat succedenti, Jlortua fit crastinfi.' LETTERS TO COLERIDGE AND GARY. 187 Et miro gaudio afficitur Thomas luce posterU quod subsequent! (nempe, Dominica) uxor sit efferenda. ' En Iliades Domesticas I En circulum calamitatum I Plane hebdomadalem tragoediam.' I nunc et confer Euripiden vestrum his luctibus, hS,c morte uxoriS, ; confer Alcesten ! Hecubcn ! quas non antiquas Heroinas Dolorosas, " Suffundor ge nas lachrymis tantas strages revolvens. Quid restat nisi quod Tecum Tuam Caram salutamus ambosque valere jubeamus, nosmet ipsi bene valentes. " Elia. "Datum ab agro Enfeldiensi, Maii die sextS, 1831." Coleridge, now in declining health, seems to have feared, from a long intermission of Lamb's visits to Highgate, that there was 8ome estrangement between them, and to have written to Lamb under that fear. The following note shows how much he was mistaken. TO MR. COLERIDGE. "Aprin4th, 1832. "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 sincerfer showers. " My direction is simply, Enfield." "Lamb's regiird for Mr. Gary had now ripened into a fast friendship; and by agree- ment he dined every third Wednesday in the month at the Museum. In general, these were occasions on which Lamb observed tht strictest rules of temperance ; but once accident of stomach or of sentiment caused a woful deviation, which Lamb deplored in the following letter. TO MR. CART. "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 a manu- facturer'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 Ids 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 reposi- tory of science, 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 mo nothing better! With feverish eyes on the succeeding dawn I opened upon the faint light, enough to distinguish, in a strange chamber, not immediate!}' to be recog- nised, garters, hose, waiscoat, 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? Reniore whispers suggested that I coached it home iu 188 LETTER TO GARY. triumph. Far be that from working pride in me, for I was unconscious of the locomotion. That a young Mentor accompanied a repro- bate 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 M^as before too fondly inclined) 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, v/ithout fear of thrusting back, in a lighfe but a peremptory air, ' I am going to Mr. Gary'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 Ilighmore! 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 fin- gered artist can educe no notions but of a dissoluted Silenus, lecturing natural philos- ophy to a jeering Chromius, or a Mnasilus. Pudet. From the contest gather the lost name of ." In 1833 the choicest prose essays, which Lamb had written since the publication of Elia, were collected and published — as with a melancholy foreboding — under the title of " The Last Essays of Elia ;" by Mr. Moson. The wOrk contains ample proof' that the powers of the author had ripened rather than declined ; for the paper called " Blakes- moore in H — shire," which embodies his recollection of the old mansion in which his grandmother lived as housekeeper ; those on EUiston, " Captain Jackson," and " The Old Margate Hoy," are among the most original, the least cimstrained, and the most richly coh)ured of his works. It was favour- ably noticed by almost all the principal critics — by many enthusiastically and sin- cerely praised — and an admirable notice in "The Quarterly " was published just after the foreboding of the title was fulfilled. His indisposition to write, however, increased; but in creating so much, excellent in its kind, so complete in itself, and so little tinged M'ith alloy, he had, in truth, done enough, and had earned in literature, as in the drudgery of the desk, a right to repose. Yet, still ready to obey the call of friendship, he wrote both prologue and epilogue to Knowles's play of "The Wife;" the composition of which must have been mere labour, as they are only decently suited to the occasion, and have no mark or likelihood to repay the vanity of the. poet. Miss Isola's marriage, which left Lamb and his sister once more alone, induced them to draw a little nearer to their friends ; and they fixed their abode in Church-street, Edmonton, within reach of the Enfield walks which custom had endeared to them. There with his sisterhecontinued, regularly visiting London and dining with Mr. Gary on every third Wednesday. The following notelet is in answer to a letter inclosing a list of candi- dates for a widows' fund society, for which he was entitled to vote. TO MR. CARY. "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 1001. a year and butt of sack. Sometimes I sigh over No. 12, Mrs. Carve-ill, some poor relation of mine, no doubt. No. 15 has my wishes, but then she is a Welsh one. I have Ruth upon No. 21. . I 'd tug hard for No. 2-1. No. 25 is an anomaly, there can be no Mrs. H^gg. No. 34 ensnares me. No. 73 should not have met so foolish a person. No. 92 * J. Mrs. Southey headed the inclosed list. LETTER TO GILMAN. 189 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." Lamb was entirely destitute of what is commonly called " a taste for music." A few old tunes ran in his head ; now and then the expression of a sentiment, though never of song, touched him with rare and exquisite delight ; and Braham in his youth. Miss Rennell, who died too soon, and who used to sing the charming air, " In infancy our hopes and fears," and Miss Burrell, won his ear and his heart. But usually music only confused him, and an opera — to which he once or twice tried to accompany Miss Isola — was to him a maze of sound in which he almost lost his wits. But ho did not, therefore, take less pleasure in the success of Miss Clara Novello, — whose family he had known for many years, — and . to whom he addressed the following lines, which were inserted in the "Athenc3um," of July 26, in this his last year. TO CLARA N . The Gods have made me most unmusical, With feelings that respond not to the call Of stringed harp, or voice— obtuse and mute To hautboy, sackbut, dulcimer and flute; King David's lyre, that made the madness flee I'rom Saul, had been but a jew's-harp to me : Theorbos, violins, French horns, guitars, Leave in my wounded ears^inflicted scars ; I hate those trills, and shakes, rnd sounds that float Upon the captive air ; I know no note. Nor ever shall, whatever folks may say, Of the strange mysteries of Sol and Fa ; I sit at oratorios like a fish, Incapable of sound, and only wish The thing was over. Yet do I admire, tuneful daughter of a tuneful sire. Thy painful labours in a science, which To your deserts I pray may make you rich As much as you are loved, and add a grace To the most musical Novello race. Women lead men by the nose, some cynics say; You draw them by the ear— a delioater way. C. Lamb, He had now to sustain the severest of his losses. After a long and painful illness — borne with an heroic patience which con- cealed the intensity of his sufferings from the bystanders, Coleridge died.. As in the instance of Hazlitt, Lamb did not feel the immediate blow so acutely as he himself expected — but the calamity sank deep into his mind, and was, I believe, seldom far from his thoughts. It had been arranged that the attendance at the funeral should be confined to the family of the departed poet and philo- sopher, and Lamb, therefore, was spared the misery of going through the dismal ceremony of mourning. For the first week he forbore to write ; but at its close he addressed the following short letter to one of the family of him whom he once so justly denominated Coleridge's " more than friend." Like most of Lamb's letters, it is undated, but the post- mark is Aug. 5, 1834. TO THE RET. JAMES GILMAN "My dear Sir,— The sad week being ever, I must write to you to say, that I was glad of being spared from attending ; I have no words to express my feeling w,ith you all. I can only say that when you think a short visit from me would be acceptable, when your fother and mother shall be able to see me with comfort, I will come to the bereaved house. Express to them my tenderest re- gards 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." "Mr. Walden's, " Church-street, Edmonton." 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 mani- fested towards his friend, insisted on her receiving five guineas from him,— a gratuity which seemed almost incomprehensible to the poor woman, but which Lamb could not help giving as an immediate expression of his own gratitude. From her he learned the effort by which Coleridge had suppressed the expression of his sufferings, and the discovery affected him even more than the news of his death. He would startle his friends some- times by suddenly exclaiming, " Coleridge is dead!" and then pass on to common themes, having obtained the momentary relief of 190 PRESENT OF GAME. oppressed spirits. He still continued, how- ever, his monthly visits to Mr. Cary ; and was ready to write an acrostic, or a compli- mentary epigram, at the suggestion of any friend. The following is the last of his effu- sions in verse : TO MARGARET W . Margaret, in happy hour Christen'd from that humhle flower Which we a daisy * call ! May thy pretty namesake be Tn all things a type of thee, And image thee in all. Like it you show a modest face. An unpretending native grace ; — The tulip, and the pink, The china and the damask rose, And every flaunting flower that blows, In the comparing shrink. Of lowly fields you think no scorn; Yet gayest gardens would adorn, And grace wherever set. Home-seated in your lonely bower, Or wedded — a transplanted flower — I bless you, Margaret! Charles Lamb. Edmonton, Oct. 8th, 1834 A present of game, from an unknown admirer, produced the following acknowledg- ment, in the " Athenasum " of 30th November, destined to be, in sad verity, the last essay of Elia. THOUGHTS ON PRESENTS OF GAME, &C. "We love to have our friend in the country sitting thus at our table by proxy; to appre- hend his persence (though a hundred miles may be between us) by a turkey, whose goodly aspect reflects to us his ' plump cor- pusculum ;' to taste him in grouse or wood- cock ; to feel him gliding down in the toast peculiar to the latter ; to concorporate him in a slice of Canterbury brawn. This is indeed to have him within ourselves ; to know him intimately ; such participation is methinks unitive, as the old theologians phrase it." — Last Essays of Elia. " Elia presents his acknowledgments to his * Correspondent unknown,' for a basket of pro- digiously fine game.' He takes for granted that so amiable a character must be, a reader of the " Athenasum," else he had meditated a notice in the " Times." Now if this friend had consulted the Delphic oracle for a present * Marguerite, in French, signifies a- daisy. suited to the palate of Elia, he could not have hit upon a morsel so acceptable. The birds he is barely thankful for: pheasants are poor fowls disguised in fine feathers. But a hare roasted hard and brown, with gravy and melted butter ! — old Mr. Chambers, the sensible clergyman in Warwickshire, whose son's acquaintance has made many hours happy in the life of Elia, used to allow a pound of Epping to every hare. Perhaps that was over-doing it. But in spite of the note of Philomel, who, like some fine poets, that think no scorn to adopt plagiarism" from a humble brother, reiterates ever_, spring her cuckoo cry of ' Jug, Jug, Jug,' Elia pronounces that a hare, to be truly palated, must be roasted. Jugging sophisti- cates her. In our way it eats so ' crips,' aa Mrs. Minikin says. Time was, when Elia was not arrived at his taste, that he preferred to all luxuries a roasted pig. But he dis- claims all such green-sickness appetites in future, though he hath to acknowledge the receipt of many a delicacy in that kind from correspondents — good, but mistaken men — in consequence of their erroneous supposi- tion, that he had carried up into mature life the prepossessions of childhood. From the worthy Vicar of Enfield he acknowledges a tithe contribution of extraordinary sapor. The ancients must have loved hares. Else why adopt the word hpores (obviously from lepus) but for some subtle analogy between the delicate flavour of the latter, and the finer relishes of wit in what we most poorly translate pleasantries. The fine madnesses of the poet are the very decoction of his diet. Thence is he hare-brained. Harum-scarum is a libellous unfounded phrase, of modern usage. 'Tis true the hare is the most cir- cumspect of animals, sleeping Avith her eye open. Her ears, ever erect, keep them in that wholesome exercise, which conduces them to form the very tit-bit of the admirers of this noble animal. Noble will I call her, in spite of her detractors, who from occa- sional demonstrations of the principle of self-preservation (common to all animals), infer in her a defect of heroism. Half a hundred horsemen, v\-ith thrice the number of dogs, scour the country in pursuit of puss across three counties ; and because the well- flavoured beast, weighing the odds, is willing to evade the hue and cry, with her delicate LETTER TO CHILDS. 191 ears shrinking perchance from discord — comes the grave naturalist, Linnajus perchance, or Buffon, and gravely sets doven the hare as a — timid animal. Why Achilles, or Bally Dawson, would have declined the preposterous combat. " In fact, how light of digestion we feel after a hare ! How tender its processes after swallowing ! What chyle it promotes ! How ethereal ! as if its living celerity were a type of its nimble coursing through the animal juices. The notice might be longer. It is in- tended less as a Natural History of the Hare, than a cursory thanks to the country 'good Unknown.' The hare has many friends, but none sincerer than "Elia." A short time only before Lamb's fatal illness, he yielded to my urgent importunity, and met a small party of his friends at dinner at my house, where we had provided for him some of the few articles of food which now seemed to hit his fancy, and among them the hare, which had supplanted pig in his just esteem, with the hope of exciting his very delicate appetite. We were not disappointed ; he ate with a relish not usual with him of late years, and passed the evening in his happiest mood. Among the four or five who met him on this occasion, the last on which I saw him in health, were his old friends Mr. Barron Field, Mr. Procter, and Mr. Forster, the author of the " Lives of Eminent English Statesmen," a friend of comparatively leoout (late, but one Avith whom Lamb found himself as much at home as if he had known liim for years. Mr. Field, in a short but excellent memoir of Lamb, in the " Annual Biography and Obituary" of 1836, has brought this evening vividly to recollection ; and I have a melancholy satisfaction in quoting a passage from it as he has recorded it. After justly eulogising Lamb's sense of "The Virtue of Suppression in Writing," Mr. Field proceeds : — "We remember, at the very last supper we ate with him, he quoted a passage from Prior's 'Henry and Emma,' illustrative of this discipline ; and yet he said that he loved Prior as much as any man, but that his 'Henry and Emma' was a vapid paraphrase of the old poem of ' The Nutbrowne Mayde.' For example, at the denouement of the ballad Prior makes Henry rant out to his devoted Emma — 'In me tieliold the potent Edgar's heir, Illustrious Earl; him terrible in war. Let Loire confess, for she has felt his sword. And trembling fled before the British lord.' And SO on for a dozen couplets, heroic, as they are called. And then Mr. Lamb made us mark the modest simplicity with which the noble youth discloses himself to his mistress in the old poem : — ' NoTT, understand, To Westmoreland, Which is my heritage, (in a parenthesis, as it were,) I will you bring, And with a ring. By way of marriage, I will you take. And lady make, As shortly as I can. So have you won An Earle's son, And not a banish'd man.' " How he loved these old rhymes, and with what justice !" 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. The following is his reply : — TO MR. CHILDS. " Monday. Church-street, Edmonton, (not Enfield, as you erroneously direct yours). " Dear Sir, — The volume which you seem to want, is not to be had for love or money. I with difiiculty 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 Avith 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 192 DEATH OF LAMB. 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 Eng- land. [Here are 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." A few days after this letter was written, an accident bofel Mr. Lamb, which seemed trifling at first, but which terminated in a fatal issue. In taking his daily morning walk on the London road as far as the inn where John Gilpin's ride is pictured, he stumbled against a stone, fell, and slightly injured his face. The wounds seemed healing, when erysipelas in the head came on, and he sunk beneath the disease, happily without pain. On Friday evening Mr. Ryle, of the India House, who had been appointed co- executor with me of his will some years before, called on me, and informed me that he was in danger. I went over to Edmonton on the following morning, and found him very weak and nearly insensible to things passing around him. Now and then a few words were audible, from which it seemed that his mind, in its feebleness, was intent on kind and hospitable thoughts. His last correspondent, Mr. Childs, had sent a present of a turkey, instead of the suggested pig; and the broken sentences which could be heard, were of some meeting of friends to partake of it. I do not think he knew me ; and having vainly tried to engage his atten- tion, I quitted him, not believing his death so near at hand. In less than an hour afterwards, his voice gradually grew fainter as he still murmured the names of Moxon, Procter, and some other old friends, and he yank into death as placidly as into sleep. On the following Saturday his remains were laid in a deep grave in Edmonton church-yard, made in a spot which, about a fortnight before, he had pointed out to his sister, on an afternoon wintry walk, as the place where he wished to be buried. So died, in the sixtieth year of his age, one of the most remarkable and amiable men who have ever lived. Few of his numerous friends were aware of his illness before they heard of his death ; and, until that illness seized him, he had appeared so little changed by time, so likely to continue for several years, and he was so intimately associated with every-day engagements and feelings, that the news was as strange as it was mournful. When the first sad surprise was over, several of his friends strove to do justice to their own recollections of him ; and articles upon his character and writings, all written out of the heart, appeared from Mr. Procter in the " Athenaeum," from Mr. Forster in the " New Monthly Magazine," from Mr. Patmore in the " Court Magazine," and from Mr. Moxon in Leigh Hunt's " London Journal," besides others whose authors are unknown to me ; and subsequently many affectionate allusions, from pens which his own had inspired, have been gleaned out in various passages of "Blackwood," "Eraser," '• Tait," and almost every periodical work of reputation. The "Recollections of Coleridge" by Mr. Allsop, also breathed the spirit of admiration for his elevated genius, " which the author — one whom Lamb held in the highest esteem for himself, and for his devotion to Coleridge — had for years ex- pressed both in his words and in deeds. But it is not possible for the subtlest character- istic power, even when animated by the warmest personal regard, to give to those who never had the privilege of his com- panionship an idea of what Lamb was. There was an apparent contradiction in him, which seemed an inconsistency between thoughts closely associated, and which was in reality nothing but the contradiction of his genius and- his fortune, fantastically exhibiting itself in different aspects, which close intimacy could alone appreciate. He would startle you with the finest perception of truth, separating, by a phrase, the real from a tissue of conventional, falsehoods, and the next moment, by some whimsical inven- CHARACTER OF LAMB. 193 tion, make you " doubt truth to be a liar." He would touch the inmost pulse of pro- found affection, and then break off in some jest, which would seem profane "to ears polite," but carry as profound a meaning to those who had the right key, as his most pathetic suggestions ; and where he loved and doted most, he would vent the over- flowing of his feelings in words that looked like rudeness. He touches on this strange resource of love in his " Farewell to Tobacco," in a passage which may explain some startling freedoms with those he himself loved most dearly. " Irony all, and feign'd abuse, Such as perplext lovers use, At a need, when in despair, To paint forth the fairest fair; Or in part but to express That exceeding comeliness Which their fancies doth so strike. They borrow language of dislike ; And, instead of 'dearest Miss,' Jewel, honey, sweetheart, bliss, And those forms of old admiring, Call her cockatrice and siren, 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." Thus, in the very excess of affection to his sister, w^hom he loved above all else on earth, he would sometimes address to her some words of seeming reproach, yet so tinged with a humorous irony that none but an entire stranger could mistake his di'ift. 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 afraid 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 Beetham, the author of the "Lay of Marie," which Lamb esteemed one of the most graceful and truly feminine works in a literature rich in trait in some recollections of Lamb, with which she has furnished me, relates, that once when she was speaking to Miss Lamb of Charles, and in her earnestness Miss Lamb 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 conver- sation in his gayest strain. Many of Lamb's witty and curious sayings have been repeated since his death, which are worthy to be held in undying remem- brance ; but they give no idea of the general tenor of his conversation, which was far more singular and delightful in the traits, which could never be recalled, than in the epigram- matic turns which it is possible to quote. It was fretted into perpetual eddies of verbal felicity and happy thought, with little tranquil intervals reflecting images of exceeding ele- gance and grace. He sometimes poured out puns in startling succession ; sometimes curiously contrived a train of sentences to introduce the catastrophe of a pun, which, in that case, was often startling from its own demerit. At Mr. Gary's one day, he intro- duced and kept up an elaborate dissertation on the various uses and abuses of the word nice; aod when its variations were exhausted^ showed what he had been driving at by exclaiming, "Well! now we have held a Council of Nice." "A pun," said he in a letter to Coleridge, in which he eulogised the Odes and Addresses of his friends Hood and Reynolds, "is a thing of too much consequence to be thrown in as a make- weight. You shall read one of the Addresses twice over and miss the puns, and it shall be quite as good, or better, than when you discover them. A pun is a noble thing per se. never bring it in as an accessory ! A pun is a sole digest of reflection (vide my 'Aids ' to that awaking from a savage state) ; it is entire ; it fills the mind ; it is as perfect as a sonnet ; better. It limps ashamed 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 forgot which ' it was." Indeed, Lamb's choicest puns and humorous expressions could not be recollected. They were born of the evanescent feeling, and died with it ; " one moment bright, then gone for ever." female genius, who has reminded me of the i The shocks of pleasurable surprise were so 13 194 CHARACTER OP LAMB. rapid in succession, and the thoughts suggested so new, that one destroyed the other, and left only the sense of delight behind. Frequently as I had the happiness of seeing him during twenty years, I can add nothing from my own store of recollection to those which have been collected by others, and those I will abstain from repeating, so vapid would be their eifect when printed com- pared to that which they produced when, stammered out, they gave to the moment its victory. It cannot be denied or concealed that. Lamb's excellences, moral and intellectual, were blended with a single frailty ; so inti- mately associating itself with all that was" most charming in the one, and sweetest in the other, that, even if it were right to with- draw it wholly from notice, it would be impossible without it to do justice to his virtues. The eagerness with which he would quaff exciting liquors, from an early period of life, proved that to a physical peculiarity of constitution was to be ascribed, in the first instance, the strength of the temptation with which he was assailed. This kind of corporeal need ; the struggles of deep thought to over- come the bashfulness and the impediment of speech which obstructed its utterance ; the dull, heavy, irksome labours which hung heavy on his mornings, and dried up his spirits ; and still more, the sorrows which had environed him, and which prompted him to snatch a fearful joy ; and the unbounded craving after sympathy with human feelings, conspired to disarm his power of resisting when the means of indulgence were actually before him. Great exaggerations have been prevalent on this subject, countenanced, no doubt, by the " Confessions" which, in the prodigality of his kindness, he contributed to his friend's collection of essays and autho- rities against the use of spirituous liquors : for, although he had rarely the power to overcome the temptation when presented, he made heroic sacrifices in flight. His final abandonment of tobacco, after many inef- fectual attempts, was one of these — a princely sacrifice. He had loved smoking, " not wisely, but too well," for he had been content to use the coarsest varieties of the " great plant." When Dr. Parr, — who took only the finest tobacco, used to half fill his pipe with •salt, and smoked with a philosophic calmness, — saw Lamb smoking the strongest prepa- ration of the weed, puffing out smoke like some furious Enchanter, he gently laid down his pipe, and asked him, how he had acquired his power of smoking at such a rate? Lamb replied, " I toiled after it, sir, as some men toil after virtue." Partly to shun the temptations of society, and partly to preserve his sister's health, he fled from London, where his pleasures and his heart were, and buried himself in the solitude of the country, to him always dismal. He would even deny himself the gratification of meeting Words- worth or Southey, or use it very sparingly during their visits to London, in order that the accompaniments of the table might not entice him to excess. And if sometimes, after miles of solitary communing with his own sad thoughts, the village inn did invite, him to quaff a glass of sparkling ale ; and if when his retreat was lighted up with the presence of some old friend, he was unable to refrain from the small portion which was too much for his feeble frame, let not the stout- limbed and the happy exult over the conse- quence ! Drinking with him, except so far as it cooled a feverish thirst, was not a sensual, but an intellectual pleasure ; it lighted up his fading fimcy, enriched his humour,, and impelled the struggling thought or beautiful image into day ; and perhaps by requiring for him some portion of that allowance which he extended to all human frailties, endeared him the more to those who so often received, and were delighted to bestow it. Lamb's indulgence to the failings of others could hardly indeed be termed allowance; the name of charity is too cold to suit it. He did not merely love his friends in spite of their errors, but he loved them errors and all ; so near to him Avas everything human. He numbered among his associates, men of all varieties of opinion — philosophical, reli- gious, and political — and found something to like, not only in the men themselves, but in themselves as associated with their theories and their schemes. In the high and calm, but devious speculations of Godwin ; in the fierce hatreds of Hazlitt ; in the gentle and glorious mysticism of Coleridge ; in the sturdy opposition of Thelwall to the government ; in Leigh Hunt's softened and fancy-streaked patriotism ; in the gallant Toryism of Stod-' CHARACTER OF LAMB. 195 dart; he found traits which made the indi- viduals more dear to him. When Leigh Hunt was imprisoned in Cold Bath Fields for a libel, Lamb was one of his most constant visitors — and when Thelwall was striving to bring the " Champion" into' notice, Lamb was ready to assist him with his pen, and to fancy himself, for the time, a Jacobin.* In this large intellectual tolerance, he resembled Professor Wilson, who, notwithstanding his own decided opinions, has a compass of mind large enough to embrace all others which have noble alliances within its range.f But not only to opposite opinions, and devious habits of thought, was Lamb indulgent ; he discovered " the soul of goodness in things evil" so vividly, that the surrounding evil disappeared from his mental vision. Nothing — no discovery of error or of crime — could divorce his sympathy from a man who had once engaged it. He saw in the spendthrift, the outcast, only the innocent companion of * The following little poem — quite out of Lamb's usual style — was written for that journal. THE THREE GRAVES. Close by the ever-burning brimstone beds, Where Bedloe, Gates, and Judas hide their heads, I saw great Satan like a sexton stand, With his intolerable spade in band, Digging three graves. Of coffin-shape they were. For those who, coffinless, must enter there, AVith unblest rites. The shi-ouds were of that cloth \^'hich Clotho weaved in her blackest wrath; The dismal tint oppress'd the eye, that dwelt Upon it long, like darkness to be felt. The pillows to these baleful beds were toads. Large, living, livid, melancholy loads, Whose softness shock'd. Worrns of all monstrous size Crawl'd round ; and one upcoil'd, which never dies, A doleful bell, inculcating despair, Was always ringing in the heavy air. And all around the detestable pit Strange headless ghosts and quarter'd forms did flit; Rivers of blood from living traitors spilt. By treachery stung from poverty to guilt. I ask'd the fiend, for whom those rites were meant? "These graves," quoth he, "when life's brief oil is spent, When the dark night comes, and they're sinking bed- wards, I mean for Castles, Oliver, and Edwards." t Lamb only once met that remarkable person, — who has probably more points of resemblance to him than any other living poet, — and was quite charmed with him. They walked out from Enfield together, and strolled happily a long summer's day, not omitting, however, a call for a refreshing draught. Lamb called for a pot of ale or porter — half of which would have been his own usual allowance ; and was delighted to hear the Professor, on the appearance of the foaming tankard, say reproachfully to the waiter, " And one for me 1" his school-days or the joyous associate of his convivial hours ; and he did not even make penitence or reform a condition of his regard. Perhaps he had less sympathy with phi- lanthropic schemers for the improvement of the world than with any other class of men ; but of these he numbered two of the greatest, Clarkson the destroyer of the slave-trade, and Basil Montague the con- stant opponent of the judicial injfliction of death ; and the labours of neither have been in vain ! To those who were not intimately acquainted with Lamb, the strong disinclination to con- template another state of being, which he sometimes expressed in his serious conversa- tion, and which he has solemnly confessed in his " New Year's Eve," might cast a doubt on feelings which were essentially pious. The same peculiarity of nature which attached him to the narrow and crowded streets, in preference to the mountain and the glen — which made him loth to quit even painful circumstances and unpleasant or ill-timed company ; the desire to seize and grasp all that was nearest, bound him to the earth, and prompted his sympathies to revolve within a narrow circle. Yet in that very power of adhesion to outward things, might be dis- cerned the strength of a spirit destined to live beyond them. Within the contracted sphere of his habits and desires, he detected the subtlest essence of Christian kindliness, shed over it a light from heaven, and peopled it with divine fancies and "Thoughts whose very sweetness yieldeth proof That they were born for immortality." Although he numbered among his asso- ciates freethinkers and sceptics, he had a great dislike to any profane handling of sacred subjects, and always- discouraged polemical discussion. One evening, when Irving and Coleridge were in company, and a young gentleman had spoken slightingly of religion. Lamb remained silent ; but when the party broke up, he said to the youth who had thus annoyed his guests, " Pray, did you come here in a hat, sir, or in a turban ?" The range of Lamb's reading was varied, but yet peculiar. He rejoiced in all old English authors, but cared little for the moderns, except one or two ; and those whom he loved as authors because they were his 196 CHARACTER OP LAMB. friends. Attached always to things of flesh and blood rather than to " the bare earth and mountains bare, and grass in the green field," he chiefly loved the great dramatists, whose beauties he supported, and sometimes heightened, in his suggestive criticisms. While he enjoyed Wordsworth's poetry, especially " The Excursion," with a love which grew upon him from his youth, he would repeat some of Pope's divine compli- ments, or Dryden's lines, weighty with sterling sense or tremendous force of satire, with eyes trembling into tears. The come- dies of Wycherley, and Congreve, and Farquhar, were not to him gross and sensual, but airy, delicate creations, framed out of coarse materials it might be, but evaporating in wit and grace, harmless effusions of the intellect and the fancy. The ponderous dulness of old controversialists, the dead weight of volumes of once fierce dispute, of which time had exhausted the venom, did not appal him. He liked the massive reading of the old Quaker records, the huge density of old schoolmen, better than the flippancy of modern criticism. If you spoke of Lord Byron, he would turn the subject by quoting the lines descriptive of his namesake in Love's Labour Lost — "Oft have I heard of you, my Lord Byron," &c. — for he could find nothing to revere or love in the poetry of that 'extraordinary but most uncomfortable poet; except the apostrophe to Parnassus, in which he exults in the sight of the real mountain instead of the mere poetic image. All the Laras, and Giaours, and Childe Harolds, were to him but " unreal mockeries,' — the phantasms of a feverish dream, — forms which did not appeal to the sympathies of mankind, and never can find root among them. Shelley's poetry, too, was icy cold to him ; except one or two of the minor poems, in which he could not help admiring the exquisite beauty of the expression ; and the " Cenci," in which, notwithstanding the painful nature of the subject, there is a warmth and passion, and a correspondent simplicity of diction, which prove how mighty a poet the author would have become had he lived long enough for his feelings to have free discourse with his creative power. Responding only to the touch of human affection, he could not bear poetry which, instead of making the whole world kin, renders our own passions and frailties and virtues strange to us ; presents them at a distance in splendid masquerade ; exalts them into new and unauthorised mythology, and crystallises all our freshest loves and mant- ling joys into clusters of radiant fancies. He made some amends for his indifference to Shelley, by his admiration of Mrs. Shelley's " Fi*ankenstein," which he thought the most extraordinary realisation of the idea of a being out of nature which had ever beea effected. For the Scotch novels he cared very little, not caring to be puzzled with new plots, and preferring to read Fielding, and Smollett, and Richardson, whose stories were familiar, over and over again, to being worried with the task of threading the maze of fresh adventure. But the good-natured- ness of Sir Walter to all his contemporaries won his admiration, and he heartily rejoiced in the greatness of his fame, and the rich rewards showered upon him, and desired they might accumulate for the glory of literature and the triumph of kindness. He was never introduced to Sir Walter ; but 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 stam- mered out his hearty thanks . to his truly humane informer. Of his own writings it is now superfluous to speak ; for, after having encountered long derision and neglect, they have taken their place among the classics of his language. They stand alone, at once singular and delightful. They are all carefully elaborated ; yet never were works written in a higher defiance to the conventional pomp of style. A sly hit, a happy pun, a humorous com- bination, lets the light into the intricacies of the subject, and supplies the place of ponderous sentences. As his serious con- versation was his best, so his serious writing is far preferable to his fantastical humours, — cheering as they are, and suggestive ever ^s they are of high and invigorating thoughts. Seeking his materials, for the most part, in the common paths, of life, — often in the humblest, — he gives an importance to every- CHARACTER OF LAMB. 197 thing, and sheds a grace over all. The spirit of gentility seems to breathe around all his persons; he detects the venerable and the excellent in the narrowest circumstances and humblest conditions, with the same Bubtility which reveals the hidden soul of the greatest works of genius. In all things he is most human. Of all modern writers, his works are most immediately directed to give us heart-ease and to make us happy. Among the felicities of Lamb's chequered life, that which he esteemed most, was his intimate friendship with some of the greatest of our poets, — Coleridge, Southey, and Wordsworth ; the last and greatest of whom has paid a tribute to his memory, which may fitly close this memoir. " To a good Man of most dear memory This Stone is sacred. Here he lies apart From the great city where he first drew breath, Was reared and taught; and humbly earned his bread, To the strict labours of the merchant's desk By duty chained. Not seldom did those tasks Tease, and the thought of time so spent depress His spirit, but the recompense was high ; Firm Independence, Bounty's rightful sire; AEfections, warm as, sunshine, free as air ; And when the precious hours of leisure came, Knowledge and wisdom, gained from converse sweet With books, or while he ranged the crowded streets With a keen eye, and overflowing heart : So genius triumphed over seeming wrong, And poured out truth in works by thoughtful love Inspired— works potent over smiles and tears. And as round mountain-tops the lightning plays, Thus innocently sported, breaking forth As from a cloud of some grave .sympathy. Humour and wild instinctive wit, and all The vivid flashes of his spoken words. From the most gentle creature nursed in fields Had been derived the name he bore — a name, Wherever Christian altars have been raised, Hallowed to meekness and to innocence; And if in him meekness at times gave way. Provoked out of herself by troubles strange. Many and strange, that hung about his life; Still, at the centre of his being, lodged A soul by resignation sanctified: And if too often, self reproached, he felt That Innocence belongs not to our kind, A power that never ceased to abide in him. Charity, 'mid the multitude of sins That she can cover, left not his exposed To an unforgiving judgment from just Heaven. 0, he was good, if e'er a good man lived! * * * * * From a reflecting mind and sorrowing heart Those simple lines flowed with an earnest wish. Though but a doubting hope, that they might serve Fitly to guard the precious dust of him Whose virtues called them forth. That aim is missed : For much that truth most urgently required Had from a faltering pen been asked in vain: Yet, haply, on the printed page received, The imperfect record, there, may stand unblamed As long as verse of mine shall breathe the air Of memory, or see the light of love. Thou wert a scorner of the fields, my Friend, But more in show than truth : and from the fields. And from the mountains, to thy rural grave Transported, my soothed spirit hovers o'er Its green untrodden turf, and blowing flowers ; And taking up a voice shall speak (though still Awed by the theme's peculiar sanctity, Which words less free presumed not even to touch) Of that fraternal love, whose heaven-lit lamp From infancy, through manhood, to the- last Of threescore years, and to thy latest hour. Burnt on with ever-strengthening light, enshrined Within thy bosom. 'Wonderful' hath been The love established between man and man, ' Passing the love of women ;' and between Man and his help-m5,te in fast wedlock joined Through God, is raised a spirit and soul of love Without whose blissful influence Paradise Had been no Paradise; and earth were now A waste where creatures bearing human form. Direst of savage beasts, would roam in fear, Joyless and comfortless. Our days glide on ; And let him grieve who cannot choose but grieve That he hath been an Elm without his Vine, And her bright dower of clustering charities. That, round his trunk and branches, might have clung Enriching and adorning. Unto thee, Not so enriched, not so adorned, to thee Was given (say rather thoU of later birth Wert given to her) a Sister— 'tis a word Timidly uttered, for she lives, the meek. The self restraining, and the ever-kind ; In whom thy reason and intelligent heart Found — for all interests, hopes, and tender cares. All softening, humanising, hallowing powers, Whether withheld, or for her sake unsought- More than sufficient recompense I Her love (What weakness prompts the voice to tell it here?) Was as the love of mothers ; and when years. Lifting the boy to man's estate, had called The long-protected to assume the part Of a protector, the first fiUial tie Was undissolved ; and, in or out of sight, Remained imperishably interwoven .With life itself Thus, 'mid a shifting world. Did they together testify of time And season's difference — a double tree With two collateral stems sprung from one root: Such were they — and such through life they migU have been In union, in partition only such; Otherwise wrought the will of the Most High ; Yet, through all visitations and all trials, Still they were faithful; like two vessels launched From the same beach one ocean to explore 198 CHARACTER OF LAMB. With mutual help, and sailing — to their league True, as inexorable winds, or bars Floating or fixed of polar ice, allow. But turn we rather, let my spirit turn With thine, silent and invisible Friend! To those dear intervals, nor rare nor brief, When reunited, and by choice withdrawn From miscellaneous converse, ye were taught That the remembrance of foregone distress, And the worse fear of future ill (which oft Doth hang around it, as a sickly child Upon its mother) may be both alike Disarmed of power to unsettle present good Bo prized, and things inward and outward held In such an even balance, that the heart Acknowledges God's grace, his mercy feels, And in its depth of gratitude is still. gift divine of quiet sequestration! The hermit, exercised in prayer and praise, And feeding daily on the hope of heaven, Is happy in his vow, and fondly cleaves To life-long singleness: but happier far Was to your souls, and, to the thoughts of others, A thousand times more beautiful appeared, Your dual loneliness. The sacred tie Is broken; yet why grieve? for Time but holds His moiety in trust, till Joy shall lead To the best world where parting is unknown." FINAL MEMORIALS OF CHARLES lamb: CONSISTING CHIEFLY OF HIS LETTERS NOT BEFORE PUBLISHED, WITH SKETCHES OP SOME OF HIS COMPANIONS. SIR THOMAS NOON TALFOURD, D.C.L. ONB Of HIS EXECDTOaa. TO WILLIAM WORDSWORTH, ESQ. D.C.L. POET lAUEEATE, THESE FINAL MEMORIALS OF ONE "WHO CHERISHED HIS FRIENDSHIP AS A COMFORT AMIDST GRIEFS, AND A GLORY AMIDST DEPRESSIONS, ARE, WITH AFFECTION AND RESPECT, INSCRIBED BY ONE "WHOSE PRIDE IS TO HAVE BEEN IN OLD TIME HIS EARNEST ADMIREH, AND ONE OF WHOSE FONDEST "WISHES IS THAT HE MAY BE LONG SPARED TO ENJOY FAME, RARELY ACCORDED TO THE LIVING. PREFACE. Nearly twelve years have elapsed since the Letters of Charles Lamb, accompanied by such slight sketch of his Life as might link them together, and explain the circumstances to which they refer, were given to the world. In the Preface to that work, reference was made to let- ters yet remaining unpublished, and to a period when a more complete estimate might be formed of the singular and delightful character of the writer than was there presented. That period has arrived. Several of his friends, who might possibly have felt a moment's pain at the publication of some of those effusions of kindness, in which they are sportively mentioned, have been removed by death ; and the dismissal of the last, and to him the dearest of all, his sister, while it has brought to her the repose she sighed for ever since she lost him, has released his biographer from a difficulty which has hitherto prevented a due appreciation of some of his noblest qualities. Her most lamentable, but most innocent agency in the event which consigned her for life to his protection, forbade the introduction of any letter, or allu- sion to any incident, which might ever, in the long and dismal twilight of consciousness which she endured, shock her by the recurrence of long past and terrible sorrows ; and the Bame consideration for her induced the suppression of every passage which referred to the malady with which she was through life at intervals afflicted. Although her death had re- moved the objection to a reference to her intermittent suffering, it still left a momentous ques- tion, whether even then, when no relative remained to be affected by the disclosure, it would be right to unveil the dreadful calamity which marked one of its earliest visitations, and which, though known to most of those who were intimate with the surviving sufferers, had never been publicly associated with their history. When, however, I reflected that the truth, while in no wise affecting the gentle excellence of one of them, casts new and solemn lights on the character of the other ; that while his frailties have received an ample share of that indulgence which he extended to all human weaknesses, their chief exciting cause has been hidden ; that his moral strength and the extent of his self-sacrifice have been hitherto un- known to the world; I felt that to develope all which is essential to the just appreciation of his rare excellence, was due both to him and to the public. "While I still hesitated as to the extent of disclosure needful for this purpose, my lingering doubts were removed by the ap- pearance of a full statement of the melancholy event, with all the details capable of being collected from the newspapers of the time, in the " British Quarterly Review," and the dif- 201 202 PREFACE. fusion of the passage, extracted thence, through several other journals. After this publica- tion, no doubt could remain as to the propriety of publishing the letters of Lamb on this event, eminently exalting the characters of himself and his sister, and enabling the reader to judge of the sacrifice which followed it. I have also availed myself of the opportunity of introducing some letters, the objection to publishing which has been obviated by the same great healer. Time; and of adding others which I deemed too trivial for the public eye, when the whole wealth of his letters lay before me, collected by Mr. Moxon from the distinguished correspondents of lamb, who kindly re- sponded to his request for permission to make the public sharers in their choice epistolary treasures. The appreciation which the letters already published, both in this country and in America — perhaps even more remarkable in America than in England — have attained, and the interest which the lightest fragments of Lamb's correspondence, which have accidentally appeared in other quarters, have excited, convince me that some letters which I withheld, as doubting their worthiness of the public eye, will not now be unwelcome. There" is, indeed, scarcely a note — a notelet — (as he used to call his very little letters) Lamb ever wrote, which has not some tinge of that quaint sweetness, some hint of that peculiar union of kindness and whim, which distinguish him from all other poets and humorists. I do not think the reader will complain that — with some very slight exceptions, which personal considerations still render necessary — I have made him a partaker of all the epistolary treasures which the generosity of Lamb's correspondents placed at Mr. Moxon's disposal. When I first considered the materials of this work, I purposed to combine them with a new edition of the former volumes ; but the consideration that such a course would be unjust to the possessors of those volumes induced me to present them to the public in a separate form. In accomplishing that object, I have felt the diiSculty of connecting the letters so as to render their attendant circumstances intelligible, without falling into repetition of passages in the previous biography. My attempt has been to make these volumes subsidiary to the former, and yet complete in themselves ; but I fear its imperfection will require much indulgence from the reader. The italics and capitals used in printing the letters are always those of the writer; and the little passages sometimes prefixed to letters, have been printed as in the originals. In venturing to introduce some notices of Lamb's deceased companions, I have been im- pelled partly by a desire to explain any allusion in the letters which might be misunderstood by those who are not familiar with the fine vagaries of Lamb's affection, and partly by the hope of giving some faint notion of the entire circle with which Lamb is associated in the recollection of a few survivors. ^ T. N. T. FINAL MEMOEIALS OF CHAKLES LAMB. CHAPTER I. LETTERS OF LAMB TO COLERIDGE, IN THE SPRING AND SUMMER OP 1796. In the year 1795, Charles Lamb resided with his father, mother, and sister, in lodg- ings at No. 7, Little Queen-street, Holburn. The father was rapidly sinking into dotage ; the mother suffered under an infirmity which deprived her of the use of her limbs ; and the sister not only undertook the office of daily and nightly attendance on her mother, but sought to add by needle-work to their slender resources. Their income then con- sisted of an annuity which Mr. Lamb the elder derived from the old Bencher, Mr. Salt, whom he had faithfully served for many years ; Charles's salary, which, being that of a clerk of three years' standing in the India House, could have been but scanty ; and a small payment made for board by an old maiden aunt, who resided with them. In this year Lamb, being just twenty years of age, began to write verses — partly incited by the example of his old friend, Coleridge, whom he regarded with as much reverence as affection, and partly inspired by an attach- ment to a young lady residing in the neigh- bourhood of Islington, who is commemorated in his early verses as " the fair-haired maid." How his love prospered we cannot ascertain ; but we know how nobly that love, and all hope of the earthly blessings attendant on such an affection, were resigned on the catas- trophe which darkened the following year. In the meantime, his youth was lonely — rendered the more so by the recollection of the society of Coleridge, who had just left London — of Coleridge in the first bloom of life and genius, unshaded by the mysticism which it afterwards glorified — full of bound- less ambition, love, and hope ! There was a tendency to insanity in his family, which had been more than once developed in his sister ; and it was no matter of surprise that in the dreariness of his solitude it fell upon him ; and that, at the close of the year, he was subjected for a few weeks to the re- straint of the insane. The wonder is that, amidst all the difficulties, the sorrows, and the excitements of his succeeding forty years, it never recurred. Perhaps the true cause of this remarkable exemption — an exemption the more remarkable when his afflictions are considered in association with one single frailty — will be found in the sudden claim made on his moral and intellectual nature by a terrible exigency, and by his generous answer to that claim ; so that a life of self- sacrifice was rewarded by the preservation of unclouded reason. The following letter to Coleridge, then residing at Bristol, which is undated, but which is proved by circumstances to have been written in the spring of 1796, and which is probably the earliest of Lamb's letters which have been preserved, contains his own account of this seizure. Allusion to the same event will be perceived in two letters of the' same year, after which no reference to it appears in his correspondence, nor can any be remembered in his conversations with his dearest friends. 203 204 LETTERS TO COLERIDGE TO MR. COLERIDGE. " 1796. " 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. " 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 Reviews, 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 Re- ligion.' There is need of multiplying such books a hundredfold in this philosophical age, to prevent converts to atheism, for they seem too tough disputants to meddle with afterwards. " Le Grice is gone to make puns in Corn- wall. He has got a tutorship to a young boy living with his mother, a widow-lady. He will, of course, initiate him quickly in ' what- soever things are lovely, honourable, and of good report.' Coleridge ! I know not what suffering scenes you have gone through at Bristol. My life has been somewhat diver- sified 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,' &c., a copy you shall have when it comes out. They are without exception the best imita- tions I ever saw. Colei'idge ! it may con- vince 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, Beevish complaint, or harsh reproof unkind, 'Twas hut the error of a sickly mind And trouhled thoughts, clouding the purer well, And waters clear, of Reason ; and for me Let this my verse the poor atonement he — My verse, which thou to praise wert e'er inclined Too highly, and with partial eye to see No hiemish. Thou to me didst ever show Kindest aifeotion ; and wouldst oft-times lend An ear to the desponding love-sick lay, Weeping my sorrows with me, who repay But ill the mighty deht 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, " 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 compliments to Southey if at Bristol ; — why, he is a very Leviathan of Bards — the small min- now, I !" In the spring of this year, Coleridge pro- posed the association of those first efforts of the young clerk in the India House, which he had prompted and praised, with his own, in a new edition of his Poems, to which Mr. Charles Lloyd also proposed to contribute. The following letter comprises Sonnets trans- mitted to Coleridge for this purpose, accom- panied by remarks so characteristic as to induce the hope that the reader will forgive LETTERS TO COLERIDGE. 205 the introduction of these small gems of verse which were published in due course, for the sake of the original setting. TO MR. COLERIDGE. ' 1796. " I am in such violent pain with the head- ache, that I am fit for nothing but tran- scribing, 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 to- morrow (Wednesday) morning. The fol- Idwinu- Sonnet was composed during a walk down into Hertfordshire early in last summer : "The Lord of Light shakes o(f his clrowsyhed* 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. " 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 Hert- fordshire. The next was written within a day or two of the last, on revisiting a spot where the scene was laid of my first Sonnet ' that mocked my step with many a lonely glade.' " When last I Toved these winding wood-walks green. Green winding walks, and shady pathways sweet ; Oft-times 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-wandering, where in happier days I held free converse with my fair-haired maid. I passed the little cottage which she loved, The cottage which did once my all contain ; It spake of days that ne'er must come again ; Spake to my heart, and much my heart was moved. Now 'Fair befal thee, gentle maid,' said I; And from the cottage turned me with a sigh. " The next retains a few lines from a Sonnet of mine which you once remarked had no ' body of thought' in it. I agree with you, but have preserved a part of it, and it runs thus. I flatter myself you will like it : — " A timid grace sits trembling in her eye. As loth to meet the rudeness of men's sight; Yet shedding a delicious lunar light. That steeps in kind oblivious ecstacy The care-crazed mind, like some still melody : Speaking most plain 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. " 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 Innocent 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 show of seeming good beguil' 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 Bangor, these two lines to ' Happiness.' Nun, sober and devout, where art thou fled. To hide in shades thy meek contented he.id ? Lines eminently beautiful; but I do not re- member having read them previously, for the credit of my tenth and eleventh lines. Parnell has two lines (which probably suggested the above) to ' Contentment.' Whither, ah ! whither art thou fled. To hide thy meek contented f head? "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, * "Drowsyhed" I have met with, I think, in Spenser. 'Tis an are thing, but it rhymes with led, and rhyming covers a multitude of licenses. — C. Lamb's Manuscripts. * Cowley uses this phrase with a somewhat different meaning. I meant, loves of relatives, friends, &o. — C. Lamb's Manuscripts. t An odd epithet for Contentment in a poet so poetical as Parnell. — C. Lamb's Manuscripts. 206 LETTERS TO COLERIDGE. 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 independent, 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 learned 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. jOoleridge ! there are 10,000 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 anything bring you to London, you will recollect No. 7, Little Queen Street, Holborn. " I shall be too ill to call on Wordsworth myself, but will take care to transmit him his poem, when I have read it. I saw Le Grice the day before his departure, and men- tioned incidentally his ' teaching the young idea how to shoot.' Knowing him, and the probability there is of people having a pro- pensity 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 decla- mations. When I send White's .book, I will add that. I am sorry thei-e should be any difference between you and Southey. 'Be- tween you two there should be peace,' tho' I must say I have borne him no good will since he spirited you away from among us. What is become of Moschus ? You sported some of his sublimities, I see, in your Watch- man, Very decent things. So much for to- night from your afflicted, headachey, sore- throatey, humble servant, C. Lamb." " Tuesday night. — Of your Watchman, the Review of Burke was the best prose. I augured great things from the nrst 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 disposi- tion thoroughly to relish good writing. I have re-read it in a more favourable mo- ment, and hesitate not to pronounce it sublime. If there be anything in it ap- proaching to tumidity (which I meant not to infer; by elaborate I meant simply la- boured), it is the gigantic hyperbole by which you describe the evils of existing society ; ' snakes, lions, hyenas, and behe- moths,' 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 dis- herited of Earth,' and ' the strange beatitude ' which the good man shall recognise in heaven, as well as the particulari^ng of the children of wretchedness (I have unconsciously in- cluded every part of it), from 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 mouth.' 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, &c., poems of Milton for an edition where Fuseli presides as designer. Coleridge ! to an idler like LETTERS TO COLERIDGE. 207 myself, to write and receive letters are both very pleasant, but I vrish 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 pro- viding 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 spoke of him above, 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 unin- terrupted feelings of profound admiration. You may safely rest your fame on it. The best remaining things ai"e 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 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 though 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,' &c. 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 particularise 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 M'ild wanderings, which we were so fond of hearing you indulge when among us. It has endeai-ed us more than anything to your good lady, and your own self-reproof that follows delighted us. 'Tis a charming poem throughout (you have well remarked that charming, 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 generalising). I want room to tell you how we are charmed with your verses in the manner of Spenser, &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 newspapers, and confine your- self 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 honour 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." The parcel mentioned in the last letter, brought' the " Joan of Arc," and a request from Coleridge, that Lamb would freely criticise his poems with a view to their 208 LETTERS TO COLERIDGE. selection and correction for the contemplated volume. The reply is contained in the fol- lowing letter which, written on several days, begins at the extreme top of the first page, without any ceremony of introduction, and is comprised in three sides and a bit of foolscap. TO MR. COLERIDGE. "With 'Joan of Arc' I have been de- lighted, 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 26, ' Fierce and terrible Benevolence !' is a phrase full of grandeur and originality. The whole context made me feel possessed, even like Joan herself. Page 28, ' It is most horrible with the keen sword to gore the finely-fibred human frame,' and what follows, please me mightily. In the 2nd Book, the first forty lines in par- ticular 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 circumstances and lofty-pacedness of versifi- cation. Southey's similes, though many of 'era 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 personi- fications 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 447th line you have placed Prophets and Enthusiasts cheek by jowl, on too intimate a footing for the dignity of the former. Neces- -sarian like-speaking, it is correct. Page 98, * Lapland mountains. The verses referred to are pub- lished in Mr. Coleridge's Poem entitled " The Destiny of Nations: a Vision." ' 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 bafiles the Doctors, Seraphic and Irrefragable, with all their trumpery!' Page 126, the proces- sion, the appearances of the Maid, of the Bastard Son of Orleans and of Tremouille, are full of fire and fancy, and exquisite melody of versification. The personifications from line 303 to 309, in the heat of the battle, had better been omitted ; they are not very striking, and only encumber. The converse which Joan and Conrade hold on the banks of the Loire is altogether beau- tiful. Page 313, the conjecture that in dreams ' all things are that seem,' is one of those conceits which the Poet delights to admit into his creed — a creed, by the way, more marvellous and mystic than ever Anthanasius dreamed of. Page 315, 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 347, Cruelty is such as Hogarth might have painted her. Page 361, all the passage about Love (where he seems to confound conjugal love with creating and preserving love) is vei'y 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 con- ceive 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 ex- pected to find it verbose. Joan, I think, does too little in battle ; Dunois perhaps the same ; Conrade too much. The anecdotes interspersed among the battles refresh the mind very agreeably, and I am delighted -m 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 fiime? And does not Southey use too often the expletives 'did,' and 'does?' They have LETTERS TO COLERIDGE. 209 a good effect at times, but are too incon- siderable, 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 Cole- ridge ? 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 im- portance on me, to sit in judgment upon your rhymes. First, though, let me thank yon 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 pro- nounced the symptoms favourable, and gives us every hope that there will be no need of amputation : God send not ! We are neces sarily confined with him all the afternoon and evening till very late, so that I am steal- ing 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 manrters, no one seeks or cares for my society ; and I am left alone. Allen calls only occasionally, as though it were a duty rather, and seldom stays ten minutes. Then judge how thank- ful 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, pro- ceed 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 14 are verj' 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 14 tranquillity.' It is the very reflex pleasure that distinguishes the tranquillity of a think- ing being from that of a shepherd, a modern one I would be understood to mean, a Damsetas, 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 pai-agraph, and f;incy-full, of 'A stream there is which rolls in lazy flow,' &c. &c. ' Murmurs sweet undersong 'mid jasmin bowers,' is a sweet line, and so are the three next. The concluding simile is fai'-fetched — ' tempest-honoured' is a quaint- ish 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, 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 withwhich 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 wha(» you call the ' Sigh,' I think I hear yoit- again. I image to myself the little smoky room at the Salutation and 210 LETTERS TO COLERIDGE. Cat, wher( 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 trouble- some ! 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 digres- sion. 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 com- pressed, 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 Jiis poor unsheltered head Did' penury her sickly mildew shed : And soon are fled the charius of early grace, And joy's wild gleams that lightened o'er his face.' Then ' youth of tumultuous soul' to ' sio-h,' as before. The rest may all stand down tu ' 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 vie, 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 difiidence. Keject you, if you please, with as little remorse as you would the colour of a coat or the pattern of a" buckle, where our fancies differed. " The ' Pixies' is a perfect thing, and so are the ' Lines on the spring,' page 28. The ' Epitaph on an Infant,' like a Jack-o'- lanthorn, has danced about (or like Dr. 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, o'erlooked 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 delightful 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 two last lines are obvious and unnecessary, and you need not now make fourteen lines of it ; now it is re- christened from a Sonnet to an Effusion. Schiller might have written the twentieth effusion ; 'tis worthy of him in any sense. I was glad to meet with those lines you sent me, when my sister was so ill ; I had lost the copy, and I felt not a little proud at seeing my name in your verse. The complaint uf LETTERS TO COLERIDGE. 211 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-oheered 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-Ieafed-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 thirteenth — ' How reason reeled,' &c., are good lines, but must spoil the whole with me, who know it is only a fiction of yours, and that the 'rude 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 foredone, I charge you, Coleridge, spare my ewe-lambs ; and though a gentle- man 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 n6t '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 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 alter- andum, cut^up-andum, abridgandum,' 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, Cole- ridge, spare my ewe-lambs! I must confess were they mine, I should omit, in editione secundd, eff'usions 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 1 \irt not unreluctantly with that lively line 'Chaste joyance dancing in her bright jlue 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. A , I am sorry to say, is a con-firmed Atheist; S , a cold-hearted, well-bred, conceited disciple of Godwin, does him no good. " How I sympathise with you on the dull duty of a reviewer, and heartily damn with you Ned E and the Prosodist. I shall, however, wait impatiently for the articles in the Critical Review, next month, because 212 LETTERS TO COLERIDGE. 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 vrish 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 uatural 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 neighbours. Thursday. " I do not know that I entirely agree with you in your stricture upon my sonnet ' To Innocence.' To men whose hearts are not quite deadened by their commerce with the world, innocence (no longer familiar) becomes an awful idea. So I felt when I wrote it. Your other censures (qualified and sweetened, though, 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 burnt 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 ' Eeligious 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 scien- tific 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 it in less than a month. I shall be richly content with a letter from you some day early in July ; though, if you get any how settled before then, pray let me know it immediately ; 'twould 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 j'ou through life ; though mine will be loss if your lot is to be cast at Bristol, or at Notting- ham, or anywhere but London. Our loves to Mrs. C . C. L. ^'■Friday, lOift June, 1V96." Coleridge, settled in his melancholy cot- tage, invited Lamb to visit him. The hope — the expectation — the disappointment, are depicted in the following letter, written in the summer of the eventful year 1796. TO MR. COLERIDGE. « July 1st, 1796. " The first moment I can come I will ; but my hopes of coming yet a whilcy 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 though, and will accompany me in spirit. Most exquisite are the lines from Withers. Your own lines, introductory to your poem on ' Self,' run smoothly and pleasurably, and I exhort you to continue 'em. What shall I say to your ' Dactyls V 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 : — 4. — Sorely your Dactyls do drag along limp-footed. 5. — Sad Is the measure that hangs a clog round 'em so. 6. — Meagre and languid, proclaiminig its wretchedness. 1. — Weary, unsatisfied, not a little sick of 'em. 11. — Cold is my tired heart, I have no charity. 2.— Painfully travelling thus over the rugged road. 7. — begone, measure, half Latin, half English, then. 12.— Dismal your Dactyls are, God help ye, rhyming ones! " I possibly may not come this fortnight ; therefore, all thou hast to do is not to look for me any particular day, only to write word LETTERS TO COLERIDGE. 213 immediately, if at any time you quit Bristol, lest Icome and Taffy be not at home. I hope I can come in a day or two ; but young, S -, of my office, is suddenly taken ill in this very nick of time.v and I must officiate for him till he can come to work again : had the knave gone sick, and died, and been buried at any other time, philosophy might have afforded one comfort, but just now I have no patience with him. Quarles I am as great a stranger to as I was to Withers. I •wish you would try and do something to bring our elder bards into more general fame. I writhe with indignation when, in books of criticism, where common-place quo- tation is heaped upon quotation, I find no mention of such men as Massinger, or Beau- mont and Fletcher, men with whom succeed- ing 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-livered, lily-cheeked, bashful, palpitating, awkward hussy, that hangs like a green girl, at her. sister's apron- strings, and will go with her whithersoever she goes. For the life and soul of me, I could not improve those lines in your poem on the Prince and Princess, so I changed them to * An exception he certainly would not have made a few years afterwards ; for he used to mention two pretty lines In the " Orphan," " Sweet as the shepherd's pipe upon the mountains, With all his fleecy flock at feed beside him," as a redeeming passage amidst mere stage trickeries. The great merit which lies in the construction of "Venice Preserved," was not in his line of appreciation ; and he thought Thom.son's reference to Otway's ladies — " poor Monimia moans, And Belvidera pours her soul in love," worth both heroines. what you bid me, and left 'em at Perry's.f I think 'em altogether good, and do not see why you were solicitous about any alteration I have not yet seen, but will make it my business to See, to-day's Chronicle, for your verses on Home Tooke. Dyer stanza'd him in one of the papers tother day, but, I think, unsuccessfully. Tooke's friends meeting was, I suppose, a dinner of condolence. J I am not sorry to find you (for all Sara) immersed in clouds of smoke and metaphysics. You know I had a sneaking kindness for this last noble science, and you taught me some smat- tering of it. I look to become no mean pro- ficient under your tuition. Coleridge, what do you mean by saying you wrote to me about Plutarch and Porphyry ? I received no such letter, nor remember a syllable of the matter, yet am not apt to forget any part of your epistles, least of all, an injunction like that. I will cast about for 'em, tho' I am a sad hand to know what books are worth, and both these worthy gentlemen are alike out of my line. To-morrow I shall be less suspensive, and in better cue to write, so good bye at present. " Friday Evening. — That execrable aristo- crat and knave R has given me an abso- lute refusal of leave. The poor man cannot guess at my disappointment. Is it not hard, ' this dread dependence on the low-bred mind?' Continue to write to me tho', and I must be content. Our loves and best good wishes attend upon you both. Lamb." " S did return, but there are two or three more ill and absent, which was the plea for refusing me. I shall never have heart to ask for holidays again. The man next him in office, C , furnished him with the objections. C. Lamb." The little copy of verses in which Lamb commemorated and softened his disappoint- ment, bearing date (a most unusual circum- stance with Lamb), 5th July, 1796, was in- closed in a letter of the following day, which refers to a scheme Coleridge had formed of settling in London on an invitation to share f Some " occasional " verses of Coleridge's written to order for the Morning Chronicle. % This was just after the Westminster Election, in which Mr. Tooke was defeated. 2U LETTERS TO COLERIDGE. the Editorship of the Morning Chronicle. The poem includes a liimentation over a fantastical loss — that of a draught of the Avon "which Shakespeare drank;" some- what strangely confounding the Avon of Stratford with that of Bristol. It may be doubted whether Shakespeare knew the taste of the waves of one Avon more than of the other, or whether Lamb would not have found more kindred with the world's poet in a glass of sack, than in the water of either stream. Coleridge must have enjoyed the misplaced sentiment of his friend, for he was singularly destitute of sympathy with local associations, which he regarded as interfering with the pure and simple impression of great deeds or thoughts ; denied a special interest to the Pass of Thermopylse ; and instead of subscribing to purchase " Shakespeare's House," would scarcely have admitted the peculiar sanctity of the spot which enshrines his ashes. TO SARA AND HER SAMUEL. " Was it so hard a thing ? — I did but ask A fleeting holiday. 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, I 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 was crabbed, who should say him nay; That man were churlish, who should drive him thence ! A blessing light upon your head, 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 banks Of Avon, lucid stream, to taste the wave Which Shakespeare drank, our British Helicon : Or with mine eye intent on Kedcliffe towers, To muse in tears on that mysterious youth, Cruelly slighted, who to London walls. In evil hour, shaped his disastrous course. Complaint begone ; begone, unkind reproof: Take up, my song, take up a merrier strain, For yet again, and lo! from Avon's vales Another ' minstrel ' cometh ! Youth endear'd, God and good angels guide thee on thy way. And gentler fortunes wait the friends I love. "C.L." The letter accompanying begins cheerfully thus : these " What can I do till, you send word what priced and placed house you should like ? Lslington, 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 con- tiguity to the Bench. Choose ! But are you really coming to town ? The hope of it has entirely disarmed my petty disappointment of its nettles, yet I rejoice so much on my own account, that I fear I do not feel enough pure satisfaction on yours. Why, surely, the joint editorship of the Chronicle must le very comfortable and secure living for a man. But should not you read French, or do you ? and can you write with sufficient moderation, as 'tis called, when one suppresses the one half of what one feels or could say on a sub- ject, to chime in the better with p,opular lukewarmness ? White's 'Letters' are near publication ; could you review 'em or get 'em reviewed? Are you not connected with the Critical Review ? His frontispiece is a good conceit — Sir John learning to dance to please Madam Page, in dress of doublet, &c., from the upper half, and modern pantaloons with shoes, &c., of ithe eighteenth century, from the lower half; and the whole work is full of goodly quips and rare fancies, ' all deftly masqued like hoar antiquity' — much supe- rior to Dr. Kenrick's ' Falstaff's Wedding,' which you have seen. A sometimes laughs at superstition, and religion, and the like. A living fell vacant lately in the gift of the Hospital: White informed him that he stood a fair chance for it. He scrupled and scrupled about it, and at last, to use his own words, ' tampered ' with Godwin to know whether the thing was honest or not. Godwin said nay to it, and A rejected the living ! Could the blindest poor papist have bowed more servilely to his priest or casuist? Why sleep the Watchman's an- swers to that Godwin ? I beg you will not delay to alter, if you mean to keep those last lines I sent you. Do that, and read these for your pains : — TO THE POET COWPER. "Cowper, I thank my God that thou art heal'dl Thine was the sorest malady of all; And I am sad to think that it should light Upon the worthy head ! But thou art heai'd. And thou art yet, we trust, the destined man, Born to reanimate the lyre, whose chords Have slumber'd, and have idle lain so long; To the immortal sounding of whose stiings Did Milton frame the stately-paced yevse ; LETTERS TO COLEEIDGE. 215 Amotig Vrhose wires with light finger playing, Our elder bard, Spenser, a gentle name, The lady Mufcs' dearest darling child, Elifiteu the deftest tunes yet heard In hall or bower, taking the delicate ear Of Sidney and his peerless Maiden Queen. Thou, then, take up the mighty epic strain, Cowper, of England's Bards, the wisest and the best. " I have read your climax of praises in those three Reviews. These mighty spouters out of panegyric waters have, two of 'em, scattered their spray even upon nie, and the waters are cooling and refreshing. Prosaically, the Monthly reviewers have made indeed a hirge article of it, and done you justice. The Critical have, in their wisdom, selected not the very best specimens, and 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 and the very language he used to me one day. I fear you will not accord entirely with my sentiments of Cowper, as expressed above (perhaps scarcely just) ; but the poor gentle- man has just recovered from his lunacies, and that begets pity, and pity love, and love admiration ; and then it goes hard with people but they lie ! Have you read the Ballad called ' Leuora,' in the second number of the Monthly Magazine ! If you have ! ! ! ! There is another fine song, from the same author (Burger), in the third number, of scarce inferior merit ; and (vastly below these) there are some happy specimens of English hexameters, in an imitation of Ossian, in the fifth number. For your Dactyls — am sorry you are so sore about 'em — a very Sir Fretful ! In good troth, the Dactyls are ^ood 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 in all your life — you have written much. " Have a care, good Master Poet, of the Statute de Contumelid. What do you mean by calling Madame Mara, — harlot and naughty things ?* The goodness of the verse * " I detest These scented rooms, where, to a gaudy throng Heaves the proud harlot her distended breast In intricacies of laborious song." Lines composed in a Concert Eoom, by S. T. C. would not save you in a court of justice. But are you really coming to town? Cole- ridge, a gentleman called in London lately from Bristol, and inquired whether there were any of the family of a Mr. Chambers living : this Mr. Chambers, he said, had been the making of a friend's fortune, who wished to make some return for it. He went away without seeing her. Now a Mrs. Reynolds, a very intimate friend of ours, whom you have seen at our house, is the only daughter, and all that survives, of Mr, Chambers ; and a very little supply would be of service to her, for she married very unfortunately, and has parted with her husband. Pray find out this Mr. Pember (for that was the gentleman's friend's name) ; he is an attorney, and lives at Bristol. Find him out, and acquaint him with the circumstances of the case, and ofier to be the medium of supply to Mrs. Reynolds, if he chooses to make her a present. She is in very distressed circumstances. Mr. Pember, attorney, Bristol. Mr. Chambers lived in- the Temple ; Mrs. Reynolds, his daughter, was my schoolmistress, and is in the room at this present writing. This last circumstance induced me to write so soon again. I have not further to add. Our loves to Sara. Thursday. C. Lamb." CHAPTER XL LETTERS OP LAMB TO COLERIDGE, CHIEFLY RELATING TO THE DEATH OF MRS. LAMB, AND MISS LAMB's SUBSEQUENT CONDITION. The autumn of 1796 found Lamb engaged all the morning in task-work at the India House, and all the evening in attempting to amuse his father by playing cribbage ; some- times snatching, a few minutes for his only pleasure, writing to Coleridge ; while Miss Lamb was worn down to a state of extreme nervous misery, by attention to needlework by day and to her mother by night, until the insanity, which had been manifested more than once, broke out into frenzy, which, on Thursday, 22nd of September, proved fatal to her mother. The following account of the proceedings on the inquest, copied from the " Times" of Monday, 26th September, 1796, supplies the details of this twrible calamity, 216 LETTERS TO COLERIDGE. doubtless with accuracy, except that it would seem, from Lamb's ensuing letter to Coleridge, that lie, and not the landlord, took the' knife trom the unconscious hand. " On Friday afternoon, the coroner and a jury sat on the body of a lady- in the neigh- bourhood 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 bruught up the landlord of the house, but too late. The dreadful scene presented to him the mother lifeless, pierced to the heart, on a chair, her daughter yet wildly standing over her with the fatal knife, and the old man, her father, weeping by her side, himself bleeding at the forehead from the effects of a severe blow he received from one of the forks she had been madly hurling about the room. " For a few days prior to this, the family had" observed some symptoms of insanity in her, which had so much increased on the Wednesday evening, that her brother, early the next morning, went to Dr. Pitcairn, but that gentleman was not at home. " It seems the young lady had been once be- fore deranged. "The jury, of course, brought in their ver- dict — Lunacy."* The following is Lamb's account of the event to Coleridge : — " September 27th, 1796. " My dearest Friend, — White or some of my friends, or the public papers, by this time may have informed you of the terrible cala- mities that have fallen on our family. I will * A statement nearly similar to this will be found in several other journals of the day, and in the Annual Kegister for the year. The " True Briton" adds : — " It appears she had been before, in the earlier part of her life, deranged, from the harassing fatigues of too much business As her carriage towards her mother had always been affectionate in the extreme, it is believed her increased attachment to her, as her infirmities called 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 i3^ gone and done with. With me ' the former things are passed away,' and I have some- thing more to do than to feel. " God Almighty have us well in his keep- ing. 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 yoa and all of us. C. Lamb." After the inquest, Miss Lamb was placed in an Asylum, where she was, in a short time, restored to reason. The following is Lamb's next letter : — TO MR. COLERIDGE. " Oct. 3rd, 1792. " My dearest Friend, — Your letter was an inestimable treasure to me. It will be a for it by day and by night, caused her loss of reason at this time. It has been stated in some of the morning papers that she has an insane brother in confinement; but this is without foundation." None of the accounts give the names of the sufferers ; but in the index to the Annual Register, the anonymous account is referred to with Mrs. Lamb's name. LETTERS TO COLERIDGE. 217 comfort to you, I know,' to know that our prospects are somewhat brighter. My poor deal', dearest sister, the unhappy and un- conscious instrument of the Almighty's judg- ments 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 tem- pered 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 dis- order 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, Cole- ridge, 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 tranquil- lity 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 sup- ported me? I allow much to other favour- able circumstances. I felt that I had some- thing else to do than to regret. On that first evening, my aunt was lying insensible, to all appearance like one dying, — my fiither, 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 wonder- fully 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 comprehen- sion 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 anytime to take care of old age and infirmities, had now, with his bad leg, an exemption from Buch duties, and I was now left alone. One little incident may serve to make you under- stand 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 par- take 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 j 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 friendsnip, some from busy curiosity, and some from interest : I was going to partake with them ; when ray 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, some- thing 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 vvas 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 ih 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 con- stant 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, 218 LETTERS TO COLERIDGE. and he was forced to go. Mr. Norris, of Christ's Hospital, has been as a father to me — JMrs. 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 assist- ance, 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) 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, 1701. or 180Z. rather a-year, out of which we can spare 50^.' or 60Z. 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 Jolm 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 lOOl., which my father will have at Christmas, and this 20Z. 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 com- fortably, on I'SOl. or 120Z. 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 impres- sion 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 your- self 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 uncon* nect myself with him, and shall manage all my father's moneys in future myself, if I take charge of Daddy, which poor John has not even hinted a wish, at any future time even, to share with me. The lady at this madhouse assures me that I may dismiss immediately both doctor and apothecary, retaining occa- sionally a composing draught or so for a while ; and there is a less expensive esta- blishment in her house, where she will only not have a room and nurse to herself, for 501. or guineas a-year — the outside would be 601. — you know, by economy, how much more even I shall be able to spare for her comforts. She will, I fancy, if she stays, make one of the family, rather than of the patients ; and the old and young ladies I like exceedingly, and she loves dearly ; and they, as the saying is, take to her very extraordinarily, if it is 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 my- self too happy. Your lettpr brouglit me back to a view of things which I had entertained LETTERS TO COLERIDGE. 219 from the beginning. I hope (for Mary f 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. 'Tis 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 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." As Lamb recovered from the shock of his own calamity, he found comfort in gently admonishing his friend on that imbecility of purpose which attended the development of his mighty genius. His next letter, com- mencing with this office of friendship, soon reverts to the condition of that sufferer, who was endeared to him the more because others shrank from and forsook her. TO MR. COLERIDGE. "October 17th, 1796. " 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 un- toward 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 indulged regret or querulousness. Mary continues serene and cheerful. I have not by me a little letter she wrote to me ; for, although I see her almost every day, yet we delight to write to one another, for wo 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 these poor crazy moythered brains of yours thinking of always i' 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 respect- fully, most affectionately. Yet she would always love my brother above Mary, Avho 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 ; '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 220 LETTERS TO COLERIDGE. comfort and establishment in life, and for Sara's welfare and comforts 'with you. God love you. God love us all. "C. Lamb." Miss Lamb's gradual restoration to com- fort, and her brother's earnest watchfulness over it, are illustrated in the following frag- ment of a letter : — TO MR. COLERIDGE. " October 2Sth, 1796. " 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 prin- ciples are so likely to co-operate. I am rather at a loss sometimes for books for her, • — our reading is somewhat confined, and we have nearly exhausted our London library. She has her hands too full of work to read much, but a little she must read, for reading was her daily bread." Two months, though passed by Lamb in anxiety and labour, but cheered by Miss Lamb's continued possession of reason, so far restored the tone of his mind, that his interest in the volume which had been con- templated to introduce his first verses to the •world, in association with those of his friend, was enkindled anew. While cherishing the hope of reunion with his sister, and painfully wresting his leisure hours from poetry and Coleridge to amuse the dotage of his father, he watched over his own returning sense of enjoyment with a sort of holy jealousy, apprehensive lest he should forget too soon the terrible visitation of Heaven. At this time he thus writes : — ■ TO MR. COLERIDGE. " December 2nd, 1796. "I have delayed 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 40, 63, 8-i? above all, let me protest strongly against your rejectijBg the ' Complaint of Ninathoma,' 86. The words, I acknowledge, are Ossian's, but you have added to them the 'music of Caril.' If a vicarious substitute be wanting, sacrifice (and 'twill be a piece of self-denial too), the '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 do ; sell the copyright of it at once to a country statuary ; commence in this manner Death's prime poet-laureate ; and let your verses be adopted in every village round, instead of those hitherto famous ones : — ' Afflictions sore long time I bore, Physicians were in vain.'* " I have seen your last very beautiful poem in the Monthly Magazine ; write thus, and you most generally have written thus, and I shall never quarrel with you about simpli- city. With regard to my lines — •Laugh all that weep,' &c. 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 wondering, and perturb'd delight. And a line from tJiai sonnet would not readily have occurred to a stranger. That sonnet, Coleridge, brings afresh to my mind the time * This epitaph, which, notwithstanding Lamb's gentle banter, occupied an entire page in the book, is curious — "a miracle iustead of wit" — for it is a common-place of Coleridge, who, iuvesting ordinary things with a dreamy splendour, or weighing them down with accu- mulated thought, has rarely if ever written a stanza so smoothly vapid — so devoid of mewt or offence — [unless LETTERS TO COLERIDGE. 221 ■when you wrote those on Bowles, Priestley, Burke; — 'twas two Christmases ago, and in that nice little smoky room at the Salutation, which is ever now continually presenting itself to my recollection, with all its asso- ciated train of pipes, tobacco, egg-hot, welsh- rabbits, metaphysics, and poetry. — Are "we never to meet again ? How differently I am circumstanced now ! I have never met with any one — never shall meet with any one — who could or can compensate me for the loss of your society. I have no one to talk all these matters about to ; I lack friends, I lack books to supply their absence : but these complaints ill become me. Lee me compare my present situation, prospects, and state of mind, with what they were but two months back — but two months! 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 solicitude about my sister. She is quite well, but must not, I fear, come to live with us yet a good while. In the first place, because, at present, it would hurt her, and hurt my father, for them to be together : secondly, from a regard to the world's good report, for, I fear, tongues will be busy whenevei- that event takes place. Some have hinted, one man has pressed it on me, that she should be in perpetual con- finement : what she had done to deserve, play with me, you might as well not come home at all.' The argument was unanswer- able, and I set to afresh. I told you I do not approve of your omissions, neither do I quite coincide with you in your arrange- ments. 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. When I read the 'Religious Musings,' 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. 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 vf your Watchmen, ' Dear native brook', &c: . nor I think those last lines you sent me, in which 'all efibrtless,' is without doubt to Us pre- ferred to ' inactive.' If I am writing more than ordinarily dully, 'tis that I am stupefied with a tooth-ache. Hang it! do not omit 48, 52, and 53 : what you do retain, though, call sonnets, for heaven's sake, and not or the necessity of such an hardship, I see eflFusions. Spite of your ingenious anticipa- not; do you? I am starving at the India tion of ridicule in your preface, the five last House, — near seven o'clock without my dinner, and so it has been, and will be, almost all the week. I get home at night o'erwearied, quite faint, and then to cards 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 it be an offence to make/ade do duty as a verb active) as the following : — " Ere sin could blight or sorrow fade, Death came with friendly care; The opening bud to Heaven convey'd, And bade it blossom there." lines of 50 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 Vv'hat 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 me when you move, lest I direct wrong. Has Sara no poems to publish? Those lines, 129, are probably too light for the volume where the ' Religious Musings' are, but I remember some very beautiful lines, addressed by some- body at Bristol to somebody in London. God bless you once more. Thursday iiigM. "C. Lamb." 222 LETTERS TO CDLERIDGE. In another letter, about this time (De- cember, 1796), Lamb transmitted to Cole- ridge two Poems for the volume — one a copy of verses " To a Young Lady going out to India," which were not inserted, and are not worthy of preservation ; the other, en- titled, " The Tomb of Douglas," which was inserted, and which he chiefly valued as a memorial of his impression of Mrs. Siddons' acting in Lady Randolph. The following passage closes the sheet. " At length I have done with verse- making; not that I relish other people's poetry less ; 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 en- joying Milton, but I would not caU that man my friend who should be offended with the ' divine chit-chat of Cowper.' Write me. God love you and yours, C. L." The following, of 10th December, 1796, illustrates Lamb's almost wayward admira- tion of his only friend, and a feeling — how temporary with him! — of vexation with the imperfect sympathies of his elder brother. TO MR. COLERIDGE. " You sent me some very sweet lines rela- tive 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 books of extracts from Beau- mont and Fletcher and a thousand sources : I burned a little journal of my foolish pas- sion which I had a long time kept — ' Nothing ere they past away The little lines of yesterday.' I almost burned all j'our 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 misfor- tunes, commencing with that valuable conso- latory epistle, are every day accumulating — they are sacred things with me." The following long letter, bearing date on the outside, 5th January, 1797, is addressed to Mr. Coleridge at Stowey, near Bridgewater, whither he had removed from Bristol, to enjoy the society and protection of his friend Mr. Poole. The original is a curious speci- men of clear compressed penmanship ; being contained in three sides of a sheet of fools- cap. TO MR. COLERIDGE. 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 ornamentof Southey'spoem all this cock-and-bull story of Joan, the publi- can's daughter of Neufchatel, with the lamen- table episode of a waggoner, his wife, and six children. The texture will be most lament- ably disproportionate. The first forty or fifty lines of these addenda are, no doubt, in their Avay, admirable, too ; but many would prefer the Joan of Southey. ' On mightiest Seeds to brood Of shadowy Tastness, 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 onco 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 LETTERS TO COLERIDGE. 223 the 'fierce and terrible benevolence' of Soutbey ; lidded 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 !) : ' improvendered ': I ' such his tale ' : ' Ah ! suifering to the height of what was sufi'ered ' (a most iiiaiifferable line) : ' amazements of affright ' : ' the hot sore brain attributes its own hues of ghastli- ness 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 Koubigne'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, nest after the ' Pai'adise Lost,' and even that was not made the vehicle of such grand truths. ' There is one mind,' &c., down to ' Almighty's throne,' are without a rival in the whole compass of my poetical reading. ' stands in the sun. and with no partial gaze, Views all creation.' 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 ' Miniatui-e ' — ' There were Who formed high hopes and flattering ones of thee, Young Kobert ! ' ' Spirit of Spenser !— was the wanderer wrong F " 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 endeavoured — 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 cor- respondents — such poor and honest dogs as John Thelwall, particularly. I cannot say I know Colson, at least intimately ; I once supped with him and Allen ; I think his manners very pleasing. I wull not tell you what I think of Lloyd, for he may by chance come to see this letter, and that thought I 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 tit preparatory study wherewith ' to dis- cipline your young noviciate soul.' I grow dull ; I '11 go walk myself out of my dulness. '' Sundaij night. — You and Sara are very Southey. Thus am I pouring balsam into 1 good to think so kindly and so favourably of 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 224 LETTERS TO COLERIDGE. poor Mary ; I would to God all did so too. I But I very much fear she must not thiok of 1 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 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 hegan to love.' " Lloyd has kindly left me, for a keep-sake, ' John Woolman.' You have read it, he says, and like it. Will you excuse one short ex- tract? I think it could not have escaped you. — ' Small treasure to a resigned mind is sufBcient. How happy is it to be content with a little, to live in humility, and feel that in us, which breathes out this language — Abba! Father!' 1 am almost ashamed to patch up a letter in this miscellaneous sort — but I please myself in the thought, that anything from me will be 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; two will be enough — or indeed one — but two 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 Five Motives to Conduct : — 1. Sensation; 2. Imagination; 3. Ambi- tion; 4. Sympathy; 5. Theopathy: — First. Banquets, music, &c., effeminacy, — 'and their insufficiency. Second. ' Beds of hyacinth and roses, where young Adonis oft reposes ;' ' Fortunate Isles ;' ' The Pagan Elysium,' &c. ; poetical pictures ; antiquity as pleasing to the fiincy ; — their emptiness; madness, &c. Third. Warriors, Poets ; some famous yet, more forgotten ; their fame or oblivion now alike indifferent ; pride, vanity, &c. Fourth. All manner of pitiable stories, in Spenser-like verse ; love ; friendship, rela- tionship, &c. Fifth. Hermits ; Christ and his apostles ; martyrs ; heaven, &c. 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 — Nine- pence half-penny !' Look you, master poet, I have remorse as well as another man, and 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 wane into old bottles. This my duty done, I will cease from writing till you invent some more reasonable mode of conveyance. W^ell 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 ?/eZ/oM' complex! 3ned, cojjper-coloured, ?o7«7e-livered gentlemen, who never prove themselves their friends ! Don't you think your verses on a 'Young Ass' too trivial a companion for the ' Religious Musings V — ' 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 ' ChaLtoi'ti">r!,' which it does but encumber, and it will be a rich little poem. I hope you expunge great part of the old notes in the new edi- tion : 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 author of the ' Pleasures of Memory ' was LETTERS TO COLEEIDGE. 225 somewhat hurt, Dyer says, by the accusation of unoriginality. He never saw the poem. I long to read your poem on Burns — I retain so indistinct a memory of it. In what bhape and how does it come into public? As you leave off writing poetry till you finish your Hymns, I suppose you print, now, all you have got by you. You have scarce enough unprinted to make a second volume with Lloyd ? Tell me all about it. What is become of Cowper? Lloyd told me of some verses on his mother. If you have them by you, pray send 'em me. I do so love him ? Never mind their merit. May bo I may like 'em, as your taste and mine do not always exactly identify. Yours, C. Lamb." Soon after the date of this letter, death released the father from his state of imbe- cility and the son from his wearisome duties. With his life, the annuity he had derived from the old bencher he had served so faith- fully, ceased ; while the aunt continued to linger still with Lamb in his cheerless lodging. His sister still remained in con- finement in the asylum to which she had been consigned on her mother's death — per- fectly sensible and calm, — and he was pas- sionately desirous of obtaining her liberty. The surviving members of the family, espe- cially his brother John, who enjoyed a fair income in the South Sea House, opposed her discharge; — and painful doubts were sug- gested 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 Ci'own, 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 ascertain, was derived, that a communi- cation took place, on which a similar pledge 15 was given ; at all events, the result was, that she left the asylum and took up her abode for life with her brother Charles. For her sake, at the same time, he abandoned all thoughts of love and marriage ; and with an income of scarcely more than 1001. a-year, derived from his clerkship, aided for a little while by the old aunt's small annuity, set out on the journey of life at twenty-two years of age, cheerfully, with^ his beloved companion, endeared to him the more by her strange calamity, and the constant appre- hension of a recurrence of the malady which had caused it! CHAPTER in. LETTERS TO COLERIDGE AND MANNING IN LAMb's FIRST YEARS OP LIFE WITH HIS SISTER. [1797 to 1800.] The anxieties of Lamb's new position were assuaged during the spring of 1797, by fre- quent communications with Coleridge re- specting the anticipated volume, and by some additions to his own share in its pages. He was also cheered by the company of Lloyd, who, having resided for a few months with Coleridge, at Stowey, came to London in some perplexity as to his future course. Of this visit Lamb speaks in the following letter, probably written in January. It contains some verses expressive of his delight at Lloyd's visit, which, although afterwards inserted in the volume, are so well fitted to their frame-work of prose, and so indicative of the feelings of the writer at this crisis of his life, that I may be excused for presenting them with the context. TO MR. COLERIDGE. "1797. " Dear Col. — You have learned by this time, with 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, and what, if you do not object to them as too personal, and 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 volume comes out, as it necessarily must do, LETTEKS TO COLERIDGE. unless you print those very schoolboy-ish verses I sent you on not getting leave to come down to Bristol last summer. I say I shall be sorry that I have addressed you in nothing which can appear in our joint volume ; so frequently, so habitually, as you dwell in my thoughts, 'tis some wonder those thoughts came never yet in contact with a poetical mood. But you dwell in my heart of 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, and a smile and a kiss from me to your dear dear little David Hartley. The verses I refer to above, slightly amended, I have sent (for- getting to ask your leave, tho' indeed I gave them only your initials), to the Monthly Magazine, where they may possibly appear next iQonth, 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 offering can the stranger bring Of social scenes, home-bred delights. That him in aught compensate may For Stowey's pleasant winter nights. For loves and friendships far away. In brief oblivion to forego Friends, such as thine, so justly dear. And 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-charged bursting heart, I feel the thanks, I cannot speak. 0! sweet are all the Muse's lays. And sweet the charm of matin bird — 'Twas long, since these estranged ears The sweeter voice of friend had heard. The voice hath spoke; the pleasant sounds In Memory's ear, in after time Shall live, to sometimes rouse a tear, And sometimes prompt an honest rhyme. For when the transient charm is fled, And when the little week is o'er, To cheerless, friendless solitude When I return, as heretofore — Long, long, within my aching heart The grateful sense shall cherish'd be ; I'll think less meanly of myself, That Lloyd will sometimes think on me. " Coleridge, 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 and Mouth Inn: the Cat and Salutation would have had a charm more forcible for me. O iiodes ccenccq^ie Deum! Anglice — Welch rabbits, punch, and poesy. Should you be induced to publish those very school- boy-ish verses, print 'em as they will occur, if at all, in the Monthly Magazine ; yet I should feel ashamed that to you I wrote nothing better : but they are too personal, and almost trifling and obscure withal. Some lines of mine to Cowper were in last Monthly Magazine ; they have not body of thought enough to plead for the retaining of 'em. My sister's kind love to you all. " C. Lamb." It would seem, from the following frag- ment of a letter of 7th April, 1797, that Lamb, at first, took a small lodging for his sister apart from his own — but soon to be for life united. TO MR. COLERIDGE. " 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, &c. with h^r. She boards herself. In one little half year's illness, and in such an illness of such a nature and of such consequences ! to get her out into the world again, with a prospect of her never being so ill again — this is to be ranked not among the common blessings of Providence." The next letter to Coleridge begins with a transcript of Lamb's Poem, entitled "A Vision of Repentance," which was inserted in the Addenda to the volume, and is pre- served among his collected poems, and thus proceeds: TO MR; COLERIDGE. " April 15th, 1797. • " The above you will please to print imme- diately 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 LETTERS TO COLERIDGE. 227 ' 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 \A'hich af- fects the name of inspiration. " By the way, I have lit upon Fairfax's ' God- frey 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 in- SE.nity, which is ' the sorest malady of all.' " My kind love to your wife and child. " C. Lamb. " Pray write now." As summer advanced, Lamb discerned a hope of compensation for the disappointment of last year, by a visijt to Coleridge, and thus expressed his wishes. TO MR. COLERIDGE. " I discern a possibility of my paying you a visit next week. May I, can I, shall I, come as soon ? Have you room for me, leisure for me, and are you all pretty well ? Tell me all this honestly — immediately. And by what (^ay-coach could I come soonest and nearest to Stowey ? A few months hence may suit you better ; certainly me, as well. * Poor Charles Lloyd! These apprehensions were sadly realised. Delusions of the most melancholy kind thickened over his latter days — yet left his admirahle intellect free for the finest processes of severe reasoning, At a time ■when, like Cowper, he believed himself the especial subject of Divine Wrath, he could bear his part in the most subtle disquisition on questions of religion, morals and poetry, with the nicest accuracy of percep- tion and the most exemplary candour; and, after an argument of hours, revert, with a faint smile, to his own despair I 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 philo- sopher, 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 R 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 con- nected with my heart and soul, with meaner matter or subjects to me less interesting. I can talk, as I can think, nothing else. Thursday. C. Lamb." The visit was enjoyed ; the book was published ; and Lamb was once more left to the daily labours of the India House and the unceasing anxieties of his home. His feelings, on the recurrence of the season, which had, last year, been darkened by his terrible calamity, will be understood from the first of two pieces of blank verse, which fill the two first sheets of a letter to Coleridge, written under an apprehension of some neglect on the part of his friend, which had its cause in no estrangement of Coleridge's affections, but in the vicissitudes of the imaginative philosopher's fortune and tb6 constancy of his day-dreamings. WRITTEN A TWELVEMONTH AFTER THE EVENTS. [Friday next, Coleridge, is the day on which my mother diedl] Alasl how am I chang'd! where be the tears, The sobs, and forc'd suspensiojis 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 resignedn«ss 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 tbanklessness Seal'd up, oblivious ever of that dear grace, And health restor'd to my long-loved friend, Long lov'd, and worthy known! Thou didst not keep Her soul in death. keep not now, my Lord, Thy servants in far worse — in spiritual death And darkness — blacker than those feared shadows C the valley all must tread. Lend us thy balms. Thou dear Physician of the sin-sick soul. And heaJ our cleansed bosoms of the wounds With which the world hath pierc'd us thro' and thro'. 228 LETTERS TO COLERIDGE. Give us new flesh, new 'birth ; Elect of heayen May we become, in thine election .sure Contaiii'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 an.swering looks of love, her placid smiles Met 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 Ihose days of vanity to return again, (Nor fitting me to ask, nor thee to give). Tain 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, my Maker! If in a mood of grief, I sin almost In sometim'es 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 sporta And infant play-games f AVhere the joyous troops Of children, and the haunts I did so love ? my t;ompanions! ye loved names Of friend, or playmate dear, gone are ye now. Gone divers ways ; to honour and credit some ; ■ ^nd some, I fear, to ignominy and shame !f 1 only am left, with unavailing grief One parent dead to mourn, and see one live Of all life's joys bereft, and desolate : Am left, with a few friends, and one above The rest, found faithful iu 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 re- turned 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! * [Note in the margin of MS.] "This is almost literal from a letter of my sister's — less than a year ago." t [Note in the margin of MS.] " Alluding to some of my old play-fellows being, literally, ' on the town,' and some otherwise wretched." " 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 de- serves 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 hai'd 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 tran- sitory. '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 ! " C. Lamb." The following lines, which Lamb trans- mitted to his new friend Southey, bespeak the remarkable serenity with which, when the first shock was over and the duties of life-long love arranged, Lamb was able to contemplate the victim of his sister's frenzy :* Thou shojild'st have longer lived, and to the grave Have peacefully gone down in full old age; Thy children would have tended thy gray hairs. We might have sat, as we have often done. By our fire-side, and talk'd whole nights away, Old time, old friends, and old events recalling. With many a circumstance of trivial note, To memory dear, and of importance grown. How shall we tell them in a stranger's ear! A wayward son oft-times was I to thee. And yet, in all our little bickerings. * These lines are now first introduced in this Edition. — becoming known to the Editor by their publication in the first volume of "Southey's Life and Correspondence," p. 325, where they appear ia a ^letter from Southey to Mr. Wynn. The Biographer courteously adds, that they would have been sent to the Editor, but that they were not observed till after the publication of the First Edition of these Memorials. LETTERS TO COLERIDGE. 229 Domestic jars, there was I know not what Of tender feeling that were ill exchang'd For this world's chilling friendships, and their smiles Familiar, whom the heart calls strangers sti)l. A heavy lot hath he, most wretched man, Who lives the last of all his familj' ! He looks around him, and his eye discerns The face of the stranger; and his heart is sick. Man. of the world, what can'st thou do for him! Wealth is a burden which he could not beiir; Mirth a strange crime, the which he dares not act ; And generous wines no cordial to his soul. For wounds like his, Christ is the only cure. Go ! preach thou to him of a world to come. Where friends shall meet and know each other's facel Say less than this, and say it to the winds. An addition to Lamb's household-cares is thus mentioned in a letter TO MR. COLERIDGE. " December 10th, 1797. " In truth, Coleridge, I am perplexed, and at times almost cast down. I am beset with perplexities. The old hag of a wealthy rela- tion, 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 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 extra- ordinary expense may make. I know this, and all unused as I am to struggle with per- plexities, I am somewhat nonplussed, to say no worse. This prevents me from a thorough relish of what Lloyd's kindness and your's have furnished me with. I thank you though from my heart, and feel myself not quite alone in the earth." In 1798, Coleridge seemed to attain a settled home by accepting an invitation to become the minister of a Unitarian congre- gation at Shrewsbury ; a hope of short duration. The following letter was addressed by Lamb to him at this time as " S. T. Cole- ridge " — as if the Mr. were dropped and the "Reverend" not quite adopted — "at the Reverend A. Rowe's, Shrewsbury, Shrop- shire." The tables are turned here ; — Lamb, instead of accusing Coleridge of neglect, takes the charge to himself, in deep humility of spirit, and regards the effect of Miss Lamb's renewed illnesses on his mind as inducing indifference, with an affecting self- jealousy. TO MR. COLERIDGE. " January 28th, 1798. " You have writ me many kind letters, and I have answered none of them. I don't deserve your attentions. An unnatural in- difference 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 afilictions, 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 sufB- ciently 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, im- patient under the rod — full of little jealousies and heart-burnings. — I had well nigh quar- relled 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 con- tinually wished me to be from home, he was drawing me from the consideration of my 230 LETTERS TO COLERIDGE AND SOUTHEY. than poor dear Mary's situation, i-ather 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 pro- perly 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' to- wards him . . . but he has forgiven me — and hid smile, I hope, will draw all such humours from me. I am recovering, God be praised for it, healthiness of mind something like calmness — but T 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 afHictions 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 j'ears, 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. . . . T have read little, I have a very weak memory, and retain little of what I read ; am unused to compositions in which any methodising is required ; but I thank you sincerely for the hint, and shall receive it as far as I am able, that is, endeavour to engage my mind iu some constant and innocent pursuit. I know my capacities better than you do. " Accept my kindest love, and believe me yours, as ever. C. L." At this time, the only literary man whom Lamb knew in London was George Dyer, who had been noted as an accomplished scholar, in Lamb's early childhood, at Christ's Hospital. For him Lamb cherished all the esteem that his guileless simplicity of charac- ter and gentleness of nature could inspire ; in these qualities the friends were akin ; but no two men could be more opposite than they were to ea,ch other, in intellectual quali- fications and tastes — Lamb, in all things original, and rejoicing in the quaint, the strange, the extravagant ; Dyer, the quint- essence of learned common-place ; Lamb wildly catching the most evanescent spirit of wit and poetry ; Dyer, the wondering dis- ciple of their established forms. Dyer offi- ciated as a revering High Priest at the Altar of the Muses — such as they were in the staid, antiquated trim of the closing years of the eighteenth century, before they formed sentimental attachments in Germany, or flirted with revolutionary France, or renewed their youth by drinking the Spirit of tha Lakes. Lamb esteemed and loved him so well, that he felt himself entitled to make sport with his peculiarities ; but it was as Fielding might sport with his own idea of Parson Adams ; or Goldsmith with his Dr. Primrose. The following passage occurs in a letter of 28th November, 1798, ad- dressed — TO MR. SOUTHEY. " I showed my ' Witch,' and ' Dying Lover,' to Dyer last night, but George could not comprehend how there 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 LETTERS TO COLERIDGE. 231 George writes odes where the rhymes, like fashionable man and wife, keep a comfortable distance of six or eight lifies apart, and calls that ' observing the laws of verse.' George telis 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 kumbly 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 splendour of his genius ; and I acquiesced." The following passage on the same subject occurs in a letter about the same time, addressed TO MR. COLERIDGE. " Now I am on the subject of poetry, I must announce to you, who, doubtless, in your remote part of the island, have not heard tidings of so great a blessing, that George Dyer hath prepared two ponderous volumes full of poetry and criticism. They impend over the town and are threatened to fall in the winter. 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 specie^ besides — the Spenserian, Thomsonian, Masonic and Akensidish more especially. The second volume is all criticism ; wherein he demon- strates 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. George, George ! with a head uniformly wrong, and a heart uniformly right, that I had power and might equal to my wishes : then M'ould I call the gentry of thy native island, and they should come in troops, flocking at the sound of thy pros- pectus-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 afi'ected.' " Lamb's apprehensions of the recurrence of his sister's malady were soon realised. An old maid-servant who assisted her in the lodging became ill ; Miss Lamb incessantly watched the death-bed ; and just as the poor creature died, was again seized with mad- ness. Lamb placed her under medical care ; and, left alone, wrote the following short and miserable letter : — TO MR. COLERIDGE. " May 12th, 1800. " 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 my- self. 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 \ 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. 232 LETTERS TO MANNING AND COLEEIDGE. I am completely shipwrecked. My head is quite bad. I almost wish that Mary were dead. — God bless you. Love to Sara and Hartley. — Monday. C.Lamb." The prospect of obtaining a residence more suited to the peculiar exigencies of his situation than that which he then occupied at Pentonville, gave Lamb comfort, which he expressed in the following short letter : — TO MR. MANNING. "1800. " Dear Manning, — I feel myself unable to thank you 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, M'here we shall be much more private, and to quit a house and a 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." This hope was accomplished, as appears from the following letter : — TO MR. COLERIDGE. "1800. "Dear Coleridge, — Soon after T 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 lodg- ings in our case, as you must perceive. As Gutch knew all our story and the perpetual liability to a recurrence in my sister's dis- order, probably to the end of her life, I certainly think the offer very generous and very friendly. I have got three rooms (in- cluding servant) under 34Z. 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'a 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 Jier. 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 crepidam ! " 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 par- ticular attention : N. B. A thing I much like. Your books are all safe : only I have not thought it necessary to fetch away your last batch, which I understapd are at John- son's, the bookseller, who has got quite as LETTERS TO MANNING. 233 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 Grassmere about Christabel, and comply with my request contained therein. *' Love to all friends round Skiddaw. " C. Lamb." CHAPTER IV. MISCELLANEOUS LETTERS TO MANNING, COLERIDGE, AND WORDSWORTH. [1800 to 1805.] It would seem from the letters of 1800, that the natural determination of Lamb " to take what pleasure he could between the acts of his distressful drama," had led him into a wider circle of companionship, and had prompted sallies of wilder and brdader mirth, which afterwards softened into delicacy, re- taining all its whim. The following passage, which concludes a letter to Manning, else occupied with merely personal details, proves that his apprehensions for the diminution of his reverence for sacred things were not wholly unfounded ; while, amidst its grotesque expressions, maybe discerned the repugnance to the philosophical infidelity of some of his companions he retained through life. The passage, may, perhaps, be regarded as a sort of desperate compromise between a wild gaiety and religious impressions obscured but not effaced ; and intimating his disap- probation of infidelity, with a melancholy sense of his own unworthiness seriously to expi'ess it. TO MR. MANNING. " Coleridge inquires after you pretty often. I wish to be the pander to bring you to- gether 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 /, 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 Thyestasan crew — yaw! how my eaintship sickens at the idea ! " You shall have my play and the Falstaff letters in a day or two. I will write to Lloyd by this day's post. " God bless you, Manning. Take my trifling as trifling — and believe me seriously and deeply your well-wisher and friend, " C. Lamb." In the following letter Lamb's fsmtastic spirits find scope freely, though in all kind- ness, in the peculiarities of the learned and good George Dyer : — TO MR. manning. " August 22ncl, 1800. " 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 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 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 pru- dence (which suggests that a bird a man is the proper allotment in such cases), yearneth sometimes to have thee here to pick a winw 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. A , who gives hot legs of mutton and grape pies at his sylvan lodge at Isleworth ; where, in the middle of a street, he has shot up a wall most 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 de- ranged. George does not mind this circum- stance ; he rather likes him the better for it 234 LETTER TO COLERIDGE. The Doctor, in his pursuits, joins agricultural to poetical science, and l^as set George's brains mad about the old Scotch writers, Barbour, Douglas's iEneid, Blind Harrj, &c. "VVe returned home in a return post-chaise (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 an- terior to Barbour. I begged to know what was remaining of his works. ' There is no- thing 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 (3ourtesy, 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 ! " Avauut friendship, and all memory of absent friends ! C. Lamb." In the following letter, the exciting sub- jects of Dr. A and Dyer are further played on : — TO MK. COLERIDGE. « August 26th, 1800. " George Dyer is the only literary cha- acter 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. A 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 thei'e is not one tolerable line from beginning to end, but all the characters, incidents, &c., verbally copied from Homer. George, who had been sitting quite inatten- tive to the Doctor's criticism, no sooner heard the Sound of Homer strike his pericranicks. than up he gets, and declares he must see that poem immediately: where was it to be had ? An epic poem of 8000 lines, and he not hear of it ! There must be some things good in it, and it was necessary he should see it, for he had touched pretty deeply upon that subject in his criticisms on the Epic. George has touched pretty deeply upon the Lyric, I find ; he has also prepared a disser- tation 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 ia 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 be 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 * This passage, thus far, is printed in the former volumes ; the remainder was then suppressed (with other passages now for the first time published) relating to Mr Dyer, lest they should give pain to that excellent person then living. LETTERS TO MANNING. 285 received from D 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. D '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 Lieu- tenant.' Instead of a man, a woman, a daughter, he constantly writes one a man, one a vs'oman, one his daughter. Instead of the king, iJie hero, he constantly writes, he the king, he the hero; two flowers of rhetoric, palpably from the 'Joan.' But Mr. D soars a higher pitch : and when he is original, it is in a most original way, indeed. His terrific scenes are indefatigable. Serpents, asps, spiders, ghosts, dead bodies, staircases made of 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." The following letter, obviously written about the same time, pursues the same theme. There is some irritation in it; but even that is curious enough to prevent the excision of the reproduced passages: — TO MR. MANNING. "1800. " 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, ration- ally 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 the Bell Letters by a paradox, which he has heard his friend Frend,* (that learned ma- thematician,) maintain, that the negative quantities of mathematicians were merce nugce, things scarcely in rerum nahtrd, 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 frantic- ally talks of purchasing Manning's Algebra, which shows him far gone ; for, to my know- ledge, 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, Clifi"ord's Inn, — his safest address, — Man- ning's Algebra, with a neat manuscription 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 re- commendation than otherwise. N. B. — He must have the book as soon as possible, or nothing can withhold him from madly pur- chasing 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 Theoci-itus 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 * Mr. Frend, many years the Actuary of the Eock Insurance Office, in early life the champion of Unitarian- ism at Camhridge ; the object of a great University's displeasure ; in short, the " village Hampden " of the day. 236 LETTERS TO MANNING. 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 prethj 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 Collec- tion — 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 Eowe, 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 agree- able. " N. B. It would not be amiss if you were to accompany your jjreseni with a dissertation on negative quantities. C. L." The " Algebra" arrived ; and Lamb wrote the following invitation, in hope to bring the author and the presentee together. TO MR. MANNING. "1800. "George Dyer is an Archimedes, and an Archimagus, and a Tycho Brah6, 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 Ms — Oh the long time!) with tears of joy. Thou shouldst settle his scruples and unravel his cobwebs, and sponge oif 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. A , an old gentleman who ties his breeches' knees with pack-thread, 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 works. 'It was a curious fact that there should be such an epic poem, and he not know of it; and he must get a copy of it, as he was going to touch pretty deeply upon the subject of the Epic — and he was sure there must be some things good in a poem of 8000 lines ! ' I was pleased with this transient return. of his reason, and recurrence to his old ways of thinking : it gave me great hopes of a recoverj% which nothing but your book can completely insure. Pray come on Monday, LETTERS TO MANNING. 237 if you can, and stay your own time. I have a good large room, witht 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 neces- sary 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." Manning could not come ; and Dyer's subsequent symptoms are described in the following letter: — TO MR. MANNING. " December 27th, 1800. " At length George Dyer's phrenesis has come to a crisis; he is raging and furiously mad. I waited upon the Heathen, Thursday was a se'nnight ; the first symptom which struck my eye and gave me incontrovertible proof of the fatal truth was a pair of nankeen pantaloons four times too big fdr 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' 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 oOl., the lowest calcu- lation, taking in paper and printing ! In vain have his real friends remonstrated against this Miflsummer 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! ' " I've often wished I lived in the Golden Age, before doubt, and propositions, and corollaries, got into the world. Now, as Joseph D , 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 Uteris from a very popidar 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 ? Curse on those dozen villains ! ' D 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." 238 LETTERS TO MANNING AND WILSON. The following letter, written sometime in 1801, shows that Lamb had succeeded in obtaining occasional employment as a writei' of epigrams for newspapers, by which he added something to his slender income. The disparaging reference to Sir James Mackin- tosh must not be taken as expressive of Lamb's deliberate opinion of that distin- guished person. Mackintosh, at this time, was in great disfavour, for his supposed apostasy from the principles of his youth, •with Lamb's philosophic friends, whose minds were of temperament less capable than that of the author of the Vindicice Gallicce of being, diverted from abstract theories of liberty by the crimes and sufferings which then attended the great attempt to reduce them to practice. Lamb, through life, utterly indifferent to politics, was always ready to take part with his friends, and probably scouted, with them, Mackintosh as a deserter. TO MR. MANNING, "1801. " 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 sufBcient 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 Satur- day 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 inter- ruption. " I will close my letter of simple inquiry with an epigram on Mackintosh, the Vindicice Gallicce'ma.n — who has got a place at last — one of the last I did for the Albion : — ' Though thou'rt like Judas, an apostate blaok, In the resemblance one thing thou dost lack; When he had gotten his ill-purchas'd pelf, He went away, and w:sely hang'd himself: This thou may'st do at last, yet much 1 doubt. If thou hast any Bowels to gush out! ' " Yours, as ever, C. Lamb." Some sportive extravagance which, how- ever inconsistent with Lamb's early senti- ments of reverent piety, was very far from indicating an irreligious purpose, seems to have given offence to Mr. Walter Wilson, and to have induced the following letter, illustrative of the writer's feelings at this time, on the most momentous of all sub- jects : — TO MR. WALTER WILSON. "August 14th, 1801. " Dear Wilson, — I am extremely sorry that any serious difference should subsist between us, on account of some foolish behaviour of mine at Richmond ; you knew me well enough before, that a very little liquor will cause a 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 associa- tions ; but I still retain at bottom a convic- tion 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 LETTERS TO COLERIDGE. 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 veithin me, and that I desire nothing more than a return of that friendly intercourse which used to subsist between us, but which my folly has suspended. " Believe me, very affectionately, yours, " C. Lamb." In 1803, Coleridge visited London, and at his departure left the superintendence of a new edition of his poems to Lamb. The fol- lowing letter, written in reply to one of Coleridge's, giving a mournful account of his journey to the north with an old man and his influenza, refers to a splendid smoking- cap which Coleridge had worn at their even- ing meetings : — TO MR. COLERIDGE, " April 13th, 1803. My dear Coleridge, — Things have gone on better with me since you left me. I expect to have my old 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 inau- spicious 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 clapt his hands to his knees, and not knowing but it was an immediate visita- tion of heaven that burnt him, how pious it would have made him; him, I mean, that brought the influenza with him, and only took places for one — an old sinner; he must have known what he had ^ot with him! However, I wish the cap no harm for the sake of the head it fts, and could be content to see it disfigure my healthy side-board again. " 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. "^Morning is a girl, and can't smoke — j she's no evidence one way or the other ; and | Night is so bonc/Jit oi'er,'that he can't be a very upright judge. May be the truth is, that one pipe is wholesome ; two pipes tooth- some; three pipes noisome; four pipes ful- some; five pipes quarrelsome, and that's the sum on 't. But that is deciding rather upon rhyme than reason. , . . After all, our in- stincts 77107/ be best. Wine, I am sure, good, mellow, generous Port, can hurt nobody, un- less those who take it to excess, M'hich 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 ca- pable of knowing! And bless your Montero cap, and your trail (which shall come after you whenever you appoint), and your wife and children — Pipos especially. "When shall we two smoke again? Last night I had been in a sad quandary of spirits, in what they call the evening; but a pipe, and some generous Port, and King Lear (being alone), had their effects as solacers. I went to bed pot-valiant. By the way, may not the Ogles of Somersetshire be remotely descended from King Lear. C. L." The next letter is prefaced by happy news. TO MR. COLERIDGE. "Mary sends love from home. "1S03. "Dear C., — I do confess that I have not sent your books as I ought to have done: but you know how the human free-will is tethered, and that we perform promises to ourselves no better than to our friends. A watch is come for you. Do you want it soon^ or shall I wait till some one travels your way? You, like me, I suppose, reckon the lapse of time from the waste thereof, as boys let a cock run to waste; too idle to stop it, and rather amused with seeing it dribble. Your poerils 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 Dedica- tion, (which must march first,) and which 1 have transplanted from before the Preface, (which stood like a dead wall of prose be tween,) to be the first poem — then comes ' The 240 LETTERS TO COLERIDGE. 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 Long- man I was sure that you would omit a good portion of the first edition. I instanced 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 suppo- sition 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, arid subverting old associations ; but two called ' Kisses ' would have been absolutely ludicrous, and 'Effusion' is no name, and these poems come close together. I promise you not to alter one word in any poem what- ever, but to take your last text, where two are. Can you send any wishes about the book ? Longman, I think, should have settled with you ; but it seems you have left it to him. Write as soon as you possibly can ; for, without making myself responsible, I feel myself, in some sort, 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 individiiaUi/, (ex- cept the ' Man of Ross,' which is too femiliar in Pope,) but no others — you have your cue. For my part, I had rather all the Juvenilia were kept — memories causa. " Robert 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 dis- ordering 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 sur- rounded with an ocean of affairs, the very neatness of his most obscure cupboard in the house passes not unnoticed. I never knew any one view with such clearness, nor so well satisfied with things as they are, and make such allowance for things which must appear perfect Syriac to him.' By the last he means the Lloydisms of the younger branches. His portrait of Charles (exact as far as he has had 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 precision of non-existence.' Here is genius, I think, and 'tis seldom a young man, a Lloyd, looks at a father (so differing) with such good nature while he is alive. Write — " I am in post-haste, C. Lamb. " Love, &c., to Sara, P., and H." The next letter, containing a further ac- count of Lamb's superintendence of the new edition, bears the date of Saturday, 27th May, 1803. TO MR. COLERIDGE. " My dear Coleridge, — The date of my last was one day prior to the receipt of your letter, full of foul omens. I explain, lest you should have thought mine too light a reply to such sad matter. I seriously hope by this time you have given up all thoughts of jour- neying 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 in- form 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 29th May, by Kendal waggon, from White Horse, ?- -'Vil'at^cJuirclii LETTERS TO WORDSWORTH. 241 Cripplegate. You will make seasonable in- quiries, for a watch may n'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 Jdm, 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 thence circuitously to Cripplegate, when their busi- ness is to take a short cut down Holborn- hill, up Snow do., on to Wood-street, &c. ? The former mode seems a sad superstitious subdivision of 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 uiidows 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 lawj'ers arguing a ease. Another reason for subtracting the pathos was, that the 'Man of Ross' is too familiar, to need telling what he did, espe- cially 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 pre- sent 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 for ■ If 'Death this roof thy wine-cheer'd moments pass,' r ' Beneath this roof if thy cheer'd moments pass.' 'Cheer'd'is a sad, general word; 'wine-cheer'd' I 'm sure you 'd give me, if I had a speaking- trumpet to sound to you 300 miles. But I am your factotum, and that, save in this instance, which is a single case, and I can 't get at you, shall be next to a. fac-7iihil — at most, a facsimile. I have ordered ' Imitation 16 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 harinonist,' and I believe, * The Child that was fed with Manna.' Another volume will clear off all your An- thologic Morning-Postian Epistolary Miscel- lanies ; but pray don't put ' Christabel' therein ; don't let that sweet maid come forth attended with Lady Holland's mob at her heels. Let there be a separate volume of Tales, Choice Tales, 'Ancient Mariners,' &c. " C. Lamb." The following is the fragment of a letter (part being lost), on the re-appearance of the Lyrical Ballads, in two volumes, and addressed TO MR. WORDSWORTH. "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 arc 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 Shaksperian character of the ' happy man,' in the Brothers,' 'tnat 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 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 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 242 LETTERS TO WORDSWORTH. don't slide into the mind of the reader while he is imagining no such matter. An intelli- gent reader finds a sort of insult in being told, ' I will teach you how to think upon this subject.' This foult, if I am right, is in a ten-thousandth worse degree to be found in Sterne, and many, many novelists and modern poets, who continually put a sign- post up to show where you are to feel. They set out with assuming their readers to be stupid ; very different from ' Kobinson 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 afiected with any human tale. After first reading it, I was totally ;pos8essed with it for many days. I dislike all the miraculous part of it, but the feelings of the man under the operation of such scenery, dragged me along like Tom Pipes's magic whistle. I 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 wonder- ments ; but the 'Ancient Marinere' under- goes such trials as overwhelm and bury all individuality or memory of what he was — like the state of a man in a bad dream, one terrible peculiarity of which is, that all consciousness of personality is gone. Your other observation is, I think as well, a little unfounded: the ' Marinere,' from being con- versant in supernatural events, lias acquired a supernatural and ■strange cast of 'phrase, eye, appearance, &c., which frighten the ' wedding-guest.' You will excuse iny 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,' the 'Mad Mother,' and the ' Lines at Tinteru Abbey,' in the first." The following letter was addressed, on 28th September, 1805, when Lamb was bidding his generous farewell to Tobacco, to Wordsworth, then living in noble poverty with his sister in a cottage by Grasmere, which is as sacred to some of his old admirers as even Shakspeare's House. TO MR. WORDSWORTH. "My dear Wordsworth (or Dorothy, rather, for to you appertains the biggest part of this answer by right), I will not again deserve reproach by so long a silence. I have kept deluding myself with the idea that Mary would write to you, but she is so lazy (or, I believe the true state of the case, so diffident), that it must revert to me as usual: though she writes a pretty good style, and has some notion of the force of words, she is not always so certain of the true orthography of them ; and that, and a poor handwriting (in this age of female calligraphy), often deters her, where no other reason does.* " We have neither of us been very well for some, weeks past. I am very nervous, and she most so at those times when I am ; so that a merry friend, adverting to the noble consolation we were able to afford each other, denominated us, not unaptly, Gum- Boil and Tooth-Ache, for they used to say that a gum-boil is a great relief to a tooth- ache. " We have been two tiny excursions this summer for three or four days each, to a place near Harrow, and to Engham, where Cooper's Hill is : and that is the total history of our rustications this year. Alas ! how poor a round to Skiddaw and Helvellyn, and Borrowdale, and the magnificent sesquipe- dalia .of the year 1802. Poor old Molly ! to have lost* her pride, that ' last Ji^ifirmity of *This is mere banter; Bliss Lamb wrote a very good band. LETTER TO HAZLITT. 243 noble minds,' and her cow. Fate need not have set her wits to such an old Molly. I ana heartily sorry for her. Eemember 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 favourite of both of us, and we feel for her health as much as possible for any one to do. She is one of the friendliest, com- fortablest wOmen we know, and made our little stay at your cottage one of the pleasantest tipies we ever past. We were quite strangers to her. Mr. C. is Avith 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 idle- ness, 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, vapouring 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 shall perhaps set nobly to work. Hang work ! " I wish that all the year were holiday ; I am sure that indolence — indefeasible indo- lence—is the true, state of man, and business the invention of the old Teazer, whose inter- ference doomed Adam to an apron and set him a hoeing. Pen and ink, and clerks and desks, were the refinements of this old torturer some thousand years after, under pretence of ' Commerce allying distant shores, Promoting and diffusing knowledge, good,' &c. &c. Yours truly, " C. Lamb." CHAPTER V. LETTERS TO HAZLITT, ETC. [1805 to 1810.] About the year 1805 Lamb was introduced to one, whose society through life was one of his chief pleasures — the great critic and thinker, William Hazlitt — who, at that time, * The " Farewell to Tobacco" was transcribed on the next page ; but the actual sacrifice was not completed till some years after. scarcely conscious of his own literary powers, was striving hard to become a painter. At the period of the following letter (which is dated 15th March, 1806) Hazlitt was residing with his father, an Unitarian minister, at Wem. TO MR. HAZLITT. " Dear H.— I am a little surprised at no letter from you. This day week, to wit, Saturday, the 8th of March, 1806, I book'd 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 acknow- ledge 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 Loudon? Monday I visit the Marquis of Lansdowne's, in Berkeley Square. Catalogue 2s. Qd. 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 h^re to send you, with an additament from Shrop- shire 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. 3Ion Dieu! Such Claudes ! Four Claudes bought for more than 10,000Z. (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 bond Jide 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 244 LETTERS TO MRS. HAZLITT AND WORDSWORTH. sweetly disposed ; all learning 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, fidgety passions for a week after — more musical than the music which it would, but cannot, yet in a manner does, show. I have no room for the rest. Let me say, Angerstein sits in a room — his study (only that and the library are shown), when he writes a common letter, as I am doing, surrounded with twenty pictures worth 60,000^. What a luxury! Apicius and Heliogabalus, hide your dimi- nished heads ! " Yours, my dear painter, " C. Lamb." Hazlitt married Miss Sarah Stoddart, sister of the present Sir John Stoddart, who became very intimate with Lamb and his sister. To her Lamb, on the 11th December, 1806, thus communicated the failure of " Mr. H." TO MRS. HAZLITT. " Don't mind this being a queer letter. I am in haste, and taken up by visitors, condolers, &c. God bless you. "Dear Sarah, — Mary is a little cut at _the ill success of ' Mr. H.' which came out last night, and failed. I know you'll be sorry, but never mind. We are 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 pi-etty 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." The following is Lamb's account of the same calamity, addressed TO MR. WORDSWORTH. "Mary's love to all of you — I wouldn't let her write. "Dear Wordsworth, — 'Mr. H.' came out last night, and failed. I had many fears ; the subject was not 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, &c. — was astonishing, but they yielded at last to a few hisses. "A hundred hisses! (Hang the word, I write it like kisses — how different ! — a hundred hisses outweigh a thousand claps. The former come more directly from the heart. Well, 'tis withdrawn, and there is an end. " Better luck to us, C. Lamb. [Turn (nerl\ " 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 Christmas, as I shall have but a day or two, and tell them we bear our mortification pretty well." About this time Miss Lamb sought to contribute to her - brother's scanty income by presenting the plots of some of Shaks- peare's plays in prose, with the spirit of the poet's genius interfused, and many of his happiest expressions preserved, in which good work Lamb assisted her; though he always insisted, as he did in reference to " Mrs. Leicester's School," that her portions were the best. The following letter refers to some of those aids, and gives a pleasant instance of that shyness in Hazlitt, which he LETTERS TO WORDSWORTH AND HAZLITT. i'45 never quite overcame, and which afforded a striking contrast to the boldness of his pub- lished thoughts. TO MR. W0RDS1V0RTH. "1806. "Mary is just stuck fiist in 'All's Well that Ends Well.' She complains of having to set forth so many female characters in boys' clothes. She begins to think Shaks- peare must have wanted — Imagination. I, to encourage her, for she often faints in the prosecution of her great work, flatter her with telling her how well such a play and such a play is done. But she is stuck fast, and I have been obliged to promise to assist her. To do this, it will be necessary to leave off tobacco. But I had some thoughts of doing that before, for I sometimes think it 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, andfrow-ned 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 recovered 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 contigit adire Corinthum. The managers, I thank my stars, have settled that question for me. " Yours, truly, C. Lamb." Hazlitt, coming to reside in town, became a frequent guest of Lamb's, and a brilliant ornament of the parties which Lamb now began to collect on Wednesday evenings. He seems, in the beginning of 1808, to have sought solitude in a little inn on Salisbury Plain, to which he became deeply attached, and which he has associated with some of his profoundest meditations ; and some fantastic letter, in the nature of a hoax, having puzzled his father, who expected him at Wem, caused some inquiries of Lamb, re- specting the painter's retreat, to which he thus replied in a letter to THE REV. MR. HAZLITT. "Temple, 18th February, 1808; " Sir, — I am trnly concerned that any mistake of mine should have caused you uneasiness, but I hope we have got a clue to William's absence, which may clear up all apprehensions. The people where he lodges in town have received direction from him to forward some linen to a place called Winter- slow, in the county of 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 remem- brances and wishes for the restoration of Peggy's health. " I am, Sir, your humble servant, " C. Lamb." Mr. and Mrs. Hazlitt afterwards took up their temporary abode at Winterslow, to which place Miss Lamb addressed the lol- lowing letter, containing interesting details 246 MISS LAMB TO MRS. HAZLITT. of her own and her brother's life, and illus- trating her own gentle character : — TO MRS. HAZLITT. " December 10th, 1808. "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 pos- sible, 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 Shefiington is quite out now, my brother having got merry with claret and Tom Sheridan. This visit, and the occasion of it, is a profound secret, and therefore I tell it to nobody but you and Mrs. Reynolds. Through the medium of Wroughton, there came an 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 manu- factured between them. So in the Christ- mas holidays, my brother, and his two great associates, we expect, will be all three damned together; this is, I mean, if Charles's share, which is done and sent in, is accepted. " I left this unfinished yesterday, in the hope that my brother would have done it for me. His reason for 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 sate down and improved upon till he brought it, in seven or eight days, into the compass of a reasonable- sized pamphlet. '• To propose a subscription to all well- disposed people to raise a certain sum of money, to be expended in the care of a cheap monument for the former and the future great dead men ; the monument to be a white cross, with a wooden slab at the end, telling their names and 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, in case of an insur- rection among the people, or any other cause by which a city or country may be destroyed, was 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 the wooden slabs in their former places. This, as nearly as I can tell you, is the sum and substance of it; but it is written remarkably well — in his very best manner — for the proposal (which seems to me very like throwing salt on a sparrow's tail to catch him,) occupies but half a page, which is followed by very fine writing on the benefits he conjectures would follow if it were done ; very excellent thoughts on death, and our feelings concern- ing 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 of. Tell us how you go on, and how you like Winterslow and winter evenings. Knowles has not yet got back again, but he is in better spirits. John Hazlitt was here on Wednesday. Our love to Hazlitt. " Yours, affectionately, " M. Lamb." "Scdurday." To this letter, Charles added the following postscript: — "There came this morning a printed pro- spectus from ' S. T. Coleridge, Grasmere,' of LETTERS TO COLERIDGE. 247 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 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." During the next year Lamb and his sister produced their charming little book of " Poetry for Children," and removed from Mitre Court to those rooms in Inner Temple Lane, — most dear of all their abodes to the memory of their ancient friends — where first t knew them. The change produced its natural and sad effect on Miss Lamb, during whose absence Lamb addressed the following various letter TO MR. COLERIDGE. " June 7th, 1S09. "Dear Coleridge, — I congratulate you on the appearance qf ' 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 unan- swered. 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 re- member, that Comus was written long before, I am to be set down as an undervaluer of Milton. 0, Coleridge! do kill those reviews, or they 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.'4, Inner Temple Lane, far more commodious and roomy. I have two rooms on third floor and five rooms above, with an inner staircase to myself, and all new painted, &c., and all for SOZ. 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 infixncy to me; I do not feel them yet; no hearth has blazed to them yet. How I hate and dread new places ! " I was vei'y glad to see Wordsworth's book advertised ; I am to have it to-morrow lent me, and if AVordsworth 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 sis 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. money, money, how blindly thou hast been worshipped, and how, stupidly abused ! Thou art health and liberty, an^I 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 Ofiice, and found all but a third volume of the old plays, containing ' The White Devil,' Green's ' Tu Quoque,' and the ' Honest Whore,' per- haps the most valuable volume of them all — 248 LETTERS TO COLERIDGE. 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 Mission- a;ries, 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 V It has reached eight editions in so many weeks, yet literally it is one of the very poorest sort of common novels, with the di-aw-back of dull religion in it. Had the religion been high and flavoured, it would have laeen something. I borrowed this ' Coelebs in search of a Wife,' of a very careful, neat lady, and returned it with "ihis stuff written in the beginning : — ' If ever I marry a wife I 'd marry a laudli ird's daughter, For then I may sit iu the bar. And drink cold brandy and water.' " I don't expect you can find time from your 'Friend' to write 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 con- gratulatory epistle. I Avon't criticise till it comes to a volume. Tell me how I shall send my packet to you? — by what convey- ance ? — by Longman, Short-man, or how ? Give my kindest remembrances to the Wordsworths. 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, h." A journey into Wiltshire, to visit Hazlitt, followed Miss Lamb's recovery, and produced the following letters : — TO MR. COLERIDGE. " Monday, Oct. 30th, 1809. • " Dear Coleridge, — I have but this moment received your letter dated the 9th instant, having just come off a journey from W^ilt- shire, where I have been with Mary on a visit to Hazlitt. The journey has been of infinite service to her. We had 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. 8, 9, 10 of The Friend. The account of Lutlier in the Warteburg is as fine as anything I ever read.* God forbid that a man who has such * The Warteburg is a castle, standing on a lofty rock, about two miles from the city of Eisenach, iu which Luther was confined, under the friendly arrest of the Elector of Saxony, after Charles V. had pronounced against him the Ban in the Imperial Diet; where he composed some of his greatest works, and translated the New Testament ; and where he is recorded as engaged in the personal conflict with the Prince of Darkness, of which the vestiges are still shown iu a black stain on the wall, from the inkstand hurled at the Enemy. In the Essay referred to. Coleridge accounts for the story — depicting the state of the great prisoner's mind in most vivid colours — and then presenting the following picture, which so nobly justifies Lamb's eulogy, that I venture to gratify myself by inserting it here. '• Methinks I see him sitting, the heroic student, in his chamber in the Warteburg, with his midnight lamp before him, seen by the late traveller in the distant plain of Bischnfsrocla, as a star on the mountain ! Below it lies the Hebrew Bible open, on which he gazes; his brow pressing on his palm, brooding over some obscure text, which he desires to make plain to the simple boor and to the humble artizan, and to transfer its whole force into their own natural and living tongue. And he himself does not understand it! Thick darkness lies on the original text: he counts the letters, he calls up the roots of each separate word, and questions them as the fami- liar Spirits of an Oracle. In vain ; thick, darkness MISS LAMB TO MRS. HAZLITT. 249 things to say should be silenced for want of I.OOZ. This Custom-and-Duty Age would have made the Preacher on the Mount take out a licence, and St. Paul's Epistles not missible without a stamp. that you may find means to go on ! But alas ! where is Sir G. Beaumont? — Sotheby? What is become of the rich Auditors in Albemarle Street? Your letter has saddened me. " 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 continues to cover it; not a ray of meaning dawns through it. With sullen and ajigry hope he reaches for the "Vulgate, his old and sworn enemy, the treacherous confederate of the Roman Antichrist, which he so gladly, when he can, rebukes for idolatrous falsehood, that had dared place ' Within the sanctuary itself their shrines, Abominations — ' Now — thought of humiliation — he must entreat its aid. See ! thei'e has the sly spirit of apostacy worked-in a phrase, which favours the doctrine of purgatory, the inter- cessions of saints, or the efficacy of prayers for the dead; and what is worst of all, the interpretation is plausibJe. The original Hebrew might be forced into this meaning: and no other meaning .seems to lie m it, none to hover above it in the heights of allegory, none to lurk beneath it even in the depths of Cabala! This is the work of the Tempter; it is a cloud of darkness conjured up between the truth of the sacred letters and the eyes of his understanding, by the malice of the evil-one, and for a trial of his faith. Must he then at length confess, must he subscribe the name of Luther to an exposition which consecrates a weapon for the hand of the idolatrous Hierarchy? Never! Never! "There still remains one auxiliary in reserve, the translation of the Seventy. The Alexandrine Greeks, anterior to the Church itself, could intend no support to its corruptions — The Septuagiut will have profaned the Altar of Truth with no incense for the nostrils of the ■universal Bishop to snuff up. And here agaia his hopes arc baffled! Exactly at this perplexed passage had the Greek translator given his understanding a holiday, and 3naae his pen supply its place. honoured Luther! as easily mightest thou convert the whole City of Rome, 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." MISS LAMB TO MRS. HAZLITT. ^' "November 7th, 1809. " My dear Sarah, — The dear, quiet, lazy, delicious month we spent with you is remem- bered by me with such regret that I feel quite discontented and Winterslow-sick. I assure you I never passed such a pleasant time in the country in my life, both in the house and out of it — the card-playing quarrels, and a few gaspings for breath, after your swift footsteps up the high hills, excepted ; and those draw-backs are not unpleasant in the recollection. We have got some salt butter, to make our toast seem like yours, and we have tried to eat meat suppers, but that would not do, for we left our appetites behind us, and the dry loaf, which offended you, now comes in at night unaccompanied ; but sorry am I to add, it is soon followed by the pipe. We smoked the very first night of our arrival. "Great news! I have just been inter- with the Pope and the conclave of Cardinals inclusively, as strike a spark of light from, the words, and nothing but words, of the Alexandrine version. Disappointed, de- spondent, enraged, ceasing to think, yet continuing his brain on the stretch in solicitation of a thought; and gradually giving himself up to angry fancies, to recollec- tions of past persecutions, to uneasy fears, and inward defiances, and floating images of the Evil Being, their supposed personal author; he sink.s, without perceiving it, into a trance of slumber; during which his brain retains its waking energies, excepting that what would have been mere thoiig/its before, now, (the action and counterweight of his senses and of their impressions being withdrawn) shape and condense themselves into things, into realities! Repeatedly half-wakening, and his eye-lids as often reclosiug, the objects which really surround him form the place and scenery of his dream. All at once he sees the arch-fiend coming forth on the wall of the room, from the very spot, perhaps, on which his eyes had been fixed, vacantly, during the perplexed moments of his former meditation : the inkstand which he had at the same time been using, becomes associated with it; and in that struggle of rage, which in these distempered dreams almost constantly precedes the help- less terror by the pain of which we are finally awakened, he imagines that he hurls it at the intruder, or not improbably in the first instant of awakening, while yet both his imagination and his eyes are possessed by the dream, he actually hurls it. Some weeks after, perhaps, during which interval he had often mused on the incident, undetermined whether to deem it a visitation of Satan to him in the body or out of the body, he dis- covers for the first time the dark spot on his wall, and receives it as a sign and pledge vouchsafed to him of the event ha'^ing actually taken place." 250 LETTER TO HAZLITT. rupted by Mr. Daw, who came to tell me he •was yesterday elected a Roynl 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 North- cote ever voted for the admission of any one. Though a very cold day, I)aw was in a prodigous perspiration, for joy at his good fortune. " More great news ! My beautiful green curtains Avere put up yesterday, and all the doors listed with green baize, and four new boards put to the coal-hole, and fastening hasps put to the windows, and my dyed Manning-silk cut out. " We had a good cheerful meeting on Wednesday, much talk of Winterslow, its woods and its sun-flowers. I did not so much like P at Winterslow as I now like him for having been with us at Winterslow. We roasted the last of his 'Beech of oily nut prolific' on Friday at the Captain's. Nurse is now established in Paradise, alias the incurable ward of Westminister Hospital. I have seen her sitting in most superb state, surrounded by her seven incurable com- panions. They call each other ladies ; nurse looks as if she would be considered as the first lady in the ward ; only one seemed at all likely to rival her in dignity. " A man in the India House has resigned, by which Charles will get twenty pounds a year, and White has prevailed on him to write some more lottery puffs; if that ends in smoke the twenty pounds is a sure card, and has made us very joyful. " I continue very well, and return you very sincere thanks for my good health and impi'oved looks, which have almost made Mrs. die with envy. She longs to come to Winterslow as much as the spiteful elder sister did to go to the well for a gift to spit diamonds. "Jane and I have agreed to boil a round of beef for your suppers when you come to town again. She (Jane) broke two of the Hogarth glasses, while we were away, where- at I made a great noise. Farewell. Love to William, and Charles's love and good wishes for the speedy arrival of the ' Life of Holcroft,' and the bearer thereof. " Yours, most affectionately, "Tuesday. M. Lamb. "Charles told Mrs. , Hazlitt had found a well in his garden, which, water being, scarce in your county, would bring him in two hundred a year ; and she came, in great haste, the next morning, to ask me if it were true. " Your brother and sister are quite well." The country excursions, with which Lamb sometimes occupied his weeks of vacation, were taken with fear and trembling — often foregone — and finally given up, in conse- quence of the sad effects which the excite- ments of travel and change produced in his beloved companion. The following refers to one of these disasters : — TO MR. HAZLITT. " August 9th, 1810. "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 not 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." Mr. Wordsworth's Essay on Epitaphs, afterwards appended to " The Excursion," produced the following letter : — LETTERS TO WORDSWOETH. 251 TO MR. WORDSWORTH. « Friday, 19th Oct. 1810. E. I. Ho. " Dear W., — Mary has been very ill, which you have heard, I suppose, from the Mon- tagues. She is very weak and low spirited now. I was_ much pleased with your con- tinuation of the Essay on Epitaphs. It is the only 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 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. This sweet Swan of Thames has 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 snug usher at his desk in the intervals of instruction, levelling his pen of death^ as it consists of dust and worms, ao^-iriourners 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 further than from his hand to his mouth, or from the vestry to the sounding- board of the pulpit. "But the epitaphs were trim, and sprag, and patent, and pleased the survivors of Thames Ditton above the old mumpsimus of _' Afilictions sore.' To do justice though. It must be owned that even the excellent feeling which dictated this dirge when new, must have sufi'ered 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 ' J^taiis four months,' with this seasonable inscription appended, ' Honour thy fathert and thy mother: that thy days may be long in. the land,' &c. Sincerely wishing, your children long life to honour, &c. " I remain, C. Lamb.'' CHAPTER VI. letters to wordsworth, etc., chiefly respectinq Wordsworth's poems. (1815 to 1818.] The admirers of Wordsworth —few, but energetic and hopeful — were delighted, and his opponents excited to the expression of their utmost spleen, by the appearance, in 1814, of "The Excursion," (in the quarto form marked by the bitter flippancy of Lord Byron) ; and by the publication, in 1815, of two volumes of Poems, some of which only were new. The following letters are chiefly expressive of Lamb's feelings respecting these remarkable works, and the treatment which his own Review of the latter received from Mr. Gifford, then the Editor of the Quarterly Review, for which it was written. The fol- lowing letter is in acknowledgment of an early copy of "The Excursion." TO MR. WORDSWORTH. "1814. "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 sec'ond time before I wrote to thank you, but M. B. came in the night (while we were, out) and made holy theft of it, but we expect restitution in a day or two. It is the noblest conversational poem I ever read — a day in Heaven. The part (or rather main body) which has left the sweetest odour 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 252 LETTERS TO WORDSWORTH. 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 nie 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 Salis- bury Plain, five years ago, that drew P from the card-table, where he had sat from rise of that luminary to its unequalled setting ;. but neither he nor I had gifted eyes to see those symbols of common things glo- rified, 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.f " 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 * The passage to which the allusion applies does not picture a sunset, hut the effect of sunlight on a receding mist among the mountains, in the second book of '• The Kxcursion." f " Fix'd resemblances were seen To implements of ordinary use, But vast in size, in substance glorified ; Such as by HeVirew Prophets were beheld In ■vision — forms uncouth of mightiest powers. For admiration and mysterious awe." 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 occasion- ally 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 country-fy'd 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 half, I am confident — I might say two miles in circuit — the stench of liquors, had tobacco, dirty people and provisions, conquers the air, and we are stifled and suffocated in Hyde Park." Lamb was delighted with the proposition, made through Southey, that he should re- view " The Excursion " in the " Quarterly " — though he had never before attempted contemporaneous criticism, and cherished a dislike to it, which the event did not diminish. The ensuing letter was addressed while me- ditating on his office, and uneasy lest he should lose it for want of leisure. TO MR. WORDSWORTH. '1814. " 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 these many days past, to evening work, generally at the rate of nine hours a day. The nature of my work, too, puzzling and LETTERS TO WORDSWORTH. 253 hurrying, has so shaken my spirits, that my sleep is nothing but a succession of dreams of business I cannot do, of as- sistants that give me no assistance, of terrible responsibilities. I reclaimed your book, which Ilazlitt has uncivilly kept, only two days ago, and have made shift to read it again with shattered 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 mountain 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 halfday, or hour even, till this week and the next are past. I then hope to get four weeks' absence, and if tlien is time enough to begin, I will most gladly do what is required, though I feel my inability, for my brain is always desultory, and snatches off hints fiom 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 three weeks from this date (19th 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 acknowledges the author of ' The Excursion ' as the legiti- mate Fountain of Honour. We both agree, that, to our feeling, Ellen is best as she is. To us there would have been something re- pugnant in her challenging her Penance as a Dowry ; the fact is explicable, but how few are those to whom it would have b'een rendered explicit. The unlucky reason of the detention of ' The Excursion' was Hazlitt, for whom M. Burney borrowed it, and, after reiterated messages, I only got it on Friday. Ills remarks had . some vigour in them ; * particularly something about an old ruin being too modern for your Primeval Nature, \ and about a lichen. I forget the passage, but the whole wore an air of despatch. That objection which M. Burney had imbibed from him about Voltaire, I explained to M. B. (or tried) exactly on your principle of • this refers to an article of Hazlitt on "The Excur- sion," in the "Examiner," very fine in passasjes, but more characteristic of the critic than descriptive of the poem its being a characteristic speech.* That it was no settled comparative estimate of Vol- taire with any of his own tribe of buffoons — no injustice, even if you spoke it, for I dared say you never could relish ' Candide.' I know I tried to get through it about a twelvemonth since, and could n't for the dulness. Now I think I have a wider range in buffoonery than you. Too much toleration, perhaps. " I finish this after a raw, ill-baked dinner, fast gobbled up to set me off to oflBce again, after working there till near four. ! how I wish I were a rich man, even though I were squeezed' camel-fashion at getting through that needle's eye that is spoken of in the Written Word. Apropos ; is the Poet of 'The Excursion' a Christian? or is it the Pedlar and the Priest that are ? "I find I miscalled that celestial splendour of the mist going off, a sunset. That only shows my inaccuracy of head. " Do, pray, indulge me by writing an answer to the point of time mentioned above, or let Southey. I am ashamed to go bargain- ing in this way, but indeed I have no time I can reckon on till the first week in October. God send I may not be disappointed in that! Coleridge swore in a letter to me he would review • The Excursion ' in the ' Quarterly.' Therefore, though that shall not stop me, yet if I can do anything, when done, I must know of him if he has anything ready, or I shall fill the world with loud exclaims. " I keep writing on, knowing the postage is no more for much writing, else so fagged and dispirited I am with cursed India House work, I scarce know what I do. My left arm reposes on ' The Excursion.' I feel what it would be in quiet. It is now a sealed book." The next letter was written after the fatal critique was despatched to the Editor, and before its appearance. * The passage in which the copy of "Candide," found in the apartment of the Recluse, is described as "the dull production of a scoffer's brain," which had excited Hazlitt to energetic vindication of Voltaire from the charge of dulness. Whether the work, written in mockery of human hopes, he dull, I will not venture to determine ; but I do not hesitate, at any risk, to avow a conviction that no book in the world is more adapted to make a good man wretched 254 LETTERS TO WORDSWORTH. TO MR. WORDSWORTH. "1814. " Dear W. — Your experience about tailors seems to be in point blank opposition to Burton, as much as the author of ' The Ex- cursion' does, toio ccelo, differ in his notion of a country life, from the picture which W. 11. has exhibited of the same. But, with a little explanation, you and B. may be reconciled. It is evident that he confined his observa- tions to the genuine native London Tailor. What freaks tailor-nature may take in the country, is not for him to give account of. And certainly some of the freaks recorded do give an idea of the persons in question being beside themselves, rather than in harmony with the common, moderate, self- enjoyment of the rest of mankind. A flying- tailor, I venture to say, is no more in rerum naturd than a flying-horse or a Gryphon. His wheeling his airy-flight from the pre- cipice you mention, had a parallel in the melancholy Jew who toppled from the monu- ment. Were his limbs ever found? Then, the man who cures diseases by words, is evidently an inspired tailor. Burton never affirmed that the art of sewing disqualified the practiser of it from being a fit organ for supernatural revelation. He never enters into such subjects. 'Tis the common, unin- spired tailor which he speaks of. Again, the person who makes his smiles to be heard, is evidently a man under possession; a demo- niac tailor. A greater hell than his own must have a hand in this. I am not certain that the cause which you advocate has much reason for triumph. You seem to me to substitute light-headedness for light-hearted- ness by a trick, or not to know the difference. 1 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 Lofft wrote to M. M.* Phillips (now Sir Richard), I remember his noticing a metaphysical article of Pan, * Monthly Magazine signed H., and adding, 'I take your corre- spondent to be the same with Hylas.' Hylas had put forth a pastoral just before. How near the unfounded conjecture of the certainly inspir.ed Lofft (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 editor of ' The Champion.' Where is Coleridge ? " That Review you speak of, I am only sorry it did not appear last month. The circumstances of haste and 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 difSculty, 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 difSculty to per- form not to make it all panegyric ; I have attempted to personate a mere stranger to you ; perhaps with too much strangeness. But you must bear 'that in mind when you read it, and not think that I am, in mind, distant from you or your poem, but that both are close to me, among the nearest of persons and things. I do but act the stranger in the Review. Then, I was puzzled nbou.t extracts, and determined upon not giving one that had been in the * Examiner ; ' for extracts repeated give an idea that there is a meagre allowance of good things. By this way, I deprived myself of ' Sir Alfred Irthing,' and the reflections that conclude his story, which are the flower of the poem. Hazlitt had given the reflections before me. Then it is the first review I ever did, and I did not know how long I might make it. But it must speak for itself, if Gifford and his crew do not put words in its mouth, which I expect. Farewell. Love to all. Mary keeps very bad. C. Lamb." The apprehension expressed at the close of the last letter was dismally verified. The following contains Jjamb's fii-st burst of an * Afterwards the distinguished and unfortunate editoi of the London Magazine. LETTERS TO WORDSWORTH. 255 indignation which lasted amidst all his gen- tleness and tolerance unquenched through life : — TO MR. "nrORDSWORTH. " 1814. "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 palmed upon it for mine. I never felt more vexed in my life than when I read it. I cannot give you an idea of what he has done to it, out of spite at me, because he once suffered me to be called a lunatic in his Review.* The language he has altered throughout. Whatever inadequateness it had to its sub- ject, 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 oue. " I have not the cursed alteration by me ; I shall never look at it again ; but for a specimen, I remember I had said the poet of ' The Excursion' ' walks through common forests as though some Dodona or enciianted 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 love lays.' It is now (besides half-a- dozen alterations in the same half-dozen lines) ' but in language more intelligent reveals to him;' — that is one I remember. " But that would have been little, putting his shoemaker phraseology (for he was a shoemaker) instead of mine, which has been tinctured with better authors than his ignorance can comprehend ; — for I reckon myself a dab at prose ; — verse I leave to my betters : God help them, if they are to be so reviewed by friend and foe as you have been this quarter ! I have read ' It won't do.'f * In alluding to Lamb's note on the great scene of " The Broken Heart," where Calantha dancea on, after hearing at every pause of some terrible calamity, a writer in the "Quarterly" had affected to excuse the writer as a '' maniac ;" a suggestion which circumstances rendered most CI uel. + Though the article on " The Excursion," in the 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 conjuiation, no man could tell what I was driving at. A proof of it you may see (though not judge of the whole of the injustice) by these words. I had spoken something about 'natural methodism ;' and after follows, 'and therefore the tale. of Margaret should have been postponed' (I foro-et my words, or his words) ; now the reasons for postponimg. it are as deducible from what goes before, as they are from the lO-ith Psalm. The passage whence I deduced it, has vanished, but clapping a colon before a therefore is always reason enough- foi' Mr. Baviad Gifford to allow to a reviewer that is not himself. I assure you my com- plaints are founded. I know how sore a word altered makes one; but, indeed, . of this review the whole complexion is gone. I regret only that I did not keep a copy. I am sure you would have been pleased 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 pulled out, and the bleeding sockets ar3 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 fixlse quotations from me. But I am ashamed to say so much about a short piece. How are yoti served ! and the labours of years turned into contempt by scoundrels ! " But I could not but protest against your "Edinburgh Review" commenced "This will never do!'' it contained ample illustrations of the author's genius, and helped the world to disprove its oracular beginning. 256 LETTERS TO MISS HUTCHINSON AND WORDSWORTH. taking that thing as mine. Every pretty expression ( I know there were many) ; every warm expi-ession (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 Buppose, never waived a right he had since he commenced author. Heaven confound him and all caitiffs ! C. L." The following letter to Mrs. Wordsworth's sister, who resided with the poet at Rydal, relates to matters of yet nearer interest. TO MISS HUTCHINSON. " Thursday, 19th Oct., 1815. " Dear Miss H., — I am forced to be the replier to your letter, for Mary has been ill, and gone from home these five Aveeks 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 sis 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 che cause next at hand ; more probably it comes from some cause we have no control over or con- jecture rf. 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 calami- ties 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 Cole- ridge. Yours truly, C. Lamb." The following three letters best speak for themselves : — TO MR. WORDSWORTH. "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 ? "1815. "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 antithetic manner, which I do not know why you left out, — the moral to the boys building the giant, the omission whereof leaves it, in my mind, less complete, — and one admirable line gone (or something come instead of it), 'the stone-chat, and the glancing sand-piper,' which was a line quite alive. I demand these at your hand. I am glad that you have not sacrificed a verse to those 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. 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, hnprimatur, — 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 LETTERS TO WORDSWORTH. 257 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 DO 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,f 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 cou'ld 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 * The poem on the four great yew trees of Borrowdale, ■which the poet has, by the most potent magic of the imi^ination, converted into a temple for the ghastly forms of Death and Time '-to meet at noon-tide," — a pas- sage surely not surpassed in any English poetry written since the days of Milton. t The following little passage about Vincent Bourne has- been previously printed. 17 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 I read to me as they do altogether. Besides, I they have diminished the value of the original (which I possess) as a curiosity. I have hitherto kept them distinct in my mind as referring to a particular period of your life. All the rest of your poems are so much of a piece, they might have been written in the same week ; these decidedly speak of an earlier period. They tell more of what you had been reading. We were glad to see the poems ' by a female friend. 'f The one on the wind is masterly, but not new to us. Being only three, perhaps you might have clapt a D. at the corner, and let it have past as a })rinter'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 except) to eleven at night; last night till nine. My business and office business in general have increased so; I don't mean I am there every night, but I must expect a great deal of it. I never leave till four, and do not keep a holiday now once in ten times, where I used to keep all red-letter days, and some five days besides, w^hich 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 head-ache I have is part * The- " Evening Walk," and " Dfcscriptive Sketches among the Alps" — Wordsworth's earliest poems — now happily restored in their entirety to tl eir proper places in the poet's collected works. f By Miss Dorothea Wordsworth. S58 LETTERS TO WORDSWORTH. 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! that from that superfluity of holiday-leisure my youth wasted, 'Age might but take some hours youth wanted not.' N. B. — I have left off spirituous liquors for four or more months, with a moral certainty of its lasting.* Farewell, dear Wordsworth ! " happy Paris, seat of idleness and pleasure ! from some returned English I hear, that not such a thing as a counting- house is to be seen in her streets, — scarce a desk. Earthquakes swallow up this mercan- tile 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 methodise, a stomach to digest, and all out of tune. Better harmonies await you C. Lamb." TO MR. WORDSWORTH. " Excuse this maddish letter ; 1 am too tired to write in forma; "1815; " 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 to scribble (an action of the hand now seldom natural to me — I mean * Alas! for moral certainty in this moral but mortal world ! Lamb's resolution to leave oij spirituous liquors was a brave one ; but he strengthened and rewarded it by such copious libations of porter, that his sister, for whose sake mainly he attempted the sacrifice, entreated him to "live like himself," and in a few weeks after this assurance he obeyed her. voluntary pen-work) I lost 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 fiiir;'® 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 satisfac- tion, 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 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 fur being a repetition ; ' Susan ' stood for the representative of poor Bus in Urbe. There was quite enough to stamp the moral of the thing never to be forgotten ; ' bright 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 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 * " But thou, that didst appear so fair To fond imagination, Dost rival in the ligh'. of day Her delicate creation." LETTERS TO WORDSWORTH. 259 Tvith you.' It comes naturally, with a warm holiday, and the freshness of the blood. It is a perfect summ.er 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 ? 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 hooiless henef 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, ^vhether 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 jusfc altering it to — 'And from the great respeot she felt Tor Sir Samuel Romilly,' ■would not have explained the boundaries of prose expression, and poetic feeling, nearly as well. Excuse my levity on such an occa- sion. 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 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 oi petit [ov 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 245 ; 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 sud- denly reading ' No thoroughfare.' Robinson's is entire. 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 ■"The admirable little poem, entitled "The Force of Prayer," developing the depths of a widowed mother's; grief, whose only son has been drowned in attempting to leap over the precipice of the "Wharf," at Bolton Abbey. The first line, printed in old English characters, from some old English ballad, — "What Is good for a bootless bene?" suggests Miss Lamb's single pun. The following are the profoundest stanzas among those which excite her brother's most just admiration: — " If for a lover the lady wept, A solace she might borrow From death and from the passion of death ; — Old Wharf might heal her sorrow. "She weeps not for the wedding-day, Which was to be to-morrow: Her hope was a further-looking hope, And hers is a mother's sorrow." 260 LETTERS TO WORDSWORTH. drugs,' -vvhich are so harmonious to sing of, they lime-twig up my poor soul and body till I shall forget I e%'er 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, ex- change 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." TO MR. WORDSWORTH. "April 9th, 1816. " 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 haye done boiTowing 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 j'ou 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. Wlien 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-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 di- rected C. to take up his abode at a Chymiat's Laboratory in Norfolk-street. She might as well have sent a Helluo Librotmm for cure to the Vatican. God keep him inviolate among the traps and pitfalls 1 He has done pretty well as yet. " Tell Miss H., my sister is every day wish- ing to be quietly sitting down to answer her very kind letter, but while C. staj's she can hardly find a quiet time ; God bless him ! " Tell Mrs. "VV., her postscripts are always agreeable. They are so legible, too. Your manual-graphy is terrible, dark as Lycophron. 'Likelihood,' for instance, is thus typified: * I should not 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 im- press, in corresponding lucidness, upon our outward eye-sight ! " Mary's love to all. She is quite well. " I am called oS" to do the deposits on Cot- ton 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." The next letter is fanta?tically written be- neath a regular official order, the words in italics being printed. " Sir, — Please to state the weights and amounts of the folloiving Lots of sold Sale, 181 for " Your ohedient Servant, "Chas. Lamb." * Here is st most inimitable scrawl. LETTERS TO WORDSWORTH. 261 ' Dear " Acountant's Office, 26th April, 1816.* 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 dis- covered 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 cor- rection. 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 hal- lows any page in which his reverend name appears. 'Duty archly bending to purposes of general benevolence' is exquisite. The poems I endeavoured not to understand, but to read them with my eye alone, and I think I succeeded. (SomS 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, not 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 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 re- dacting to letters no better than nonsense or no sense. When I was young, I used to chant with ecstacy 'Mild Arcamans ever BLOOMING,' till somebodyr told me it was meant to be nonsense. Even yet I have a lingering atta chment to it, and I think it ^*^This is shown by ^^^^^^^^^^Tto be an eT^^^^^T^^d better than 'Windsor Forest,' 'Dying Chris- tian's Address,' &c. Coleridge has sent his tragedy to D. L. T. ; it cannot be acted this season, and by tlieir manner of receiving, I hope he will be able to alter it to make them accept it for nest. He is, at present, under the medical care of a Mr. Oilman (Killman?) at Highgate, where be 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 arch- angel 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 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. 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 'Beg- gar's Petition.' I never entangle myself i'n 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 con- trary, 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 cir- cumstances; it takes all the golden part of 262 •LONDON MAGAZINE"— JOHN SCOTT. the day away, a solid lump, from ten to four ; but it does not kill my peace as before. Some day or other I shall be in a taking again. My head aches, and you have had enough. God bless you ! C. Lamb." CHAPTER VII. THE " LONDON MAGAZINE" — CHARACTER AND FATE OP MR. JOHN SCOTT, ITS EDITOR — GLIMPSE OF MR. THOMAS GRIFFITHS WAINWRI6HT, ONE OF ITS CON- TRIBUTORS MISCELLANEOUS LETTERS OF LAMB TO WORDSWORTH, COLERIDGE, AND OTHERS. [1818 to 1825.] Lamb's association with Hazlitt in the year 1820 introduced him to that of the " London Magazine," which supplied the finest sti- mulus his intellect had ever received, and induced the composition of the Essays fondly and familiarly known under the fantastic title of Elia. Never was a periodical work commenced with happier auspices, numbering a list of contributors more original in thought, more fresh in spirit, more sportive in fancy, or directed by an editor better qualified by nature and study to preside, than this " London.^' There was Lamb, with humanity ripened among town-bred experiences, and pathos matured by sorrow, at his wisest, sagest, airiest, zndiscreetest, best ; Barry Cornwall, in the first bloom of his modest and enduring fame, streaking the darkest passion with beauty ; John Hamilton Rey- nolds, lighting up the wildest eccentricities and most striking features of many-coloured life with vivid fancy; and, with others of less note, Hazlitt, whose pen, unclosed from the chain which earnest thought and meta- physical dreamings had woven, gave radiant expression to the results of the solitary musings of many years. Over these con- tributors John Scott presided, himself a ■ critic of remarkable candour, eloquence, and discrimination, unfettered by the dogmas of contending schools of poetry and art; apt to discern the good and beautiful in all; and having, as editor, that which Kent recog- nised in Lear, which subjects revere in kings, and boys admire in schoolmasters, and contributors should welcome in editors — autlioriiy ; — not manifested in a worrying, teasing, intolerable interference in small matters, but in a judicious and steady super- intendence of the whole ; with a wise allow- ance of the occasional excesses of wit and genius. In this respect, Mr. Scott difiered entirely from a celebrated poet, who was induced, just a year after, to undertake the Editorship of the " New Monthly Magazine," an office for which, it may be said, with all veneration for his poetic genius, he was the most unfit person who could be found in the wide world of letters — who regarded a maga- zine as if it were a long affidavit, or a short answer in Chancery, in which the absolute truth of every sentiment and the propriety of every jest were verified by the editor's oath or solemn affirmation ; who stopped the press for a week at a comma ; balanced contending epithets for a fortnight ; and, at last, grew rash in despair, and tossed the nearest, and often the worst article, " unwhipped of justice," to the impatient printer. Mr. Scoct, indeed, was more fit to preside over a little commonwealth of authors than to hold a despotic rule over subject contributors; he had not the airy grace of Jeffrey, by which he might give a certain familiar liveliness to the most laborious disquisitions, and shed the glancing light of fancy among party manifestoes; — nor the boisterous vigour of Wilson, riotous in power, reckless in wisdom, fusing the production of various intellects, into one brilliant reflection of his own master- mind ; — and it was well, that he w^anted these weapons of a tyranny which his chief contributors were too original and too sturdy to endure. He heartily enjoyed his position ; duly appreciated his contributors and him- self; and when he gave audience to some young aspirant for periodical honours at a late breakfast, amidst the luxurious con- fusion of newspapers, reviews, and uncut novels, lying about in fascinating litter, and carelessly enunciated schemes for bright suc- cessions of essays, he seemed destined for many years of that happy excitement in which thought perpetually glows into un- ruffled but energetic language, and is assured by the echoes of the world. Alas ! a few days after he thus appeared the object of admiration and envy to a young visitor, in his rooms in York-street, he was stretched on a bed of mental agony — the foolish victim of the guilty custom of a world which would have laughed at him for THOMAS GRIFFITHS WAINWRIGHT. 268 regarding himself as within the sphere of its opinion, if he had not died to shame it! In a luckless hour, instead of seeking to oppose the bitter personalities of "Blackwood" by the exhibition of a serener power, he rushed with spurious chivalry into a personal con- test ; caught up the weapons which he had himself denounced, and sought to unmask his opponents, and draw them beyond the pale of literary courtesy ; placed himself thus in a doubtful position in which he could neither consistently reject an appeal to the conventional arbitrament of violence ■ nor embrace it; lost his most legitimate oppor- tunity of daring the unhallowed strife, and found another with an antagonist connected with the quarrel only by too zealous a friendship ; and, at last, met his death almost by lamentable accident, in the uncertain glimmer of moonlight, from the hand of one who went out resolved not to harm him ! Such was the melancholy result — first of a controversy too envenomed — and afterwards of enthralment in usages, absurd in all, but most absurd when applied by a literary man to a literary quarrel. Apart from higher considerations, it may befit a life destined for the listless excesses of gaiety to be cast on an idle brawl; — "a youth of folly, an old age of cards," may be no great sacrifice to preserve the hollow truce of fashionable society; but for men of thought — whose minds are their possession, and who seek to live in the minds of others by sympathy with their thoughts — for them to hazard a thought- ful being because they dare not own that they prefer life to death — contemplation to the grave — the preparation for eternity to the unbidden entrance on its terrors, would be ridiculous if it did not become tragical. " Sir, I am a metaphysician ! " said Hazlitt once, when in a fierce dispute respecting the colours of Holbein and Vandyke, words almost became things ; " and nothing makes an impression upon me but abstract ideas ; " and woeful, indeed, is the mockery when thinkers condescend to be duellists! The Magazine did not perish with its Editor; though its unity of purpose was lost, it was still rich in essays of surpassing indi- vidual merit ; among which the masterly vindication of the true dramatic style by Darley; the articles of Carey, the admirable translator of Dante ; and the " Confessions of an English Opium-Eater," held a distin- guished place. Mr. De Quincy, whose youth had been, inspired by enthusiastic admiration • of Coleridge, shown in contributions to " The friend," not unworthy of his master, and substantial contributions of the blessings of fortune, came up to London, and found an admiring welcome from Messrs. Taylor and Hessey, the publishers into whose hands the "London Magazine" had passed. After the good old fashion of the great trade, these genial booksellers used to assemble their contributors round their hospitable table in Fleet Street, where Mr. De Quincy was intro- duced to his new allies. Among the contri- butors who partook of their professional festivities, was a gentleman whose subse- quent career has invested the recollection of his appearances in the familiarity of social life with fearful interest — Mr. Thomas Griffiths Wainwright. He was then a young man ; on the bright side of thirty ; with a sort of undress military air, and the conver- sation of a smart, lively, clever, heartless, voluptuous coxcomb. It was whispered that he had been an officer in the Dragoons ; had spent more than one fortune ; and he now condescended to take a part in periodical literature, with the careless grace of an amateur who felt himself above it. He was an artist, also ; sketched boldly and graphi cally ; exhibited a portfolio of his own drawings of female beauty, in which the voluptuous trembled on the borders of the indelicate ; and seized on the critical depart- ment of the Fine Arts, both in and out of the Magazine, undisturbed by the presence or pretensions of the finest critic on Art who ever wrote — William Hazlitt. On this subject, he composed for the Magazine, under the signature of "Janus Weather- cock," articles of flashy assumption — in which disdainful notices of living artists were set off by fascinating references to the per- sonal appearance, accomplishments, and luxu- rious appliances of the writer, ever the first hero of his essay. He created a new sensa- tion in the sedate circle, not only by his braided surtouts, jewelled fingers, and vari- ous neck-handkerchiefs, but by ostentatious contempt for everything in the world but elegant enjoyment. Lamb, who delighted to find sj'mpathy in dissimilitude, fancied that he really liked him ; took, as he ever did. 264 LETTER TO WOEDSWOETH. the genial side of character ; and, instead of disliking the rake in the critic, thought it pleasant to detect so much taste and good- nature in a fashionable roj^e; and regai-ded all his vapid gaiety, which, to severer observ- ers, looked like impertinence, as the playful effusion of a remarkably guileless nature. We lost sight of him when the career of the "London Magazine" ended; and Lamb did not live to learn the sequel of his history. In 1819, Mr. Wordsworth, encouraged by the extending circle of his earnest admirers, announced for publication his "Peter Bell" — a poem written in the first enthusiasm of his system, and exemplifying, amidst beauty and pathos of the finest essence, some of its most startling peculiarities. Some wicked jester, gifted with more ingenuity and bold- ness than wit, anticipated the real " Simon Pure," by a false one, burlesquing some of the characteristics of the poet's homeliest style. This grave hoax produced the fullow- ing letter from Lamb, appropriately written in alternate lines of red and bh\ck ink, till the last sentence, in which the colours are alternated, word by word — even to the sig- nature — and "Mary's love," at the close; so that " Mary" is hlacJ:, and her ".love" red. TO ME. WORDSWORTH. "1819. " Dear Wordsworth, — I received a copy of 'Peter Bell' a week ago, and I hope' the author will not be off"ended 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 supplemen- tary preface quoting as the author's words an extract from the supplementary preface to the 'Lyrical Ballads.' Is there no law against these rascals? I would have this Lambert Simnel whipt at the cart's tail. Who started the spurious ' P. B.' I have not heard. I should guess, one of the sneering ; 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. ' Hartleap 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 fiice, 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 w'hen 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 bnly 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 ; — hang 'em ! I am glad this aspiration came upon the red ink line. It is more of a bloody curse. I have delivered over your other presents to Alsager and G. D. A., I am sure, will value it, and be proud of the hand from which it came. To G. D. a poem is a poem. His own . as good as anybody's, and, God bless him ! anybody's as good as his own ; fur I do hot think he has the most distant guess of the possibility of one poem being better than another. The gods, by denVing him the very faculty itself of discrimination, have effectually cut off every seed of envy in his bosom. But with envy, they excided curiosity LETTERS TO COLERIDGE AND MISS WORDSWORTH. 265 also ; and if you wish the copy again, which you destined for liim, I think I shall be able to find it again for you, on his third shelf, where he stuff's 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 per- formances, 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 m;rescit ilia subsequent!. Proxima (nempe Veneris) est mortua. Plu- rimum gestiit Thomas, quod apppropinquanti Sabbato eflferenda sit. " Horner quidam Johannulus in angulo sedebat, artocreas quasdam deglutiens. In- seruit poUioes, pruna nana evellens, et magna voce exclamavit ' Dii boni, quam bcnus puer fio!' " Diddle -diddle -dumkins ! meis unicus filius Johannes cubitum ivit, integris braccis, caliga una tantum, indutus. Diddle-diddle, &c. Da Capo. " Hie adsum saltans Joannula. Cum nemo adsit mihi, semper resto sola. "iEnigma mihi hoc solvas, et CEdipus fies. " Qua ratione assimulandus sit equus Tremulo ? " Quippe cui tota communicatio sit per Hat et Neigh, juxta consilium illud Domi- uicum, 'Fiat omnis communicatio vestra Yea et Nay.' "In his nugis caram diem consumo, dum invigilo valetudini carioris nostrse Emmse, quse apud nos jamdudum aegrotat. Salvere vos jubet mecum Maria mea, ipsa integiS. valetudiue. Elia. " Ab agro Enfeldiense datum, Aprilis nescio quibus Calendis — Davus sum, non Calen- darius. "P. S. — Perdita in toto est Billa Refor- matura." Mr. Moxon, having become the publisher of " The Englishman's Magazine," obtained Lamb's aid, as a contributor of miscellaneous articles, which were arranged to appear under the comprehensive title of " Peter's Net." The following accompanied his first contribution, in which some reminiscences of the Royal Academy were enshrined. * TO MR. MOXON. "August, 1831. " Dear M., — The R. A. here memorised was George Dawe, whom I knew well, and heard many aneolotes of, from Daniels and Westall, at n. Rogers's ; to each of iJiem it will be well to send a magazine in my name. It will fly like wildfire among the Royal Academicians and artists. Could you get hold of Procter? — his chambers are in Lincoln's Inn, at Montague's; or of Janus Weathercock? — both of their prose is capital. Don't en- courage poetry. The ' Peter's Net' does not intend funny things only. All is fish. And leave out the sickening 'Elia' at the end. Then it may comprise letters and characters, addressed to Peter ; but a signature forces it to be all characteristic of the one man, Elia, or the one man, Peter, which cramped me formerly. I have agreed not for my sister to know the subjects I choose, till the magazine comes out; so beware of speaking of 'em, or writing about 'em, save generally. Be parti- cular about this warning. Can't you drop in some aftei-noon, and take a bed? The ' Athenaeum' has been hoaxed with some ex- quisite poetry, that was, two or three months ago, in ' Hone's Book.' I like your first number capitally. But is not it small? Come and see us, week-day if possible. " Send, or bring me, Hone's number for August. The anecdotes of E. and of G. D. are substantially true; what does Elia (or Peter) care for dates ? " The poem I mean, is in ' Hone's Book,' as far back as April. I do not know who wrote it ; but 'tis a poem I envy — that and Montgomery's 'Last Man:' I envy the writers, because I feel I could have done something like them. C. L." The following contains Lamb's character- istic acknowledgment of a payment on ac- count of these contributions. TO MR. MOXON. " Sept. 5th, 1831. "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 moneys in trust, till I see you fairly over the next 1st January. Then I shall look upon 'em as earned. No part of your letter gave me more pleasure (no, not the lOZ., tho' you may grin) than that you will revisit old Enfield, which I hope will be always a pleasant idea to you. " Yours very faithfully, C. L." LETTERS TO MOXON. 285 The magazine, although enriched with Lamb's articles, and some others of great merit, did not meet -with a success so rapid as to requite the proprietor for the labour and anxiety of its production. The following is Lamb's letter, in reply to one announcing a determination to discontinue its publi- cation : — TO MR. MOXON. " Oct. 24th, 1831. " 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 honours, and regret even the pleasing cares which are part and parcel of greatness. Your magna- nimous 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 pre- served, comfort me a little. Will it please, or plague you, to say that when your parcel came I cursed it, for my pen was warming in my hand at a ludicrous description of a Landscape of an 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 occupa- tion, so relieving to the apprehensions of the whole body of E,. A.'s ; so you see I had not quitted the ship while a plank was re- maining. " To drop metaphors, I am sure you have done wisely. The very spirit of your epistle speaks that you have a weight oif 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 retaking it, (who ought not?) — is there no middle way of adjusting this fine embarrassment? I think I have hit upon a medium to skin the sore place over, if not quite to heal it. You hinted that there might be something under lOZ., by and by, accruing to me — ■Devil's Money;* (you are sanguine, say 71. 10s.) ; that I entirely renounce, and abjure all future interest in : * Alluding to a little extravagance of Lamb's — fcarcely worth recollecting — in emulation of the " Devil's Walk" of Southey and Co. 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 Seagull?) never sent me any book on Christ's Hospital, by which I could dream that I was indebted to him for a dedication. Did G. D. send his penny tract to me, to convert me to Unitarianism ? Dear, 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 to transmit to the minister, who shakes hands with him out of chapel, and he, in all odds, will light his pipe 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, unlocked for, about five, stopping bread-and-cheese and gin-and-water, is worth a thousand Sundays. I am naturally miser- able on a Sunday ; but a week-day evening and supper is like old times. Set out 7ioio, and give no time to deliberation. " P. S. — The second volume of ' Elia ' is de- lightful (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 show the per- verseness of human will, while I thought I must furnish one of those accursed things monthly, it seemed a labour above Hercules' 'Twelve' in a year, which were evidently monthly contributions. Now I am emanci- pated, I feel as if I had a thousand Essays swelling within me. False feelings both ! " Your ex-Lampoonist, or Lamb-punnist, from Enfield, October 24, or 'last day but one for receiving articles that can be inserted.' " * Referring to a chapel opposite his lodging at Enfield. 286 LETTERS TO MOXON AND TALFODRD. The following was addressed soon after, TO MR. MOXON. "Feb. 1832. "Dear Moxon, — The snows are ancle- deep, slush, and mire, that 'tis hard to get to the post-ofBoe, and cruel to send the maid out. 'Tis a slough of despair, or I should sooner have thanked j'ou 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, 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, 1801. But G. 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 man they call Barker, in his ' Parriana ' has quoted the identical two lines, as they stood in some obscure edition anterior to 1801, and the withers of poor G. are again wrung. His letter is a gem ; with his poor blind eyes it has been laboured out at six sittings. The history of the couplet is in page 3 of this irregular production, in which every variety of shape and size that letters can be twisted into is to be found. Do show his part of it to Mr. R. some day. If he has bowels, they must melt at the contrition so queerly charactered of a contrite sinner. G. was born, I verily think, without original sin, but chooses to have a conscience, as every Christian gentle- man 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. R. : 'tis like a dirty pocket-handkerchief, 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. " Come when the weather will possibly let you ; I wart 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 ; T feel cramped and straitened 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 w-e never shall ; I do not know what I should do without you when I want a little commission. Now then : there are left at Miss Buffon's, the ' Tales of the Castle,' and certain volumes of the ' Retrospective Review.' The first should be conveyed to Novello's, and the Reviews should be taken to Talfourd's office, ground- floor, east side. Elm Court, Middle Temple, to whom I should have written, but my spirits are wretched ; it is quite an effort to write this. So, with the ' Life,' I have cut you out three pieces of service. What can I do for you here, but hope to see you very soon, and think of you with most kindness ? I fear to-morrow, between rains and snows it would be impossible to expect you, but do not let a 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." In February, 1833, the following letter was addressed by Lamb to the editor, on his being made Serjeant : — TO MR. SERJEANT TALFOURD. "My dear T., — Now cannot I call him Serjeant; ^yhat is there in a coif? Those canvas-sleeves protective from ink,* when he was a law-chit — a Chitty\mg, (let the leathern * Mr. Lamb always insisted that the costume referred to was worn when he first gladdened his young friend by a call at Mr. Chitty's Chambers. 1 am afraid it is all apocryyhal. LETTERS TO MOXON AND WORDSWOETH. 28( apron be apocryphal) do more 'specially plead to the Jury Court, of old memory. Ihe costume (Mall he agnize it?) was as of a desk- fellow, or Soclus Plutei. Methought I spied a brother ! "That fannliarity is extinct tor ever. Curse me if I can call him Mr. Serjeant- except, mark me, in company Honour Mhere honour is due; but should he ever visit us, (do you think he ever will, Mary?) ^vhat a distinction should I keep up between him and our less fortunate friend, II. 0. K. . Decent respect shall always be the Crabb s — but, somehow, short of reverence. " Well, of my old friends, I have lived to see two kni-hted, 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, — Ta-^ sister prompts me — (these ladies stand upon ceremonies) — has the con- gratulable news affected the members of our small community. Mary comprehended it at once, and entered into it heartily. Mrs. ■VV was, as usual,- perverse ; wouldn't, or couldn't, understand it. A Serjeant? She thought Mr. T. was in the law. Didn't know tliat 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. " W^e 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, t). L. The following note to Mr. Moson, on some long forgotten occasion of momentary dis- pleasure, the nature and object of which is uncertain,— contains a fantastical exaggera- tion of anger, which, judged by those who knew the writer, will only illustrate the entire absence of all the bad passions of hatred and contempt it feigns. TO MR. MOXON. "1833. "Dear M., — Many thanks for the books; but most thanks for one immortal sentence: • If I do not cheat him, never trust me again.' I do not know whether to admire most, the wit or justness of the sentiment. It 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 withess against thy neighbour at all contem- plated 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 command- ment. The outlaw to. the Mosaic dispensa- tion! unworthy to have seen Moses behind! — to lay his desecrating hands upon Elia! Has the irreverent ark-toucher been struck blind, I wonder? The more I think of him, the less I think of him. His meanness is invisible with aid of solar microscope. My moral eye smarts at him. The less flea that bites little fleas! The great Beast! The beggarly Nit ! "More when we meet; mind, you'll come, two of you ; and couldn't you go off in the morning, that we may have a day-long curse at him, if curses are not dishallowed by descending so low? Amen. Maledicatur in . , O T " extremis ! v. jj. In the spring of 1833, Lamb made his last removal from Enfield to Edmonton. He ■was about to lose the society of Miss Isola, on the eve of marriage, and determined to live altogether with his sister, whether in her sanity or her madness. This change was announced in the following letter TO MR. "WORDSWORTH. " End of May nearly. "Dear Wordsworth,— Your letter, save id 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 to me then. In short, half her life she is 288 LETTER TO MOXON. dead to me, and the other half is made anxious with fears and lookings forward to the nest 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, 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 lachrymge rerum ! and you and I must bear it. " To lay a little more load on it, a circum- stance 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 eman- cipated from Enfield. I am with attentive people, and younger. I am three or four miles nearer the great city ; coaches half- price less, and going always, of which I avail myself. I have few friends left there, one or two though, most beloved. But London streets and faces cheer m"e inexpressibly, though of the latter there should be not one known one remaining. " Thank you for your cordial reception of *Elia.' Inter nos, the "Ariadne' is not a darling 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 cheerful in this my genial hot weather. Walked sixteen miles yesterday. I can't read much in summer time. " With my kindest love to all, and prayers for dear "Dorothy, " I remain most affectionately yours, " C. Lamb. * A series of articles contributed, under this title, by Lamb, to the " New Monthly Magazine." "At Mr. Walden's, Church-street, Edmon- ton, Middlesex. ."Moxon has introduced Emma to Rogers, and he smiles upon the project. I have given E. my Miltoh^, (will you pardon me ?*) in part of a portion. It hangs famously in 'his Murray-like shop." On the approach of the wedding-day, fixed for 3Qth July, Lamb turned to the account of a half-tearful merriment, the gift of a watch to the young lady whom he was about to lose. TO MR. MOXON. " July 24th, 1833. " For God's sake give Emma no more watches ; one has turned her head. She is arrogant and "insulting. She said something very unpleasant to our old clock in the 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 V and she answers them punctually. She loses all her time looking to see ' what the time is.' I overheard her whispering, 'Just so many hours, minutes, &c., to Tuesday; I think St. George's goes too slow.' This little pre- sent of Time! — why, — 'tis Eternity to her! "What can make her so fond of a ginger- bread watch ? " She has spoiled some of the movements. Between ourselves, she has kissed away ' half-past twelve,' which I suppose to be the canonical hour in Hanover Square. " Well, if ' love me, love my watch,' answers, she will keep time to you. " It goes right by the Horse Guards. "Dearest M., — Never mind opposite f nonsense. She does not love you for the watch, but the watch for you. I will be at the wedding, and keep the 30th July, as long as my poor months last me, as a festival, gloriously. Yours ever, Elia. * It had 'been proposed by Lamb that Mr. W. should be the possessor of the portrait if he outlivedJiis friend, and that afterwards it was to be bequeathed to Christ's College, Cambridge. f Written on the opposite page to that in which the previous affectionate banter appears. LETTERS TO MR. AND MRS. MOXON AND GARY. 289 " "We have not heard from Cambridge. I will write the moment we do. " Edmonton, 24th Jiily, twenty minutes past three by Emma's watch." Miss Lamb was in the sad state of mental estrangement up to the day of the wedding; but then in the constant companionship of her brother at Edmonton. The following cluster of little letters to the new-married pair — the first fi-om Charles, introducing one from Mary — shows the happy effect of the news on her mental health. TO MK. AND MRS. MOXOIST " August, 1833. " 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 kind)}'', and shall most kindly your writing from Paris. " I want to crowd another letter to Miss Fryer into the little time after dinner, before post- time. So with twenty thousand congratula- tions, Yours, 0. L. " I am calm, sober, happy. Turn over for the reason. I got home from Dover Street, by Evans, half as sober as a judge. I am turning over a new leaf, as I hope you will now." The turn of the leaf presented the following from Miss Lamb : — ■ "My dear Emma and 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 * The wife of the landlord of the house at Edmonton. 19 that moment, as if by an electrical stroke, to the entire possession of my senses. I never felt so calm and quiet after a similar illness as I do now. I feel as if all tears were wiped from my eyes, and all care from my heart. "Mary Lamb." At the foot of this letter is the following by Charles : — " Wednesday. "Dears, again, — Your letter interrupted a seventh game at picquet which we were having, after walking to 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 re- covery. 'Tis her own words, undictated." Lamb's latter days were brightened by the frequent — latterly periodical — hospitality of the admirable translator of Dante, at the . British Museum. The following was ad- dressed to this new friend lately acquired, but who became an old friend at once, while Mr. and Mrs. Moxon were on their wedding tour: — TO REV. H. F. GARY. "Sept. 9th, 1833. " Dear Sir, — Your packet I have only just received, owing, I suppose, to the absence of Moxon, who is flaunting it about d 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 funtherance of your polar-star translation. I think we 290 LETTERS TO MOXON. 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 M. sent you ' Elia,' second volume? if not, he shall." Miss Lamb did not escape all the cares of housekeeping by the new arrangement: the following little note , shows the grotesque uses to which Lamb turned the smaller household anxieties: — TO MR. MOXON. " 1S33. "Dear M., — Mary and I are very poorly. We have had a sick child, who, sleeping or not sleeping, next me, with a pasteboard par- tition between, killed my sleep. The little bastard is gone. My bedfellows are cough and cramp ; we sleep three in a bed. Domes- tic arrangements (baker, butcher, and all) de- volve on Mary. Don't come yet to this house of pest and age ! We propose, when you and E. agree on the time, to come up and meet you at the B 's, say a week hence, but do you make the appointment. " Mind, our spirits are good, and we are happy in your happinesses. C. L. " Our old and ever loves to dear Emma." The following is Lamb's reply to a wel- come communication of Sonnets, addressed by the bridegi'oom to the fair object of Lamb's regard — beautiful in themselves — and endeared to Lamb by honoured memo- ries and generous hopes: — TO MR. MOXON. « Nov. 29th, 1833. " Mary is of opinion with me, that two of these Sonnets are of a higher grade than any poetry you have done yet. The one to Emma is so pretty ! I have only allowed mj'self to transpose a word in the third line. Sacred shall it be from any intermeddling of mine. But we jointly beg that you will make four lines in the room of the four last. Read ' Darby and Joan,' in Mrs. Moxon's first album. There you'll see 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 sJiall finish it, and I'll be hanged 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 lustt cheeks Blew longing lover to his mistress ' side, 0, puflf 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. IIow proud should Emma be of her poets ! "Perhaps '0 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 dis- respect, 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 ofi" to Snow Hill. From Snow Hill I deliberately was marching down, with noble Holborn before me, framing in mental cogi- tation a map of the dear London in prospect LETTER TO ROGERS. 291 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 (0, march of intellect!) plenty of lite- rary 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 thou as the morning, my young hrlcle,' and dwelt upon it in a confused brain, but determined pot to open them all next day, being in a state not to be told of at Chatteris. Tell it not in Gath, Emma, lest the daughters triumph ! I am at the end of my tether. I wish you could come on Tuesday with your fair bride. Why can't you ! Do. We are thankful to your sister for being of the party. Come, and bring a sonnet on Mary's birth- day. 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 forgot 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, Wuiten -with your name !' Not bad as a pun. I will expect you before two on Tuesday. I am well and happy, tell E." The following is Lamb's letter of acknow- ledgment to the author of the " Pleasures of Memory," for an early copy of his "Illus- trated Poems," of a share in the publication of which, Mr. Moxon was "justly vain." The artistical allusions are to Stothard ; the allu- sions to the poet's own kindnesses need no explanation to those who have been enabled by circumstances, which now and then trans- pire, to guess at the generous course of his life. TO MR. ROGEKS. " Dec. 1833. "My dear Sir, — Your book, by the unre- mitting punctuality of your publisher, has reached me thus early. I have not opened it, nor will till to-morrow, when ,1 promise myself a thorough reading of it. The ' Pleasures of Memory' was the first school- present I made to Mrs. Moxon ; it has 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 Boy- dell's Shakspeare Gallery do me with Shak- speare ? to have Opie's Shakspeare, North- cote's Shakspeare, light-headed Fuseli's Shak- speare, heavy-headed Romney's Shakspeare, wooden-headed West's Shakspeare (though he did the best in Lear), deaf-headed Rey- nolds's Shakspeare, instead of my, and everybody's Shakspeare ; 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 tantalising 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 292 LETTERS TO MISS FRYER AND WORDSWORTH. 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 exem- plification in English of the Ovidian Elegiac metre ? In the Hexameter rises the fountain's sil-cery current, In the Jfentameter aye falling iu melody down. "My sister is papering up the book — care- ful soul 1" Lamb and his sister were now, for the last year of their united lives, always together. What his feelings were in this companion- ship, when his beloved associate was deprived of reason, will be seen in the following most aifecting letter, to an old schoolfellow and very dear friend of Mrs. Moxon's — since dead — who took an earnest interest in their welfare. TO MISS FRYER. "Feb. 14, 1834. "Dear Miss Fryer, — Your letter found me just returned from keeping my birthday (pretty innocent!) at Dover-street. I see them pretty often. I have since had letters of business to write, or should have replied earlier. In one word, be less uneasy about me ; I bear my pi-ivations very well ; I am not in the depths of desolation, as heretofore. Your admonitions are not lost upon me. Y'^our 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 hap- pier 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 inter- mission, 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. W^hat 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 W^oolman'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 epistolizing 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." A few days afterwards Lamb's passionate desire to serve a most deserving friend broke out in the following earnest little letter: — TO MR. WORDSWORTH. " Church-street, Edmonton, " February 22, 1834 "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 L M ; her address, 75, Castle-street, Carlisle ; her qualities (and her motives for this exertion) are the most "'°M. lJ^i^^z ^C^c ^- d>^2^ . LETTERS TO GARY AND MRS. DYER. 293 amiable, most upright. For thirty years she has been tried by me, and on her behaviour I would stake my soul. 0, if you can recom- mend 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 exem- plary 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 olerate from C. Lamb. Need he add loves to wife, sister, and all? 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. IIow good you are to me ! Yours with fer- vour of friendship, for ever, C. L. " If you want references, the Bishop of Carlisle may be one. L -'s sister (as good as she, she cannot be better though she tries) educated the daughters of the late Earl of Carnarvon, and he settled a handsome annuity on her for life. In short, all the family are a sound rock." A quiet dinner at the British Museum with Mr. Gary once a month, to which Lamb looked forward with almost boyish eager- ness, was now almost his only festival. In a little note to his host about this time, he hints at one of his few physical tastes. — " We are thinking," he says, " of roast shoulder of mutton with onion sauce, but I scorn to prescribe to the hospitalities of mine host." The following, after these festivities had been s interrupted by xMr. Cary's visit to the Conti- nent, is their last memorial : — ■ TO MR. CART. "Sept. 12, 1834. " By Cot's plessing we will not be absence at the grace." "Dear C, — We long to see you, and hear account of your peregrinations, of the Tun at Heidelburg, the Clock at Strasburg, the statue at Rotterdam, the dainty Rhenish, and • poignant Moselle wines, Westphalian hams, and Botargoes of Altona. But perhaps you have seen, not tasted any of these things. " Yours, very glad to chain you back again to your proper centre, books and Bibliothecae, •• C. and M. Lamb. " I have only got your note just now per negligentiam periniqui Moxoni." The following little note has a mournful interest, as Lamb's last scrap of writing. It is dated on the very day on which erysipelas followed the accident, apparently trifling, which, five days after, terminated in his death. It is addressed to the wife of his oldest surviving friend : — TO MRS. DTER. '•Dec. 22nd, 1S34. "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." CHAPTER THE LAST. lamb's WEDNESDAY NIGHTS COMPARED ■CT'ITn THE EVENINGS OP HOLLAND HOUSE — HIS DEAD COM- PANIONS, DYER, GODWIN, THBLWALL, HAZLITT, BARNES, HAYDON, COLERIDGE, AND OTHERS LAST GLIMPSES OF CHARLES AND MARY LAMB. "Gone; all are gone, the old familiar faces!" Two circles of rare social enjoyment — dif- fering as widely as possible in all external circumstances — but each superior in its kind to all others, during the same period frankly opened to men of letters — now existing only in the memories of those who are fast depart- ing from us — may, without ofience, be placed side by side in grateful recollection ; they are the dinners at Holland House and the suppers of "the Lambs" at the Temple, Great Russell-street, and Islington. Strange, at first, as this juxta-position may seem, a 294 HOLLAND HOUSE — LAMB'S SUPPERS. little reflection will convince the few sur- vivors who have enjoyed both, that it in- volves no injustice to either; while with those who are too young to have been ad- mitted to these rare festivities, we may exercise the privilege of age by boasting what good fellowship was once enjoyed, and what " good talk " there was once in the world ! But let us call to mind the aspect of each scene, before we attempt to tell of the con- versation, which will be harder to recall and impossible to characterise. And first, let us invite the reader to assist at a dinner at Holland House in the height of the London and Parliamentary season, say a Saturday in June. It is scarcely seven — for the luxuries of the house are enhanced by a punctuality in the main object of the day, which yields to no dilatory guest of whatever pretension — and you are seated in an oblong room, rich in old gilding, opposite a deep recess, pierced by large old windows through which the rich branches of trees batl\ed in golden light, just admit the faint outline of the Surrey Hills. Among the guests are some perhaps of the highest rank, always some of high political importance, about whom the interest of busy life gathers, intermixed with others eminent already in literature or art, or of that dawn- ing promise which the hostess delights to discover and the host to smile on. All are assembled for the purpose of enjoyment ; the anxieties of the minister, the feverish strug- gles of the partisan, the silent toils of the artist or critic, are finished for the week: professional and literary jealousies are hushed ; sickness, decrepitude, and death are silently voted shadows ; and the brilliant assemblage is prepared to exercise to the highest degree the extraordinary privilege of mortals to live in the knowledge of mortality without its consciousness, and to people the present hour with delights, as if a man lived and laughed and enjoyed in this world for ever. Every appliance of physical luxury which the most delicate art, can supply, attends on each ; every faint wish which luxury creates is anticipated; the noblest and most gracious countenance in the world smiles over the happiness it is diffusing, and redoubles it by cordial invitations and encouraging words, which set the humblest stranger guest at perfect ease. As the dinner merges into the dessert, and the sunset casts a richer glow on the branches, still, or lightly waving in the evening light, and on the scene within, the harmony of all sensations becomes more per- fect; a delighted and delighting chuckle in- vites attention to some joyous sally of the richest intellectual wit reflected in the faces of all, even to the favourite page in green, who attends his mistress with duty like that of the antique world ; the choicest wines are enhanced in their liberal but temperate use by the vista opened in Lord Holland's tales of bacchanalian evenings at Brookes's, Avith Fox and Sheridan, when potations deeper and more serious rewarded the statesman's toils and shortened his days ; until at length the serener pleasure of conversation, of the now carelessly scattered groups, is enjoyed in that old, long, unrivalled library in which Addison mused, and wrote, and drank ; where every living grace attends ; " and more than echoes talk along the walls." One happy peculiarity of these assemblies was, the number of persons in different stations and of various celebrity, who were gratified by seeing, still more, in hearing and knowing each other ; the statesman was relieved from care by association with the poet of whom he had heard and partially read ; and the poet was elevated by the courtesy which " bared the great heart" Avhich "beats beneath a star ;" and each felt, not rarely, the true dignity of the other, modestly expanding under the most genial auspices. Now turn to No. 4, Inner Temple Lane, at ten o'clock, Avhen the sedater part of the company are assembled, and the happier stragglers are dropping in from the play. Let it be any autumn or winter month, when the fire is blazing steadily, and the clean- swept hearth and whist-tables speak of the spirit of Mrs. Battle, and serious looks require "the i-igour of the game." The furniture is old-fashioned and worn ; the ceiling low, and not wholly unstained by traces of " the great plant," though now virtuously forborne : but the Hogarths, in narrow black frames, abounding in infinite thought, humour and pathos, enrich the walls ; and all things wear an air of comfort and hearty English welcome. Lamb himself, yet unrelaxed by the glass, is sitting with a sort of Quaker primness at the whist-table, the gentleness of his melancholy smile half lost in his intentness on the game ; his partner, the author of " Politicial LAMB'S SUPPEKS. 295 Justice," (the majestic expression of his large head not disturbed b3' disproportion of his comparatively diminutive stature.) is regard- ing his hand with a philosophic but not a careless eye; Captain Burney, only not venei-- able because so young in spirit, sits between them ; and H. C. R., who alone now and then breaks the proper silence, to welcome some incoming guest, is his happy partner — true winner in the game of life, whose leisure achieved early, is devoted to his friends ! At anotlier table, just beyond the circle which extends from the fire, sit another four. The broad, burly, jovial bulk of John Lamb, the Ajax Telamon of the slender clerks of the old South Sea House, whom he sometimes introduces to the rooms of his younger brother, surprised to learn from them that he is growing famous, confronts the stately but courteous Alsager; while P., "his few hairs bristling" at gentle objurgation, watches his partner M. B., dealing, with " soul more white"* than the hands of which Lamb once said, " M., if dirt was trumps, what hands you would hold!" In one corner of the room, you may see the pale earnest counte- nance of Charles Lloyd, who is discoursing " of fate, free-will, fore-knowledge absolute," with Leigh Hunt; and, if you choose to listen, you will scarcely know which most to admire — the severe logic of the melancholy reasoner, or its graceful evasion by the trick- some fantasy of the joyous poet. Basil Montague, gentle enthusiast in the cause of humanity, which he has lived to see triumphant, is pouring into the outstretched ear of George Dyer some tale of legalised injustice, which the recipient is vainly en- deavoring to comprehend. Soon the room fills ; in slouches Hazlitt from the theatre, where his stubborn anger for Napoleon's defeat at Waterloo has been softened by Miss Stephens's angelic notes, which might " chase anger, and grief, and fear, and sorrow, and pain from mortal or immortal minds ;" Kenney, with a tremulous pleasure, an- nounces that there is a crowded house to the ninth representation of his new comedy, of which Lamb lays down his cards to inquire ; or Ayrton, mildly radiant, whispers the con- 's Lamb's Sonnet, dedicatory of his first volume of prose to this cherished friend, thus concludes: — " Free from self seeking, enfy, low design, I have not found a whiter soul than thine." tinual triumph of " Don Giovanni," for which Lamb, incapable of opera, is happy to take his word. Now and then an actor glances on us from "the rich Cathay" of the world behind the scenes, with news of its brighter human-kind, and with looks reflecting the public favour — Liston, grave beneath the weight of the town's regards — or Miss Kelly, unexhausted in spirit by alternating the drolleries of high farce with the terrible pathos of melodrama, — or Charles Kemble mirrors the chivalry of thought, and ennobles the party by bending on them looks beaming with the aristocracy of nature. Meanwhile Becky lays the cloth on the side-table, under the direction of the most quiet, sensible, and kind of women — who soon compels the younger and more hungry of the guests to partake largely of the cold roast lamb or boiled beef, the heaps of smoking roasted potatoes, and the vast jug of porter, often replenished from the foaming pots, which the best tap of Fleet-street supplies. Perfect freedom prevails, save when the hospitable pressure of the mistress excuses excess ; and perhaps, the physical enjoyment of the play- goer exhausted with pleasure, or of the author jaded with the labour of the brain, is not less than that of the guests at the most charming of aristocratic banquets. As the hot water and its accompaniments appear, and the severities of whist relax, the light of conversation thickens : Hazlitt, catching the influence of the spirit from which he has lately begun to abstain, utters some fine criticism with struggling emphasis ; Lamb stammers out puns suggestive of wisdom, for happy Barron Field to admire and echo ; the various driblets of talk combine into a stream, while Miss Lamb moves gently about to see that each modest stranger is duly served ; turning, now and then, an anxious loving eye on Charles, which is softened into a half humorous expression of resignation to inevit- able fate, as he mixes his second tumbler ! This is on ordinary nights, when the accus- tomed Wednesday-men assemble; but there is a diiFerence on great extra nights, gladdened by " the bright visitations" of Wordsworth or Coleridge: — the cordiality of the welcome is the same, but a sedater wisdom prevails. Happy hours were they for the young disciple of the then desperate, now triumphant cause of Wordsworth's genius, to be admitted ti» 296 SOCIAL COMPARISON. the presence of the poet who had opened a new world for him in the undiscovered riches of his own nature, and its affinities with the outer universe ; whom he worshipped the more devoutly for the world's scorn ; for whom he felt the future in the instant, and anticipated the "All hail hereafter !" which the great poet has lived to enjoy ! To win him to speak of his own poetry — to hear him recite its noblest passac^es — and to join in his brave defiance of the fashion of the age — was the solemn pleasure of such a season; and, of course, superseded all minor disquisitions. So, when Coleridge came, argument, wit, humour, criticism were hushed ; the pertest, smartest, and the cleverest felt that all were assembled to listen ; and if a card-table had been filled, or a dispute begun before he was excited to ccmtinuous speech, his gentle voice, undulating in music, soon " Suspended whist, and took with ravishment The thronging audience." The conversation which animated each of these memorable circles, approximated, in essence, much more nearly than might be surmised from the difference in station of the principal talkers, and the contrast in physical appliances ; that of the bowered saloon of Holland House having more of earnestness and depth, and that of the Temple-attic more of airy grace than would be predicated by a superficial observer. The former possessed the peculiar interest of directly bordering on the scene of political conflict — gathering to- gether the most eloquent leaders of the Whig party, whose repose from energetic action spoke of the week's conflict, and in whom the moment's enjoyment derived a peculiar charm from the perilous glories of the struggle which the m.orrow was to renew — when power was just within reach, or held with a convulsive grasp — like the eager and solemn pleasure of the soldiers' banquet in the pause of victory. The pervading spirit of Lamb's parties was also that of social progress ; but it was the spirit of the dreamers and thinkers, not of the combatants of the world — men who, it may be, drew their theories from a deeper range of meditation, and embraced the future with more comprehensive hope — but about whom the immediate interest of party did not gather ; whose victories were all within ; whose rewards were visions of blessings for their species in the furthest horizon of benevolent prophecy. If a profounder thought was sometimes dragged to light in the dim circle of Lamb's companions than was native to the brighter sphere, it was still a rare felicity to watch there the union of elegance with purpose in some leader of party — the delicate, almost fragile grace of illustration in some one, perhaps destined to lead advancing multitudes or to withstand their rashness ; — to observe the growth of strength in the midst of beauty expanding from the sense of the heroic past, as the famed Basil tree of Boccaccio grew from the immolated relic beneath it. If the alterna- tions in the former oscillated between wider extremes, touching on the wildest farce and most earnest tragedy of life ; the rich space of brilliant comedy which liped ever between them in the latter, was diversified by serious interests and heroic allusions. Sydney Smith's wit — not so wild, so grotesque, so deep-searching as Lamb's — had even more quickness of intellectual demonstration ; wedded moral and political wisdom to hap- piest language, with a more rapid perception of secret affinities; was capable of producing epigrammatic splendour reflected more per- manently in the mind, than the fantastic brilliancy of those rich conceits which Lamb stammered out with his painful smile. Mackintosh might vie with Coleridge in vast and various knowledge ; but there the com- petition between these great talkers ends, and the contrast begins ; the contrast be- tween facility and inspiration ; between the ready access to each ticketed and labelled compartment of history, science, art, criticism, and the genius that fused and renovated all. But then a younger spirit appeared at Lord Holland's table to redress the balance — not so poetical as Coleridge, but more lucid — in whose vast and joyous memory all the mighty past lived and glowed anew ; whose declamations presented, not groups tinged Avith distant light, like those of Coleridge, but a series of historical figures in relief, ex- hibited in bright succession, as if by dioramio art there glided before us embossed surfaces of heroic life.* Rogers too, was there — con- necting the literature of the last age with * I take leave to copy the glowing picture of the evenings of Holland House and of its admirable master, drawn by this favourite guest himself, from an articJa SOCIAL COMPARISON. 297 this, partaking of some of the best character- istics of both — whose first poem sparkled in the closing darkness of the last century " like a rich jewel in an Ethiop's ear," and who was advancing from a youth which had anticipated wbich adorned the " Edinburgh Review," just after Lord Holland's death. " The time is goming -when, perhaps a few old men, the last survivors of our generation, will in vain seek, amidst new streets, and squares, and railway stations, for the site of that dwelling which was in their youth the favourite resort of wits and beauties — of painters and poets — of scholars, philosophers, and statesmen. They will then remember, with strange tenderness, many objects once familiar to them — the avenue and the terrace, the busts and the paintings ; the carving, the grotesque gilding, and the enigmatical mottoes. With peculiar fondness they will recall that v^enerable chamber, in which all the antique gravity of a college library was so singularly blended with all that female grace and wit could devise to embellish a drawing-room. They will recollect, not unmoved, those shelves loaded with the varied learning of many lands and many ages ; those portraits in which were preserved the features of the best and wisest Englishmen of two generations. They will recollect how many men who have guided the politics of Europe — who have moved great assemblies by reason and eloquence — who have put life into bronze and canvas, or who have left to posterity things so ■written a» it shall not willingly let them die — were there mixed with all that was loveliest and gayest in the society of the most splendid of capitals. They will remember the singular character which belonged to that circle, in which every talent and accomplishment, every art and science, had its place. They will remember how the last debate was discussed in one corner, and the last comedy of Scribe in another ; while Wilkie gazed with modest admiration on Reynolds ' Baretti ; while Mackin- tosh turned over Thomas Aquinas to verify a quotation; while Talleyrand related his conversations with Barras at the Luxemburg, or his ride with Lannes over the field of Austerlitz. They will remember, above all, the grace — and the kindness, far more admirable than grace — with which the princely hospitality of that ancient mansion was dispensed. They will remember the venerable and benignant countenance, and the cordial voice of him who bade them welcome. They will remember that temper which years of pain, of sick- ness, of lameness, of confinement, seemed only to make sweeter and sweeter; and that frank politeness, which at once relieved all the embarrassment of the youngest and most timid writer or artist, who found himself for the first time among Ambassadors and Earls. They will remember that constant flow of conversation, so natural, go animated, so various, so rich with observation and anecdote; that wit that never gave a wound; that exquisite mimicry which ennobled, Instead of degrading ; that goodness of heart which appeared in every look and accent, and gave additonal value to every talent and acquirement. They wjU remember, too, that he ■whose name they hold in reverence was not less distin- guished by the inflexible uprightness of his political conduct, than by his loving disposition and his winning manners. They will, remember that, in the "last lines which he traced, he expressed his joy that he had done nothing unworthy of the friend of Fox and Grey; and they will have reason to feel similar joy, if, in looking back on many troubled years, they cannot accuse them- Belves of having done anything unworthy of men who were distinguished by the friendship of Lord Holland.'' memory, to an age of kindness and hope ; and Moore, who paused in the fluttering expression of graceful trifles, to whisper some deep-toned thought of Ireland's wrongs and sorrows. Literature and Art supplied the favourite topics to each of these assemblies, — both discussed with earnest admiration, but sur- veyed in different aspects. The conversation at Lord Holland's was wont to mirror the happiest aspect of the living mind ; to cele- brate the latest discoveries in science ; to echo the quarterly decisions of imperial criticism ; to reflect the modest glow of young reputations ; — all was gay, graceful, decisive, as if the pen of Jeffrey could have spoken ; or, if it reverted to old times, it re- joiced in those classical associations which are always young. At Lamb's, on the other hand, the topics were chiefly sought among the obscure and remote ; the odd, the quaint, the fantastic were drawn out from their dusty recesses ; nothing could be more foreign to its embrace than the modern circulating library, even when it teemed with the Scotch novels. AVhatever the subject was, however, in the more aristocratic, or the humbler sphere, it was always discussed by those best entitled to talk on it; no others had a chance of being heard. This remark- able freedom from bores was produced in Lamb's circle by the authoritative texture of its commanding minds ; in Lord Holland's, by the more direct, and more genial in- fluence of the hostess, which checked that tenacity of subject and opinion which some- times broke the charm of Lamb's parties by " a duel in the form of a debate." Perhaps beyond any other hostess, — certainly far be- yond any host, Lady Holland possessed the tact of perceiving, and the power of evoking the various capacities which lurked in every part of the brilliant circles over which she presided, and restrained each to its appro- priate sphere, and portion of the evening. To enkindle the enthusiasm of an artist on the theme over which he had achieved the most facile mastery; to set loose the heart of the rustic poet, and imbue his speech with the freedom of his native hills ; to draw from the adventurous traveller a breathing picture of his most imminent danger ; or to embolden the bashful soldier to disclose his own share in the perils and glories of some famous battle-field ; to encourage the generous praise of friendship when the speaker and the 298 SOCIAL COMPARISON. subject reflected interest on each other ; or win from an awkward man of science the secret history of a discovery which had astonished the world ; to conduct these brilliant deve- lopments to the height of satisfaction, and then to shift the scene by the magic of^ a ■word, were among her nightly successes. And if this extraordinary power over the elements of social enjoyment was sometimes wielded wdthout the entire concealment of its despotism ; if a decisive check sometimes rebuked a speaker who might intercept the variegated beauty of Jeffrey's indulgent criticism, or the jest announced and self- rewarded in Sydney Smith's cordial and triumphant laugh, the authority was too clearly exerted for the evening's prosperity, and too manifestly impelled by an urgent consciousness of the value of these golden hours which were fleeting within its confines, to sadden the enforced silence with more than a momentary regret. If ever her prohibition — clear, abrupt, and decisive, — indicated more than a preferable regard for livelier dis- course, it was when a depreciatory tone was adopted towards genius, or goodness, or honest endeavour, or when some friend, per- sonal or intellectual, was mentioned in slighting phrase. Habituated to a generous partisanship, by strong sympathy with a great political cause, she carried the fidelity of her devotion to that cause into her social relations, and was ever the truest and the fastest of friends. The tendency, often more idle than malicious, to soften down the in- tellectual claims of the absent, which so insidiously besets literary conversation, and teaches a superficial insincerity, even to sub- stantial esteem and regard, and which was sometimes insinuated into the conversation of Lamb's friends, though never into his own, found no favour in her presence ; and hence the conversations over which she presided, pei-haps beyond all that ever flashed with a kindred splendour, were marked by that in- tegrity of good nature which might admit of their exact repetition to every living indi- vidual whose merits were discussed, without the danger of inflicting pain. Under her auspices, not only all critical, but all personal talk was tinged with kindness ; the strong interest which she took in the happiness of her friends, shed a peculiar sunniness over the aspects of life presented by the common topics of alliances, and marriages, and pro- motions; and there was not a hopeful en- gagement, or a happy wedding, or a promo- tion of a friend's son, or a new intellectual triumph of any youth with whose name and history she was familiar, but became an event on which she expected and required congra- tulation as on a part of her own fortune. Although there was necessarily a preponder- ance in her society of the sentiment of popular progress, which once was cherished almost exclusively by the party to whom Lord Holland was united by sacred ties, no expression of triumph in sucess, no viru- lence in sudden disappointment, was ever permitted to wound the most sensitive ears of her conservative guests. It might be that some placid comparison of recent with former times, spoke a sense of freedom's peaceful victory; or that, on the giddy edge of some great party struggle, the festivities of the evening might take a more serious cast, as news arrived from the scene of contest, and the pleasure might be deepened by the peril ; but the feeling was always restrained by the supi'emacy given to those permanent solaces for the mind, in the beautiful and the great, which no political changes disturb. Although the death of the noble master of the venerated mansion closed its portals for ever on the exquisite enjoyments to which they had been so generously expanded, the art of conversa- tion lived a little longer in the smaller circle which Lady Holland still drew almost daily around her ; honouring his memory by fol- lowing his example, and struggling against the perpetual sense of unutterable bereave- ment, by rendering to literature that honour and those reliefs, which English aristocracy has too often denied it; and seeking conso- lation in making others proud and happy. That lingering happiness is extinct now ; Lamb's kindred circle — kindred, though so different — dispersed almost before he died; the "thoughts that wandered thi-ough eter- nity," are no longer expressed in time; the fancies and conceits, " gay creatures of the element" of social delight, "that in the colours of the rainbow lived, and played in the plighted clouds," flicker only in the back- ward pei'spective of waning years ; and for the survivors, I may venture to affirm, no such conversation as they have shared in either circle will ever be theirs again in this world! GEORGE DYER. 299 Before closing these last Memorials of Charles and Mary Lamb, it may be permitted me to glance separately at some of the friends who are grouped around them in memory, and who, like them, live only in recollection, and in the works they have left behind them. ^ George Dyer was one of the first objects of Lamb's youthful reverence, for he had attained the stately rank of Grecian in the venerable school of Christ's Hospital, when Charles entered it, a little, timid, affectionate child ; but this boyish respect, once amount- in o- to awe, gave place to a femiliar habit of loving banter, which, springing from the depths of old regard, approximated to school- boy roguery, and, now and then, though very rarely, gleamed on the consciousness of the ripe scholar. No contrast could be more vivid than that presented by the relations of each to the literature they both loved; one divining its inmost essences, plucking out the heart of its mysteries, shedding light on its dimmest recesses ; the other devoted, with equal assiduity, to its externals. Books, to Dyer, " were a real world, both pure and good ;" among them he passed^ unconscious of time, from youth to extreme age, vege- tating on their dates and forms, and " trivial fond records," in the learned air of great libraries, or the dusty confusion of his own, with the least possible apprehension of any human interest vital in their pages, or of any spirit of wit or fancy glancing across them. His life was an Academic pastoral. Me- thinks I see his gaunt, awkward form, set off by trousers too short, like those outgrown by a gawky lad, and a rusty coat as much too large for the wearer, hanging about him like those garments which the aristocratic Milesian peasantry prefer to the most com- fortable rustic dress ; his long head silvered over with short yet straggling hair, and his dark grey eyes glistening with faith and wonder, as Lamb satisfies the curiosity which has gently disturbed his studies as to the authorship of the Waverley Novels, by telling him, in the strictest confidence, that they are the works of Lord Castlereagh, just returned from the Congress of Sovereigns at Vienna ! Off he runs, with animated stride and shambling enthusiasm, nor stops till he reaches Maida Hill, and breathes his news into the startled ear of Leigh Hunt, who, " as a public writer," ought to be possessed of the great fact with which George is laden ! Or shall I endeavour to revive the bewildered look with which, just after he had been, an- nounced as one of Lord Stanhope's executors and residuary legatees, he received Lamb's grave inquiry, " Whether it was true, as commonly reported, that he was to be made a Lord?" "0 dear no! Mr. Lamb," re- sponded he with earnest seriousuess, but not without a moment's quivering vanity, "I could not think of such a thing; it is not true, I assure you." " I thought not," said Lamb, " and I contradict it wherever I go; but the government will not ask your con- sent; they may raise you to the peerage without your even knowing it." "I hope not, Mr. Lamb ; indeed, indeed, I hope not ; it would not suit me at all," responded Dyer, and went his way, musing on the possibility of a strange honour descending on his re- luctant brow. Or shall I recall the visible presentment of his bland unconsciousness of evil when his sportive friend taxed it to the utmost, by suddenly asking what he thought of the murderer Williams, who, after de- stroying two families in Rateliffe Highway, had broken prison by suicide, and Avhose body had just before been conveyed, in shock- ing procession, to its cross-road grave ! The desperate attempt 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." This simplicity of a nature not only unspotted by the world, but almost abstracted from it, will seem the more remarkable, when it is known that it was subjected, at the entrance of life, to a hard battle with fortune. Dyer was the son of very poor parents, residing in an eastern suburb of London, Stepney or Bethnal-greenward, where he attracted the attention of two elderly ladies as a serious child, with an extraordinary love for books. They obtained for him a presentation to Christ's Hospital, which he entered at seven years of age ; fought his way through its sturdy ranks to its head ; and, at nineteen, quitted it for Cambridge, with only an ex- hibition and his scholarly, accomplishments to help him. On he went, however, placid, if not rejoicing, through the difficultiea of a life illustrated only by scholarship ; 300 WILLIAM GODWIN. encountering tremendous labours; unrestina; yet serene ; until at eighty-five he breathed out the nnost blameless of lives, which began in a struggle to end in a learned dream ! Mr. Godwin, who during the happiest period of Lamb's weekly parties, was a con- stant assistant at his whist-table, resembled Dyer in simplicity of manner and devotion to letters ; but the simplicity was more superficial, and the devotion more profound than the kindred qualities in the guileless scholar ; and, instead of forming the entire being, only marked the surface of a nature beneath which extraordinary power lay hidden. As the absence of worldly wisdom subjected Dyer to the sportive sallies of Lamb, so a like deficiency in Godwin ex- posed him to the coarser mirth of Mr. Horne Tooke, who was sometimes inclined to seek relaxation for the iron muscles of his imper- turbable mind in trying to make a philosopher look foolish. To a stranger's gaze the author of the "Political Justice" and "Caleb Williams," as he appeared in the Temple, always an object of curiosity except to his familiars, presented none of those characr teristics with which fancy had invested the daring speculator and relentless novelist ; nor, when he broke silence, did his language tend to reconcile the reality with the expec- tation. The disproportion of a frame which, low of stature, was surmounted by a massive head which might befit a presentable giant, ■was rendered almost imperceptible, not by any vivacity of expression, (for his coun- tenance was rarely lighted up by the deep-seated genius within,) but by a gracious suavity of manner which many "a fine old English gentleman" might envy. His voice was small ; the topics of his ordinary conversation trivial, and discussed with a delicacy and precision which might almost be mistaken for finical ; and the pre- Bence of the most interesting persons in literary society, of which he had enjoyed the best, would not prevent him from falling after dinner into the most profound sleep. This gentle, drowsy, spiritless demeanour, presents a striking contrast to a reputation which once filled Europe with its echoes ; but it was, in truth, when rightly under- stood, perfectly consistent with those in- tellectual elements which in some raised the most enthusiastic admiration, and from others elicited the wildest denunciations of visionary terror. In Mr. Godwin's mind, the faculty of abstract reason so predominated over all others, as practically to extinguish them ; and his taste, akin to this faculty, sought only for its development through the medium of composition for the press. He had no imagination, no fancy, no wit, no humour ; or if he possessed any of those faculties, they were obscured by that of pure reason ; and being wholly devoid of the quick sensibility which irritates speech into eloquence, and of the passion for immediate excitement and applause, which tends to its presentment before admiring assemblies, he desired no other audience than that Avhich he could silently address, and learned to regard all things through a contemplative medium. In this sense, far more than in the extravagant application of his wildest theories, he levelled all around him ; admitted no greatness but that of literature ; and neither desired nor revered any triumphs but those of thought. If such a reasoning faculty, guided by such a disposition, had been applied, to abstract sciences, no efiect remarkable beyond that of rare excellence, would have been produced; but the apparent anomalies of Mr. Godwin's intellectual history arose foom the applica- tion of his power to the passions, the interests, and the hopes of mankind, at a time when they enkindled into frightful action, and when he calmly worked out his problems among their burning elements with the " ice-brook's temper," and the severest logic. And if some extreme conclusions were inconsistent with the faith and the duty which alone can sustain and regulate our nature, there was no small compensation in the severity of the process to which the student was impelled, for the slender peril which might remain lest the results should be practically adopted. A system founded on pure reason, which rejected the impulses of natural afiection, the delights of gratitude, the influences of prejudice, the bondage of custom, the animation of personal hope ; which appealed to no passion — which suggested no luxury — which excited no animosities — and which ofiered no prize for the observance of its laws, except a par- ticipation in the expanding glories of progres- I sive humanity, was little calculated to allure WILLIAM GODWIN. 801 from the accustomed paths of ancient ordi- nance any man disposed to walk in them by the lights from heaven. On the other hand, it was a healthful diversion from those seductions in which the heart secretly ener- vates and infects the understanding, to invite the revolutionary speculator to the contem- plation of the distinct and the defined ; by the pursuit of impracticable error to brace the mind for the achievement of everlasting truth; and on the "heat and flame of the distemper" of an impassioned democracy to " sprinkle cool patience." The idol Political Justice, of which he was the slow and laborious architect, if it for a while enchanted, did not long enthral or ever debase its worshippers ; " its bones were marrowless, its blood was cold," — but there was surely "speculation in its eyes" which "glared withal" into the future. Such high casuistry as it evoked has always an ennobling ten- dency, even when it dallies with error ; the direction of thought in youth is of less con- sequence than the mode of its exercise ; and it is only when the base interests and sensual passions of mortality pander to the undei"- standing that truth may fear for the issue. The author of this cold and passionless intellectual phantasy looked out upon the world he hoped to inform from recesses of contemplation which the outward inci- dents of life did not disturb, and which, when closed, left him a common man, appearing to superficial observers rather below than above the level of ordinary talkers. To his inward gaze the stupendous changes which agitated Europe, at the time he wrote, were silent as a picture. The pleasure of his life was to think ; its business was to write ; all else in it was vanity. Regarding his own being through the same spiritualising medium, he saw no reason why the springs of its exist- ence should wear out, and, in the spring-time of his speculation, held that man might become immortal on earth by the effort of the will. His style partook of the quality of his intellect and the character of its purposes — it was pure, simple, colourless. His most imaginative passages are inspired only by a logic quickened into enthusiasm by the anticipation of the approaching discovery of truth — the dawning Eureka oi the reasoner; they are usually composed of " line upon line and precept upon precept," without an involution of style, or an eddy in the thought. He sometimes complained, though with the benignity that always marked his estimate of his opponents, that Mr. Malthus's style was too richly ornamented for argument; and certainly, with all its vivacity of illus- tration, it lacks the transparent simplicity of his own. The most palpable result which he ever produced by his writings was the dark theory in the first edition of the work on Population, which was presented as an answer to his reasoning on behalf of the perfectibility of man ; and he used to smile at his ultimate triumph, when the writer, who had only intended a striking parados, tamed it down to the wisdom of economy, and adapted it to Poor-law uses ; neutralised his giant spectres of Vice and Misery by the practical intervention of Moral Restraint ; and left the optimist, Godwin, still in unclouded possession of the hope of universal peace and happiness, postponed only to that time when passion shall be subjected to reason, and population, no more rising like a resistless tide, between adamantine barriers to submerge the renovated earth, shall obey the commands of wisdom ; rise and fall as the means of subsistence expand or contract ; and only contribute an impulse to the universal harmony. The persons of Mr. Godwin's romances — stranger still — are the naked creations of the same intellectual power, marvellously endowed with galvanic life. Though with happier symmetry, they are as much made out of chains and links of reasoning, as the monster was fashioned by the chemistry of the student, in the celebrated novel of his gifted daughter. Falkland, and Caleb Williams, are the mere impersonations of the unbounded love of reputation, and irresistible curiosity ; these ideas are de- veloped in each with masterly iteration — to the two ideas all causes give way ; and materials are subjected, often of remarkable coarseness, to the refinement of the concep- tion. Hazlitt used to observe of these two characters, that the manner they are played into each other, was equal to anything of the kind in the drama ; and there is no doubt that the opposition, though at the cost of probability, is most powerfully maintained : but the efiect is partly owing to the absence of all extrinsic interest which could interfere 802 JOHN THELWALL. with the main purpose ; the beatings of the heart become audible, not only from their own intensity, but from the desolation which the author has expanded around them. The consistency in each is that of an idea, not of a character; and if the effect of form and colour is produced, it is, as in line engraving, by the infinite minuteness and delicacy of the single strokes. In like manner, the incidents by which _ the author seeks to exemplify the wrongs inflicted by power on goodness in civilised society, are utterly fantastical; nothing can be more minute, nothing more unreal ; the youth being in- volved by a web of circumstances woven to immesh him, which the condition of society that the author intends to repudiate, renders impossible ; and which, if true, would prove not that the framework of law is tyrannous, but that the will of a single oppressor may elude it." The subject of " St. Leon " is more congenial to the author's power; but it is, in like manner, a logical development of the consequences of a being prolonged on earth through ages ; and, as the dismal vista expands, the skeleton speculators crowd in to mock and sadden us ' Mr. Godwin was thus a man of two beings, which held little discoui'se with each other — the daring inventor of theories con- structed of air-drawn diagrams — and the simple gentleman, who suffered nothing to disturb or excite him, beyond his study. He loved to walk in the crowded streets of Lon- don, not like Lamb, enjoying the infinite varieties of many-coloured life around him, but because he felt, amidst the noise, and crowd, and glare, more intensely the imper- turbable stillness of his own contemplations. Hi-s means of comfortable support were mainly supplied by a shop in Skinner-street, where, under the auspices of " M. J. Godwin & Co.," the prettiest and wisest books for children issued, which old-fashioned parents presented to their children, without suspect- ing tnat the graceful lessons of piety and goodness which charmed away the selfishness of infancy, were published, and sometimes revised, and now and then written, by a philosopher whom they would scarcely venture to name ! He met the exigencies which the vicissitudes of business sometimes caused, with the trusting simplicity which marked his course — he asked his friends for aid without scruple, considering that their means were justly the diie of one who toiled in thought for their inward life, and had little time to provide for his own outward existence ; and took their excuses, when offered, without doubt or offence. The very next day after I had been honoured and delighted by an introduction to him at Lamb's chambers, I was made still more proud and happy by his appearance at my own on such an errand — which my poverty, not my will, rendered abortive. After some pleasant chat on indifferent matters, he care- lessly observed, that he had a little bill for 1501. falling due on the morrow, which he had forgotten till that morning, and desired the loan of the necessary amount for a few weeks. At first, in eager hope of being able thus to oblige one whom I regarded with admiration akin to awe, I began to consider whether it was possible for me to raise such a sum ; but, alas ! a moment's reflection sufBced to convince me that the hope was vain, and I was obliged, with much confusion, to assure my distinguished visitor how glad I should have been to serve him, but that I was only just starting as a special pleader, was obliged to write for magazines to help me on, and had not such a sum in the world. " Oh dear," said the philosopher, " I thought you were a young gentleman of fortune — don't mention it — don't mention it; I shall do very well elsewhere:" — and then, in the most gracious manner, reverted to our former topics ; and sat in my small room for half an hour, as if to convince me that my want of fortune made no difference in his esteem. A slender tribute to the literature he had loved and served so well, was" accorded to him in the old age to which he attained, by the gift of a sinecure in the Exchequer, of about 200^. a-year, connected with the custody of the Records ; and the last time I saw him, he was heaving an immense key to unlock the musty treasures of which he was guardian — how unlike those he had unlocked, Avith finer talisman, for the astonishment and alarm of one generation, and the delight of all others ! JoHisr Thblwall, who had once exulted in the appellation of Citizen Thelwall, having been associated with Coleridge and Southey in their days of enthusiastical dreaming, though a more precise and practical reformer JOHN THE LW ALL. 303 than either, was introduced by them to Lamb, and was welcomed to his circle, in the true Catholicism of its spirit, although its master cared nothing for the Roman virtue which Thelwall devotedly cherished, and which Ilorne Tooke kept in uncertain vibration be- tween a rebellion and a hoax. Lamb justly esteemed Thelwall as a thoroughly honest man ; — not honest merely in reference to the moral relations of life, but to the processes of thought; one whose mind, acute, vigorous, and direct, perceived only the object imme- diately before it, and, undisturbed by colla- teral circumstances, reflected, with literal fidelity, the impression it received, and main- tained it as sturdily against the beauty that might soften it, or the wisdom that might mould it, as against the tyranny that would stifle its expression. " If to be honest as the world goes, is to be one man picked out of ten thousand," to be honest as the mind works is to be one man of a million ; and such a man was Thelwall. Starting with imperfect education from the thraldom of domestic oppression, with slender knowledge, but with fiery zeal, into the dangers of poli- tical enterprise, and treading fearlessly on the verge of sedition, he saw nothing before him but powers which he assumed to be despotism and vice, and rushed headlong to crush them. The point of time — just that when the accumulated force of public opinion had obtained a virtual mastery over the accumulated corruptions of ages, but when power, still unconvinced of its danger, pre- sented its boldest front to opposing intellect, or strove to crush it in the cruelty of awaking fear — gave scope for the ardent temperament of an orator almost as poor in scholastic cultivation as in external fortune ; but strong in integrity, and rich in burning words. Thus passionate, Thelwall spoke boldly and vehemently — at a time when indignation was thought to be virtue ; but there is no reason to believe he ever meditated any treason except that accumulated in the archi- tectural sophistry of Lord Eldon,' by which he proved a person who desired to awe the Government into a change of policy to be guilty of compassing the king's death — as thus: — that the king must resist the proposed alteration in his measures — that resisting he must be deposed — and that being deposed, he must necessarily die; — though his boldness of speech placed him in jeopardy even after the acquittals of his simple- minded associate Hardy, and his enigmatical instructor Tooke, who forsook him, and left him, when acquitted, to the mercy of the world. His life, which before this event had been one of self-denial and purity remarkable in a young man who had imbibed the im- pulses of revolutionary France, partook of considerable vicissitude. At one time, he was raised by his skill in correcting im- pediments of speech, and teaching elocution as a science, into elegant competence — at other times saddened by the difliculties of poorly requited literary toil and wholly un- requited patriotism ; but he preserved his integrity and his cheerfulness — "a man of hope and forward-looking mind even to the last." Unlike Godwin, whose profound thoughts slowly struggled into form, and seldom found utterance in conversation, — speech was, in him, all in all, his delight, his profession, his triumph, with little else than passion to inspire or colour it. The flaming orations of his "Tribune," rendered more piquant by the transparent masquerade of ancient history, which, in his youth, " touched monied worldlings with dismay," and infected the poor with dangerous anger, seemed vapid, spiritless, and shallow when addressed thi'ough the press to the leisure of the thoughtful. The light which glowed with so formidable a lustre before the evening audience, vanished on closer examination, and proved to be only a harmless phantom- vapour which left no traces of destructive energy behind it. Thelwall, in person small, compact, mus- cular — with a head denoting indomitable resolution, and features deeply furrowed by the ardent workings of the mind, — was as energetic in all his pursuits and enjoyments as in political action. He was earnestly de- voted to the Drama, and enjoyed its greatest representations with the freshness of a boy who sees a play for the first time. He hailed the kindred energy of Kean with enthu- siastic praise; but abjuring the narrowness of his political vision in matters of taste, did justice to the nobler qualities of Mrs. Siddons and her brothers. In literature and art also, he relaxed the bigotry of his liberal intoler- ance, and expatiated in their wider fields 304 WILLIAM HAZLITT. •with a taste more catholic. Here Lamb was ready Avith his sympathy, ■which indeed even the political zeal, that he did not share, was too hearted to repel. Although generally de- testing lectures on literature as superficial and vapid substitutes for quiet reading, and recitations as unreal mockeries of the true Drama, he sometimes attended the enter- tainments, composed of both, which Thelwall, in the palmy days of his prosperity, gave at his house in Lincoln's Inn Fields, not on politics, which he had then forsaken for elocutionary science, though maintaining the principles of his youth, but partly on elocu- tion, and partly on poetry and acting, into •which he infused the fiery euthusiam of his nature. Sometimes, indeed, his fervour animated his disquisitions on the philosophy of speech with greater warmth than he re- served for more attractive themes ; the melted vowels were blended into a rainbow, or dispersed like fleecy clouds ; and the theory of language was made interesting by the honesty and vigour of the speaker. Like all men who have been chiefly self-taught, he sometimes presented common-places as original discoveries, with an air which strangers mistook for quackery ; but they were unjust; to the speaker these were the product of his own meditation, though familiar to many, and not rarely possessed the charm of originality in their freshness. Lamb at least, felt that it was good, among other companions of richer and more com- prehensive intelligence, to have one friend who was undisturbed by misgiving either for himself or his cause ; who enunciated wild paradox and worn-out common-place with equal confidence ; and who was ready to sacrifice ease, fortune, fame — everything but speech, and, if it had been possible, even that — to the cause of truth or friendship. William IIazlitt was, for many years, one of the brightest and most constant orna- ments of Lamb's parties ; — linked to him in the firm bond of intellectual friendship — which remained unshaken in spite of some ■ superficial difi'erences, " short and far be- ' tween," arising from Lamb's insensibility to Hazlitt's political animosities and his ad- herence to Southey, Wordsworth, and Cole- ridge, who shared them. IIazlitt in his boyhood had derived from his father that attachment to abstract truth for its own sake, and that inflexible determination to cherish it which naturally predominated in the being of the minister of a small rural con- gregation, who cherished religious opinions adverse to those of the great body of his countrymen, and waged a spiritual warfare throughout his peaceful course. Thus dis- ciplined, he was introduced to the -friendship of youthful poets, in whom the dawn of the French Revolution had enkindled hope, and passion, and opinions tinctured with hope and passion, which he eagerly em- braced : and when changes passed over the prospects of mankind, which induced them, in mature years, to modify the doctrines they had taught, he resented these defections almost as personal wrongs, and, when his pen found scope, and his tongue utterance, wrote and spoke of them with such bitter- ness as can only spring from the depths of old affection. No writer, however, except Wilson, did such noble justice to the poetry of Wordsworth, when most despised, and to the genius of Coleridge, when most obscured ; he cherished a true admiration for each in " the last recesses of the mind," and defended them with dogged resolution against the scorns and slights of the world. Still the superficial difference was, or seemed, too wide to admit of personal intercourse ; and I do not think that during the many years which elapsed between my introduction to Lamb and Hazlitt's death, he ever met either of the poets at the rooms of the man they united in loving. Although Mr. Hazlitt was thus staunch in his attatchment to principles which he re- verenced as true, he was by no means rigid in his mode of maintaining and illustrating them ; but, on the contrary, frequently diminished the immediate effect of his reasonings by the prodigality and richness of the allusions with which he embossed them. He had as unquenchable a desire for truth as others have for wealthy or power, or fame ; he pursued it with sturdy singleness of purpose ; and enunciated it without favour or fear. But, besides that love of truth, that sincerity in pursuing it, and that boldness in telling it, he had also a fervent aspiration after the beautiful ; a vivid sense of pleasure, and an intense consciousness of his own indi-- vidual being, which sometimes produced i obstacles to the current of speculation, bj WILLIAM HAZLITT. 505 which it was broken into dazzling eddies or urged into devious windings. Acute, fervid, vigorous, as his mind was, it wanted the one great central power of Imagination, which brings all the other faculties into harmonious action; multiplies them into each other; makes truth visible in the forms of beauty, and substitutes intellectual vision for proof. Thus, in him, truth and beauty held divided empire. In him, the spirit was willing, but the flesh was strong ; and, when these con- tend, it is not difficult to anticipate the result ; "for the power of beauty shall sooner trans- form honesty from what it is into a bawd, than the person of honesty shall transform beauty into its likeness." This " sometime paradox" was vividly exemplified in Hazlitt's personal history, hig conversation, and his writings. To the solitudes of the country in which he mused on "fate, free-will, fore- knowledge absolute," a temperament of un- usual ardour had given an intense interest, akin to that with which Rousseau has animated and oppressed the details of his early yeai's. He had not then, nor did he find till long afterwards, power to embody his meditations and feelings in words. The consciousness of thoughts which he could not hope ade- quately to express, increased his natural reserve, and he turned for relief to the art of painting, in which he might silently realise his dreams of beauty, and repay the loveli- ness of nature by fixing some of its fleeting aspects in .immortal tints. A few old prints from the old masters awakened the spirit of emulation within him ; the sense of beauty became identified in his mind with that of glory and duration ; while the peaceful labour he enjoyed calmed the tumult in his veins, and gave steadiness to his pure and distant aim. He pursued the art with an earnestness and patience which he vividly describes in his essay, " On the Pleasure of Painting;" and to which he frequently re- verted in the happiest m.oods of his conver- sation ; and, although in this, his chosen pursuit, he failed, the passionate desire for success, and the long struggle to attain it, left deep traces in his mind, heightening his keen perception of external things, and mingling with all his speculations airy shapes and hues which he had vainly striven to transfer to canvas. A painter may acquire 20 a fine insight into the nice distinctions of character, — he may copy mannei-s in words as he does in colours, — but it may be appre- hended that his course as a severe reasoner will be somewhat " troubled with thick- coming fancies. And if the successful pursuit of art may thus disturb the process of abstract contemplation, how much more may an unsatisfied ambition ruffle it; bid the dark threads of thought glitter with radiant fancies unrealised, and clothe the diagrams of speculation with the fragments of picture which the mind cherishes the more fondly, because the hand refused to realise? What wonder, if, in the mind of an ardent youth, thus struggling in vain to give palpable existence to' the shapes of loveliness which haunted him, " the homely beauty of the good old cause " should assume the fascina- tions not properly its own ? This association of beauty with reason diminished the immediate efiect of Mr. Hazlitt's political essays, while it enhanced their permanent value. It was the fashion, in his lifetime, to denounce him as a sour Jacobin ; but no description could be more unjust. Under the influence of some bitter feeling, or some wayward fancy, he occasion- ally poured out a fux'ious invective against those whom he regarded as the enemies of liberty, or as apostates from her cause ; but, in general, the force of his expostulation, or his reasoning, was diverted (unconsciously to himself) by figures and phantasies, by fine and quaint allusions, by quotations from his favourite authors, introduced with singular felicity, as respects the direct link of associa- tion, but tending, by their very beauty, to unnerve the mind of the reader, and substi- tute the sense of luxury for clear conviction, or noble anger. In some of his essays, where the reasoning is most cogent, every other sentence contains some exquisite passage from Shakspeare, or Fletcher, or Words- worth, trailing after it a line of golden asso- ciations ; or some reference to a novel, over which we have a thousand times forgotten the wrongs of mankind ; till, in the recurring shocks of pleasurable surprise, the main argu- ment is forgotten. When, for example, he compares the position of certain political waverers to that of Clarissa Harlowe con- fronting the ravisher who would repeat his outrage, 'with the penknife pointed to her 306 WILLIAAI HAZLITT. breast, and her eyes uplifted to Heaven, and describes them as having been, like her, trepanned into a house of ill-fame, near Pall Mall, and there defending their soiled virtue with their penknives ; v\^hat reader, at the suggestion of the stupendous scene which the allusion directly revives, can think or care about the renegade of yesterday? Here, again, is felt the want of that Imagination which brings all things into one, tinges all our thoughts and sj^mpathies with one hue, and rejects every ornament which does not heighten or prolong the feeling which it seeks to embody. Even when he retaliates on Southey for attacking his old co-patriots, the poetical associations which bitter remembrance sug- gests, almost neutralise the vituperation ; he brings every " flower which sad embroidery wears to strew the laureate hearse," where ancient regards are interred ; and merges all the censure of the changed politician in praise of the simple dignity and the generous labours of a singularly noble and unsullied life. So little does he regard the unity of sentiment in his compositions, that in his " Letter to Gifford," after a series of just and bitter retorts on his maligner as "the fine link which connects literature with the police," he takes a fancy to teach that " ultra-crepi- darian critic" his own theory of the natural disinterestedness of the human mind, and develops it, not in the dry, hard, mathematical style in which it was first enunciated, but "o'er informed" with the glow of sentiment, and terminating in an eloquent rhapsody. This latter portion of the letter is one of the noblest of his effusions, but it entirely destroys the first in the mind of the reader ; for who, when thus contemplating the living wheels on which human benevolence is borne onwards in its triumphant career, and the spirit with which they are instinct, can think of the lite- rary wasp which had settled for a moment upon them, and who had just before been mercilessly ti'ansfixed with minikin arrows? But the most signal example of the in- fluences which "the show of things" exer- cised over Mr. Hazlitt's mind was the setting jp the Emperor Napoleon as his idol. He ^trove to justify this predilection to himself by referring it to the revolutionary origin of his hero, and the contempt Avith which he trampled upon the claims of legitimacy, and humbled the pride of kings. But if his " only love" thus sprung " from his only hate," it was not cherished in its blossom by antipa- thies. If there had been nothing in his mind which tended to aggrandisement and glory, and which would fain reconcile the principles of freedom with the lavish accumulation of power, he might have desired the triumph of young tyranny over legitimate thrones ; but he would scarcely have watched its progress and its fall " like a lover and a child." His feeling for Bonaparte in exile was not a sen- timent of respect for fallen greatness; not a desire to trace " the soul of goodness in things evil ;" not a loathing of the treatment the Emperor received from " his cousin kings" in the day of adversity ; but entire affection mingling with the current of the blood, and pervading the moral and intellectual being. Nothing less than this strong attachment, at once personal and refined, would have enabled him to encounter the toil of collecting and arranging facts and dates for four volumes of narrative, which constitute his "Life of Napoleon ;" — a drudgery too abhorrent to his habits of mind as a thinker, to be sustained by any stimulus which the prospect of remu- neration or the hope of applause could supply. It is not so much in the ingenious excuses which he discovers for the worst acts of his hero — offered even for the midnight execution of the Duke d'Enghien and the invasion of Spain — that the stamp of personal devotion is obvious, as in the graphic force with which he has delineated the short-lived splendours of the Imperial Court, and "the trivial fund records" he has gathered of every vestige of human feeling by which he could reconcile the Imperial Cynic to the species he scorned. The first two volumes of his work, although redeemed by scattered thoughts of true ori- ginality and depth, are often confused and spiritless ; the characters of the principal revolutionists are drawn too much in the style of awkward, sprawling caricatures; but when the hero casts all his rivals into the distance, erects himself the individual enemy of England, consecrates his power by religious ceremonies, and defines it by the circle of a crown, the author's strength becomes concen- trated ; his narrative assumes an epic dignity and fervour ; dallies with the flowersf of usurped prerogative, and glows with "the long-resounding march and energy divine." WILLIAM HAZLITT. 807 How happy and proud is he to picture the meeting of the Emperor with the Pope, and the grandeurs of the coronation ! How he grow3 wanton in celebrating the fetes of the Tuileries, as " presenting all the elegance of enchanted pageants," and laments them as " gone like a fairy revel ! " How he " lives along the line" of Austerlitz, and rejoices in its thunder, and hails its setting sun, and exults in the minutest details of the subse- quent meeting of the conquered sovereigns at the feet of ,the conqueror ! How he expa- tiates on the fatal marriage with "the deadly Austrian," (as Mr. Cobbett justly called Maria Louisa), as though it were a chapter in romance, and sheds the grace of beauty on the imperial picture ! How he kindles with martial ardour as he describes the prepara- tions against Russia ; musters the myriads of barbarians with a show of dramatic justice; and fondly lingers among the brief triumphs of Moskwa on the verge of the terrible catas- trophe ! The narrative of that disastrous expeditton is, indeed, written with a master's hand ; we see the " grand army " marching to its destruction through the immense per- spective : the wild hordes flying before the terror of its "coming;" the barbaric magni- ficence of Moscow towering in the remote distance; and when we gaze upon the sacri- ficial conflagration of the Kremlin, we feel that it is worthy to become the funeral^ pile of the conqueror's glories. It is well for the readers of this splendid Avork, that there is more in it of the painter than of the meta- physician ; that its style glows with the fervour of battle, or stiffens with the spoils of victory ; yet we wonder that this monument to imperial grandeur should be raised from the dead level of jacobinism by an honest and profound thinker. The solution is, that although he was this, he was also more — that, in opinion, he was devoted to the cause of the people ; but that, in feeling, he required some individual object of worship; that he selected Napoleon as one in whose origin and career he might at once impersonate his principles and gratify his affections; and that he adhei-ed to his own idea with heroic obstinacy, when the "child and champion of the Republic" openly sought to repress all feeling and thought, but such as he could oast in his own iron moulds, and scoffed at popular enthusiasm even while it bore him to the accomplishment of his loftiest desires. Mr. Ilazlitt had little inclination to talk or write about contemporary authors, and still less to read them. He was with difficulty persuaded to look into the Scotch novels, but when he did so, he found them old in sub- stance though new iri form, read them with as much avidity as the rest of the world, and .expressed better than any one else what all the world felt about them. His hearty love of them, however, did not diminish, but aggravate his dislike of the political opinions so zealously and consistently maintained, of their great author: and yet the strength of his hatred towards that which was accidental and transitory only set off the unabated power of his regard for the great and the lasting. Coleridge and Wordsworth were not moderns to him, for they were the inspirers of his youth, which was his own antiquity, and the feelings which were the germ of their poetry had sunk deep into his heart. With the exception of the works of these, and of his friends Barry Cornwall and Sheridan Knowles, in whose successes he re- joiced, he held modern literature in slight esteem, and regarded the discoveries of science and the visions of optimism svith an undazzled eye. His " large discourse of reason " looked not before, but after. He felt it a sacred duty, as a lover of genius and art, to defend the fame of the mighty dead. When the old painters were assailed in " The Catalogue Raisonn6 of the British Institution," he was " touched with noble anger." All his own vain longings after the immortality of the works which were libelled, — all the tranquillity and beauty they had shed into his soul, — all his comprehension of the sympathy and delight of thousands, which, accumulating through long time, had attested their worth — were fused together to dazzle and subdue the daring critic who would disturb the judgment of ages. So, when a popular poet assailed the fame of Rousseau, seeking to reverse the decision of posterity on what that great though unhappy writer had achieved by suggesting the opinion of people of condition in his neighbourhood on the figure he made to their apprehensions while in the service of Madame de Warrens, he vindicated the prerogatives of geniuf with the true logic of passion. Few things 308 WILLIAM HAZLITT. irritated him more than the claims set up for the present generation to be wiser and better than those which have gone before it. lie had no power of imagination to embrace the goldfcn clouds which hung over the Futui-e, but lie rested and expatiated in the Past. To his apprehension human good did not appear a slender shoot of yesterday, like the bean- stalk in the fairy tale, aspiring to the skies, and leading to an enchanted castle, but a huge growth of intertwisted fibres, grasping the earth by numberless roots of custom, habit, and aifection, and bearing vestiges of "a thousand storms, a thousand thunders." When I first met llazlitt, in the year 1815, he was staggering under the blow of Water- loo. The re-appearance of his imperial idol on the coast of France, and his triumphant march to Paris, like a fairy vision, had ex- cited his admiration and sympathy to the utmost pitch ; and though in many respects sturdily English in feeling, he could scarcely forgive the valour of the conquerors ; and bitterly resented the captivity of the Emperor in St. Helena, which followed it, as if he had sustained a personal wrong. On this subject only, he was " eaten up with passion ;" on all others he was the fairest, the most candid of reasoners. His countenance was then handsome, but marked by a painful expres- sion ; his black hair, which had curled stiffly- over hia temples, had scarcely received its first tints of grey ; his gait was awkward ; his dress was neglected ; and, in the com- pany of strangers, his bashfulness was almost painful — but when, in the society of Lamb and one or two others, he talked on his favourite themes of old English books, or old Italian pictures, no one'"s conversation could be more delightful. The poets, from inter- course with whom he had drawn so much of his taste, and who had contributed to shed the noble infection of beauty through his reasoning faculties, had scarcely the oppor- tunity of appreciating their progress. It was, in after years, by the fii-e-side of " the Lambs," that his tongue was gradually loosened, and his passionate thoughts found appropriate words. There, his struggles to express the tine conceptions with which his mind was filled were encouraged by entire sympatiiy : there he began to stammer out his just and original conceptions of Chaucer and Spenser, and other English poets and prose writers, more talked of, though not better known, by their countrymen ; there he was thoroughly understood and dexter- ously cheered by Miss Lamb, whose nice discernment of his first eff"orts in conversa- tion were dwelt upon by him with affectionate gratitude, even when most out of humour with the world. When he mastered his diffidence, he did not talk for effect, to dazzle, or surprise, or annoy, but with the most sim- ple and honest desire to make his view of the subject in hand entirely apprehended by his hearer. There was sometimes an obvious struggle to do this to his own satisfaction ; he seemed labouring to drag his thought to light from its deep lurking-place ; and, with timid distrust of that power of expression which he had found so late in life, he often betrayed a fear lest he had failed to make himself understood, and recurred to the sub- ject again and again, that he might be assured he had succeeded. With a, certain dogged- ness of manner, he showed nothing prag- matical or exclusive ; he never drove a prin- ciple to its utmost possible consequences, but, like Locksley, " allowed for the wind." For some years previous to his death he ob- served an entire abstinence from fermented liquors, which he had once quaffed with the proper relish he had for all the good things of this life, but which he courageously re- signed when he found the indulgence perilous to his health and faculties. The cheerful- ness with which he made this sacrifice was one of the most amiable traits in his cha- racter. He had no censure for others, who, in the same dangers, were less wise or less resolute ; nor did he think he had earned, by his own constancy, any right to intrude advice which he knew, if wanted, must be unavailing. Nor did he profess to be a con- vert to the general system of abstinence, which was advanced by one of his kindest and staunchest friends; he avowed that he yielded to necessity ; and instead of avoiding the sight of that which he could no longer taste, he was seldom so happy as when he sat with friends at their wine, participating the sociality of the time, and renewing his own past enjoyment in that of his compa- nions, without regret and without envy. Like Dr. Johnson, he made himself poor amends for the loss of wine by drinking tea, not so largely, indeed, as the hero of Boswell, WILLIAM HAZLITT. but at least of equal potency; for he might have challenged Mrs. Thrale and all her sex to make stronger tea than his. own. In society, as in politics, he was no flincher. lie loved " to hear the chimes at midnight," without considering them as a summons to rise. At these reasons, when in his happiest mood, he used to dwell on the conversational powers of his friends, and live over again the delightful hours he had passed with them ; repeat the pregnant puns that one had made ; tell over again a story with which another had convulsed the room ; or expatiate on the eloquence of a third ; always best pleased when he could detect some talent which was unregarded by the world, and giving alike, to the celebrated and the unknown, due honour. Mr. Hazlitt delivered three courses of lec- tures at the Surrey Institution, on The Eng- lish Poets; on The English Comic Writers; and on The Age of Elizabeth ; which Lamb (under protest against lectures in general) regularly attended, an earnest admirer, amidst crowds with whom the lecturer had " an im- perfect sympathy." They consisted chiefly of Dissenters, who agreed with him in his hatred of Lord Castlereagh, and his love of religious freedom, but who " loved no plays ;" of Quakers, who approved him as the earnest opponent of slavery and capital punishment, but who " heard no music ;" of citizens, devoted to the main chance, who had a hankering after " the improvement of the mind ;" but to whom his favourite doctrine of its natural disinterestedness was a riddle ; of a few enemies who came to sneer ; and a few friends, who were eager to learn and to admire. The comparative insensibility of the bulk of his audience to his finest pas- sages sometimes provoked him to awaken their attention by points which broke the train of his discourse ; after which, he could make himself amends by some abrupt para- dox which might set their prejudices on edge, and make them fancy they were shocked. He startled many of them at the onset, by observing, that, since Jacob's dream, " the heavens have gone farther off, and become astronomical ;" a fine extravaganc-3, which the ladies and gentlemen, M'ho had grown astronomical themselves under the preceding lecturer, felt called on to resent as an attack on their severer studies. When he read a well-known extract from Cowper, comparing a poor cottager with Voltaire, and had pro- nounced the line : " A truth the brilliant Frenchman never knew," they broke into a joyous shout of self-gratulation, that they were so much wiser than the scornful French- man. When he passed by Mrs. Hannah More with observing that " she had written a great deal which he had never read," a voice gave expression to the general commi- seration and surprise, by calling out " More pity for you !" They were confounded at his reading with more emphasis, perhaps, than discretion, Gay's epigrammatic lines on Sir Richard Blackstone, in which scriptural persons are too freely hitched into rhyme ; but he went doggedly on to the end, and, by his perseverance, baffled those who, if he had acknowledged himself wrong, by stopping, would have visited him with an outburst of displeasure which he felt to be gathering. He once had a more edifying advantage over them. He was enumerating the humanities which endeared Dr. Johnson to his mind, and at the close of an agreeable catalogue, mentioned, as last and noblest, "his carry- ing the poor victim of disease and dissipation on his back, through Fleet-street," at which a titter arose from some, who were struck by the picture, as ludicrous, and a murmur from others, who deemed the allusion unfit for ears polite : he paused for an instant, and then added, in his sturdiest and most impres- sive manner,—" an act which realises the parable of the Good Samaritan ;" at which his moral and his delicate hearers shrunk, rebuked, into deep silence. He was not elo- quent, in the true sense of the term ; for his thoughts were too weighty to be moved along by the shallow stream of feeling which an evening's excitement can rouse. He wrqte all his lectures, and read them as they were written ; but his deep voice and earnest man- ner suited his matter well. He seemed to i dig into his subject, and not in vain. In delivering his longer quotations, he had scarcely continuity enough for the versifica- tion of Shakspeare and Milton, " with linked sweetness long drawn out ;" but he gave Pope's brilliant satire and delightful compli- ments, which are usually complete within the couplet, with an elegance and point which the poet himself, could he have heard, would have felt as indicating their highest praise. 810 THOMAS BARNES. Mr, Hazlitt, having suffered for many years from derangement of the digestive organs, for vchich perhaps a moderate use of fermented liquors would have been prefer- able to abstinence, solaced only by the in- tense tincture of tea in which he found re- fuge, worn out at last, died on 18th Sept., 1830, at the age of fifty-two. Lamb fre- quently visited him during his sufferings, ■which were not, as has been erroneously suggested, aggravated by the want of need- ful comforts ; for although his careless habits had left no provision for sickness, his friends gladly acknowledged, by their united aid, the deep intellectual obligations due to the great thinker. In a moment of acute pain, when the needless apprehension for the future rushed upon him, he dictated a brief and peremptory letter to the editor of the " Edin- burgh Review," requiring a considerable re- mittance, to which he had no claim but that of former remunerated services, which the friend, who obeyed his bidding, feared might excite displeasure ; but he mistook Francis Jeffrey ; the sum demanded was received by return of post, wich the most anxious wishes for Hazlitt's recovery — just too late for him to understand his error. Lamb joined a few friends in attending his funeral in the church- yard of St. Anne's Soho, where he was in- terred, and felt his loss — not so violently at the time, as mournfully in the frequent re- currence of the sense that a chief source of intellectual pleasure was stopped. His per- sonal frailties are nothing to us now ; his thoughts survive ; in them we have his better part entire, and in them must be traced his true history. The real events of his life are not to be traced in its external changes ; as his engagement by the "Morning Chronicle," or his transfer of his services to the " Times," or his introduction to the "Edinburgh Re- view ;" but in the progress and develop- ment of his fine understanding as nurtured and checked and swayed by his affections. Ilis warfare was within ; its spoils are ours ! One of the soundest and most elegant scholars whom the school of Christ's Hospital ever produced, Mr. Thomas Barnes, was a frequent guest at Lamb's chambers in the Temple : and though the responsibilities he undertook, before Lamb quitted that, his happiest abode, prevented him from visiting often at Great Russell-street, at Islington, or Enfield, he was always ready to assist by the kind word of the powerful journal in which he became most potent, the expanding i-eputation of his school-mate and friend. After establishing a high social and intel- lectual character at Cambridge, he had en- tered the legal profession as a special pleader, but was prevented from applying the need- ful devotion to that laborious pursuit by violent rheumatic affections, which he solaced by writing critiques and essays of rare merit. So shattered did he appear in health, that when his friends learned that he had ac- cepted the editorship of the " Times" news- paper, they almost shuddered at the attempt as suicidal, and anticipated a speedy ruin to his constitution from the pressure of constant labour and anxiety, on the least healthful hours of toil. But he had judged better than they of his own physical and intel- lectual resources, and the mode in which the grave responsibility and constant exertion of his office would affect both ; for the regular effort consolidated his feverish strength, gave evenness and tranquillity to a life of serious exertion, and supplied, for many years,' power equal to the perpetual demand ; affording a striking example how, when finely attuned, the mind can influence the body to its uses. The facile adaptation of his intellect to his new duties was scarcely less remarkable than the mastery it achieved over his desul- tory habits and physical infirmities; for, until then, it had seemed more refined than vigorous — more elegant than weighty — too fixstidious to endure the supervision and arrangement of innumerable reports, parar graphs, and essays ; but, while a scholarly grace was shed by him through all he wrote or moulded, the needful vigour was never wanting to the high office of superintending the great daily miracle; to the discipline of its various contributors ; or to the composi- tion of articles which he was always ready, on the instant of emergency, to supply. Mr. Barnes, linked by school associations with Leigh Hunt, filled the theatrical depart- ment of criticism in the " Examiner" during the period when the Editor's imprisonment for alleged libel on the Prince Regent pre- cluded his attendance on the theatres. It was no easy office of friendship to supply the place of Hunt in the department of criticism, he may be almost said to have invented; but THOMAS BARNES. 311 Mr. Barnes, though in a different style, well sustained the attractions of the " Theatrical Examiner." Fortunately the appearance of Mr. Kean during this interval enabled him to giatify the profound enthusiasm of his nature, without doing violence to the fasti- dious taste to which it was usually subjected. He perceived at once the vivid energy of the new actor ; understood his faults to be better than the excellences of ordinary aspirants ; and hailed him with the most generous praise — the more valuable as it proceeded from one rarely induced to render applause, and never yielding it except on the conviction of true excellence. Hazlitt, who contributed theatrical criticism, at the same time, to the " Morning Chronicle," and who astounded the tame mediocrity of Mr. Perry's subordinates by his earnest eulogy, and Barnes, had the satisfaction of first appreciating this un- friended performer, and, while many were offended, by the daring novelty of his style, and more stood aloof with fashionable indif- ference from a deserted theatre, of awakenjng that spirit which retrieved the fortunes of Old Drury — which revived, for a brilliant interval, the interest of the English stage, and which bore the actor on a tide of in- toxicating success that " knew no retiring ebb" till it was unhappily checked by his own lamentable frailties.* The manners of Mr. Barnes, though ex- tremely courteous, were so reserved as to seem cold to strangers ; but they were changed, as by magic, by the contemplation of moral or intellectual beauty, awakened in a small circle. I well remember him, late one evening, in the year 1816, when only two or three friends remained with Lamb and his sister, long after " we had heard the chimes at midnight," holding inveterate but * As the essays of Mr. Barnps have never been col- lected, I take leave to present to the reader the conclusion of his article in the "Examiner" of I'ebruary 27, 1814, on the first appearance of Mr. Kean in Richard : — " In the heroic parts, he animated every spectator with his own feelings; when he exclaimed 'that a thou- sand hearts were swelling in his bosom,' the house shouted to express their accordance to a truth so nobly exemplified by the energy of his voice, by the grandeur of his mien. His death-scene was the grandest concep- tion, and executed in the most impressive manner ; it was a piece of noble poetry, expressed by action instead of language. He fights desperately : he is disarmed and exhausted of all bodily strength; he disdains to fiill, and his strong volition keeps him standing: he fixes that head, full of intellectual and heroic power, directly on the enemy: he bears up his chest with an expression delighted controversy with Lamb, respecting the tragic power of Dante as compared with that of Shakspeare. Dante was scarcely known to Lamb; for he was unable to read the original, and Gary's noble translation was not then known to him ; and Barnes aspired to the glory of affording him a glimpse of a kindred greatness in the mighty Italian with that which he had conceived incapable of human rivalry. The face of the advocate of Dante, heavy when in repose, grew bright with earnest admiration as be quoted images, sentiments, dialogues, against Lamb, who had taken his own immortal stand on Lear, and urged the supremacy of the child-changed father against all the possible Ugolinos of the world. Some re- ference having been made by Lamb to his own exposition of Lear, which had been recently published in a magazine, edited by Leigh Hunt, under the title of " The Re- flector," touched another and a tenderer string of feeling, turned a little the course of his enthusiasm the more to inflame it, and brought out a burst of affectionate admira- tion for his friend, then scarcely known to the woi-ld, which was the more striking for its contrast with his usually sedate demeanour. I think I see him now, leaning forward upon the little table on which the candles were just expiring in their sockets, his fists clenched, his eyes flashing, and his face bathed in perspiration, exclaiming to Lamb, "And do I not know, my boy, that you have written about Shakspeare, and Shakspeare's own Lear, finer than any one ever did in the world, and won't I let the world know it?" He was right ; there is no criticism in the world more worthy of the genius it estimates than that little passage referred to on Lear; few felt it then like Barnes ; thousands have which seems swelling with more than human spirit: he holds his uplifted arm in calm but dreadful defiance of his conqueror. But he is but man, and he falls after this sublime effort senseless to the ground. We have felt our eyes gush on reading a passage of exquisite poetry. We have been ready to leap at sight of a noble picture, but we never felt stronger emotion, more over- powering sensations, than were kindled by the novel sublimity of this catastrophe. In matters of mere taste, there will be a difference of opinion; but here there was no room to doubt, no reason could be imprudent enough to hesitate. Every heart beat an echo responsive to this call of elevated nature, and yearned with fondness towards the man who, while he excited admiration foi himself made also his admirers glow with a warmth of conscious superiority, because they were able to appreciate such an exalted degree of excellence." 312 BENJAMIN ROBERT HAYDON. read it since, here, and tens of thousands in America', and have felt as he did; and will answer for the truth of that excited hour. Mr. Barnes combined singular acuteness of understanding with remarkable simplicity of character. If he was skilful in finding out those who duped others, he made some amends to the world of sharpers by being abundantly duped himself. He might caution the public to be on their guard against impostors of every kind, but his heart was open to every species of delusion which came in the shape of misery; Poles — real and theatrical — refugees, pretenders of all kinds, found their way to the " Times' " inner office, and though the inexorable editor excluded their lucu- brations from the precious space of its columns, he rarely omitted to make them amends by large contributions from his purse. The intimate acquaintance with all the varieties of life forced on him by his position in the midst of a moving epitome of the world, which vividly reflected them all, failed to teach him distrust or discretion. He was a child in the centre of the most feverish agitations ; a dupe in the midst of the quickest apprehensions ; and while, with unbending pride, he repelled the slighted interference with his high functions from the greatest quarters, he was open to every tale from the lowest which could win from him personal aid. Rarely as he was seen in his later years in Lamb's circle, he is inde- structibly associated with it in the recollec- tion of the few survivors of its elder days ; and they will lament with me that the in- fluences for good which he shed largely on all the departments of busy life, should have necessarily left behind them such slender memorials of one of the kindest, the wisest, and the best of men who have ever enjoyed signal opportunities of moulding public opinion, and who have turned them to the noblest and the purest uses. Among Lamb's early acquaintances and constant admirers was an artist whose chequered career and melancholy death gave an interest to the recollections with which he is linked independent of that which be- longs to his picture — Benjamin Robert Haydon. The ruling misfortune of his life was somewhat akin to that disproportion in Ilazlitt's mind to which I have adverted, but productive in his case of more disastrous results — the possession of two different faculties not harmonised into one, and struggling for mastery — in that disarrange- ment of the faculties in which the unpro- ductive talent becomes not a mere negative, but neutralises the other, and even turns its good into evil. Haydon, the son of a re- spectable tradesman at Plymouth, was endowed with two capacities, either of rrhich exclusively cultivated with the energy of his disposition, might have led to fortune — the genius of a painter, and the passionate logic of a controversialist ; talents scarcely capable of being blended in harmonious action except under the auspices of prosperity such as should satisfy the artist by fame, and appease the literary combatant by triumph. The combination of a turbulent vivacity of mind with a fine aptitude fcr the most serene of arts was rendered more infelicitous by the circumstances of the young j)ainter's early career. He was destined painfully to work his way at once through the lower elements of his art and the difficulties of adverse fortune ; and though by indomitable courage and unwearied industry he became master of anatomic science, of colouring, and of perspective, and achieved a position in which his efforts might be fairly presented to the notice of the world, his impetuous temperament was yet further ruffled by the arduous and complicated struggle. With boundless intellectual ambition, he sought to excel in the loftiest department of his art; and undertook the double responsibility of painting great pictures and of creating tho taste which should appreciate, and enforcing the patronage which should reward them. The patronage of high art, not then adopted by the government, and fiir beyond the means of individuals of the middle class, necessarily appertained to a few members of the aristo- cracy, who alone could encourage and remu- nerate the painters of history. Although the beginning of Mr. Haydon's career was not uncheered by aristocratic favour, the con- trast between the greatness of his own conceptions and the humility of the course which prudence suggested as necessary to obtain for himself the means of developing them on canvas, fevered his nature, which, ardent in gratitude for the appreciation and assistance of the wealthy to a degree which BENJAMIN ROBERT HAYDON. 813 might even be mistaken for servility, was also impatient of the general indifference to the cause of which he sought to be, not only the ornament, but unhappily for him, also the champion. Alas ! he there " per- ceived a divided duty." Had he been con- tented silently to paint — to endure obscurity and privation for a while, gradually to mature his powers of execution and soften the rigour of his style and of his virtue, he might have achieved works, not only as vast in outline and as beautiful in portions as those which he exhibited, but so harmonious in their excellences as to charm away oppo- sition, and ensure speedy reputation, moderate fortune, and lasting fame. But resolved to battle for that which he believed to be " the right," he rushed into a life-long contest with the Koyal Academy ; frequently suspended the gentle labours of the pencil for the vehe- ment use of the pen ; and thus gave to his course an air of defiance which prevented the calm appreciation of his nobler works, and increased the mischief by reaction. In- dignant of the scorns " that patient merit of the unworthy takes," he sometimes fancied scorns which impatient merit in return imputes to the worthy ; and thus instead of enjoying the most tranquil of lives (which a painter's should be), led one of the most animated, restless, and broken. The necessary consequence of this disproportion was a series of pecuniary embarrassments, the direct result of his struggle with fortune ; a succession of feverish triumphs and disap- pointments, the fruits of his contest with power; and worse perhaps than either, the frequent diversion of his own genius from its natural course, and the hurried and imper- fect development of its most majestic con- ceptions. To paint as finely as he sometimes did in the ruffled pauses of his passionate controversy, and amidst the terrors of im- pending want, was to display large innate resources of skill and high energy of mind ; but how much more unquestionable fame might he have attained if his disposition had permitted him to be content Avith charming the world of art, instead of attempting also to instruct or reform it ! Mr. Haydon's course, though thus troubled, was one of constant animation, and illus- trated by hours of triumph, the more radiant because they were snatched from adverse fortune and a reluctant people. The exhi- bition of a single picture by an artist at war with the Academy which exhibited a thou- sand pictures at the same price — creating a sensation not only among artists and patrons of art, but among the most secluded literary circles — and engaging the highest powers of criticism — was, itself, a splendid occurrence in life;: — and, twice at least, in the instance of the Entry into Jerusalem, and the Lazarus, was crowned with signal success. It was a proud moment for the daring painter, when, at the opening of the first of these Exhi- bitions, while the crowd of visitors, distin-' guished in rank or talent, stood doubting whether in the countenance of the chief figure the daring attempt to present an aspect differing from that which had en- kindled the devotion of ages — to mingle the human with the Divine, resolution with sweetness, dignified composure with the anticipation of mighty suffering — had not failed, Mrs. Siddons walked slowly up to the centre of the room, surveyed it in silence for a minute or two, and then ejaculated, in her deep, 'low, thrilling voice, " It is perfect ! " quelled all opposition, and removed the doubt, from his own mind at least, for ever. Although the great body of artists to whose corporate power Mr. Haydon was so passionately opposed, naturally stood aside from his path, it was cheered by the atten- tion and often by the applause of the chief literary spirits of the age, who were attracted by a fierce intellectual struggle. Sir Walter Scott, Wordsworth, Ilazlitt, Godwin, Shelley, Hunt, Coleridge, Lamb, Keats — and many young writers for periodical works, in the freshness of unhacknied authorship — took an interest in a course so gallant though so troublous, which excited their sympathy yet did not force them to the irksome duty ol unqualified praise. Almost in the outset of his career, Wordsworth addressed to him a sonnet, in heroic strain, associating the artist's calling with his own ; making common cause with him, " while the whole world seems adverse to desert;" admonishing him " still to be strenuous for the bright reward, and in the soul admit of no decay;" and, long after, when the poet had, by a wiser perseverance, gradually created the taste which appreciated his works, he celebrated, in another sonnet, the fine autumnal conception S14 SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. in the picture of Napoleon on the rocli of St. Helena, with his back to the spectator, contemplating the blank sea, left desolate by the sunken sun. The Conqueror of Napoleon also recognised the artist's claims, and sup- plied him with another great subject, in the contemplation of the solitude of Waterloo by its hero, ten years after the victory. Mr. Haydon's vividness of mind burst out in his conversation, which, though somewhat broken and rugged, like his career, had also, like that, a vein of beauty streaking it. Having associated with most of the remark- able persons of his time, and seen strange varieties of "many-coloured life" — gifted with a rapid perception of character and a painter's eye for effect, — he was able to hit off, with startling facility, sketches in words which lived before the hearer. His anxieties and sorrows did not destroy the buoyancy of his spirits or rob the convivical moment of its prosperity; so that he struggled, and toiled, and laughed and triumphed, and failed, and hoped on, till the waning of life approached and found him still in opposition to the world, and far from the threshold of fortune. The object of his literary exertions was par- tially attained ; the national attention had been directed to high art ; but he did not personally share in the benefits he had greatly contributed to win. Even his cartoon of the Curse in Paradise failed to obtain a prize when he entered the arena with un- fledged youths for competitors ; and the desertion of the exhibition of his two pictures of Aristides and Nero, at the Egyptian Hall, by the public, for the neighbouring exposure of the clever manikin, General Tom Thumb, quite vanquished him. It was indeed a melancholy contrast; — the unending suc- cession of bright crowds thronging the levees of the small abortion, and the dim and dusty room in which the two latest historical pictures of the veteran hung for hours without a visitor. Opposition, abuse, even neglect, he could have borne; but the sense of ridicule involved in such a juxta- position drove him to despair. No one who knew him ever apprehended from his disasters such a catastrophe as that which closed them. He had always cherished a belief in the religion of our Church, and. avowed it among scofi&ng unbelievers ; and that belief he asserted even in the wild fragments he penned in his last terrible hour. His friends thought that even the sense of the injustice of the world would have contributed with his undimmed consciousness of his own powers to enable him to endure. In his domestic relations also he was happy, blessed in the affection of a wife of great beauty and equal discretion, who, by gentler temper and serener wisdom than his own, had assisted and soothed him in all his anxieties and griefs, and whose image was so identified in his mind with the beautiful as to impress its character on all the forms of female loveliness he had created. Those who knew him best feel the strongest assurance, that notwith- standing the appearances of preparation which attended his extraordinary suicide, his mind was shattered to pieces — all dis- torted and broken — with only one feeling left entire, the perversion of which led to the deed, a hope to awaken sympathy in death for those whom living he could not shelter. The last hurried lines he wrote, entitled " Haydon's last Thoughts." consisted of a fevered compai'ison between the Duke of Wellington and Napoleon, in which he seemed to wish to repair some supposed injustice which in speech or writing he had done to the Conqueror. It was enclosed in a letter addressed to three friends, written in the hour of his death, and containing sad fragmental memorials of those passionate hopes, fierce struggles, and bitter disappoint- ments which brought him through distrac- tion to the grave ! A visit' of Coleridge was always regarded by Lamb, as an opportunity to afford a rare gratification to a few friends, who, he knew, would prize it; and I well remember the flush of prideful pleasure which came over his face as he would hurry, on his way to the India House, into the office in which I was a pupil, and stammer out the welcome invita- tion for the evening. This was true self- sacrifice ; for Lamb would have infinitely preferred having his inspired friend to himself and his sister, for a brief renewal of the old Salutation delights; but, I believe, he never permitted himself to enjoy this exclusive treat. The pleasure he conferred was great ; for of all celebrated persons I ever saw, Coleridge alone sur- passed the expectation created by his writings ; for he not only was, but appeared /Ci/-^U^(c/L/-cy^ In^ ^mzili'shed. iySBMall i. Sims. MY. SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. 815 to be, greater than the noblest things he had written. Lamb used to speak, sometimes with a moistened eye and quivering lip, of Coleridge when young, and wish that we could have seen him in the spring-time of his genius, at a supper in the little sanded parlour of the old Salutation hostel. The promise of those days was never realised, by the execution of any of the mighty works he planned ; but the very failure gave a sort of mournful interest to the " large discourse, looking before and after," to which we were en- chanted listeners; to the wisdom which lives only in our memories, and must perish with them. From Coleridge's early works, some notion may be gleaned of what he was; when the steep ascent of fame rose directly before him, while he might loiter to dally with the ex- pectation of its summit, without ignobly shrinking from its labours. His endowments at that time — the close of the last century — when literature had faded into a fashion of poor language, must have seemed, to a mind and heart like Lamb's, no less than miraculous. A rich store of classical knowledge — a sense. of the beautiful, almost verging on the effeminate — a facile power of melody, varying from the solemn stops of the organ to a bird- like flutter of airy sound — the glorious faculty of poetic hope, exerted on human prospects, and presenting its results with the vividness of prophecy; a power of imaginative reasoning which peopled the nearer ground of contemplation with thoughts " AH plumed like estriches, like eagles bathed, As full of spirit as the month of May, And gorgeous as the sun at Midsummer," endowed the author of "The Ancient Mariner," and " Christabel." Thus gifted, he glided from youth into manhood, as a. fairy voyager on a summer sea, to eddy round and round in dazzling circles, and to make little progress, at last, towards any of those thousand mountain summits which, glorified by aerial tints, rose before him at the extreme verge of the vast horizon of his genius. "The Ancient Mariner," printed with the " Lyrical Ballads," one of his earliest works, is still his finest poem — at once the most vigorous in design and the most chaste in execution— developing the intensest human affection, amidst the wildest scenery of a poet's dream. Nothing was too bright to hope from such a dawn. The mind of Cole- ridge seemed the harbinger of the golden years his enthusiasm predicted and painted ; — of those days of peace on earth and good will among men, which the best and greatest minds have rejoiced to anticipate — and the earnest belief in which is better than all frivolous enjoyments, all worldly wisdom, all worldly success. And if the noontide of his genius did not* fulfil his youth's promise of manly vigour, nor the setting of his earthly life honour it by an answering serenity of greatness — they still have left us abundant reason to be grateful that the glorious frag- ments of his mighty and imperfect being were ours. Cloud after cloud of German metaphysics rolled before his imagination — which it had power to irradiate with fantastic beauty, and to break into a thousand shifting forms of grandeur, though not to conquer; mist after mist ascended from those streams where earth and sky should have blended in one imagery, and were turned by its obscured glory to radiant haze ; indulgence in the fearful luxury of that talismanic drug, which opens glittering scenes of fantastic beauty on the waking soul to leave it in arid desolation, too often veiled it in partial eclipse, and blended fitful light with melancholy blackness over its vast domain ; but the great central light remained unquenched, and cast its gleams through every department of human knowledge. A boundless capacity to receive and retain intellectual treasure made him the possessor of vaster stores of lore, classical, antiquarian, historical, biblical, and miscel- laneous, than were ever vouchsafed, at least in our time, to a mortal being ; goodly structures of divine philosophy rose before him like exhalations on the table-land of that his prodigious knowledge ; but, alas ! there was a deficiency of the power of volun- tary action which would have left him un- able to embody the shapes of a shepherd's dreams, and made him feeble as an infant before the overpowering majesty of his own ! Hence his literary life became one splendid and sad prospectus — resembling only the portal of a mighty temple which it was for- bidden us to enter — but whence strains of rich music issuing "took the prisoned soul 316 SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. and lapped it in Elysium,"' and fragments of oracular wisdom startled the thought they could not satisfy. Hence the riches of his mind were de- veloped, not in writing, but in his speech — conversation I can scarcely call it — which no one who once heard can ever forget. Unable to work in solitude, he sought the gentle stimulus of social admiration, and under its influence poured forth, without stint, the marvellous resources of a mind rich in the spoils of time — richer — richer far in its own glorious imagination and delicate fancy ! There was a noble prodigality in these out- pourings ; a generous disdain of self; an earnest desire to scatter abroad the seeds of wisdom and beauty, to take root wherever they might fall, and spring up without bearing his name or impress, which might remind the listener of the first days of poetry before it became individualised by the press, when the Homeric rhapsodist wandered .through new-born cities and scattered hovels, flashing upon the minds of the wondering audience the bright train of heroic shapes, the series of godlike exploits, and sought no record more enduring than the fleshly tablets of his hearers' hearts ; no memory but that of genial tradition ; when copyright did not ascertain the reciter's property, nor marble at once perpetuate and 'shed chillness on h.is fame — " His bounty was as boundless as the sea. His love as deep." Like the ocean, in all its variety of gentle moods, his discourse perpetually ebbed and flowed, — nothing in it ^angular, nothing of set purpose, but now trembling as the voice of divine philosophy, " not harsh nor crab- bed, as dull fools suppose, but musical as is Apollo's lute," was wafted over the summer wave ; now glistening in long line of light over some obscure subject, like the path of moonlight on the black water, and, if ever receding from the shore, driven by some sud- den gust of inspiration, disclosing the trea- sures of the deep, like the rich strond in Spenser, "far sunken in their sunless trea- suries," to be covered anon by the foam of the same immortal tide. The benignity of his manner befitted the beauty of his disqui- sitions ; his voice rose from the gentlest pitch of conversation to the height of im- passioned eloquence without effort, as his language expanded from some common topic of the day to the loftiest abstractions ; as- cending by a winding track of spiral glory to the highest truths which the naked eye could discern, and suggesting starry regions be- yond, which his own telescopic gaze might possibly decipher. If his entranced hearers often were unable to perceive the bearings of his argument — too mighty for any grasp but his own — and sometimes reaching be- yond his own — they understood "a heauitj in the words, if not the words ;" and a wis- dom and piety in the illustrations, even when unable to connect them with the idea which he desired to illustrate. If an entire scheme' of moral philosophy was never developed by him either in speaking or writing, all the parts were great: vast biblical knowledge, though sometimes eddying in splendid con- jecture, was always emploj^ed with pious reverence ; the morality suggested was at once elevated and genial ; the charity hoped all things ; and the mighty imaginative rea- soner seemed almost to realise the condition suggested by the great Apostle, " that he understood all mysteries and all knowledge, and spake with the tongues both of men and angels !" After Coleridge had found his last earthly refuge, under the wise and generous care of Mr. Gilman, at Highgiite, he rarely visited Lamb, and my opportunities pf observing him ceased. From those who were more favoured, as well as from the fragments I have seen of his last efi"usions, I know that, amidst sufi'ering and weakness, his mighty mind concentrated its energies on the highest subjects which had ever kindled them ; that the speculations, which sometimes seemed like paradox, because their extent was too vast to be comprehended in a single grasp of intellectual vision, were informed by a serener wisdom ; that his perceptions of the central truth became more undivided, and his piety more profound and bumble. His love for Charles and Mary Lamb continued, to the last, one of the strongest of his human affec- tions — of which, by the kindness of a friend,* I possess an affecting memorial -under his hand, Avritten in the margin of a volume of his "Sibylline Leaves," which — after his * Mr. Richard Welsh, of Beading, editor of the Berk- shire Chronicle — one of the ablest productions of tho Conservative Periodical Press. LAMB'S DEAD COMPANIONS. 317 life-long habit — he has enriched by manuscript annotations. The poem, beside which it is inscribed, is entitled " The Lime-Tree-Bower my Prison," composed by the poet in June, 1796, when Charles and Mary Lamb, who were visiting at his cottage near Bristol, had left him for a walk, which an accidental lameness prevented him from sharing. The visitors are not indicated by the poem, except that Charles is designated by the epithet, against which he jestingly remonstrated, as "gentle-hearted Charles;" and is repre- sented as "winning his way, with sad and patient soul, through evil and pain, and Btrange calamity." Against the title is written as follows : — CH. & MARY LAMB, dear to my heart, yea, as it were, my heart, S. T. C. mt. 63. 1S34. 1797 1834. 37 years! This memorandum, which is penned with remarkable neatness, must have been made in Coleridge's last illness, as he suffered acutely for several months before he died, in July of this same year, 1834. "What a space did that thirty-seven years of fond regard for the brother and sister occupy in a mind like Coleridge's, peopled with immortal thoughts which might multiply in the true time, dialled in heaven, its minutes into years ! These friends of Lamb's whom I have ventured to sketch in companionship with him, and Southey also, whom I only once saw, are all gone ; — and others of less note in the world's eye have followed them. Among those of the old set who are gone, is Manning, perhaps, next to Coleridge, the dearest of them, whom Lamb used to speak of as marvellous in a teie-a-Ute, but who, in company, seemed only a courteous gentle- man, more disposed to listen than to talk. In good old age departed Admiral ^urney, frank-hearted voyager with Captain Cook round the world, who seemed to unite our society with the circle over which Dr. John- son reigned ; who used to tell of school-days under the tutelage of Eugene Aram ; ho\y he remembered the gentle usher pacing the play-ground arm-in-arm with some one of the elder boys, and seeking relief from the unsuspected burthen of his conscience by talking of strange murders, and how he, a child, had shuddered at the handcuffs on his teacher's hands when taken away in the post-chaise to prison; — the Admiral being himself the centre of a little circle which his sister, the famous authoress of " Evelina," " Cecilia," and " Camilla," sometimes graced. John Lamb, the jovial and burly, who dared to argue with Ilazlitt on questions of art; Barron Field, who, with veneration enough to feel all the despised greatness of Words- worth, had a sparkling vivacity, and, con- nected with Lamb by the link of Christ's Hospital associations, shared largely in his regard; Rickman, the sturdiest of jovial companions, severe in the discipline of whist as at the table of the House of Commons, of which he was the principal clerk ; and Al- sager, so calm, so bland, so considerate — all are gone. These were all Temple guests — friends of Lamb's early days ; but the com- panions of a later time, who first met in Gi-eat Russell-street, or Dalston, or Isling- ton, or Enfield, have been wofully thinned ; Allan Cunningham, stalwart of form and stout of heart and verse, a ruder Burns; Cary, Lamb's " pleasantest of clergymen," whose sweetness of disposition and manner would have prevented a stranger from guess- ing that he was the poet who had rendered the adamantine poetry of Dante into Eng- lish with kindred power; Hood, so grave and sad and silent, that you were astonished to recognise in him the outpoui'er of a thou- sand wild fancies, the detector of the inmost springs of pathos, and the powerful vindi- cator of poverty and toil before the hearts of the prosperous ; the Reverend Edward Ii'- ving, who, after fulfilling an old prophecy he made in Scotland to Hazlitt, that he would astonish and shake the world by his preach- ing, sat humbly at the feet of Coleridge to listen to wisdom, — all are gone; the forms of others associated with Lamb's circle by mere accidental links (also dead) come throng- ing on the memory from the mist of years - Alas ; it is easier to count those that are left of the old familiar faces ! The story of the lives of Charles and Mary Lamb is now told ; nothing more remains to be learned respecting it. The known col- lateral branches of their stock are extinct, and their upward pedigree lost ia those 318 LAMB FULLY KNOWN. humble tracks on which the steps of Time leave so light an impress, that the dust of a few years obliterates all trace, and afifurds no clue to search collaterally for surviving relatives. The world has, therefore, all the materials for judging of them which can be possessed by those, who, not remembering- the delightful peculiarities of their daily manners, can only form imperfect ideas of what they were. Before bidding them a last adieu, we may be allowed to linger a little longer and survey their characters by the new and solemn lights which are now, for the first time, fully cast upon them. 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 won- dered 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 (which his elder brother cannot be blamed for not immediately per- ceiving) through the ensanguined cloud of misfortune which had fellen upon his family, the unstained excellence of his sister, whoso madness had caused it ; that he was ready to take her to his own home with reverential afl'ection, 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 cheei-fully, and without pluming himself upon his brotherly nobleness as a virtue, or seek- ing 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 sacri- fice of youth and love to his sister gave him a licence to follow his own caprice at the ex- pense of her feelings, even in the lightest ntatters, 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 fervour of a great exigency and a great resolution. It was not so; nine years afterwards (1805), in a letter to Miss Wordsworth, he thus dilates on his sister's excellences, and exag- gerates his own frailties : — . " To say all that I know of her would be more than I think anybody could believe or even understand ; and when I hope to have her well again with me, it would be sinning against her feelings to go about to praise her; for I can conceal nothing that I do from her. She is older, and wiser, and better than I, and all my wretched 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 in- cessantly with ray cursed ways of going on. But even in this upbraiding of myself I am offending against her, for I know that she has cleaved to me for better, for worse ; and if the balance has been against her hitherto, it ' was a noble trade.' " Let it also be remembered that this devo- tion of the entire nature was not exercised merely in the consciousness of a past tragedy ; but during the frequent recurrences of the calamity which caused it, and the constant apprehensions of its terrors ; and this for a large portion of life, in poor lodgings, where the brother and sister were, or fancied them- selves, " marked people ; " where from an income incapable of meeting the expense of the sorrow without sedulous privations, he contrived to hoard, not for holiday enjoy- ment, or future solace, but to provide for expected distress. Of the misery attendant on this ^anticipation, aggravated by jealous fears lest some imprudence or error of his own should have hastened the inevitable evil, we have a glimpse in the letter to Miss Wordsworth above quoted, and which seems to have been written in reply to one which that excellent lady had addressed to Miss Lamb, and which had ftxllen into the brother's care during one of her sad absences. LAMB FULLY KNOWN. 319 "Your long kind letter has not been thrown away, but poor Mary, to whom it is addressed, cannot yet relish it. She has been attacked by one of her severe illnesses, and is at present 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 fore- sight. 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 sup- pose that this illness, like all her former ones, will be but temporary. But I cannot always feel so. Meantime she is dead to me \" The constant impendency of this giant sorrow saddened to " the Lambs" even their holidays ; as the journey which they both regarded as the relief and charm of the year was frequently followed by a seizure ; and, when they ventured to take it, a strait- waistcoat, carefully packed by Miss Lamb hei-self, was their constant companion. Sad experience, at last, induced the abandonment of the annual excursion, and Lamb was eon- tented with walks in and near London, during the interval of labour. Miss Lamb experienced, and full well understood pre- monitory symptoms of the attack, in rest- lessness, low fever, and the inability to sleep ; and, as gently as possible, prepared her brother for the duty hq must soon perform ; and thus, unless he could stave off the terrible separation till Sunday, obliged him to ask leave of absence from the ofiBce as if for a day's pleasure — a bitter mockery! On one occasion Mr. Charles Lloyd met them, slowly pacing together a little footpath in Hoxton fields, both weeping bitterly, and found on joining them, that they were taking their solemn way to the accustomed Asylum ! Will any one, acquainted with these secret passages of Lamb's history, wonder that, with a strong physical inclination for the stimulus and support of strong drinks — which man is framed moderately to rejoice in — he should snatch some wild pleasure "between the acts" (as he called them) "of his distressful drama," and that, still more, during the loneliness of the solitude created by his sister's absences, he should obtain the solace of an hour's feverish dream ? That, notwithstanding that frailty, he performed the duties of his hard lot with exemplary steadiness and discretion is indeed wonderful — especially when it is recollected that he had himself been visited, when in the dawn of manhood, with his sister's malady, the seeds of which were lurking in his frame. While that natural predisposition may ex- plain an occasional flightiness of expression on serious matters, fruit of some wayward fancy, which flitted through his brain, with- out disturbing his constant reason or reaching his heart, and some little extravagances of fitful mirth, how does it heighten the moral courage by which the disease was controlled and the severest duties performed ! Never surely was there a more striking example of the power of a virtuous, rather say, of a pious, wish to conquer the fiery suggestions of latent insanity than that presented by Lamb's history. Nervous, tremulous, as he seemed. — 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 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 820 LAMB FULLY KNOWN. could not feel assured. Living among literary men, some less distinguished and less discreet than those whom -we have men- tioned, he w^s 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 impor- tunities of such hopeless petitioners he gave too largely — though he used sometimes to express a. painful sense that he was diminish- ing his own store without conferring any real benefit. " Heaven," he used to say, " does not owe me a sixpence for all I have given, or lent (as they call it) to such impor- tunity ; I only gave it because I could not bear to refuse it ; and I have done no good by my weakness." On the other hand, he used to seek out occasions of devoting a part of his surplus to those of his friends whom he believed it would really serve, and almost forced loans, or gifts in the disguise of loans, upon them. If he thought one, in such a position, would be the happier for 501. or 1001., he would carefully procure a note for the sum, and perhaps^ for days before he might meet the object of his friendly purpose, keep the note in his waistcoat pocket, burning in it to be produced, and when the occasion arrived — "in the sweet of the night" — he would crumple it up in his hand and stammer out his difiBculty of disposing of a little money; "I don't know what to do with it — pray take it — pray use it — you will do me a kindness if you will" — he would say; and it was hard to disoblige him ! Let any one who has been induced to regard Lamb as a poor, slight, excitable, and excited being, consider that such acts as these were not in- frequent — that he exercised hospitality of a substantial kind, without stint, all his life — that he spared no expense for the comfort of his sister, there only lavish — and that he died leaving sufficient to accomplish all his wishes for survivors — and think what the sturdy quality of his goodness must have been amidst all the heart-aches and head-aches of his life — and ask the virtue which has been supported by strong nerves, whether it has often produced any good to match it? The influence of the events now disclosed ■may be traced in the development and direc- tion of Lamb's faculties and tastes, and in the wild contrasts of expression which some- times startled strangers. The literary pre- ferences disclosed in his early letters, are often inclined to the superficial in poetry and thought — the theology of Priestley, though embraced with pious earnestness — the "divine chit-chat" of Cowper — the melodious sadness of Bowles ; and his own style, breathing a graceful and modest sweet- ness, is without any decided character. But by the terrible realities of his experience, he was turned to seek a kindred interest in the "sterner stufi"" of old tragedy; — to catas- trophes more fearful even than his own — to the aspects of "pale passion" — to shapes of heroic daring and more heroic suifering — to the agonising contests of opposing afi^ections, and the victories of the soul over calamity and death, which the old English drama dis- closes, and in the contemplation of which he saw his own sufi'ering nature at once mirrored and exalted. Thus, instead of admiring, as he once admired, Rowe and Otway, even Massinger seemed too declamatory to satisfy him ; in Ford, Decker, Marlowe and Webster, he found the most awful struggles of afi"ec- tion, and the "sad embroidery" of fancy- streaked grief, and expressed his kindred feelings in those little quintessences of criti- cism which are appended to the noblest scenes in his "Specimens;" and, seeking amidst the sunnier and more varied world of Shakspeare for the profoundest and most earnest passion developed there, obtained that marvellous insight into the soul of Lear which gives to his presentment of its riches almost the character of creation. On the other hand, it was congenial pastime with him to revel in the opposite excellences of Beaumont and Fletcher, who changed the domain of tragedy into fairy-land; turned all its terror and its sorrow "to favour and to prettiness ;" shed the rainbow hues of spor- tive fancy with equal hand among tyrants and victims, the devoted and the faithless, suffering and joy; represented the beauty of goodness as a happy accident, vice as a way- ward aberration, and invoked the remorse of a moment to change them as with a har- lequin's wand; unrealised the terrible, and left " nothing serious in mortality," but reduced the struggle of life to a glittering and heroic game to be played splendidly out, and quitted without a sigh. But neither LAMB FULLY KNOWN. 821 Lamb's owa secret griefs, nor the tastes which they nurtured, ever shook his faith in the requisitions of duty, or induced him to dally with that moral paradox to which near acquaintance with the great errors of mighty natures is sometimes a temptation. Never, either in writing or in speech did he purposely confound good with evil. For the new theories of morals which gleamed out in the conversation of some of his friends, he had no sympathy ; and, though in his bound- less indulgence to the perversities and faults of those whom long familiarity had endeared to him, he did not suffer their frailties to impair his attachment to the individuals, he never palliated the frailties themselves ; still less did he emblazon them as virtues. No one, acquainted with Lamb's story, will wonder at the eccentric wildness of his mirth — his violent changes fi'om the serious to the farcical — the sudden reliefs of the "heat- oppressed brain," and heart weighed down by the sense of ever-impending sorrow. His whim, however, almost always bordered on wisdom. It was justly said of him by Ilazlitt, " His serious conversation, like his serious writing, is his best. No one ever stam- mered out such fine, piquant, deep, eloquent things in half-a-dozen half sentences ; his jests scald like tears, and he probes a ques- tion with a play on words." Although Lamb's conversation vibrated between the intense and the grotesque, his writings are replete with quiet pictures of the humbler scenery of middle life, touched with a graceful and loving hand. We may trace in them the experience of a nature bred up in slender circumstances, but imbued with a certain innate spirit of gentility suggesting a respect for all its moderate appliances and unambitious pleasures. The same spirit pervaded all his own domestic arrangements, so that the intensity of his affliction was ameliorated by as much comfort as satisfaction in the outward furniture of life can give to slender fortune. The most important light, however, shed on Lamb's intellectual life by a knowledge of his true history, is that which elucidates the change from vivid religious impressions, manifested in his earlier letters, to an apparent indifference towards immortal in- terests and celestial relations, which he 21 confesses in a letter to Mr. Walter Wilson.* The truth is, not that he became an unbeliever, or even a sceptic ; but that the peculiar disasters in which he was plunged, and the tendency of his nature to seek immediate solaces, induced an habitual reluctance to look boldly into futurity. That conjugal love, which anticipates with far- looking eye prolonged existence in posterity, was denied to his self-sacrifice ; irksome labour wearied out the heart of his days ; and over his small household. Madness, like Death in the vision of Milton, continually j" shook its dart," and only, at the . best, " delayed to strike." Not daring to look onward, even for a little month, he acquired the habitual sense of living entirely in tho present ; enjoying with tremulous zest the security of the moment, and making some genial, but sad, amends for the want of all the perspective of life, by cleaving, with fondness, to its nearest objects, and becoming attached to them, even when least interest- ing in themselves. This perpetual grasping at transient relief from the minute and vivid present, associated Lamb's affections intimately and closely with the small details of daily existence ; these became to him the "jutting frieze" and "coigne of vantage" in which his home-bred fancy " made its bed and procreant cradle ; " these became imbued with his thoughts, and echoed back to him old feelings and old loves, till his inmost soul shivered at the prospect of being finally wrenched from them. Enthralled thus in the prison of an earthly home, he became perplexed and bewildered at the idea of an existence which, though holier and happier, would doubtless be 'entirely different from that to which he was bound by so many delicate films of custom. "Ah!" he would say, "we shall have none of these little passages of this life hereafter — none of our little quarrels and makings-up — no questionings about sixpence at whist;" and, thus repelled, he clung more closely to "the bright minutes" which he strung " on the thread of keen domestic anguish ! " It is this intense feel- ing of the "nice regards of flesh and blood ;" this dwelling in petty felicities ; which makes us, apart from religious fears, unwilling to Page 238. 322 MARY LAMB. die. Small associations make death terrible, because we know, that parting with this life, we part from their company ; whereas great thoughts make death less fearful, because we feel that they will be our companions in all worlds, and link our future to our present being in all ages. Such thoughts assuredly were not dead in a heai't like Lamb's ; they were only veiled by the nearer presences of familiar objects, and sometimes, perhaps, bursting in upon him in all their majesty, produced those startling references to sacred things, in which, though not to be quoted with approval, there was no conscious pro- faneness, but rather a wayward, fitful, dis- turbed piety. If, indeed, when borne beyond the present, he sought to linger in the past ; to detect among the dust and cobwebs of antiquity, beauty, which had lurked there from old time, rather than to " rest and ex- patiate in a life to come," no anti-christian sentiment spread its chillness over his spirit. The shrinking into mortal life was but the weakness of a nature which shed the sweet- ness of the religion of its youth through the sorrows and the snatches of enjoyment which crowded his after years, and only feebly per- ceived its final glories, which, we may humbly hope, its immortal part is now enjoying. Shortly before his death, Lamb had bor- rowed of Mr. Gary, Phillips's "Theatrum Poetarum Anglicanorum," which, when re- turned by Mr. Moxon, after the event, was found with the leaf folded down at the account of Sir Philip Sydney. Its receipt was acknowledged by the following lines : — " So should it be, my gentle friend ; Thy leaf last closed at Sydney's end. Thou too, like Sydney, ■svouldst have given The water, thirsting and near heaven ; Nay, were it wine, fiU'd to the brim, Thou hadst looked 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 bear thee tell With what strange mortals thou didst dwell ; At thy quaint sallies more delighted, Than any's long among them lighted 1 'Tis done: and thou hast joined a crew, To whom thy soul was justly due; And yet I think, where'er thou be. They'll scarcely love thee more than we."* * These lines, characteristic both of the writer and the subject, are copied from the Memoir of the translitor of Dante, by his son, the Rev. Henry Gary, which, Little could any one, observing Miss Lamb in the habitual serenity of her demeanoui', 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 reconcile- ment in solemn vision — that she was not sorely afiiicted 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 sor- row 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 remem- brance 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, not associated with shapes of terror. 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, even if these qualities had not been presented in marvellous contrast with the distraction under which she suffered for weeks, latterly for months, in every year. There was no tinge of insanity discernible in her manner enriched by many interesting memorials of contempo- raries, presents as valuable a picture of rare ability arid excellence as ever was traced by the fine observation of filial love. MARY LAMB. 823 to the most observant eye ; not even in those distressful periods when the premoni- tory symptoms had apprised her of its ap- proach, and she was making pi-eparations for seclusion. In all its essential sweetness, 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 calamnity, from the depths of which she rose so often un- ruffled to his side. To a friend in any diffi- culty she was the most comfortable of advisers, the wisest of consolers. Ilazlitt used to say, that he never met with a woman who could reason, and had met with only one thoroughly reasonable — the sole excep- tion being Mary Lamb. She did not wish, however, to be made an exception, to a general disparagement of her sex ; for in all her thoughts and feelings she was most womanly — keeping, under even undue sub- ordination, to her notion of a woman's province, 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 appre- ciating and enjoying the talents of her friends, it was otherwise in her madness. Lamb, in his letter to a female friend, 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 ram- blings often sparkled with brilliant descrip- tion 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 setting. There was some- times even a vein of crazy logic running through them, associating things essentially most dissimilai*, but connecting them by a verbal association in strange order. As a mere physical instance of deranged intellect, her condition was, I believe, extraordinary : it was as if the finest elements of mind had been shaken into fantastic combinations like those of a kaleidoscope ; — but not for the pur- pose of exhibiting a curious phenomenon of mental aberration are the aspects of her insanity unveiled, but to illustrate the moral force of gentleness by which the faculties that thus sparkled when restraining wisdom was withdrawn, were subjected to its sway, in her periods of reason. The following letter from Miss Lamb to Miss Wordsworth, on one of the chief exter- nal events of Lamb's history, the removal from the Temple to Covent Garden, will il- lustrate the cordial and womanly strain of her observation on the occurrences of daily life, and afford a good idea of her habitual conversation among her friends. "My dear Miss Wordsworth, — Tour kind letter has given us very great pleasure, the sight of your handwriting was a most wel- come 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 Rj'dal 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 dast, we mustered up resolution enough to leave the good old place, that so long had sheltered us, and here we are, living at a brazier's shop, No. 20, in Ilussell- 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 car- riages 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 324 MARY LAMB. 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 Kydal Mount, with all its inhabitants enclosed, were to be trans- planted with her, and to remain stationary in the midst of Covent-garden. •X- * * * * ".Charles has had all his Hogarths bound in a book; they w^ere sent home yesterday, and now that I have them altogether, and perceive the advantage of peeping close at them through my spectacles, I am reconciled to the loss of them hanging round the room, which has been a great mortification to me — in vain I tried to console myself with looking at our 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 ofiP from the sea, not even to look in a book : I had not seen the sea for sixteen years. Mrs. M , who was with us, kept her liking, and continued her seat in the window till the very last, while Charles and I played truants, and wandered among the hills, which we magnified into little moun- tains, 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 soli- tude. I hope we shall meet befoi-e the walk- ing 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, keep- ing very quiet between, was all Mrs. M could accomplish. "God bless you and yours. Love to all and each one. "I am ever yours most affection atel}^ " M. Lamb." sages from a letter to the same lady, refer- ring to the death of a brother of her beloved correspondent, may be offered as a companion specimen. Of that' deeper vein of sentiment in Mary Lamb, seldom revealed, the following pas- "My dear Miss Wordsworth, — I thank you, my kind friend, for your most comfort- able 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 at- tempted 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, Efnd most grating to the feelings of the afiiicted, to say to them that the memory of their afi'ection 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 sourceof 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 Avill transcribe them now, before 1 finish my letter, lest a false shame pervert 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 te. 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. Ilis voice they '11 always hear, Ilis face they'll always see; There 's nought in life so sweet As such a memory." LAST EARTHLY REMAINS. 325 Tht? excellence of Mavy Lamb's nature was happily developed in her portion of those books for children — "wisest, virtuousest, discrcetest, best," — which she wrote in con- junction with her brother, the " Poetry for Children," the " Tales from Shakspeare," and " Mrs. Leicester's School." How different from the stony nutriment provided for those delicate, apprehensive, affectionate creatures, in the utilitarian books, which starve their little hearts, and stuff their little heads with shallow science, and impertinent facts, and selfish morals ! One verse, which she did not print — the conclusion of a little poem sup- posed to be expressed in a letter by the son of a family who, when expecting the return of its father from sea, received news of his death, — recited by her to Mr. Martin Bur- ney, and retained in his fond recollection, may afford a concluding example of the healthful wisdom of her lessons: — "I can no longer feign to he A thoughtless child in infancy ; I tried to write like young Marie, But I am James her brother; And I can feel — but she's too young — Yet blessings on her prattling tongue, She sweetly soothes my mother." Contrary to Lamb's expectation, who feared- (as also his friends feared with him) the desolation of his own survivorship, which the difference of age rendered probable, Miss Lamb survived him for nearly eleven years. When he died she was mercifullyln a state of partial estrangement, which, while it did not wholly obscure her mind, deadened her feelings, so that as she gradually regained her perfect senses she felt as gradually the full force of the blow, and was the better able calmly to bear it. For awhile she declined the importunities of her friends, that she would leave Edmonton for a resi- dence nearer London, where they might more frequently visit her. 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 mourn- fully in the evening, and to this spot she would contrive to lead any friend who came in the summer evenings to drink tea and went out with her afterwards for a walk.* * The following sonnet, by Mr. Moxon, written At length, as her illness became more fre- quent, and her frame much weaker, she was induced to take up her abode under genial care, at a pleasant house in St. John's Wood, where she was surrounded by the old boo,ks and prints, and was frequently visited by her reduced number of surviving friends. Re- peated attacks of her malady weakened her mind, but she retained to the last her sweet- ness of disposition unimpaired, and gently sunk into death on the 20th May, 1847. A few survivors of the old circle, now sadly thinned, attended her remains to the spot in Edmonton churchyard, where they were laid above those of her brother. With them was one friend of later days — but who had become to Lamb as one of his oldest companions, and for whom Miss Lamb che- rished a strong regard — Mr. John Forster, the author of " The Life of Goldsmith," in which Lamb would have rejoiced, as written in a spirit congenial with his own. In ac- cordance 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 wil- lingly, refer, he had been interred in a deep grave, simply dug, and wattled round, but without any affectation of stone or brick- work to keep the human dust from its kin- dred earth. So dry, however, is the soil of the quiet churchyard that the excavated earth left perfect walls of stiff clay, and per- mitted 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 wopian" were this period of tranquil sadness in Miss Lamb's life, so beautifully embodies the reverential love with which the sleeping and the mourning were regarded by one of their nearest friends, that I gratify myself by extracting it from the charming little volume of his Sonnets, which it adorns : — Here sleeps, beneath this bank, where daisies grow. The kindliest sprite earth holds within her breast, In such a spot I would this frame should rest, When I to join my friend far hence shall go. His only mate is now the minstrel lark, Who chants her morning music o'er his bed, Save she who comes each evening, ere the bark Of wateh-dog gathers drowsy folds, to shed A sister's tears. Kind heaven, upon her head, Do thou in dove-like guise thy spirit pour, And in her aged path some flowerets spread Of earthly joy, should Time for her in store Have weary days and nights, ere she shall greet Him whom she longs in Paradise to meet. 82G LAST EAETHLT EEMAINS. 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 re-union was well accomplished ; and although the true- hearted son of Admiral Burney, who had known and loved the pair we quitted from a child, and who had been among the dearest objects of existence to him, refused to be comforted, — even he will now join the scanty remnant of their friends in the softened re- membrance that " they were lovely in their lives," and own with them the consolation of adding, at last, " that in death they are not divided I " THE GRAVE OF CHARLES LAMB. THE ESSAYS OF ELI A. 327 THE ESSAYS OF ELIA. THE SOUTII-SEA HOUSE. Reader, in thy passage from the Bank — where thou hast been receiving thy half- yearly dividends (supposing thou art a lean annuitant like myself) — to the Flower Pot, to secure a place for Dalston, or Shacklewell, or some other thy suburban retreat northerly, — didst thou never observe a melancholy- looking, handsome, brick and stone, edifice, to the left — vi'here Threadneedle-street abuts upon Bishopsgate? I dare say thou hast often admired its magnificent portals ever gaping wide, and disclosing to view a grave court, with cloisters, and pillars, with few or no traces of goers-in or comers-out — a desola- tion something like Balclutha's.* This was once a house of trade, — a centre of busy interests. The throng, of merchants was here — the quick pulse of gain — and here some forms of business are still kept up, though the soul be long since fled. Here are still to be seen stately porticos ; imposing staircases, offices roomy as the state apart- ments in palaces — deserted, or thinly peopled with a few straggling clerks ; the still more sacred interiors of court and committee- rooms, with venerable faces of beadles, door- keepers — directors seated in form on solemn days (to proclaim a dead dividend), at long worm-eaten tables, that have been mah-ogany, with tarnished gilt-leather coverings, sup- porting massy silver inkstands long since dry ; — the oaken wainscots hung with * I passed by the walls of Balclutha, and they were desolate. — OssuN. pictures of deceased governors and sub- governors, of Queen Anne, and the two first monarchs of the Brunswick dynasty : — huge charts, which subsequent discoveries have antiquated; dusty maps of Mexico, dim as dreams, — and soundings of the Bay of Panama ! The long passages hung with buckets, appended, in idle row, to walls, whose substance might defy any, short of the last, conflagration: — with vast ranges of cellarage under all, where dollars and pieces- of-eight once lay, an " unsunned heap," for Mammon to have solaced his solitary h^art withal, — long since dissipated, or scattered into air at the blast of the breaking of that famous Bubble. Such is the South-Sea House. At least, such it was forty years ago, when I knew it, — a magnificent relic I What alterations may have been made in it since, I have had no opportunities of verifying. Time, I take for granted, has not freshened it. No wind has resuscitated the face of the sleeping waters. A thicker crust by this time stag- nates upon it. The moths, that were then battening upon its obselete ledgers and day- books, have rested from their depredations, but other light generations have succeeded, making fine fretwork among their single and double entries. Layers of dust have accu- mulated (a superfoetation of dirt !) upon the old layers, that seldom used to be disturbed, save by some curious finger, now and then, inquisitive to explore the mode of book- 380 THE SOUTH-SEA HOUSE. keeping in Queen Anne's reign ; or, with less hallowed curiosity, seeking to unveil some of the mysteries of that tremendous Hoax, whose extent the petty peculators of our day look back upon with the same expression of incredulous admiration, and hopeless ambi- tion of rivalry, as would become the puny face of modern conspiracy contemplating the Titan size of Vaux's superhuman plot. Peace to the manes of the Bubble ! Silence and destitution are upon thy walls, proud house, for a memorial ! Situated as thou art, in the very heart of stirring and living commerce, — amid the fret and fever of speculation — with the Bank, and the 'Change, and the India-House about thee, in the hey-day of present prosperity, with their important faces, as it were, in- sulting thee, their 'poor neighbour out of busi- ness — to the idle and merely contemplative, — to such as me, old house ! there is a charm in thy quiet : a cessation — a coolness from business — an indolence almost cloistral — which is delightful ! With what reverence have I paced thy great bare rooms and courts at eventide ! They spoke of the past : — the shade of some dead accountant, with visionary pen in ear, would flit by me, stiif as in life. Living accounts and accountants puzzle me. I have no skill in figuring. But thy great dead tomes, which scarce three degenerate clerks of the present day could lift from their enshrining shelves^ — with their old fantastic flourishes, and decorative rubric interlacings — their sums in triple columnia- tions, set down with formal superfluity of ciphers — with pious sentences at the be- ginning, without which our religious ances- tors never ventured to open a book of busi- ness, or bill of lading — the costly vellum covers of some of them almost persuading us that we are got into some better library/, — are very agreeable and edifying spectacles. I can look upon these defunct dragons with complacency. Thy heavy odd-shaped ivory- handled pen-knives (our ancestors had every- thing on a larger scale than we have hearts for) are as good as anything from Hercu- ianeum. The pounce-boxes of our days have gone retrograde. The very clerks which I remember in the South-Sea House — I speak of forty years back — had an air very diS"erent from those in the public offices that I have had to do with since. They partook of the genius of the place ! They were mostly (for the establishment did not admit of superfluous salaries) bachelors. Generally (for they had not much to do) persons of a curious and speculative turn of mind. Old-fashioned, for a reason mentioned before. Humourists, for they were of all descriptions; and, not having been brought together in early life (which has a tendency to assimilate the members of corporate bodies to each other), but, for the most part, placed in this house in ripe or middle age, they necessarily carried into it their separate habits and oddities, unqualified, if I may so speak, as into a common stock. Hence they formed a sort of Noah's ark. Odd fishes. A lay-monastery. Domestic retainers in a great house, kept more for show than use. Yet pleasant fellows, full of chat — and not a few among them had arrived at considerable proficiency on the German flute. The cashier at that time was one Evans, a Cambro-Briton. He had sometbing of the choleric complexion of his countrymen stamped on his visage, but was a' worthy sensible man at bottom. He wore his hair, to the last, powdered and frizzed out, in the fashion which I remember to have seen in caricatures of what were termed, in my young days, Maccaronies. He wa-s the last of that race of beaux. Melancholy as a gib- cat over his counter all the forenoon, I think I see him, making up his cash (as they call it) with tremulous fingers, as if he feared every one about him was a defaulter; in his hypochondry ready to imagine himself one ; haunted, at least, with the idea of the possi- bility of his becoming one ; his tristful visage clearing up a little over his roast neck of veal at Anderton's at two (where his picture still hangs, taken a little before his death by desire of the master of the coffee- house, which he had fi-equented for the last five-and-twenty years), but not attaining the meridian of its animation till evening brought on the hour of tea and visiting. The simul- taneous sound of his well-known rap at the door with the stroke of the clock announcing six, was a topic of never-failing mirth in the families which this dear old bachelor glad- dened with his presence. Then was his forte, his glorified hour! How would he chirp, and expand, over a muffin ! How THE SOUTH-SEA HOUSE. 831 would he dilate into secret history ! His countryman, Pennant himself, in particular, could not be more eloquent than he in relation to old and new London — the site of old theatres, churches, streets gone to decay — where Rosamond's Pond stood — the Mulberry gardens — and the Conduit in Ch"eap — with many a pleasant anecdote, derived from paternal tradition, of those grotesque figures which Hogarth has im- mortalised in his picture of Noon, — the ■worthy descendants of those heroic con- fessors, who, flying to this country, from the wrath of Louis the Fourteenth and his dragoons, kept alive the flame of pure reli- gion in the sheltering obscurities of Hog- lane, and the vicinity of the Seven Dials ! Deputy, under Evans, was 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 atten- tion 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 pre- tensions 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 gentlefolks, 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-pamper- ing ; but in its veins was noble blood. She traced her descent, by some labyrinth of relationship, which I never thoroughly under- stood, — 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 defen- sive armour only, no insult likewise could reach you through it. Decus etsolamen. Of quite another stamp was the then ac- countant, John Tipp. He neither pretended to high blood, nor in good truth, cared one fig about the matter. He " thought an accoun- tant the greatest character in the world, and himself the greatest accountant in it." Yet John was not without his hobby. The fiddle relieved his vacant hours. He sang, certainly, with other notes than to the Orphean lyre. He did, indeed, screarti and scrape most abominably. His fine suite of official rooms in Threadneedle-street, which, without any- thing very substantial appended to them, were enough to .enlarge a man's notions of himself that lived in them, (I know not who is the occupier of them now,) resounded fortnightly to the notes of a concert of " sweet breasts," as our ancestors would have called them, culled from club-rooms and orchestras — chorus-singers — first and second violin- cellos — double-basses — and clarionets — who ate his cold mutton, and drank his punch, and praised his ear. He sate like Lord Midas among them. But at the desk Tipp was quite another sort of creature. Thence all ideas, that were purely ornamental, were banished. You could not speak of anything romantic ^ without rebuke. Politics were excluded. A newspaper was thought too refined and abstracted. The whole duty of man con- sisted in writing off dividend warrants. The striking of the annual balance in the com- pany's books (which, perhaps, differed from the balance of last year in the sum of 25Z. 1.9. &d.) occupied his days and nights for a month previous. Not that Tipp was blind to the deadness of things (as they call thera in the city) in his beloved house, or did not sigh for a return of the old stirring days when South-Sea hopes were young — (he was indeed equal to the wielding of any the most intricate accounts of the most flourishing company in these or those days) : — but to a genuine accountant the difference of proceeds is as nothing. The fractional farthing is as dear to his heart as the thousands which stand before it. He is the true actor, who, whether his part be a prince or a peasant, , must act it with like intensity. With Tipp 332 THE SOUTH-SEA HOUSE. form was everything. His life was formal. His actions seemed ruled with a ruler. Plis pen was not less erring than his heart. He made the best executor in the world; he was plagued Vith incessant executorships accordingly, which excited his spleen and soothed his vanity in equal ratios. He would swear (for Tipp swore) at the little orphans, whose rights he would guard with a tenacity like the grasp of the dying hand, that com- mended their interests to his protection. With all this there was about him a sort of timidity — (his few enemies used to give it a worse name) — a something which, in reve- rence to the dead, we will place, if you please, a little on. this side of the heroic. Nature certainly had_ been pleased to endow John Tipp with a sufficient measure of the principle of self-preservation. There is a cowardice which we do not despise, because it has nothing base or treacherous in its elements ; it betrays itself, not you : it is mere temperament ; the absence of the romantic and the enterprising ; it sees a lion in the way, and will not, with Fortinbras, "greatly find quarrel in a straw," when some supposed honour is at stake, Tipp never mounted the box of a stage-coach in his life ; or leaned against the rails of a balcony ; or walked upon the ridge of a parapet ; or looked down a precipice ; or let off a gun ; or went upon a water-party ; or would willingly let you go, if he could have helped it : neither was it recorded of him, that for lucre, or for intimidation, he ever forsook friend or principle. Whom next shall we summon from the dusty dead, in whom common qualities become uncommon ? Can I forget thee, Henry Man, the wit, the polished man of letters, the author, of the South-Sea House ? who never enteredst thy office in a morning, or quittedst it in mid-day — (what didst thoti in an office?) — without some quirk that left a sting ! Tfiy gibes and thy jokes are now extinct, or survive but in two forgotten volumes, which I had the good fortune to rescue from a stall in Barbican, not three days ago, and found thee terse, fresh, epigram- matic, as alive. Thy wit is a little gone by in these fastidious days — thy topics are staled by the "new-born gauds" of the time: — but great thou used to be in Public Ledgers, and in Chronicles, upon Chatham, and Shelburne, and Rockingham, and Howe, and Burgoyne, and Clinton, and the war which ended in the tearing from Great Britain her rebellious colonies, — and Keppel, and Wilkes, and Sawbridge, and Bull, and Dunning, and Pratt, and Richmond, — and such small politics. A little less facetious, and a great deal more obstreperous, was fine rattling, rattle- headed Plumer. He was descended, — not in a right line, reader, (for his lineal preten- sions, like his personal, favoured a little of the sinister bend,) from the Plumers of Hertfordshire. So tradition gave liim out ; and certain family features not a little sanctioned the opinion. Certainly old Walter Plumer (his reputed author) had been a rake in his days, and visited much in Italy, and had seen the world. He was uncle, bachelor- uncle to the fine old whig still living, who has represented the county in so many successive parliaments, and has a fine old mansion near Ware. Walter flourished in George the Second's days, and was the same who was summoned before the House of Commons about a business of franks, with the old Duchess of Marlborough. You may read of it in Johnson's Life of Cave. Cave came off cleverly in that business. It is certain our Plumer did nothing to discoun- tenance the rumor. He rather seemed pleased whenever it was, with all gentleness, insinuated. But, besides his family preten- sions, Plumer was an engaging fellow, and sang gloriously. •' Not so sweetly sang Plumer as thou sangest, mild, child-like, pastoral M ; a flute's breathing less divinely whispering than thy Arcadian melodies, when, in tones worthy of Arden, thou didst chant that song sung by Amiens to the banished Duke, which proclaims the winter wind more lenient than for a man to be ungrateful. Thy sire was old surly M , the unapproachable church- warden of Bishopsgate. He knew not what he did, M'hen he begat thee, like spring, gentle offspring of blustering winter: — only unfortunate in thy ending, which should have been mild, conciliatory, swan-like. Much remains to sing. Many fantastic shapes rise up, but they must be mine in private : — already I have fooled the reader to- the top of his bent ; — else could I omit that strange creature Woollett, who existed in OXFORD IN THE VACATION. 883 trying the question, and bought litigations? — and still stranger, inimitable, solemn IIep-\Yorth, from whose gravity Newton might have deduced the law of gravitation. How profoundly would he nib a pen — with what deliberation would he wet a Avafer ! But it is time to close — night's wheels are rattling fiist over me — it is proper to have done with this solemn mockery. Reader, what if I have been playing witli 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. OXFORD IN THE VACATION. Casting a preparatory glance at the bottom of this article — as the wary connoisseur in prints, with cursory eye (which, while it reads, seems as though it read not), never fails to consult the qiiis sculpsit in the corner, before he pronounces some rare piece to be a Vivares, or a Woollet methinks I hear- you exclaim, reader. Who is Eliaf Because in my last I tried to divert thee with some half'forgotten humours of some old clerks defunct, in an old house of busi- ness, long since gone to decay, doubtless you have already set me down in your mind as one of the self-same college a votary of the desk — a notched and cropt scrivener — one that sucks his sustenance, as certain sick people are said to do, through a quill. Well, I do agnize something of the sort. I confess that it is my humour, my fancy — in the fore-part of the "day, when the mind of your man of letters requires some relaxation — (and none better than such as at first sight seems most abhorrent from his beloved studies) — to while away some good hours of my time in the contemplation of indigos, cottons, raw silks, piece-goods, flowered or otherwise. In the first place ***** and then it sends you home with such in- creased appetite to your books . * * * not to say, that your outside sheets, and waste wrappers of foolscap, do receive into them, most kindly and naturally, the impres- sion of sonnets, epigrams, essays — so that the very parings of a counting-house are, in some sort, the settings up of an author. The en- franchised quill, that has plodded all the morning among the cart-rucks of figures and ciphers, frisks and curvets so at its ease over the flowery carpet-ground of a midnight dis- sertation. — It feels its promotion. « * * So that you see, upon ^ the whole, the literary dignity of Elia is very little, if at all, com- promised in the condescension. Not that, in my anxious detail of the many commodities incidental to the life of a public office, I would be thought blind to certain flaws, which a cunning carper might be able to pick in this Joseph's vest. And here I must have leave, in the fulness of my soul, to regret the abolition, and doing-away-with altogether, of those consolatory interstices and sprinklings of fr.eedom, through the four seasons, — the red-letter days, now become, to all intents and purpioses, dead-letter days. There was Paul, and Stephen, and Barnabas — Andrew and John, men famous in old times — we were used to keep all their days holy as long back as I was at school at Christ's. I remember their effigies, by the same token, in the old Basket Prayer Book. There hung Peter in his uneasy posture holy Bartlemy in the troublesome act of flaying, after the famous Marsyas by Spagnoletti. — • — I ho- noured them all, and could almost have wept the defalcation of Iscariot — so rnuch did we love to keep holy memories sacred: — only methought I a little grudged at the coalition of the better Jude with Simon — clubbing (as it were) their sanctities together, to make up one poor gaudy-day between them — as an economy unworthy of the dispensation. These were bright visitations in a scholar's and a clerk's life — " far off" their coming shone." — I was as good as an almanac in those days. I could have told you such a 334 OXFORD IN THE VACATION. saint's day falls out next week, or the week after. Peradventure the Epiphany, by some periodical infelicity, would, once in six years, merge in a Sabbath. Now am I little better than one of the profane. Let me not be thought to arraign the wisdom of my civil superiors who have judged the further obser- vation of these holy tides to be papistical, superstitious. Only in a custom of such long standing methinks, if their Ilolinesses the Bishops had, in decency, been first sounded but I am wading out of my depths. I am not the man to decide the limits of civil and ecclesiastical authority 1 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 the mighty Bodley. 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, as one or other of the Universities. Their vacation, too, at this time of the year, falls in so pat with ours. Here I can take my walks unmolested, and fancy myself of what degree or 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 1 am much unlike that respectable character. I have seen your dim-eyed vergers, and bed-makers in spectacles, drop a bow or a curtsy, 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 1 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), wliose 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, redo- lent of antique hospitality : the immense caves of kitchens, kitchen fireplaces, cordial recesses; ovens whose first pies were baked fou.i centuries ago ; and spits which hav cooked for Chaucer ! Not the . meanes* minister among the dishes but is hallowed to me through his imagination, and the Cook goes forth a Manciple. Antiquity ! thou wondrous charm, what art thou ? that, being nothing, art every- thing ! When thou wert, thou wert not anti- quity — then thou wert nothing, but hadst a xQViioiev antiquity, as thou calledst it, to lot)k back to with blind veneration; thou thysel" being to thyself flat, jejune, modern! Wha mystery lurks in this retroversion ? or what half Januses* are we, that cannot look for- ward with the same idolatry with wliich we for ever revert ! The mighty future is as nothing, being everything ! the past is every- thing, being nothing ! What were thy dark ages? Surely the sun rose as brightly then as now, and man got him to his work in the morning. Why is it we can never hear mention of them without an accompanying feeling, as though a palpable obscure had dimmed the face of things, and that our ancestors wandered to and fro groping ! Above all thy rarities, old Oxenford, what do most arride and solace me, are thy repositories of mouldering learning, thy shelves What a place to be in is an old library ! It seems as though' all the souls of all the writers, that have bequeathed their labours to these Bodleians, were reposing here, as in some dormitory, or middle state. I do not want to handle, to profane the leaves, their winding-sheets. I could as soon dislodge a shade. I seem to inhale learning, walking amid their foliage ; and the odour of their old moth-scented coverings is fragrant as the first bloom of those sciential apples which grew amid the happy orchard. Still less have I curiosity to disturb the elder repose of MSS. Those varies lectiones, so tempting to the more erudite palates, do but disturb and unsettle my faith. I am no Herculanean raker. The credit of the three witnesses might have slept unimpeached for me. I leave these curiosities to Porson, and to G. D. — whom, by the way, I found busy as * Jan uses of one face. — Sir Thomas Brownb. OXFORD m THE VACATIOX. 835 a moth over some rotten archive, rummaged out of some seldom-explored press, in a nook at Oriel. AVith long poring, he is grown almost into a book. He stood as passive as one by the side of the old shelves. I longed to new coat him in russia, and assign him his place. He might have mustered for a tall Scapula. D. is assiduous in his visits to these seats of learning. No inconsiderable portion of 'his moderate fortune, I apprehend, is con- sumed in journeys between them and Clif- ford's-inn — • where, like a dove on the asp's nest, he has long taken up his unconscious abode, amid an incongruous assembly of attorneys, attorneys' clerks, apparitors, pro- moters, vermin of the law, among whom he sits " in calm and sinless peace." The fangs of the law pierce him not — the winds of liti- gation blow over his humble chambers — the hard sheriff's officer moves his hat as he passes — legal nor illegal discourtesy touches him — none thinks of offering violence or- injustice to him — you would as soon " strike tin abstract idea." D. has been engaged, he tells me, through a course of laborious years, in an investiga- tion into all curious matter connected with the two Universities ; and has lately lit upon a MS. collection of charters, relative to C , by which he hopes to settle some dis- puted points — particularly that long contro- versy between them as to priority of founda- tion. The ardour with which he engages in these liberal pursuits, I am afraid, has not met with all the encouragement it deserved, either here, or at C . Your caputs, and heads of colleges, care less than anybody else about these questions'. — Contented to suck the milky fountains of their Alma Maters, without inquiring into the venerable gentle- women's years, they rather hold such curio- sities to be impertinent — unreverend. They have their good glebe lands in manu, and care not much to rake into the title-deeds. I gather at least so much from other sources, for D. is not a man to complain. D. started like an unbroke heifer, when I interrupted him. A priori it was not very probable that we should have met in Oriel. But D. Avould have done the same, had I accosted him on the sudden in his own walks in Clifford's- inn, or in the Temple. In addi- tion to a provoking short-sightedness (the effect of late studies and watchings at the midnight oil) D. is the most absent of men. He made a call the other morning at our friend M.'s in Bedford-square; and, finding nobody at home, was ushered into the hall, where, asking for pen and ink, with great exactitude of purpose he enters me his name in the book — which ordinarily lies about in such places, to record the failures of the un- timely or unfortunate visitor — and takes his leave with many ceremonies and professions of regret. Some two or three hours after, his walking destinies returned him into the same neighbourhood -again, and again the quiet image of the fire-side circle at M.'s — Mrs. M. presiding at it like a Queen Lar, with pretty A. S. at her side — striking irre- sistibly on his fancy, he makes another call (forgetting that they were "certainly not to return from the country before that day week"), and disappointed a second time, inquires for pen and paper as before : again the book is brought, and in the line just above that in which he is about to print his second name (his re-script) — his first name (scarce dry) looks out upon him like another Sosia, or as if a man should sud- denly encounter his own duplicate ! — The effect may be conceived. D. made many a good resolution against any such lapses in future. I hope he will not keep them too rigorously. For with G. D. — to be absent from the body is sometimes (not to speak it profanely) to be present with the Lord. At the very time when, personally encountering thee, he passes on with no recognition -or, being stopped, starts like a thing surprised — at that moment, reader, he is on Mount Tabor — or Parnassus — or co-sphered with Plato — or, with Harrington, framing "immortal commonwealths" ■ — devising some plan of amelioration to thy country, or thy species peradventare meditating some indivi- dual kindness or courtesy, to be done to thee Oiy^elf, the returning consciousness of which made him to start so guiltily at thy ob- truded personal presence. D. is delightful anywhere, but he is at the best in such places as these. He cares not much for Bath. He is out of his element at Buxton, at Scarborough, or Harrowgate. The Cam and the Isis are to him " better than all the waters of Damascus." On the 336 CHRIST'S HOSPITAL FIVE-AND-THIRTY YEARS AGO. Muses' hill he is happy, and good, as one of I you the halls and colleges, you think you the Shejjherds on the Delectable Mountains ; ' have with you the Interpreter at the House and when he goes about with you to show I Beautiful. CHRIST'S HOSPITAL FIVE-AND-THIRTY YEARS AGO. In Mr. Lamb's "Works," published a year or two since, I find a magnificent eulogy on my old school,* such as it was, or now ap- pears to him to have been, between the years 1782 and 1789. It happens very oddly that my own. standing at Christ's was nearly cor- responding with his ; and, with all gratitude to him for his enthusiasm for the cloisters, I think he has contrived to bring together whatever can be said in praise of them, dropping all the other side of the argument most ingeniously. I remember L. at school, and can well re- collect that he had some peculiar advantages, ■which I and others of his schoolfellows had not. His friends lived in town, and were near at hand ; and he had the privilege of going to see them almost as often as he wished, through some invidious distinction, which was denied to us. The present worthy sub-treasurer to the Inner Temple can ex- plain how that happened. He had his tea and hot rolls in a morning, while we were battening upon our quarter of a penny loaf — our crug — moistened with attenuated small beer, in wooden piggins, smacking of the pitched leathern jack it was poured from. Our Monday's milk porritch, blue and taste- less, and the pease soup of Saturday, coarse and choking, were enriched for him with a slice of " extraordinary bread and butter," from the hot loaf of the Temple. The Wed- nesday's mess of millet, somewhat less re- pugnant — (we had three banyan to four meat days in the week) — was endeared to his palate with a lump of double-refined, and a smack of ginger (to make it go down the more glibly) or the fragrant cinnamon. In lieu of our lidl^-piclded Sundays, or quite fresh boiled beef on Thursdays (strong as caro equina), with detestable marigolds floating in the pail to poison the broth — our scanty * Recollections of Christ's Hospital. mutton scrags on Fridays — and rather more savoury, but grudging, portions of the same flesh, rotten-roasted or rare, on the Tuesdays (the only dish which excited our appetites, and disappointed our stomachs, in almost equal proportion) — he had his hot plate of roast veal, or the more tempting griskin (exotics un- known to our palates), cooked in the pater- nal kitchen (a great thing), and brought him daily by his maid or aunt ! I remember the good old relative .(in whom love forbade pride) squatting down upon some odd stone in a by-nook of the cloisters, disclosing the viands (of higher regale than those cates which the ravens ministered to the Tish- bite) ; and the contending passions of L. at the unfolding. There was love for the bringer ; shame for the thing brought, and the manner of its bringing; sympathy for those who were too many to share in it; and, at top of all, hunger (eldest, strongest of the passions !) predominant, breaking down the stony fences of shame, and awkwardness, and a troubling over-consciousness. I was a poor friendless boy. My parents, and those who should care for me, were far away. Those few acquaintances of theirs, which they could reckon upon being kind to me in the great city, after a little forced notice, which they had the grace to take of me on my first, arrival in town, soon grew tired of my holiday visits. They seemed to them to recur too often, though I thought them few enough ; and, one after another, they all failed me, and I felt myself alone among six hundred playmates. the cruelty of separating a poor lad from his early homestead ! The yearnings which I used to have towards it in those unfledged years ! How, in my dreams, would my native town (far in the west) come back, with its church, and trees, and faces ! How I would wake weeping, and in the anguish of my heart . exclaim upon sweet Calne in Wiltshire ! CHRIST'S HOSPITAL FIVE-AND-THIRTY YEARS AGO. 337 To this late hour of my life, I trace im- pressiona left by the recollection of those friendless holidays. The long warm days of summer never return but they bring with them a gloom from the haunting memory of those loliole-day leaves, when, by some strange arrangement, we were turned out for the live-long day, upon our own hands, whether we had friends to go to or none. I remember those bathing excursions to the New Eiver which L. recalls with such relish, better, I think, than he can — for he was a home-seek- ing lad, and did not much care for such water- pastimes : — How merrily we would sally forth into the fields ; and strip under the first warmth of the sun ; and wanton like young dace in the streams ; getting us appetites for noon, which those of us that were penniless (our scanty morning crust long since ex- hausted) had not the means of allaying — while the cattle, and the birds, and the fishes were at feed about us and we had nothing to satisfy our cravings — the very beauty of the day, and the exercise of the pastime, and the sense of liberty, setting a keener edge upon them ! How faint and languid, finally, we would return, towards night-fall, to our desired morsel, half-rejoicing, half-reluctant, that the hours of our uneasy liberty had ex- pired ! It was worse in the days of winter, to go prowling about the streets objectless — shiver- ing at cold windows of print-shops, to extract a little amusement ; or haply, as a last resort in the hopes of a little novelty, to pay ji' fifty-times repeated visit (where our indivi- dual faces should be as well known to the warden as those of his own charges) to the Lions in the Tower — to whose levee, by courtesy immemorial, we had a prescriptive title to admission. L.'s governor (so we called the patron who presented us to the foundation) lived in a manner under his paternal roof. Any com- plaint which he had to make was sure of being attended to. This was understood at Christ's, and was an effectual screen to him against the severity of masters, or worse tyranny of the monitors. The oppressions of these young brutes are heart-sickening to call to recollection. I have been called out of my bed, and looked; for t%e purpose, in the coldest winter nights — and this not once, but night after night — in my &hirt, to receive the' 22 discipline of a leathern thong, with eleven other sufferers, because it pleased my callow overseer, when there has been any talking heard after we were gone to bed, to make the six last beds in the dormitory, where the youngest childrfen of us slept, answerable for an ofi"ence they neither dared to commit nor had the power to hinder. The same execra- ble tyranny drove the younger part of us from the fires, when our feet were perishing with snow ; and, under the cruelest penalties' forbade the indulgence of a drink of water when we lay in sleepless summer nights fevered with the season and the day V sports. There was- one H , who, I learned, in after days- was seen expiating some maturer offence in the hulks. (Do I flatter myself in fancying that this might be the planter of that name, who suffered — at Nevis, I think, or St. Kitts, — some few years since? My friend Tobin was the benevolent instrument of bringing him to the gallows.) This petty Nero actually branded a boy who had offended him with a red-hot iron ; and nearly starved forty of us with exacting contributions, to the one half of our bread, to pamper a young ass, which, incredible as it may seem, with the connivance of the nurse's daughter (a young fl'ame of his) he had contrived to smuggle in, and keep upon the leads of the ivard, as they called our dormitories. This game went on for better than a week, till the foolish beast, not able to fare well but he must cry roast meat — happier than Caligula's minion, could he have kept hia own counsel — but, foolisher, alas !' than any of his species in the fables — waxing fat, and kicking, in the fulness of bread, one unlucky minute would needs proclaim his good fortune to the world .below ; and, laying out his simple throat, blew such a rarnVhorn blast, as (top- pling down the walls- of his own Jericho) set concealment any longer at defiance. The client was dismissed, with certain attentions, to Smithfield ; but I never understood that the patron underwent any censure on tho occasion. This was in the stewardship of L.'s admired Perry. Under the same facile administration, cau L. have forgotten the cool impunity with which the nurses used to carry away openly, in open platters, for their own tables, one out of two of every hot joint, which the eareful matron had beea seeing scrupulously 388 CHRIST'S HOSPITAL FIVE-AND-THIRTY YEARS AGO. weighed out for ourdinneis? These things were daily practised in that magnificent apartment which L. grown connoisseur since, (we presume) praises so highly for the grand paintings " by Verrio, and others," with which it is " hung round and adorned." But the sight of sleek well-fed blue-coat boys in pictures was, at that time, I believe, little consolatory to him, or us, the living ones, who saw the better part of our provisions carried away before our faces by harpies ; and ourselves reduced (with the Trojan in the hall of Dido To feed our mind with idle portraiture. L. has recorded the repugnance of the school to gags, or the fat of fresh beef boiled ; and sets it down to some superstition. But these unctuous morsels are never grateful to young palates (children are universally fat- haters), and in strong, coarse, boiled meats, unsalted, are detestable. A gag-eater in our time was equivalent to a goule, and held in equal detestation. suffered under the imputation: -'Twas said He ate strange flesh. He was observed, after dinner, carefully to gather up the remnants left at his table (not many nor very choice fragments, you may credit me) — and, in an especial manner, these disreputable morsels, which he would con- vey away and secretly stow in the settle that stood at his bedside. None saw when he ate them. It was rumoured that he privately devoured them in the night. He was watched, but no traces of such midnight practices were discoverable. Some reported that on leave- days he had been seen to carry out of the bounds a large blue check handkerchief, full of something. This then must be the ac- cursed thing. Conjecture next was at work to imagine how he could dispose of it. Some said he sold it to the beggars. This belief generally prevailed. He went about moping. None spake to him. No one would play with him. He was excommunicated ; put out of the pale of the school. He was too powerful a boy to be beaten, but he underwent every mode of that negative punishment, which is more grievous than many stripes. Still he persevered. At length he was observed by two of his schoolfellows, who were deter- mined to get at the secret, and had traced him one leave-day for the purpose, to enter a large worn-out building, such as there exist specimens of in Chancery-lane, which are let out to various scales of pauperism, with open door and a common staircase. After him they silently slunk in, and followed by stealth up four flights, and saw him tap at a poor wicket, which was opened by an aged woman, meanly clad. Suspicion was now ripened into certainty. The informers had secured their victim. They had him in their toils. Accusation was formally preferred, and retri- bution most signal was looked for. Mr. Hath- away, the then steward (for this happened a little after my time), with that patient saga- city which tempered all his conduct, deter- mined to investigate the matter before he proceeded to sentence. The result was that the supposed mendicants, the receivers or purchasers of the mysterious scraps, turned out to be the parents of , an honest couple come to decay — whom this seasonable supply had, in all probability, saved from mendicancy; and that this young stork, -^t the expense of his own good name, had all this while been only feeding the old birds ! — The governors on this occasion, much to their honour, voted a present relief to the family of , and presented him with a silver medal. The lesson which the steward read upon rash judgment, on the occasion of publicly delivering the medal to , I believe would not be lost upon his auditory. -7-I had left school then, but I well remember . He was a tall, shambling youth, with a cast in his eye, not at all calculf.ted to con- ciliate hostile prejudices. I have since seen him carrying a baker's basket. I think I heard he did not do quite so well by himself as he had done by the old folks. I was a hypochondriac lad ; and the sight of a boy in fetters, upon the day of my first putting on the blue clothes, was not exactly fitted to assuage the natural terrors of initia- tion. I was of tender years, barely turned of seven ; and had only read of such things in books, or seen them but in dreams. I wag told he had rnn away. This was the punish- ment for the first offence. — As a novice I was soon after taken to see the dungeons. These were little, square, Bedlam cells, where a boy could just lie at his length upon straw and a blanket — a mattress, I think, was CHKIST'S HOSPITAL FIVE-AND-THIETY YEARS AGO. 830 afterwards substituted — with a peep of light let in askance, from a prison-orifice at top, barely enough to read by. Here the poor boy was locked in by himself all day, without sight of any but the porter who brought him his bread and water — who might not speak to him; — or of the beadle, who came twice a week to call him out to receive his periodical chastisement, which was almost welcome, because it separated him for a brief interval from solitude: — and here he was shut up by himself of nights out of the reach of any sound, to suffer whatever horrors the weak nerves, and superstition incident to his time of life, might subject him to.* This was the penalty for the second offence. Wouldst thou like, reader, to see what became of him in the next degree? The culprit, who had been a third time an offender, and whose expulsion was at' this time deemed irreversible, was brought forth, as at some solemn auto da fe, arrayed in uncouth and most appalling attire — all trace of his late " watchet weeds," carefully effiiced, he was exposed in a jacket resembling those which London lamplighters formerly de- lighted in, with a cap of the same. The effect of this divestiture was such as the ingenious devisers of it could have antici- pated. With his pale and frighted features, it was as if some of those disfigurements in Dante had seized upon him. In this dis- .guisement he was brought into the hall, [L.'s favourite state-room), where awaited him the whole number of his school-fellows, whose joint lessons and sports he was thenceforth to share no more ; the awful presence of the steward, to be seen for the last time ; of the executioner beadle, clad in his state robe for the occasion ; and of two faces more, of direr import, because never but in these extremities visible. These were governors ; two of whom by choice, or charter, vvere always accustomed to officiate at these Ultima Supplicia; not to mitigate (so at least we understood it), but to enforce the uttermost stripe. Old Bamber Gascoigne, and Peter Aubert, I remember, were colleagues on one occasion, when the * One or two instances of lunacy, or attempted suicide, accordingly, at length convinced the governors of the impolicy of this part of the sentence, and the midnight torture to the spirits was dispensed with. — This fancy of dungeons for children was a sprout of Howard's hraiu ; for which (saving the reverence due to Holy Paul) me- thinks, I could willingly spit upon his statue. beadle turning rather pale, a glassj)f brandy" was ordered to prepare him for the mysteries. The scourging was, after the old Roman f\ishion, long and stately. The lictor accom- panied the criminal quite round the hall. We were' generally too faint with attending to the previous disgusting circumstances, to make accurate report with our eyes of the degree of corporeal suffering inflicted. Report, of course, gave out the back knotty and livid. After scourging, he was made over, in his San Benito, to his friends, if he had any (but commonly such poor runagates were friend- less), or to his parish officer, who, to enhance the effect of the scene, had his station allotted to him on the outside of the hall gate. These solemn pageantries were not played off so often as to spoil the general mirth of the community. We had plenty of exercise and recreation after school hours ; and, for myself, I must confess, that I was never happier, than in them. The Upper and the Lower Grammar Schools were held in the same room ; and an imaginary line only divided their bounds. Their character was as different as that of the- inhabitants on the two sides of the Pyrenees. The Rev. James Boyer was the Upper Master; but the Rev. Matthew Field presided over that portion of the apartment of which I had the good fortune to be a member. We lived a life as careless as birds. We talked and did just what we pleased, and nobody molested us. We carried an accidence, or a grammar, for form ; but, for any trouble it gave us, we might take two years in getting through the verbs depo- nent, and another two in forgetting all that we had learned about them. There was now and then the formality of saying a lesson, but if you had not learned it, a brush across the shoulders (just enough to disturb a fly) was the sole remonstrance. Field never used the rod ; and in truth he wielded the cane with no great good will — holding it " like a dancer." It looked in his hands rather like an emblem than an instrument of authority ; arid an emblem, too, he was ashamed of. He was a good easy man, that did not care to ruffle his own peace, nor perhaps set any great consideration upon the value of juvenile time. He came among us, now and then, but often stayed away whole days from us ; and when he came it made no difference to us — he had his private room 340 CHRIST'S HOSPITAL FIVE-AND-THIRTY YEARS AGO. to retire to, the short time he stayed, to be out of the sound of our noise. Our mirth and uproar went on. We had classics of our own, without being beholden to " insolent Greece or haughty Rome," that passed current among us — Peter Wilkina — the Adventures of the lion. Captain Robert Boyle — the Fortunate Blue Coat Boy — and the like. Or we cultivated a turn for mechanic and scientific operations ; making little sun-dials of paper ; or weaving those ingenious parentheses called cat cradles; or making dry peas to dance upon the end of a tin pipe ; or studying the art military over that laudable game " French and English," and a hundred other such devices to pass away the time — mixing the useful with the agreeable — as would have made the souls of Rousseau and John Locke chuckle to have seen us. Matthew Field belonged to that class of modest divines who affect to mix in equal proportion the gentleman, the scholar, and the Christian; but, I know not how, the first ingredient is generally found to be the pre- dominating dose in the composition. He was engaged in gay parties, or with his courtly bow at some episcopal levee, when he should have been attending upon us. He had for many years the classical charge of a hundred children, during the four or five first years of their education ; and his very highest form seldom proceeded further than two or three of the introductory fables of Phsedrus. How things were suffered to go on thus, I cannot guess. Boyer, who was the proper person to have remedied these abuses, always affected, perhaps felt, a delicacy in interfering in a province not strictly his own. I have not been without my suspicions, that he was not altogether displeased at the contrast we presented to his end of the school. We were a sort of Helots to his young Spartans. He would sometimes, with ironic deference, send to borrow a rod of the Under Master, aad then, with Sardonic grin, observe to one of his upper boys, " how neat and fresh the twigs looked." While his pale students were battering their brains over Xenophon and Plato, with a silence as deep as that enjoyed by the Samite, we were enjoying ourselves at our ease in our little Goshen. We sav? a little into the secrets of his dicipline, and the prospect did but the more reconcile us to our lot. His thunders rolled innocuous for us : his storms came near, but never touched us; contrary to Gideon's miracle, while all around were drenched, our fleece was dry.* His boys turned out the better scholars ; we, I suspect, have the advantage in temper. His pupils cannot speak of him without something of terror allaying their gratitude ; the remem- brance of Field comes back with all the soothing images of indolence, and summer slumbers, and w^ork like play, and innocent idleness, and Elysian exemptions, and life itself a " playing holiday." Though sufficiently removed from the jurisdiction of Boyer, we were near enough (as I have said) to understand a little of his system. We occasionally heard sounds of the Vlulantes, and caught glances of Tartarus. B. was a rabid pedant. His English style was crampt to barbarism. His Easter anthems (for his duty oblige.d him to those periodical flights) were grating as scrannel pipes.f — He would laugh, ay, and heartily, but then it must be at Flaccus's quibble about Rex or at the tristis severitas in vultu, or inspicere in patinas, of Terence — thin jests, which at their first broaching could hardly have had vis enough to move a Roman muscle. — He had two wigs, both pedantic, but of different omen. The one serene, smiling, fresh powdered, betokening a mild day. The other, an old, discoloured, unkempt, angry caxon, denoting frequent and bloody execution. Woe to the school, when he made his morning appearance in h\spassy, or passionate wig. No comet expounded surer. — J. B. had a heavy hand. I have known him double his knotty fist at a poor trembling child (the maternal milk hardly dry upon its lips) with a " Sirrah, do you presume to set your wits at me? " — Nothing was more common than to see him make a headlong entry into the school-room, from his inner recess, or library, and, with turbu- * Cowley. ■f In this and everything B. wa? the antipodes of his coadjutor. While the former was digging his brains for crude anthems, worth a pig-nut, F. would he recreating his gentlemanly fancy in the more flowery walks of the Muses. A little dramatic effusion of his, under the name of Vertumnus and Pomona, is not yet forgotten by the chroniclers of that sort of literature. It was accepted by Garrick, but the town did not give it their sanction. — B. used to say of it, in a way of half-compliment, half-irony, that it was too classical for rejpo-es&ntatimi. CHRIST'S HOSPITAL FIVE-AND-THIRTY YEARS AGO. 341 lent eye, singling out a lad, roar out, " Od's my life, sirrah," (his favourite adjuration) " I have a great mind to whip you," — then, •with as sudden a retracting impulse, tiing back into his lair — and, after a cooling lapse of some minutes (during which all but the culprit had totally forgotten the context) drive headlong out again, piecing out his imperfect sense, as if it had been some Devil's Litany, with the expletory yell — ^^ and J WILL too." — In his gentler moods, ■when the rahidus furor was assuaged, he had resort to an ingenious method, peculiar, for what I have heard, to himself, of whipping the boy, and reading the Debates, at the same time; a paragraph, and a lash between; which in those times, when parliamentary oratory was most at a height and flourishing in these realms, was not calculated to impress the patient with a veneration for the diffuser graces of rhetoric. Once, and but once, the uplifted rod was known to fall ineffectual from his hand — when droll squinting W having been caught putting the inside of the master's desk to a use for which the architect had clearly not designed it, to justify himself, with great simplicity averred, that he did not know that the thing had been forewarned. This exquisite irrecognition of any law ante- cedent to the oral or declaratory, struck so irresistibly upon the fancy of all who heard it (the pedagogue himself not excepted) — that remission was unavoidable. L. has given credit to B.'s great merits as an instructor. Coleridge, in his literary life, has pronounced a more intelligible and ample encomium on them. The author of the Country Spectator doubts not to compare him with the ablest teachers of antiquity. Perhaps we cannot dismiss him better than with the pious ejaculation of C. — when he heard that his old master was on his death- bed: "Poor J. B. ! — may all his faults be forgiven ; and may he be wafted to bliss by little cherub boys all head and wings, with no bottoms to reproach his sublunary infirmities." Under him were many good and sound scholars bred. — First Grecian of my time was Lancelot Pepys Stevens, kindest of boys and men, since Co-grammar-master (and inseparable companion) with Dr. T- e. What an edifying spectacle did this brace of friends present to those who remembered the anti-socialities of their predecessors! — You never met the one by chance in the street without a wonder, which was quickly dis- sipated by the almost immediate sub-appear- ance of the other. Generally arm-in-arm, these kindly coadjutors lightened for each other the toilsome duties of their profession, and when, in advanced age, one found it convenient to retire, the other was not long in discovering that it suited him to lay down the fasces also. Oh, it is pleasant, as it is rare, to find the same arm linked in yours at forty, which at thirteen helped it to turn over the Cicero De Amicitid, or some tale of Antique Friendship, which the young heart even then was burning to anticipate ! — Co-Grecian with S. was Th , who has since executed with ability various diplomatic functions at the Northern courts. Th was a tall, dark, saturnine youth, sparing of speech, with raven locks. — Thomas Fanshaw Middleton followed him (now Bishop of Calcutta), a scholar and a gentleman in his teens. He has the reputation of an excel- lent critic ; and is author (besides the Country Spectator) of a Treatise on the Greek Article, against Sharpe. M, is said to bear his mitre high in India, where -the regni novitas (I dare say) sufficiently justifies the bearing. A humility quite as primitive as that of Jewel or Hooker might not be exactly fitted to impress the minds of those Anglo-Asiatic diocesans with a reverence for home institutions, and the church which those fathers watered. The manners of M. at school, though firm, were mild and un- assuming. — Next to M. (if not senior to him) was Richards, author of the Aboriginal Britons, the most spirited of the Oxford Prize Poems ; a pale, studious Grecian. — Then followed poor S , ill-fated M ! of these the Muse is silent. Finding some of Edward's race Unhappy, pass their annals by. 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 Cole- ridge — Logician, Metaphysician, Bard ! — How have I seen the casual passer through the Cloisters stand still, entranced with ad- miration (while he weighed the disproportion between the speech and the garb of the 342 THE TWO RACES OF MEN. 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 philo- sophic draughts), or reciting Homer in his Greek, or Pindar while the walls of the old Gray Friars re-echoed to the accents of the inspired charity-boy! — Many were the " wit-combats," to dally awhile with the words of old Fuller,) between him and C. V. Le G , " which two I behold like a Spanish great galleon, and an English man of war ; Master Coleridge, like the former, ■was built for higher in learning, solid, but slow in his performances. C. V. L., with the English man of war, lesser in bulk, but lighter in sailing, could turn with all tides, tack about, and take advantage of all winds, by the quickness of his wit and invention." Nor shalt thou, their compeer, be quickly forgotten, Allen, with the cordial smile, and still more cordial laugh, with which thou wert wont to make the old Cloisters shake, in thy cognition of some poignant jest of theirs ; or the anticipation of some more material, and, peradventure practical one, of thine own. Extinct are those smiles, with that beautiful countenance, with Avhich, for thou wert the Nireus formosus of the school), in the days of thy maturer waggery, thou didst disav-m the wrath of infuriated town- damsel, who, incensed by provoking pinch, burning tigress-like round, suddenly con- verted by thy angel-look, exchanged the half-formed terrible " hi ," for a gentler greeting — "bless thy handsome face !" Next follow two, who ought to be now alive, and the friends of Elia — the junior Le G and F ; who impelled, the former by a roving temper, the latter by too quick a sense of neglect — ill capable of enduring the slights poor Sizars al-e some- times subject to in our seats of learning — exchanged their Alma Mater for the camp; perishing, one by climate, and one on the plains of Salamanca : — Le G , sanguine, volatile, sweet-natured ; F , dogged, faithful, anticipative of insult, warm- hearted, with something of the old Roman height about him^ Fine, frank-hearted Fr , the present master of Hertford, with Marmaduke T , mildest of Missionaries — and both my good friends still — close the catalogue of Grecians in my time. THE TWO KACES OF MEN. The human species, according to the best theory I can form of it, is composed of two distinct races, the men who borrow, and the men who lend. To these two original diversities may be reduced all those impertinent classi- fications of Gothic and Celtic tribes, white men, black men, red men. All the dwellers upon earth, " Parthians, and Medes, and Elamites," flock hither, and do naturally fall in with one or other of these primary dis- tinctions. The infinite superiority of the former, which I choose to designate as the great race, is discernible in their figure, port, and a certain instinctive sovereignty. The latter are born degraded. " He shall serve his brethren." There is something in the air of one of this cast, lean and suspicious; contrasting with the open, trusting, generous manners of the other. Observe who have been the greatest borrowers of all ages — Alcibiades — Falstaff — Sir Richard Steele — our late incomparable Brinsley — what a family likeness in all four ! What a careless, even deportment hath your borrower ! what rosy gills ! what a beautiful reliance on Providence doth he manifest, — taking no more thought than lilies ! What contempt for money, — account- ing it (yours and mine especially) no better than dross! What a liberal confounding of those pedantic distinctions of meum and tuiim ! or rather, what a noble simplification of language (beyond Tooke), resolving these supposed opposites into one clear, intelligible pronoun adjective! — What near approaches doth he make to the primitive community, — to the extent of one half of the principle at least. THE TWO RACES OF MEN. 313 He is the true taxer who " calleth all the world up to be taxed;" and the distance is as vast between him and one of us, as sub- sisted between the Augustan Majesty and the poorest obolary Jew that_paid it tribute- pittance at Jerusalem! — His exactions, too, nave such a cheerful, voluntary air! So far removed from your sour parochial or state- gatherers, — those ink-horn varlets, who carry -heir want of welcome in their faces! He eometh to you with a smile, and troubleth you with no receipt ; confining himself to no set season. Every day is his Candlemas, or his Feast of Holy Michael. He applieth the lene tormenUim of a pleasant look to your purse, — which to that gentle warmth expands her silken leaves, as naturally as the cloak of the traveller, for which sun and wind contended ! He is the true Propontic which never ebbeth ! The sea which taketh hand- somely at each man's hand. In vain the victim, whom he delighteth to honour, struggles with destiny ; he is in the net. Lend therefoi*e cheerfully, man ordained to lend — that thou lose not in the end, with thy worldly penny, the reversion promised. Combine not preposterously in thine own person the penalties of Lazarus and of Dives! — but, when thou seest the proper authority coming, meet it smilingly, as it were half-way. Come, a handsome sacrifice ! See how light he makes of it ! Strain not courtesies with a noble enemy. Reflections like the foregoing were forced upon my mind by the death of my old friend, Ralph Bigod, Esq., who parted this life, on Wednesday evening ; dying, as he had lived, without much trouble. He boasted himself a descendant from mighty ancestors of that name, who heretofore held ducal dignities in this realm. In his actions and sentiments be belied not the stock to which he pretended. Early in life he found himself invested with ample revenues; which, with that noble disinterest- edness which I have noticed as inherent in men of the great race, he took almost immediate measures entirely to dissipate and bring to nothing: for there is some- thing revolting in the idea of a king holding a private purse; and the thoughts of Bigod were all regal. Thus furnished by the very act of disfurnishment ; getting rid of the cumbersome luggage of riches, more apt (as one sings) To slacken virtue, and abate her edge, Than prompt her to do aught may merit praise, he set forth, like some Alexander, upon his great enterprise, " borrowing and to borrow !" In his periegesis, or triumphant progress throughout this island, it has been calculated that he laid a tythe part of the inhabitants under contribution. I reject this estimate as greatly exaggerated : — but having had the honour of accompanying my friend divers times, in his perambulations about this vast city, I own I was greatly struck at first with the prodigious number of faces we met, who claimed a sort of respectful acquaintance with us. He was one dayso obliging as to explain the phenomenon. It seems, these were liis tributaries ; feeders of his ex- chequer; gentlemen, his good friends (as he was pleased to express himself), to whom he had occasionally been beholden for a loan. Their multitudes did no way disconcert him. He rather took a pride in numbering them ; and, with Comus, seemed pleased to be " stocked with so fair a herd." With such sources, it was a wonder how he contrived to keep his treasury always empty. He did it by force of an aphorism, which he had often in his mouth, that " money kept longer than three days stinks." So he made use of it while it was fresh. A good part he drank away (for he was an excellent toss-pot) ; some he gave away, the rest he threw away, literally tossing and hurling it violently from him — as boys do burrs, or as if it had been infectious, — into ponds, or ditches, or deep holes, inscrutable cavities of the earth ; — or he would bury it (where he would never seek it again) by a river's side under some bank, which (he would facetiously observe) paid no interest — but out away from him it must go peremptorily, as Hagar's oS"spring into the wilderness, while it was sweet. He never missed it. The streams were perennial which fed his tisc. When new supplies be- came necessary, the first person that bad the felicity to fall in with him, friend or stranger, was sure to contribute to the deficiency. For Bigod had an undeniable way with him. He had a cheerful, open 314 THE TWO RACES OF MEN. exterior, a quick jovial eye, a bald forehead, just touched with grey [cana Jides). He anticipated no excuse, and found none- And, waiving for a while my theory as to the great race, I would put it to the most untheorising reader,- who may at times have disposable coin in his pocket, whether it is not more repugnant to the kindliness of his nature to refuse such a one as I am describing, than to say no to a poor petitionary rogue (your bastard borrower), who, by his mump- ing visnomy, tells you, that he expects nothing better; and, therefore, whose pre- conceived notions and expectations you do in reality so much less shock in the refusal. When I think of this man ; his fiery glow of heart; his swell of feeling; how magnificent, how ideal he was ; hovr great at the midnight hour; and when I com- pare with him the companions with whom I have associated since, I grudge the saving of a few idle ducats, and think that I am fallen into the society of lenders, and liitle men. To one like Elia, whose treasures are rather cased in leather covers than closed in iron coffers, there is a class of alienators more formidable than that which I have touched upon ; I mean your horroioers of books — those mutilators of collections, spoilers of the symmetry of shelves, and creators of odd volumes. There is Comberbatch, matchless in his depredations ! 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 Bonaventuroe, 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 Com- berbatch abstracted upon the faith of a theory he holds, which is more easy, I confess, for me to sufi"er by than to refute, namely, that " the title to property in a book (my Bona- venture, for instance), is in exact ratio to the claimant's powers of understanding and ap- preciating the same." Should he go on acting upon this theory, which of our shelves is eafe? The slight vacuum in the left-hand case — two shelves from the ceiling — scarcely dis- tinguishable but by the quick eye of a loser — was whilom the commodious resting-place of Brown on Urn Burial. C. will hardly allege that he knows more about that treatise than I do, who introduced it to him, and was in deed the first (of the moderns) to discover ita beauties — but so have I known a foolish lover to praise his mistress in the presence of a rival more qualified to carry her off than himself. Just below, Dodsley's dramas want their fourth volume, where Vittoria Corombona is! The remainder nine are as distasteful as Priam's refuse sons when the Fates borrowed Hector. Here stood the Anatomy of Melancholy, in sober state. There loitered the Complete Angler ; quiet as in life, by some stream side. In yonder nook, John Buncle, a widower-volume, with " eyes closed," mourns his ravished mate. One justice I must do my friend, that if he sometimes, like the sea, sweeps away . a treasure, at another time, sea-like, he throws up as rich an equivalent to match it. I have a small under-collection of this nature (my friend's gatherings in his various calls), picked up, he has forgotten at what odd places, and deposited with as little memory at mine. I take in these orphans, the twice- deserted. These proselytes of the gate are welcome as the true Hebrews. There they stand in conjunction; natives, and natu- ralised. The latter seem as little disposed 'to inquire out their true lineage as I am. — I charge no warehouse-room for these deo- . dands, nor shall ever put myself to the un^ gentlemanly trouble of advertising a sale of them to pay expenses. To lose a volume to C. carries some sense and meaning in it. You are sure that he will make one hearty meal on your viands, if he can give no account of the platter after it. But v,'hat moved thee, wayward, spiteful K., to be so importunate to carry off with thee, in spite of tears and abjurations to thee to forbear, the Letters of that princely woman, the thrice noble Margaret Newcastle ? — knowing at the time, and knowing that I knew also, thou most assuredly wouldst never turn over one leaf of the illustrious folio: — what but the mere spirit of contra- diction, and childish love of getting the better NEW YEAR'S EVE. Mi of thy friend? — Then, -worst cut of all! to transport it with thee to the Gallican land — Unworthy land to harbour such a sweetness, A virtue in which all ennobling thoughts dwelt. Pure thoughts, kind thoughts, high thoughts, her sex's wonder! hadst thou not thy play-books, and books of jests and fancies, abont thee, to keep thee merry, even as thon keepest all companies •with thy quips and mirthful tales ? Child of the Green-room, it was unkindly done of thee. Thy wife, too, that partrFrench, better- part Englishwoman ! — that she could fix upon no other treatise to bear away, in kindly token of remembering us, than the works of Fulke Greville, Lord Brook — of which no Frenchman, nor woman of France, Italy, or England, was ever by nature constituted to comprehend a tittle ! — Was there not Zimmer- man on Solitude f Reader, if haply thou art blest with a moderate collection, be shy of showing it ; or if thy heart overfloweth to lend them, lend thy books ; but let it be to such a one as S. T. C. — he will return them (generally anti- cipating the time appointed) with usury ; enriched with annotations tripling their value. I have had experience. Many are these precious MSS. of his — (in matter often- times, and almost in quantity not unfre- quently, vying with the originals) in no very clerkly hand — legible in my Daniel; in old Burton; in Sir Thomas Browne; and those abstruser cogitations of the Greville, noAV, alas! wandering in Pagan lands. I counsel thee, shut not thy heart, nor thy library, against S. T. C. NEW YEAR'S EVE. Evert man hath two birth-days ; two days, at least, in every year, which set him upon revolving the lapse of time, as it affects his mortal duration. The one is that which in an especial manner he termeth his. In the gradual desuetude of old observances, this custom of solemnising our proper birth- day hath nearly passed away, or is left to children, who reflect nothing at all about the matter, nor understand anything in it beyond cake and orange. But the birth of a New Year is of an interest too wide to be preter- mitted by king or cobbler. No one ever re- garded the first of January with indifference. It is that from which all date their time, and count upon what is left. It is the nativity of our common Adam. Of all sound of all bells' — (bells, the music nighest bordering upon heaven) — most solemn and touching is the peal which rings out the Old Year. I never hear it without a gather- ing-up of my mind to a concentration of all the images that have been diffused over the past twelvemonth ; all I have done or suf- fered, performed or neglected — in that regretted time. I begin to know its worth, as when a person dies. It takes a personal colour ; nor was it a poetical flight in a con- temporary, when he exclaimed, I saw the skirts of the departing Year. It is no more than what in sober sadness every one of us seems to bo conscious of, in that awful leave-taking. I am sure I felt it, and all felt it with me, last night ; though some of my companions affected rather to manifest an exhilaration at the birth of the coming year, than any very tender regrets for the decease of its predecessor. But I am none of those who — Welcome the coming, speed the parting guest. I am naturally, beforehand, shy of novel- ties ; new books, new faces, new years, — from some mental twist which makes it dif^cult in me to face the prospective. I have almost ceased to hope; and am sanguine only in the prospects of other (former) years. I plunge into foregone visions and conclusions. I encounter pell-mell with past disappoi-nt- ments. I am armour-proof against old dis- couragements. I forgive, or overcome in fancy, old adversaries. I play over again for love, as the gamesters phrase it, games, for which I 346 NEW YEAR'S EVE. once paid so dear, I would scarce now have any of those untoward accidents and events of ray life reversed. I would no more alter them than the incidents of some well-con- trived novel. Methinks it is better that I should have pined away seven of my goldenest years, when I was thrall to the fair hair, and fairer eyes of Alice W — n, than that so passionate a love-adventure should be lost. It was better that our family should have missed that legacy, which old Dorrel cheated us of, than that I should have at this moment two thousand pounds in banco, and be without the idea of that specious old rogue. In a degree beneath manhood, it is my in- firmity to look back upon those early days. Do I advance a paradox, when I say, that, skipping over the intervention of forty years, a man may have leave to love himself, with- out the imputation of self-love ? If I know aught of myself, no one whose mind is introspective — and mine is painfully so — can have a less respect for his present identity, than I have for the man Elia. I know him to be light, and vain, and humour- some ; a notorious * * * ; addicted to * * * * : averse from counsel, neither taking it nor offering it: — * * * besides; a stammering buffoon ; what you will ; lay it on, and spare not: I subscribe to it all, and much more than thou canst be willing to lay at his door — but for the child Elia, that " other me," there, in the back-ground — I must take leave to cherish the remembrance of that young master — with as little reference, I protest, to this stupid changeling of five-and- forty, as if it had been a child of some other house, and not of my parents. I can cry over its patient small-pox at five, and rougher medicaments. I can lay its poor fevered head upon the sick pillow at Christ's, and wake with it in surprise at the gentle posture of materntd tenderness hanging over the rule to my unpractised steps, and re- gulate the tone of my moral being ! That I am fond of indulging, beyond a hope of sympathy, in such retrospection, may be the symptom of some sickly idiosyncrasy. . Or is it owing to another cause : simply, that being without wife or family, I have not learned to project myself enough out of myself; and having no offspring of my own to dally with, I turn back upon memory, and . adopt my own early idea, as my heir and favourite ? If these speculations seem fan- tastical to thee, reader — (a busy man per-, chance), if I tread out of the way of thy sympathy, and am singularly conceited only, I retire, impenetrable to ridicule, under the phantom cloud of Elia. The elders, with whom I was brought up were of a character not likely to let slip the sacred observance of any old institution ; and the ringing out of the Old Year was kept by them with circumstances of peculiar ceremony. — In those days the sound of those midnight chimes, though it seemed to raise hilarity in all around me, never failed to bring a train of pensive imagery into my fancy. Yet I then scarce conceived what it meant, or thought of it as a reckoning that concerned me. 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. But now, shall I confess a truth ? — I feel these audits but too power- fully. I begin to count the probabilities of my duration, and to grudge at the expendi- ture of moments and shortest periods, like misers' farthings. In proportion as the years both lessen and shorten, I set more count upon their periods, and would fain lay my ineffectual finger upon the spoke of the it, that unknown had watched its sleep. I I gi-eat wheel. I am not content to pass away know how it shrank from any the least colour of falsehood. God help thee, Elia, how art thou changed ! — Thou art sophis- ticated. — I know how honest, how courageous (for a weakling) it was — how religious, how imaginative, how hopeful ! From what have I not fallen, if the child I remember was indeed myself, — and not some dissembling guardian, presenting a false identity, to give like a weaver's shuttle." Those metaphors solace me not, nor sweeten the unpalatable di'aught of mortality. I care not to be carried with the tide, that smoothly bears human life to eternity ; and reluct at the in- evitable course of destiny. I am in love with this green earth ; the face of town and country ; the unspeakable rural solitudes, atid the sweet security of streets. I would NEW YEAR'S EVE. 347 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. — Any alteration, on this earth of mine, in diet or in lodging, puzzles and discomposes me. My house- hold-gods plant a terrible fixed foot, and are not rooted up without blood. They do not willingly seek Lavinian shores.' A new state of being staggers me. Sun, and sky, and breeze, and solitary walks and summer holidays, and the green- ness of fields, and the delicious juices of meats and fishes, and society, and the cheer- ful glass, and candle-light, and fireside con- versations, and innocent vanities, and jests, and irony itself — do these things go out with life? Can a ghost laugh, or shake his gaunt sides, when you are pleasant with him ? And you, my midnight darlings, my Folios! must I part with the intense delight of having you (huge armfuls) in my embraces? Must knowledge come to me, if it come at all, by some awkward experiment of intuition, and no longer by this familiar process of reading? Shall I enjoy friendships there, wanting the smiling indications which point me to them here, — the recognisable face — the "sweet assurance of a look ? " — In winter this intolerable disinclination to dying — to give it its mildest name — does more especially haunt and beset me. In a genial August noon, beneath a sweltering sky, death is almost problematic. At those times do such poor snakes as myself enjoy an immortality. Then we expand and burgeon. Then we are as strong again, as valiant again, as wise again, and a gi-eat deal taller. The blast that nips and shrinks me, puts me in thoughts of death. All things allied to the insubstantial, wait upon that master feeling; cold, numbness, dreams, per- plexity ; moonlight itself, with its shadowy and spectral appearances, — that cold ghost of the sun, or Phcebus' sickly sister, like that innutritious one denounced in the Canticles : — I am none of her minions — I hold with the Persian. Whatsoever thwarts, or puts me out of my way, brings death into my mind. All partial evils, like humours, run into that capital plague-sore. — I have heard some profess an indifference to life. Such hail the end of their existence as a port of refuge ; and speak of the grave as of some soft arms, in which they may slumber as on a pillow. Some have wooed death but out upon thee, I say, thou foul, ugly phantom ! I detest, abhor, execrate, and (with Friar John) give thee to six score thousand devils, as in no instance to be excused or tolerated, but shunned 'as an universal viper ; to be branded, proscribed, and spoken evil of! In no way can I be brought to digest thee, thou thin, melancholy Privation, or more frightful and confounding Positive I Those antidotes, prescribed against the fear of thee, are altogether frigid and insulting, like thyself. For what satisfaction hath a man, that he shall " lie down with kings and emperors in death," who in his life-time never greatly coveted the society of such bed-fellows? — or, forsooth, that "so shall the fairest face appear?" — why, to comfort me, must Alice W — n be a goblin ? More than all, I conceive disgust at those imperti- nent and misbecoming familiarities, inscribed upon your ordinary tombstones. Every dead man must take upon himself to be lecturing me with his odious truism, that " Such as he now is I must shortly be." Not so shortly, friend, perhaps as thou imaginest. In the mean time I am alive. I move about. I am worth twenty of thee. Know thy betters ! Thy New Years' days are past. I survive, a jolly' candidate for 1821. Another cup of wine — and while that turncoat bell, that iust now mournfully chanted the obsequies of 1820 departed, with changed notes lustily rings in a successor, let us attune to its peal the song made on a like occasion, by hearty, cheerful Mr. Cotton. THE NEW YEAR. Haek, the cock crows, and yon bright star Tells us, the day himself s not far ; And see where, breaking from the night, He gilds the western hills with light. With him old Janus doth appear, Peeping into the future year. With such a look as seems to say. The prospect is not good that way. Thus do we rise ill sights to see, And 'gainst ourselves to prophesy; When the prophetic fear of things A more tormenting mischief brings, "" More full of soul-tormenting gall Than direst mischiefs can befall. 348 MRS. BATTLE'S OPINIONS ON WHIST, But stay! but stay! methinks my sight, Better inform'd by clearer ligbt, Discerns sereneness in that brow, That all contracted seem'd but now. His revers'd face may show distaste, And frown upon the ills are past; But that which this way looks is clear, And smiles xipon the New-born Year. He looks too from a place so high, The year lies open to his eye; And all the moments open are To the exact discoverer. Yet more and more he smilos upon The happy revolution. Why should we then suspect or fear The influences of a year. So smiles upon us the- first morn, And speaks tis good so soon as born? Plague on't! the last was ill enough, This cannot but make better proof; Or, at the worst, as we brush'd through The last, why so we may this too ; And then the next in reason should Be superexcelleutly good: For the worst ills (we daily see) Have no more perpetuity Than the best fortunes that do fall; Which also bring us wherewithal Longer their being to support, Than those do of the other sort : And who has oue good year in three, And yet repines at destiny. Appears ungrateful in the case, And merits not the good he has Then let us welcome the New Guest With lusty brimmers of the best: Mirth always should Good Fortune meet, And renders e'en Disaster sweet : And though the princess turn her back, Let us but line ourselves with sack, We better shall by far hold out. Till the next Year she face about. How say you, reader — do not" these versea smack of the rough magnanimity of the old English vein ? Do they not fortify like a cordial ; enlarging the heart, and productive of sweet blood, and generous spirits, in the concoction ? Where be those puling fears of death, just now expressed or affected? — Passed like a cloud — absorbed in the purging sunlight of clear poetry — clean washed away by a wave of genuine Helicon, your only Spa for these hypochondries — And now another cup of the generous 1 and a merry New Year, and many of them to you all, my masters I MRS. BATTLE'S OPINIONS ON WHIST. "A CLEAR fire, a clean hearth, and the rigour of the game." This was the celebrated wish of old Sarah Battle (now with God), who, next to her devotions, loved a good game of whist. She was none of your luke- warm gamesters, your half-and-half players, who have no objection to take a hand, if you want one to make up a rubber ; who afiirm that they have no pleasure in winning ; that they like to win one game and lose another ; that they can while away an hour very agreeably at a card-table, but are indifferent whether they play or no ; and will desire an adversai-y, who has slipped a wrong card, to take it up and play another. These insuffer- able triflers are the curse of a table. One of these flies will spoil a whole pot. Of such it may be said that they do not play at cards, but only play at playing at them. Sarah Battle was none of that breed. She detested them, as I do, from her heart and soul, and would not, save upon a striking emergency, willingly seat herself at the same table with them. She loved a thorough- paced partner, a determined enemy. She took, and gave, no concessions. She hated favours. She never made a revoke, nor ever passed it over in her adversary without exacting the utmost forfeiture. She fought a good fight; cut and thrust. She held not her good sword (her cards) "like a dancer." She sate bold upright ; and neither showed you her cards, nor desired to see yours. All people have their blind side — their super- stitions ; and I have heard her declare, under the rose, that hearts was her fovourite suit. I never in my life — and I knew Sarah Battle many of the best years of it — saw her take out her snuff-box when it was her turn to play; or snuff a candle in the middle of a game ; or ring for a servant, till it was fairly over. She never introduced, or connived at, miscellaneous conversation during its process. As she emphatically observed, cards were cards ; and if I ever saw unmingled distaste in her fine last-century countenance, it was at the airs of a young gentleman of a literary, turn, who had been with difficulty persuaded to take a hand ; and who, in his excess of MRS. BATTLE'S OPINIONS ON WHIST. 3.49 candour, declared, that he thought there was no harm in unbending the mind now and then, after serious studies, in recreations of that kind ! She could not bear to have her noble occupation, to which she wound up her faculties, considered in that light. It was her business, her duty, the thing she came into the world to do, — and she did it. She unbent her mind afterwards over a book. Pope was her favourite author : his Rape of the Look her favourite work. She once did me the favour to play over with me (with the cards) his celebrated game of Ombre in that poem ; and to explain to me how far it agreed with, and in what points it would be found to diifer from, tradrille. Her illustra- tions were apposite and poignant; and I had the pleasure of sending the substance of them to Mr. Bowles ; but I suppose they came too late to be inserted among his ingenious notes upon that author. Quadrille, she has often told me, was her first love ; but whist had engaged her maturer esteem. The former, she said, was showy and specious, and likely to allure young persons. The uncertainty and quick shifting of partners — a thing which the constancy of whist abhors ; the dazzling supremacy and regal investiture of Spadille — absurd, as she justly observed, in the pure aristocracy of whist, where his crown and garter give him no pi-opcr power above his brother-nobility of the Aces ; — the giddy vanity, so taking to the inexperienced, of playing alone ; above all, the overpowering attractions of a Smis Prendre Vole, — to the triumph of which there is certainly nothing parallel or approaching, in the contingencies of whist; — all these, she would say, make quadrille a game of captiva- tion to the young and enthusiastic. But whist was the solider game: that was her word. It was a long meal ; not, like qua- drille, a feast of snatches. One or two rubbers might co-extend in duration with an evening. They gave time to form rooted friendships, to cultivate steady enmities. She despised the chance-started, capricious, and ever fluctuating alliances of the other. The skirmishes of quadrille, she would say, reminded her of the petty ephemeral em- broilments of the little Italian states, depicted by Machiavel: perpetually changing postures and connexions; bitter foes to-day, sugared darlings to-morrow ; kissing and scratching in a breath ; — but the wars of whist were comparable to the long, steady, deep-rooted, rational, antipathies of the great French and English nations. A grave simplicity was what she chiefly admired in her favourite game, , There was nothing silly in it, like the nob in cribbage — • nothing superfluous. No flushes — that most irrational of all pleas that a reasonable being can set up : — that any one should claim four by virtue of holding cards of the same mark and colour, without reference to the playing of the game, or the individual worth or pretensions of the cards themselves ! She held this to be a solecism ; as pitiful an ambition at cards as alliteration is in author- ship. She despised superficiality, and looked deeper than the colours of things. — Suits were soldiers, she would say, and must have an uniformity of array to distinguish them : but what should we say to a foolish squire, who should claim a merit from dressing up his tenantry in red jackets, that never were to be marshalled — never to take the field? — She even wished that whist were more simple than it is; and, in my mind, would have stripped it of some appendages, which, in the state of human frailty, may be venially, and even commendably, allowed of. She saw no reason for the deciding of the trump by the turn of the card. Why not one suit always trumps? — Why two colours, M'hen the mark of the suits would have sufficiently distinguished them without it? — " But the eye, my dear Madam, is agreeably refreshed with the variety. Man is not a creature of pure reason — he must have his senses delightfully appealed to. We see it in Roman Catholic countries, where the music and the paintings draw in many to worship, whom your quaker spirit of unsen- sualising would have kept out. — You yourself have a pretty collection of paintings — but confess to me, whether, walking in your gallery at Sandham, among those clear Vandykes, or among the Paul Potters in the ante-room, you ever felt your bosom glow with an elegant delight, at all comparable to that you have it in your power to ex- perience most evenings over a well-arranged assortment of the court-cards? — the pretty antic habits, like heralds in a procession — the gay triumph-assuring scarlets — the contrast- 350 MRS. BATTLE'S OPINIONS ON WHIST. ing deadly-killing sables — the 'hoary majesty of spades' — Pam in all his glory! — " All these might be dispensed Avith ; and with their naked names upon the drab paste- board, the game might go on very -vrell, pictureless. But the beauty of cards -would be extinguished for ever. Stripped of all that is imaginative in them, they must degenerate into mere gambling. Imagine a dull deal board, or drum head, to spread them on, instead of that nice verdant carpet (next to nature's), fittest arena for those courtly combatants to play their gallant jousts and turneys in! — Exchange those delicately-turned ivory markers — (work of Chinese artist, unconscious of their symbol, — or as profanely slighting their true appli- cation as the arrantest Ephesian journeyman that turned out those little shrines for the goddess) — exchange them for little bits of leather (our ancestors' money) or chalk and a slate !" — The old lady, with a smile, confessed the soundness of my logic ; and to her appro- bation of my arguments on her favourite topic that evening, I have always fancied myself indebted for the legacy of a curious cribbage-board, made of the finest Sienna marble, which her maternal uncle (old Walter Plumer, whom I have elsewhere celebrated) brought with him from Florence: — this, and a trifle of five hundred pounds, came to me at her death. The former bequest (which I do not least value) I have kept with religious care ; though she herself, to confess a truth, was never greatly taken with cribbage'. It was an essentially vulgar game, I have heard her say, — disputing with her uncle, who was very partial to it. She could never heartily bring her mouth to pronounce "Go" — or "That's a go." She called it an ungrammatical game. The pegging teased her. I once knew her to forfeit a rubber (a five-dollar stake) because she would not take advantage of the turn-up knave, which would have given it her, but which she must have claimed by the dis- graceful tenure of declaiing "tioo for his heels." There is something extremely genteel in this sort of self-denial. Sarah Battle was a gentlewoman born. Piquet she held the best game at the cards for two persons, though she would ridicule the pedantry of the terms — such as pique — repique — the ciipot — they savoured (she thought) of affectation. But games for two or even three, she never greatly cared for She loved the quadrate, or square. She would argue thus: — Cards are warfare : the ends are gain, with glory. But cards are war, in disguise of a sport : when single adversaries encounter, the ends proposed are too palpable. By themselves, it is too close a fight: with spectators, it is not much bettered. No looker-on can be interested, except for a bet, and then it is a mere affiiir of money ; he cares not for your luck sympa- thetically, or for your play. — Three are still worse ; a mere naked war of every ro"n against every man, as in cribbage, without league or alliance ; or a rotation of petty and contradictory interests, a succession of heart- less leagues, and not much more hearty infractions of them, as in tradrille. — But in square games [she meant whist), all that is possible to be attained in card-playing is accomplished.. There are the incentives of profit with honour, common to every species — though the latter can be but very imper- fectly enjoyed in those other games, where the spectator is only feebly a participator. But the parties in whist are spectators and principals too. They are a theatre to them- selves, and a looker-on is not wanted. He is rather worse than nothing, and an imperti- nence. Whist abhors neutrality, or interests beyond its sphere. You glory in some sur- prising stroke of skill or fortune, not because a cold — or even an interested — bystander witnesses it, but because your partner sym- pathises in the contingency. You win for two. You triumph for two. Two are exalted. Two again are mortified ; which divides their disgrace, as the conjunction doubles (by taking ofi" the invidiousness) your glories. Two losing to two are better reconciled, than one to one in that close butchery. The hostile feeling is weakened by multiplying the channels. War becomes a civil game. By such reasonings as these the old lady was accustomed to defend her favourite pastime. No inducement could ever prevail upon her to play at any game, where chance entered into the composition, for nothing. Chance, she would argue — and here again,' admire the subtlety of her conclusion ;— chance is nothing, but where something else MRS. BATTLE'S OPINIONS ON WHIST. Rf.l depends upon it. It is obvious that cannot be glory. What rational cause of exultation could it give to a man to turn up size ace a hundred times together by himself? or before spectators, where no stake was depending? — Make a lottery of a hundred thousand tickets with but one fortunate number — and what possible principle of our nature, except stupid wonderment, could it gratify to gain that number as many times successively, without a prize? Therefore she disliked the mixture of chance in backgammon, where it was not played for money. She called it foolish, and those people idiots, who were taken with a lucky hit under such circum- stances. Games of pure skill were as little to her fancy. Played for a stake, they were a mere system of over-reaching. Played for glory, they were a mere setting of one man's wit, — his memory, or combination- faculty rather — against another's; like a mock- engagement at a review, bloodless and profit- less. She could not conceive a game wanting the sprightly infusion of chance, the handsome excuses of good fortune. Two people playing at chess in a corner of a room, whilst whist was stirring in the centre, would inspire her with insufferable horror and ennui. Those well cut similitudes of Castles, and Knights, the imagery of the board, she would argue, (and I think in this case justly,) were entirely misplaced and senseless. Those hard head-contests can in no instance ally with the fancy. They reject form and colour. A pencil and dry slate (she used to say) were the proper arena for such combatants. To those puny objectors against cards, as nurturing the bad passions, she would retort, that man is a gaming animal. He must be always trying to get the better in something or other: — that this passion can scarcely be more safely expended than upon a game at cards : that cards are a temporary illusion : in truth, a mere drama ; for we do but play at being mightily concerned, where a few idle shillings are at stake, yet, during the illusion, we are as mightily concerned as those whose stake is crowns and kingdoms. They are a sort of dream-fighting; much ado ; great battling, and little bloodshed ; mighty means for disproportioned ends ; quite as diverting, and a great deal more innoxious, than many of those more serious games of life, which men play, without esteeming them to be such. — With great deference to the old lady's judgment in these matters, I think I have experienced some moments in my life, when playing at cards for nothing has even been agreeable. When I am in sickness, or not in the best spirits, I sometimes call for the cards, and play a game at piquet for love with my cousin Bridget — Bridget Elia. I grant there is something sneaking in it; but with a tooth-ache, or a sprained ankle, — when you are subdued and humble, — you are glad to put up with an inferior spring of action. There is such a thing in nature, I am con- vinced, as sick zohist. I grant it is not the highest style of man — • I deprecate the manes of Sarah Battle — she lives not, alas ! to whom I should apologise. At such times, those terms which my old friend objected to, come in as something admissible. — I love to get a tierce or a quatorze, though they mean nothing. I am subdued to an inferior interest. Those shadows of winning amuse me. That last game I had with my sweet cousin (I capotted her) — (dare I tell thee, how foolish I am?) — I wished it might have lasted for ever, though we gained nothing, and lost nothing, though it was a mere shade of play : I would be content to go ou in that idle folly for ever. The pipkin should be ever boiling, that was to prepare the gentle lenitive to my foot, which Bridget was doomed to apply after the game was over: and, as I do not much relish appliances, there it should ever bubble. Bridget and I should be ever playing. 352 A CHAPTER ON EARS. A CHAPTER ON EAES. I HAVE no ear. — Mistake me not, reader — nor imagine that I am by nature destitute of those exterior twin appendages, hanging ornaments, and (architecturally speaking) handsome volutes to the human capital. Better my mother had never borne me. — I am, I think, rather delicately than copiously provided with those conduits ; and I feel no disposition to envy the mule for his plenty, or the mole for her exactness, in those ingenious laby- rinthine inlets — those indispensable side- intelligencers. Neither have I incurred, or done anything to incur, with Defoe, that hideous disfigure- ment, which constrained him to draw upon assurance — to feel "quite unabashed," and at ease upon that article. I was never, I thank my stars, in the pillory ; nor, if I read them aright, is it within the compass of my destiny, that I ever should be.. When therefore I say that I have no ear, you will understand me to mean — for music. To say that this heart never melted at the concord of sweet sounds, would be a foul eelf-libel. '■'■Water parted from the sea" never fails to move it strangely. So does "In infancy." But they were used to be sung at her harpsichord (the old-fashioned instru- ment in vogue in those days) by a gentle- woman — the gentlest, sure, that ever merited the appellation — the sweetest — why should I hesitate to name Mrs. S , once the bloom- ing Fanny Weatheral of the Temple — who had power to thrill the soul of Elia, small imp as he was, even in his long coats ; and to make. him glow, tremble, and blush with a passion, that not faintly indicated the day- spring of that absorbing sentiment which was afterwards destined to overwhelm and subdue his nature quite for Alice W n. I even think that sentimentally I am dis- posed to harmony. But organically I am incapable of a tune. I have been practising "God save tlie King" all my life; whistling and humming of it over to myself in solitary corners ; and am not yet arrived, they tell me, within many quavers of it. Yet hath the loyalty of Elia never been impeached. I am not without suspicion, that I have an undeveloped faculty of music within me. For thrumming, in my wild way, on my friend A.'s piano, the other morning, while he was engaged in an adjoining parlour, — on his return he was pleased to say, "he thought it coidd not he the maid!" On his first surprise at hearing the keys touched in some- what an airy and masterful way, not dream- ing of me, his suspicions had lighted on Jenny. But a grace, snatched from a superior refinement, soon convinced him that some being — technically perhaps deficient, but higher informed from a principle common to all the fine arts — had swayed the keys to a mood which Jenny, with all her (less culti- vated) enthusiasm, could never have elicited from them. I mention this as a proof of my friend's penetration, and not with any view of disparaging Jenny. Scientifically I could never be made to understand (yet have I taken some pains) what a note in music is ; or how one note should differ from another. Much less in voices can I distinguish' a soprano from a tenor. Only sometimes the thorough-bass I contrive to guess at, from its being supereminently hai'sh and disagreeable. I tremble, however, for my misapplication of the simplest terms of that which I disclaim. While I profess my ignorance, I scarce know what to say I am ignorant of. I hate, perhaps, by misnomers. ■ Sostenuto and adagio stand in the like relation of obscurity to me; and Sol, Fa, Mi, Re, is as conjuring aa Baralipton. It is hard to stand alone in an age like this, — (constituted to the quick and critical perception of all harmonious combinations, I verily believe, beyond all preceding ages, since Jubal stumbled upon the gamut,) to remain, as it were, singly unimpressible to the magic influences of an art, which is said to have such an especial stroke at soothing, elevating, and refining the passions. — Yet, A CHAPTER ON EARS. 353 rather than break the candid current of my confessions, I must avow to you, that I have received a great deal more pain than pleasure from this so cried-up faculty. I am constitutionally susceptible of noises. A carpenter's hammer, in a vi'arm summer noon, will fret me into more than midsummer madness. But those unconnected, unset sounds are nothing to the measui-ed malice of music. The ear is passive to those single strokes ; willingly enduring stripes while it hath no task to con. To music it cannot be passive. It will strive — mine at least will — spite of its inaptitude, to thrid the maze ; like an unskilled eye painfully poring upon hieroglyphics. I have sat through an Italian Opera, till, for sheer pain, and inexplicable anguish, I have rushed out into the noisiest places of the crowded streets, to solace myself with sounds, which I was not obliged to follow, and get rid of the distracting torment of endless, fruitless, barren attention ! I take refuge in the unpretending assemblage of honest common-life sounds; — and the purgatory of the Enraged Musician becomes my paradise. I have sat at an Oratorio (that profana- tion of the purposes of the cheerful play- house) watching the faces of the auditory in the pit (what a contrast to Hogarth's Laughing Audience !) immoveable, or affect- ing some faint emotion — till (as some have said, that our occupations in the next world will be but a shadow of what delighted us in this) I have imagined myself in some cold Theatre in Hades, where some of the forms of the earthly one should be kept up, with none of the enjoyment ; or like that Party in a parlour All silent, and all damned. Above all, those insufferable concertos, and pieces of music, as they are called, do plague and embitter my apprehension. — Words are something; but to be exposed to an endless battery of mere sounds ; to be long a dying ; to lie stretched upon a rack of roses ; to keep up languor by unintermitted effort; to pile honey upon sugar, and sugar upon honey, to an interminable tedious sweet- ness ; to fill up sound with feeling, and strain ideas to keep pace with it ; to gaze on empty frames, and be forced to make the pictures for yourself; to read a book, all stops, 23 and be obliged to supply the verbal matter ; to invent extempore tragedies to answer to the vague gestures of an inexplicable ram- bling mime — these are faint shadows of what I have undergone from a series of the ablest-executed pieces of this empty instru- mental music. I deny not, that in the opening of a concert, I have experienced something vastly lulling and agreeable: — afterwards followeth the languor and the oppression. — Like that dis- appointing book in Patmos ; or, like the comings on of melancholy, described by Burton, doth music make her first insinua- ting approaches: — "Most pleasant it is to such as are melancholy given to walk alone in some solitary grove, betwixt wood and water, by some brook side, and to meditate upon some delightsome and pleasant subject, which shall affect him most, amahilis insania, and mentis gratissimus error. A most incom- parable delight to build castles in the air, to go smiling to themselves, acting an infinite variety of parts, which they suppose, and strongly imagine, they act, or that they see done. — So delightsome these toys at first, they could spend whole days and nights without sleep, even whole years in such con- templations, and fantastical meditations, which are like so many dreams, and will hardly be drawn from them — winding and unwinding themselves as so many clocks, and still pleasing their humours,- until at the last the SCENE turns upon a sudden, and they being now habitated to such medita- tions and solitary places, can endure no company, can think of nothing but harsh and distasteful subjects. Fear, sorrow, sus- picion, suhrusticus pudor, discontent, cares, and weariness of life, surprise them on a sudden and they can think of nothing else ; continually suspecting, no sooner are their eyes open, but this infernal plague of melan- choly seizes on them, and terrifies their souls, representing some dismal object to their minds ; which now, by no means, no labour, no persuasions, they can avoid, they cannot be rid of, they cannot resist." Something like this "scene turning" I have experienced at the evening parties, at the house of my good Catholic friend Nov ; who, by the aid of a capital organ, himself the most finished of players, converts his drawing-room into a chapel, his 354 ALL FOOLS' DAY. week days into Sundays, and these latter into minor heavens.* When my friend commences upon one of those solemn anthems, which peradventure struck upon my heedless ear, rambling in the side aisles of the dim Abbey, some five- and-thirty years since, waking a new sense, and putting a soul of old religion into my ■young apprehension — (whether it be that, in which the Psalmist, weary of the persecu- tions of bad men, wisheth to himself dove's wings — or ' that other, which, with a like measure of sobriety and pathos, inquireth by what means the young mah shall best cleanse his mind) — a holy calm pervadeth me. — I am for the time — rapt above earth, And possess joys not promised at my birth. But when this master of the spell, not content to have laid a soul prostrate, goes on, in his power, to inflict more bliss than lies in her capacity to receive, — impatient to overcome her " earthly" with his " heavenly," — still pouring in, for protracted hours, fresh waves and fresh from the sea of sound, or from that inexhausted German ocean, above which, in triumphant progress, dolphin- seated, ride those Arions Haydn and Mozart, with their attendant Ti-itons, Bach, Beethoven, and a countless tribe, whom to attempt to reckon up would but plunge me' again in the deeps, — I stagger under the weight of harmony, reeling to and fro at my wits' end ; — clouds, as of frankincense, oppress me — priests, altars, censers, dazzle before me — the genius of his religion hath me in her toils — a shadowy triple tiara invests the brow of my friend, late so naked, so ingenu- ous — he is Pope, — and by him sits, like as in the anomaly of dreams, a she-Pope too, — tri-coroneted like himself! — I am converted, and yet a Protestant ; — at once malleus here- ticorum, and myself grand heresiarch : or three heresies centre in my person : — I am Marcion, Ebion, and Cerinthus — Gog and Magog — what not? — till the coming in of the friendly supper-tray dissipates the fig- ment and a draught of true Lutheran beer (in which chiefly my friend shows himself no bigot) at once reconciles me to the ration- alities of a purer faith ; and restores to me the genuine unterrifying aspects of my pleasant-countenanced host and hostess. ALL FOOLS' DAY. The compliments of the season to my worthy masters, and a merry first of April to us all ! Many happy returns of this day to you — and you — and you, Sir — nay, never frown, man, nor put a long face upon the matter. Do not we know one another ? what need of ceremony among friends? we have all a touch of that same — you understand me — a speck of the motley. Beshrew the man who on such a day as this, the general festival, should aflTect to stand aloof. I am none of those sneakers. I am free of the corpora- tion, and care not who knows it. He that meets me in the forest to-day, shall meet jN'ith uo wise-acre, I can tell him. Stultus sum. Translate me that, and take the * I have been there, and sitill would go; 'Tis like a little heaven below. — Dr. Watts. meaning of it to yourself for your pains. What ! man, we have four quarters of the globe on our side, at the least computation. Fill us a cup of that sparkling gooseberry — we will drink no wise, melancholy, politic port on this day — and let us troll the catch of Amiens — due ad me — due ad me — how goes it? Here shall he see Gross fools as he. Now would I give a trifle to know, his- torically and authentically, who was the greatest fool that ever lived. I would cer- tainly give him a bumper. Marry, of the present breed, I think I could without much difficulty name you the party. Remove your cap a little further, if you please: it hides my bauble. And now each man bestride his hobb}"-, and du^l away his ALL FOOLS' DAY. 855 bells to what tune he pleases. I will give you, for my part, The crazy old church clock. ^ And the bewildered chimes. Good master Empedocles, you are wel- come. It is long since you went a salaman- der-gathering down Mtna.. Wor§e than samphire-picking by some odds. 'Tis a mercy your worship did not singe your mustachios. Ha! Cleombrotus! and what salads in faith did you light upon at the bottom of the Mediterranean? You were founder, I take it, of the disinterested sect of the Calenturists. Gebir, my old free-mason, and prince of plasterers at Babel, bring in your trowel, most Ancient Grand ! You have claim to a seat here at my right-hand, as patron of the stammerers. You left your work, if I remember Herodotus correctly, at eight hundred million toises, or thereabout, tibove the level of the sea. Bless us, what a long bell you must have pulled, to call your top work- men to their luncheon on the low grounds of Shinar. Or did you send up your garlic and onions by a rocket? I am a rogue if I am not ashamed to show you our Monu- ment on Fish-street Hill, after your altitudes. Yet we think it somewhat. What, the magnanimous Alexander in tears? — cry, baby, put its finger in its eye, it shall have another globe, round as an orange, pretty moppet ! Mister Adams 'odso, I honour your coat — pray do us the favour to read to us that sermon, which you lent to Mistress Slipslop — the twenty and second in your portmanteau there — on Female Inconti- nence — the same — it will come in most irrelevantly and impertinently seasonable to the time of the day. Good Master Raymund Lully, you look wise. Pray correct that error. — — Duns, spare your definitions. I must fine you a bumper, or a paradox. We will have nothing said or done syllogistically this day. Remove those logical forms, waiter, that no gentleman break the tender shins of his apprehension stumbling across them. Master Stephen, you are late. — Ha! Cokes, is it you? — Aguecheek, ray dear knight, let me pay my devoir to you. — Master Shallow, your worship's poor servant to command. — Master Silence, I will use few words with you. — Slender, it shall go hard if I edge not you in somewhere — You six will engross all the poor wit of the company to-day. — I know it, I know it. Ha ! honest R , my fine old Librarian of Ludgate, time out of mind, art thou here again ? Bless thy doublet, it is not over- new, threadbare as thy stories; — what dost thou flitting about the world at this rate ? — Thy customers are extinct, defunct, bed-rid, have ceased to read long ago. — Thou goest still among them, seeing if, peradventure, thou canst hawk a volume or two. — Good Granville S •, thy last patron, is flown. King Pandion, he is dead. All thy friends are lapt in lead. — Nevertheless, noble R , come in, and take your seat here, between Armado and Quisada ; for in true courtesy, in gravity, in fantastic smiling to thyself, in courteous smiling upon others, in the goodly ornature of well-apparelled speech, and the commend- ation of. wise sentences, thou art nothing inferior to those accomplished Dons of Spain. The spirit of chivalry forsake me for e^r, when I forget thy singing the song of Macheath, which declares that he might be happy with either, situated between those two ancient spinsters — when I forget the inimitable formal love which thou didst make, turning now to the one, and now to the other, with that Malvolian smile — as if Cervantes, not Gay, had written it for his hero ; and as if thousands of periods must revolve, before the mirror of courtesy could have given his invidious preference between a pair of so goodly-propertied and merit- orious-equal damsels. * * * * To descend from these altitudes, and not to protract our Fools' Banquet beyond its appropriate day, — for I fear the second of April is not many hours distant — in sober verity I will confess a truth to thee, reader. I love a Fool — as naturally, as if I were of kith and kin to him. When a child, with child-like apprehensions, that dived not below the surface of the matter, I read those Parables — not guessing at the involved wisdom — I had more yearnings towards that simple architect, that built his house upon the sand, than I entertained for his 356 A QUAKEKS' MEETING. more cautious neighbour: I grudge at the hard censure pronounced upon the quiet soul that kept his talent ; and — prizing their simplicity beyond the more provident, and, to my apprehension, somewhat unfeminine wariness of their competitors — I felt a kind- liness, that almost amounted to a tendre, for those five thoughtless virgins. — I have never made an acquaintance since, that lasted : or a friendship, that answered ; with any that had not some tincture of the absurd in their characters, I venerate an honest obliquity of understanding. The more laughable blunders a man shall commit in your com- pany, the more tests he giveth you, that he will not betray or overreach you. I love the safety, which a palpable hallucination warrants ; the security, which a word out of season ratifies. 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. li; is observed, that " the foolisher the fowl or fish, — wood- cocks, — dotterels — cods'-heads, &c., the finer the flesh thereof," and what are commonly the world's received fools, but such whereof the world is not worthy ? and what have been some of the kindliest patterns of our species, but so many darlings of absurdity, minions of the goddess, and her white boys ? — Reader, if you wrest my words beyond their fair construction, it is you, and not I, , that are the April Fool. A QUAKERS' MEETINa. still-born Silence ! thou that art Plood-gate of the deeper heart! Offspring of a heavenly kind! Frost o' the mouth, and thaw o' the mind ! Secrecy's confidant, and he Who makes religion mystery! Admiration's speaking'st tongue! Leave, thy desert shades among. Reverend hermits' hallow'd cells, Where retired devotion dwells I With thy enthusiasms come. Seize our tongues, and strike us dumb!* Reader, would'st thou know what true peace and quiet mean ; would'st thou find a refuge from the noises and clamours of the multitude ; would'st thou enjoy at once soli- tude and society ; would'st thou possess the depth of thine own spirit in stillness, without being shut out from the consolatory faces of thy species ; would'st thou be alone and yet accompanied ; solitary, yet not desolate ; singular, yet not without some to keep thee in countenance ; a unit in aggregate ; a simple in composite: — come with me into a Quakers' meeting. Dost thou love silence deep as that "be- fore the winds were made?" go not out into the wilderness, descend not into the pro- fundities of the eai-th ; shut not up thy case- ments ; nor pour wax into the little cells of thy ears, with little-faith'd self-mistrusting * From " Poems of all sorts," by Kichard Fleckno, 1653. Ulysses. — Retire with me into a Quakeri^' Meeting. For a man to refrain even from good words, and to hold his peace, it is commendable ; but for a multitude it is great mastery. What is the stillness of the desert com- pared with this place ? what the uncommuni- eating muteness of fishes? — here t^e goddess reigns and revels. — " Boreas, and Cesias, and Argestes loud," do not with their inter- confounding uproars more augment the brawl — nor the waves of the blown Baltic with their clubbed sounds — than their oppo- site (Silence her sacred self) is multiplied and rendered more intense by numbers, and by sj'mpathy. She too hath her deeps, that call unto deeps. Negation itself hath a positive more and less ; and closed eyes would seem to obscure the great obscurity of midnight. There are wounds which an imperfect solitude cannot heal. By imperfect I mean that which a man enjoyeth by himself. The perfect is that which he can sometimes attain in crowds, but nowhere so absolutely as in a Quakers' Meeting. — Those first hermits did certainly understand this principle, when they retired into Egyptian solitudes, not singly, but in shoals, to enjoy one another's want of conversation. The Carthusian is A QUAKERS' MEETING. 357 bound to his brethren by this agreeing spirit of incommunicativeness. In secular occa- sions, what so pleasant as to be reading a book through a long winter evening, with a friend sitting by — say, a wife — he, or she, too,(if that be probable,) reading another, without interruption, or oral communication? — can there be no sympathy without the gabble of words? — away with this inhuman, shy, single, shade-and-cavern-haunting solitari- ness. Give me. Master Zimmermann, a sym- pathetic solitude. To pace alone in the cloisters or side aisles of some cathedral, time-stricken ; Or tinder hanging mountains, Or by the fall of fountains is but a vulgar luxury compared with that which those enjoy who come together for the purposes of more complete, abstracted solitude. This is the loneliness "to be felt." — The Abbey Church of Westminster hath nothing so solemn, so spirit-soothing, as the naked walls and benches of a Quakers' Meet- ing. Here are no tombs, no inscriptions. Sands, ignoble things, Dropt from the ruined sides of kings — but here is something which throws Anti- quity herself into the foreground — Silence — eldest of things — language of old Night — primitive discourser — to which the insolent decays of mouldering grandeur have but arrived by a violent, and, as we may say, unnatural progression. How reverend is the view of these hushed heads. Looking tranquillity 1 Nothing-plotting, nought-caballing, unmis- chievous synod ! convocation without in- trigue ! parliament without debate! Avhat a lesson dost thou read to council, and to consistory! — if my pen treat of you lightly — as haply it will wander — yet my spirit hath gravely felt the wisdom of your custom, when sitting among you in deepest peace, which some out-welling tears would rather confirm than disturb, I have reverted to the times of your beginnings and the sowings of the seed by Fox and Dewesbury. — I have witnessed that which brought before my eyes your heroic tranquillity, inflexible to the rude jests and serious violences of the inso- lent soldiery, republican or royalist, sent to molest you — for ye sate betwixt the fires of two persecutions, the outcast and off-scouring of church and presbytery. — I have seen the reeling sea-rufiian, who had wandered into your receptacle with the avowed intention of disturbing your quiet, from the very spirit of the place receive in a moment a new heart, and presently sit among ye as a lamb amidst lambs. And I remember Penn before his accusers, and Fox in the bail-dock, where he was lifted up in spirit, as he tells us, and " the Judge and the Jury became as dead men under his feet." Reader, if you are not acquainted with it, I would recommend to you, above all church- narratives, to read Sewell's History of the Quakers, It is in folio, and is the ab- stract of the journals of Fox and the primi- tive Friends. It is far more edifying and affecting than anything you will read of AVesley and his colleagues. Here is nothing to stagger you, nothing to make you mistrust, no suspicion of alloy, no drop or dreg of the worldly or ambitious spirit. You will here read the true stoi'y of that much-injured, ridiculed man (who, perhaps, hath been a by- word in your mouth) — James Naylor: what dreadful sufferings, with what patience, he endured, even to the boring through of his tongue with red-hot irons, without a mur- mur ; and with what strength of mind, when the delusion he had fallen into, which they stigmatised for blasphemy, had given way to clearer thoughts, he could renounce his error, in a strain of the beautifullest humility, yet keep his first grounds, and be a Quaker still ! — so different from the practice of your com- mon converts from enthusiasm, who, when they apostatize, apostatize all, and think they can never get far enough from the society of their former errors, even to the renunciation of some saving truths, with which they had been mingled, not implicated. Get the writings of John Woolman by heart ; and love the early Quakers. How far the followers of these good men in our days have kept to the primitive spirit, or in what proportion they have substituted formality for it, the Judge of Spirits can alone determine. I have seen faces in their assemblies upon which the dove sate visibly brooding. Others, again, I have watched, when my thoughts should have been better engaged, in which I could possibly detect 358 THE OLD AND THE NEW SCHOOLMASTER. nothing but a blank inanity. But quiet was in all, and the disposition to unanimity, and the absence of the fierce controversial work- ings. — If the spiritual pretensions of the Quakers have abated, at' least they make few pretences. Hypocrites they certainly are not, in their preaching. It is seldom, indeed, that you shall see one get up amongst them to hold forth. Only now and then a trem- bling, female, generally ancient, voice is heard — you cannot guess from what part of the meeting it proceeds — with a low, buzzing, musical sound, laying out a few words which " she thought might suit the condition of some present," with a quaking difSden-ce, which leaves no possibility of supposing that anything of female vanity was mixed up, where the tones were so full of tenderness, and a restraining modesty. — The men, for what I have observed, speak seldomer. Once only, and it was some years ago, I witnessed a sample of the old Foxian orgasm. It was a man of giant stature, who, as Wordsworth phrases it, might have danced " from head to foot equipt in iron mail." His frame was of iron, too. But lie was malleable, I saw him shake all over with the spirit — I dare not say of delusion. The strivings of the outer man were unutterable — he seemed not to speak, but to be spoken from. I saw the strong man bowed down, and his knees to fail — his joints all seemed loosening — it was a figure to set ofi" against Paul preaching — the words he uttered wei'e few, and sound — he was evidently resisting his will — keeping down his own word-wisdom with more mighty efi'ort than the world's orators strain for theirs. " He had been a WIT in his youth," he told us, with expres- sions of a sober remorse. And it was not till long after the impression had begun to wear away that I was enabled, with some- thing like a smile, to recall the striking in- congruity of the confession — understanding the term in its worldly acceptation — with the frame and physiognomy of the person before me. His brow would have scared away the Levites — the Jocos Risus-que — faster than the Loves fled the face of Dis at Enna. — By wit, even in his youth, I will be sworn he understood something far within the limits of an allowable liberty. 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 Trophoniuv-^ ; ■ 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 still- ness. — 0, when the spirit is sore fretted, 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 cor- ner of a bench, among the gentle Quakers! Their garb and stillness conjoined, pre- sent a uniformity, tranquil and herd-like — as in the pasture — "forty feeding like one." — The very garments of a Quaker seem in- capable of receiving a soil ; and cleanliness in them to be something more than the absence of its contrary. Every Quakeress is a lily ; and when they come up in bands to their Whitsun-conferences, whitening the easterly streets of the metropolis, from all parts of the United Kingdom, they show like troops of the Shining Ones. THE OLD AND THE NEW SCHOOLMASTER. My reading has been lamentably desultory and immethodical. Odd, out of the way, old English plays, and treatises, have supplied me with most of my notions, and ways of feeling. In every thing that relates to science, I am a whole Encyclopaedia behind the rest of the world. I should have scarcely cut a figure among the franklins, or country gentlemen, in King John's days. I know less geography than a school-boy of six weeks' standing. To me a map of old Ortelius is as authentic as Arrowsmith. I do not know whereabout Africa merges into Asia ; whether Ethiopia lie in one or other of those great THE OLD AND THE NEW SCHOOLMASTER. ;59 divisions ; nor can form the remotest conjec- ture (if the position of New South Wales, or Van Diemen's Land. , Yet do I hold a corre- spondence with a very dear friend in the first- named of these two Terrae Incognitge. I have no astronomy. I do not know where to look for the Bear, or Charles's Wain ; the place of any star ; or the name of any of them at sight. I guess at Venus only by her brightness — and if the sun on some portentous morn were to make his first appearance in the West, I verily believe, that, while all the world were gasp- ing in apprehension about me, I alone should stand unterrlfied, from sheer incuriosity and want of observation. Of history and Chrono- logy I possess some vague points, such as one cannot help picking up in the course of miscellaneous study; but I never deliberately sat down to a chronicle, even of my own ({ountry. I have most dim apprehensions of the four great monarchies ; and sometimes the Assyrian, sometimes the Persian, floats as first, in my fancy. I make the widest conjectures concerning Egypt, and her shep- herd kings. My friend M., with great pains- taking, got me to think I understood the first proposition in Euclid, but gave me over in despair at the second. I am entirely un- acquainted with the modern languages ; and, like a better man than myself, have "small Latin and less Greek." I am a stranger to the shapes and texture of the commonest trees, herbs, flowers — not from the circum- stance of my being town-born — for I should have brought the same inobservant spirit into the world with me, had I first seen it "on Devon's leafy shores," — and am no less at a loss among purely town-objects, tools, engines, mechanic processes. — Not that I affect ignorance — but my head has not many mansions, nor spacious ; and I have been obliged to fill it with such cabinet curiosities as it can hold without aching. I sometimes wonder, how I have passed my probation with so little discredit in the world, as I have done, upon so meagre a stock. But the fact is, a man may do very well with a very little knowledge, and scarce be found out, in mixed company ; everybody is so much more ready to produce his own, than to call for a display of your acquisitions. But in a Ute-a-Ufe there is no shufiling. The truth will out. There is nothing which I dread so much, as the being left alone for a quarter of an hour with a sensible, well-informed man, that does not know me. I lately got into a dilemma of this sort. — In one of my daily jaunts between Bishops- gate and Shacklewell,. the coach stopped to take up a staid-looking gentleman, about. the wrong side of thirty, who was giving his parting directions, (while the steps were adjusting) in a tone of mild authority, to a tall youth, who seemed to be neither his clerk, his son, nor his servant, but something partaking of all three. The youth was dis- missed, and we drove on. As we were the sole passengers, he naturally enough addressed his conversation to me ; and wo discussed the merits of the fore, the civility and punctuality of the driver; the circumstance of an opposition ooaoh having been lately set up, with the probabilities of its success — to all which I was enabled to return pretty satisfactory answers, having been drilled into this kind of etiquette by some years' daily practice of riding to and fro in the stage aforesaid — when he suddenly alarmed me by a startling question, whether I had seen the show of prize cattle that morning in Smithtield? Now, as I had not seen it, and do not greatly care for such sort of exhibitions, I was obliged to return a cold negative. He seemed a little mortified, as well as astonished, at my declaration, as (it appeared) he was just come fresh from the sight, and doubtless had hoped to compare notes on the subject. However, he assured me that I had lost a fine treat, as it far exceeded the show of last year. We were now approaching Norton Folgate, when the sight of some shop-goods ticketed freshened him up into a dissertation upon the cheapness of cottons this spring. I was now a little in heart, as the nature of my morning avocations had brought me into some sort of familiarity with the raw material ; and I was surprised to find how eloquent I was becoming on the state of the India market — when, presently, he dashed my incipient vanity to the earth at once, by inquiring whether I had ever made any calculation as to the value of the rental of all the retail shops in London. Had he asked of me, what song the Syrens sang, or what name Achilles assumed when he hid himself among women, I might, with Sir Thomas Browne, have hazarded a "wide snljtion."'* * Urn Burial. THE OLD AND THE NEW SCHOOLMASTER. 361 he [the pupil] can orderly decline his noun and his verb." His noun ! The fine dream is fading away fast ; and the least concern of a teacher in the present day is to inculcate grammar-rules. The modern schoolmaster is expected to know a little of everything, because his pupil is required not to be entirely ignorant of anything. He must be superficially, if I may so say, omniscient. He is to know something of pneumatics; of chemistry; of whatever is curious or proper to excite the attention of the youthful mind ; an insight into mechanics is desirable, with a touch of statistics; the quality of soils, &c., botany, the constitution of his country, cum multis aliis. You may get a notion of some part of his expected duties by consulting the famous Tractate on Education, addressed to Mr. Hartlib. All these things — these, or the desire of them — he is expected to instil, not by set lessons from professors, which he may charge in the bill, but at school intervals, as he walks the streets, or saunters through green fields (those natural instructors), with his pupils The least part of what is expected from him is to be done in school-hours. He must insinuate knowledge at the mollia tem- pora fandi. He must seize every occasion — the season of the year — the time of the day — a passing cloud — a rainbow — a waggon of hay — a regiment of soldiers going by — to in- culcate something useful. He can receive no pleasure from a casual glimpse of Nature, but must catch at it as an object of instruc- tion. He must interpret beauty into the picturesque. He cannot relish a beggar- man, or a gipsy, for thinking of the suitable improvement. Nothing comes to him, not spoiled by the sophisticating medium of moral uses. The Universe — that Great Book, as it has been called — is to him, indeed, to all intents and purposes, a book out of which he is doomed to read tedious homilies to dis- tasting schoolboys. — Vacations themselves are none to him, he is only rather worse ofi" than before ; for commonly he has some in- trusive upper-boy fastened upon him at such times; some cadet of a great family; some neglected lump of nobility, or gentry ; that he must drag after him to the play, to the Panorama, to Mr. Bartley's Orrery, to the Panopticon, or into the country, to a friend's house, or his favourite watering-place. Wherever he goes this uneasy shadow at- tends him. A boy is at his board, and in his path, and in all his movements. He is boy- rid, sick of perpetual boy. Boys are capital fellows in their own way, among their mates ; but they are unwhole- some companions for grown people. The restraint is felt no less on the one side than on the other. — Even a child, that " plaything for an hour," tires always. The noises of children, playing their own fancies — as I now hearken to them, by fits, sporting on the green before my window, while I am engaged in these grave speculations at my neat suburban retreat at Shacklewell — by distance made more sweet — inexpressibly take from the labour of my task. It is like writing to music. They seem to modulate my periods. They ought at least to do so — for in the voice of that tender age there is a kind of poetry, far unlike ,the harsh prose- accents of man's conversation. — I should but spoil their sport, and diminish my own sympathy for them, by mingling in their pastime. I would not be domesticated all my days with a person of very superior capacity to my own — not, if I know myself at all, from any considerations of jealousy or self-compa- rison, for the occasional communion with such minds has constituted the fortune and felicity of my life — but the habit of too con- stant intercourse with spirits above you, instead of raising you, keeps you down. Too frequent doses of original thinking from others, restrain what lesser portion of that faculty you may possess of your own. You get entangled in another man's mind, even as you lose yourself in another man's grounds. You are walking with a tall varlet, whose strides out-pace yours to lassitude. The constant operation of such potent agency would reduce me, I am convinced, to im- becility. You may derive thoughts from others ; your way of thinking, the mould in which your thoughts are cast, must be your own. Intellect may be imparted, but not each man's intellectual frame. — As little as I should wish to be always thus dragged upward, as little (or rather still less) is it desirable to be stunted down- wards by youi associates. The trumpet does not more stun you by its loudness, than a 362 THE OLD AND THE NEW SCHOOLMASTER. whisper teases you by its pi'ovoking inaudi- bility. Why are we never quite at our ease in the presence of a schoolmaster? — because we are conscious that he is not quite at his ease in ours. lie is awkward, and out of place, in the society of his equals. lie conies like Gulliver from among his little people, and he cannot fit the stature of his understanding to yours. He cannot meet you on the square. He wants a point given him, like an in- different whist-player. He is so used to teaching, that he wants to be teaching you. One of these professors, upon my complain- ing 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 Ids seminary were taught to compose English themes. The jests of a schoolmaster are coarse, or thin. They do not tell out of school. He is under the restraint of a formal or didactive hypo- crisy in company, as a clergyman is under a moral one. He can no more let his intellect loose in society than the other can his incli- nations. — He is forlorn among his coevals; his juniors cannot be his friends. " I take blame to myself," said a sensible man of this profession, writing to a friend respecting a youth who had quitted his school abruptly, "that your nephew was not more attached to me. But persons in my situation are more to be pitied than can well be imagined. We are surrounded by young, and, consequently, ardently affection- ate hearts, but we can never hope to share an atom of their affections. The relation of master and scholar forbids this. How pleasing this must he to youl — lioio I envy your feelings ! my friends will sometimes say to me, when they see young men whom I have educated return after some years' absence from school, their eyes shining with pleasure, while they shake hands with their old master, bringing a present of game to me, or a toy to my wife, and thanking me in the warmest terras for my care of their education. A holiday is begged for the boys ; the house is a scene of happiness; I, only, am sad at heart. — This fine-spirited and warm-hearted youth, who fancies he repays his master with gratitude for the care of his boyish years — this young man — in the eight long years I watched over him with a parent's anxiety, never cnuld repay me with one look of genuine feeling. He was proud, when I praised ; he was sub- missive, when I reproved him ; but he diu never love me — and what he now mistakes for gratitude and kindness for me, is but the pleasant sensation which all persons feel at revisiting the scenes of their boyish hopes and fears ; and the seeing on equal terms the man they were accustomed to look up to with reverence. My wife, too," this interesting correspondent goes on to say, " my once dar- ling Anna, is the wife of a schoolmaster. — ■ When I married her — knowing that the wife of a schoolmaster ought to be a busy notable crfeature, and fearing that my gentle Anna would ill supply the loss of my dear bustling mother, just then dead, who never sat still, was in every part of the house in a moment, and whom I was obliged sometimes to threaten to fasten down in a chair, to save her from fatiguing herself to death — I ex- pressed my fears that I was bringing her into a way of life unsuitable to her ; and she, who loved me tenderly, promised for my sake to exert herself to perform the duties of her new situation. She promised, and she has kept her word. What wonders will not woman's love perform? — My house is managed with a propriety and decorum unknown in other schools ; my boys are well fed, -look healthy, and have every proper ac- commodation ; and all this performed with a careful economy, that never descends to meanness. But I have lost my gentle help- less Anna! When we sit down to enjoy an hour of repose after the fatigue of the day, I am compelled to listen to what have been her useful (and they are really useful) em- ployments through the day, and what she proposes for her to-morrow's task. Her heart and her features are changed by the duties of her situation. To the boys, she never appears other than the master's wife, and she looks up to me as the boys' master ; to whom all show of love and affection would be highly improper, and unbecoming the dignity of her situation and mine. Yet this my gratitude forbids me to hint, to her. For my sake she submitted to be this altered creature, and can I reproach her for it ?'' — For the communication of this letter I am indebted to my cousin Bridget. A IMPERFECT SYMPATHIES. 863 IMPERFECT SYMPATHIES. I am of a constitution so general, that it consorts and sympathizeth with all thin-s; I have no antipathy or •ather :d,osyncrasy in anything. Those natural repugnancies do not touch me, nor do I blhold wiTh Sice theFrench, Italian, Spaniard, or Dutch. — iJe^iojyetiia. ' uenoia witn piejuajce That the author of the Religio Medici, mounted upon the airy stilts of abstraction, conversant about national and conjectural essences ; in whose categories of Being the possible took the upper hand of the actual ; should have overlooked the impertinent indi- vidualities of such poor concretions as man- kind, is not much to be admired. It is rather to be wondered at, that in the genus of animals he should have condescended to distinguish that species at all. For myself — earth-bound and fettered to the scene of my activities, — Standing on earth, not rapt above the sky, I confess that I do feel the differences of mankind, national or individual, to an un- healthy excess. I can look with no indiffer- ent eye upon things or persons. Whatever is, is to me a matter of taste or distaste ; or when once it becomes indifferent, it begins to be disrelishing, I am, in plainer words, a bundle of prejudices —made up of likings and dislikings — the veriest thrall to sympa- thies, apathies, antipathies. In a certain sense, I hope it may be said of me that I am a lover of my species. I can feel for all indifferently, but I cannot feel towards all equally. The more purely-English word that expresses sympathy, will better explain ray meaning. I can be a friend to a worthy man, who upon another account cannot be my mate or fellow. I cannot like all people alike.* I have been trying all my life to like Scotchmen, and am obliged to desist from the experiment in despair. They cannot like me — and in truth, I never knew one of that nation who attempted to do it. There is something more plain and ingenuous in * I would be understood as confining my.self to the subject of imperfect sympathies. To nations or classes of men there can be no direct antipathy. There may be individuals born and constellated so opposite to another individual nature, that the same sphere cannot hold J their mode of proceeding. We know one another at first sight. There is an order of imperfect intellects (under which mine must be content to rank) which in its constitution is esssentially anti-Caledonian. The owners of the sort of faculties I allude to, have minds rather suggestive than comprehensive. They have no pretences to much clearness or precision in their ideas, or in their manner of expressing them. Their intellectual ward- robe (to confess fairly) has few whole pieces m It. They are content with fragments and scattered pieces of Truth. She presents no full front to them — a feature or side-face at the most. Hints and glimpses, germs and crude essays at a system, is the utmost they pretend to. They beat up a little game per- adventure — and leave it to knottier heads, more robust constitutions, to run it down. The light that lights them is not steady and polar, but mutable and shifting: waxing and again waning. Their conversation is accordingly. They will throw out a random word in or out of season,. and be content to let It pass for what it is worth. They cannot speak always as if they were upon their oath — but must be understood, speaking or writing, with some abatement. They seldom wait to mature a proposition, but e'en bring them. I have met with my moral antipodes, and can heheve the story of two persons meeting (who never saiv one another before in their lives) and instantly fighting. ^ ; 'V^'e by proof find there should be 'Twixt man and man such an antipathy, That though he can show no just reason why For any former wrong or injury, Can neither find a blemish in his fame. Nor aught in face or feature justly blame. Can challenge or accuse him of no evil. Yet notwithstanding hates him as a devil. ' The lines are from old Heywoods " Hierarchie of An-els " and he subjoins a curious story in confirmation, °of 'a Spaniard who attempted to assassinate a King Ferdinand of Spam, and being put to the rack could give no other reason for the deed but an inveterate antipathy which he had taken to the first sight of the king. The cause which to that act compell'd him Was, he ne'er loved him since he first beheld him. 364 IMPEEFECT SYMPATHIES. it to market in the green ear. They delight to impart their defective discoveries as they arise, without waiting for their full develop- ment. They are no systematizers, and would but err more by attempting it. Their minds, as I said before, are suggestive merely. The brain of a true Caledonian (if I am not mis- taken) is constituted upon quite a different plan. His Minerva is born in panoply. You are never admitted to see his ideas in their growth — if, indeed, they do grow, and are not rather put together upon principles of clock-woi'k. You never catch his mind in an undress. He never hints or suggests any- thing, but unlades his stock of ideas in perfect order and completeness. He brings his total wealth into company, and gravely unpacks it. His riches are always about him. He never stoops to catch a glittering something in your presence to share it with you, before he quite knows whether it be true touch or not. You cannot cry halves to anything that he finds. He does not find, but bring. You never witness his first apprehension of a thing. His understanding is always at its meridian — you never see the first dawn, the early streaks. — He has no falterings of self-suspicion. Surmises, guesses, misgivings, half- intuitions, semi-conscious- nesses, partial illuminations, dim instincts, embryo conceptions, have no place in his brain, or vocabulary. The twilight of dubiety never falls upon him. Is he orthodox — he has no doubts. Is he an infidel — he has none either. Between the afiirmative and the negative there is no border-land with him. You cannot hover with him upon the confines of truth, or wander in the maze of a prob.able argument. He always keeps the path. You cannot make excursions with him — for he sets you right. His taste never fluctuates. His morality never abates. Jle cannot compromise, or understand middle actions. There can be but a right and a wrong. His conversation is as a book. His affirmations have the sanctity of an oath. You must speak upon the square with him. He stops a metaphor like a suspected person in an enemy's country. " A healthy book ! " — said one of his countrymen to me, who had ventured to give that appellation to John jBuncle, — " Did I catch rightly what you said ? I have heard of a man in health, and of a healthy state of body, but I do not see how that epithet can be properly applied to a book." Above all, you must beware of indirect expressions before a Caledonian. Clap an extinguisher upon your irony,- if you are unhappily blest with a vein of it. Re- member you are upon your oath. I have a print of a graceful female after Leonardo da Vinci, which I was showing off to ]y[j._ * * * * After he had examined it mi- nutely, 1 ventured to ask him how he liked MY BEAUTY (a foolish name it goes by among my friends) — when he very gravely assured me, that " he had considerable respect for my character and talents" (so he was pleased to say), "but had not given himself much thought about the degree of my personal pretensions." The misconception staggered me, but did not seem much to disconcert him. — Persons of this nation are particularly fond of affirming a truth — which nobody doubts. They do not so properly affirm, as annunciate it. They do indeed appear to have such a love of truth (as if, like virtue, it were valuable for itself) that all truth becomes equally valuable, whether the pro- position that contains it be new or old, dis- puted, or such as is impossible to become a subject of disputation. I was present not long since at a party of North Britons, where a son of Burns was exp3cted; and happened to drop a silly expression (in my South British way), that I wished it were the father instead of the son — when four of them started up at once to inform me, that " that was impossible, because he was dead." An impracticable wish, it seems, was more than they could conceive. Swift has hit off this part of their character, namely their love of truth, in his biting way, but with an illiberality that necessarily confines the passage to the margin.* The tediousness of these people is certainly provoking. I wonder if they ever tire one another ! — In my early life I had a passionate fondness for the poetry of Burns. I have sometimes foolishly * There are some people who think they sufficiently acquit themselves, and entertain their company with relating facts of no consequence, not at all out of the road of such common incidents as happen every day: and this I have observed more frequently among the Scots than any other nation, who are very careful not to omit the minutest circumstances of time or place ; which kind of discourse, if it were not a little relieved by the uncouth terms and phrases, as well as accent and sresturfi, peculiar to that country, would be hardly tolerable. — Hints towards an Essay en Conversation, IMPERFECT SYMPATHIES. 365 hoped to ingratiate myself with his country- men by expressing it. But I have always found that a true Scot resents your admira- tion of- his compatriot, even more than he •would your contempt of him. Tlie latter he imputes to your " imperfect acquaintance with many of the words which he uses ;" and the same objection inakes it a presump- tion in you to suppose that you can admire him.— Thomson they seem to have forgotten. Smollett they have neither forgotten nor forgiven, for his delineation of Rory and his companion, upon their first introduction to our metropolis. — Speak of Smollett as a great genius, and they will retort upon you Hume's History compared with 7ms Continu- ation of it. What if the historian had con- tinued Humphrey Clinker ? I have, in the abstract, no disrespect for Jews. They are a piece of stubborn anti- quity, compared with which Stonehenge is in its nonage. They date beyond the pyra- mids. But I should not care to be in habits of familiar intercourse with any of that nation. I confess that I have not the nerves to enter their synagogues. Old prejudices cling about me. I cannot shake off the story of Hugh of Lincoln. Centui'ies of injury, contempt, and hate, on the one side — of cloaked revenge, dissimulation, and hate, on the other, between our and their fathers, must and ought to affect the blood of the children. I cannot believe it can run clear and kindly yet ; or that a few fine words, such as candour, liberality, the light of a nineteenth century, can close up the breaches of so deadly a disunion. A Hebrew is no- where congenial to me. He is least dis- tasteful on 'Change — for the mercantile spirit levels all distinctions, as all are beauties in the dark. I boldly confess that I do not relish the approximation of Jew and Chris- tian, which has become so fashionable. The reciprocal endearments have, to me, some- tbing- hypocritical and unnatural in them. I do not like to see the Church and Syna- gogue kissing and congeeing in awkward postures of an affected civility. If tliey are converted, why do they not come over to us altogether? Why keep up a form of sepa- ration, when the life of it is fleid ? If they can sit with us at table, why do they keck at our cookery? I do not understand these half convertites. Jews christianizing — Christians judaizing — puzzle m»\ I like fish or flesh. A moderate Jew is a more confounding piece of anomaly than a wet Quaker. The spirit of the synagogue is essentially separative. B would have been more in keeping if he had abided by the faith of his forefathers. There is a fine scorn in his face, which nature meant to be of Christians. The Hebrew spirit is strong in him, in spite of his proselytism. He cannot conquer the Shibboleth. How it breaks out, when he sings, " The Children of Israel passed through the Red Sea ! " The auditors, for the moment, are as Egyp- tians to him, and he rides over our necks in triumph. There is no mistaking him. B — — has a strong expression of sense in his countenance, and it is confirmed by his sing- ing. The foundation of his vocal excellence is sense. He sings with understanding, as Kemble delivered dialogue. He would sing the Commandments, and give an appropriate character to each prohibition. His nation, in general, have not over-sensible counte- nances. How should they ? — but you seldom see a silly expression among them. — Gain, and the pursuit of gain, sharpen a man's visage. I never heard of an idiot being born among them. — Some admire the Jewish female-physiognomy. I admire it — but with trembling. Jael had those full dark inscru- table eyes. In the Negro countenance you will often meet with strong traits of benignity. I have felt yearnings of tenderness row.irds some of these faces — or rather masks — that have looked out kindly upon one in casual encoun- ters in the streets and highways. I love what Fuller beautifully calls — these " images of God cut in ebony." But I should not like to associate with them, to share my meals and my good-nights with them — because they are blaek. I love Quaker ways, and Quaker worship. I venerate 'the Quaker principles. It does me good for the rest of the day when I meet any of their people in my path. When I am ruffled or disturbed by any occurrence, the sight, or quiet voice of a Quaker, acts upon me as a ventilator, lightening the air, and taking off a load from the bosom. But I cannot like the Quakers (as Desdemona M'ould say) "to live with them." I am all over sophisticated — with humour|, fancie&i. 866 IMPERFECT SYMPATHIES. craving hourly sympathy. I must have books, pictures, theatres, chit-chat, scandal, jokes, ambiguities, and a thousand M'him- whams, which their simpler taste can do ■without. I should starve at their primitive banquet. My appetites are too high for the salads which (according to Evelyn) Eve dressed for the angel, my gusto too excited To sit a guest with Daniel at his pulse. The indirect answers which Quakers are often found to return to a question put to them may be explained, I think, without the vulgar assumption, that they are more given to evasion and equivocating than other people. They naturally look to their words more carefully, and are more cautious of committing themselves. They have a pecu- liar character to keep up on this head. They stand in a manner upon their veracity. A Quaker is by law exempted from taking an oath. The custom of resorting to an oath in extreme cases, sanctified as it is by all religious antiquity, is apt (it must be confessed) to introduce into the laxer sort of minds the notion of two kinds of truth — the one applicable to the solemn affairs of justice, and the other to the common proceedings of daily intercourse. As truth bound upon the conscience by an oath can be but truth, so in the common affirmations of the shop and the market-place a latitude is expected, and conceded upon questions wanting this solemn covenant. Something less than truth satis- fies. It is common to hear a person say, "You do not expect me to speak as if I were upon my oath." Hence a great deal of incorrectness and inadvertency, short of falsehood, creeps into ordinary conversation ; and a kind of secondary or laic-truth is tolerated, where clergy - truth — oath - truth, by the nature of the circumstances, is not required. A Quaker knows none of this distinction. His simple affirmution being received, upon the most sacred occasions, without any further test, stamps a value upon the words which he is to use upon the most indifferent topics of life. He looks to them, naturally, with more severity. You can have of him no more than his word. lie knows, if he is caught tripping in a casual expression, he forfeits, for himself, at least, his, claim to the invidious exemption. He knows that his syllables are weighed — and how far a consciousness of this particular watchfulness, exerted against a person, has a tendency to produce indirect answers, and a diverting of the question by honest means, might be illustrated, and the practice justi- fied, by a more sacred example than is proper to be adduced upon this occasion. The admirable presence of mind, which is notc^ rious in Quakers upon all contingencies, might be traced to this imposed self-watch- fulness — if it did not seem rather an humble and secular scion of that old stock of reli- gious constancy, which never bent or fal- tered in the Primitive Friends, or gave way to the winds of persecution, to the violence of judge or accuser, under trials and racking examinations. " You will never be the wiser, if I sit here answering your questions till midnight," said one of those upright Justicers to Penn, who had been putting law-cases with a puzzling subtlety. " There- after as the answers may be," retorted the Quaker. The astonishing composure of this people is sometimes ludicrously displayed in lighter instances. — I was travelling in a stage-coach with three male Quakers, but- toned up in the straitest non-conformity of their sect. We stopped to bait at Andover, where a meal, partly tea apparatus, partly supper, was set before us. My friends con- fined themselves to the tea-table. I in my way took supper. When the landlady brought in the bill, the eldest of my com- panions discovered that she had charged for both meals. This was resisted. Mine hostess was very clamorous and positive. Some mild arguments were used on the part of the Quakers, for which the heated mind of the good lady seemed by no means a fit recipient. The guard came in with his usual peremptory notice. The Quakers pulled out their money and formally tendered it — so much for tea — I, in humble imitation, tender- ing mine — for the supper which I had taken. She would not relax in her demand. So they all three quietly put up their silver, as did myself, and marched out of the room, the eldest and gravest going first, with myself closing up the rear, who thought I could not do betjter than follow the example of such grave and warrantable personages. We got in. The steps went up. The coach drove off. The murmurs of mine hostess, WITCHES, AND OTHER NIGHT FEARS. 867 not very indistinctly or ambiguously pro- nounced, became after a time inaudible — and now my conscience, which the whimsical scene had for a while suspended, beginning to give some twitches, I waited, in the hope that some justification would be offered by these serious persons for the seeming injus- tice of their conduct. To my great surprise not a syllable was dropped on the subject. They sat as mute as at a meeting. At length the eldest of them broke silence, by inquiring of his next neighbour, " Hast thee heard how indigos go at the India House?" and the question operated as a soporific on my moral feeling as far as Exeter. WITCHES, AND OTHER NIGHT FEARS. "We are too hasty when we set down our ancestors in the gross for fools, for the mon- strous inconsistencies (as they seem to ns) involved in their creed of witchcraft. In the relations of this visible world we find them to have been as rational, and shrewd to detect an historic anomaly, as ourselves. But when once the invisible world was sup- posed to be opened, and the lawless agency of bad spirits assumed, what measure of probability, of decency, of fitness, or propor- tion — of that which distinguishes the likely from the palpable absurd — could they have to guide them in the rejection or admission of any particular testimony? — That maidens pined away, wasting inwardly as their waxen images consumed before a fire — that corn was lodged, and cattle lamed — that whirl- winds uptore in diabolic revelry the oaks of the forest — or that spits and kettles only danced a fearful innocent vagary about some rustic's kitchen when no wind was stirring — were all equally probable where no law of ao;ency was understood. That the prince of t'ne powers of darkness, passing by the flower and pomp of the earth, should lay prepos- terous siege to the weak fantasy of indigent eld — has neither likelihood nor unlikelihood a priori to us, who have no measure to guess at his policy, or standard to estimate what rate those anile souls may fetch in the devil's market. Nor, when the wicked are ex- pressly symbolised by a goat, was it to be wondered at so much, that he should come sometimes in that body, and assert his meta- phor. — That the intercourse was opened at all betw en both worlds was perhaps the m'stake — but that once assumed, I see no reason for disbelieving one attested stury of this nature more than another on the score of absurdity. There is no law to judge of the lawless, or canon by which a dream may be criticised. I have sometimes thought that I could not have existed in the days of received witch- craft ; that I could not have slept in a village where one of those reputed hags dwelt. Our ancestors were bolder, or more obtuse. Amidst the universal belief that these wretches were in league with the author of all evil, holding hell tributary to their mut- tering, no simple Justice of the Peace seems to have scrupled issuing, or silly Headborough serving, a warrant upon them — as if they should subpoena Satan! — Prospero in his boat, with his books and wand about him, suffers himself to bo conveyed away at the mercy of his enemies to an unknown island. He might have raised a storm or two, we think, on the passage. His acquiescence is in exact analogy to the non-resistance of witches to the constituted powers. — What stops the Fiend in Spenser from tearing Guyon to pieces — or who had made it a con- dition of his prey that Guyon must take assay of the glorious bait — we have no guess. We do not know the laws of that country. From my childhood I was extremely ih- quisitive about witches and witch-stories. My maid, and more legendary aunt, supplied me with good store. But I shall mention the accident which directed my curiosity originally into this channel. In my father's book-closet, the History of the Bible by Stackhouse occupied a distinguished station. The pictures with which it abounds — one of the ark, in particular, and another of Solo- mon's temple, delineated with all the fidelity 368 WITCHES, AND OTHER NIGHT FEARS. of ocular admeasurement, as if the artist had been upon the spot — attracted my childish attention. There was a picture, too, of the Witch raising up Samuel, which I wish that I had never seen. We shall come to that hereafter. Stackhouse is in two huge tomes — and there was a pleasure in removing folios of that magnitude, which, with infinite straining, was as much as I could manage, from the situation which they occupied upon an upper shelf. I have not met with the work from that time to this, but I remember it consisted of Old Testament stories, orderly set down, with the objection appended to each story, and the solution of the objection regu- larly tacked to that. The objection was a summary of whatever difficulties had been opposed to the credibility of the history, by the shrewdness of ancient or modern in- fidelity, drawn up with an almost compli- mentary excess of candour. The solution was brief, modest, and satisfactory. The bane and antidote were both before you. To doubts so put, and so quashed, there seemed to be an end for ever. The dragon lay dead, for the foot of the veriest babe to trample on. But — like as was rather feared than realised from that slain monster in Spenser — from the womb of those crushed errors young dragonets would creep, exceeding the prowess of so tender a Saint George as myself to van- quish. The habit of expecting objections to every passage set me upon starting more ob- jections, for the glory of finding a solution of my own for them. I became staggered and perplexed, a sceptic in long-coats. The pretty Bible stories which I had read, or heard read in church, lost their purity and sincerity of impression, and were turned into so many historic or chronologic theses to be defended against whatever impugners. I was not to disbelieve them, but — the next thing to that — I was to be quite sure that some one or other would or had disbelieved them. Next fo making a child an infidel is the letting him know that there are infidels at all. Credulity is the man's weakness, but the child's strength. 0, how ugly sounds scrip- tural doubts from the mouth of a babe and a suckling! — I should have lost myself in these mazes, and have pined away, I think, with such unfit sustenance as these husks afforded, but for a fortunate piece of ill- fortune which about this time befel me. Turning over the picture of the ark with too much haste, I unhappily made a breach in its ingenious fabric — driving my incon- siderate fingers right through the two larger quadrupeds — the elephant and the camel — that stare (as well they might) out of the two last windows next the steerage in that unique piece of naval architecture. Stack- house was henceforth locked up, and became an interdicted treasure. With the book, the objections and solutions gradually cleared out of my head, and have seldom returned since in any force to trouble me. — But there was one impression which I had imbibed from Stackhouse which no lock or bar could shut out, and which was destined to try my childish nerves rather more seriously. — That detestable picture ! I was dreadfully alive to nervous terrors. The night-time, solitude, and the dark, were my hell. The sufi'erings I endured in this nature would justify the expression. I never laid my head on my pillow, I suppose, from the fourth to the seventh or eighth year of my life — so far as memory serves in things so long ago — without an assurance, which realised its own jjrophecy, of seeing some frightful spectre. Be old Stackhouse then acquitted in part, if I say, that to his picture of the Witch raising up Samuel — (0 that old man covered with a mantle!) — I owe — not my midnight terrors, the hell of my in- fancy — but the shape and manner of their visitation. It was he who dressed up for me a hag that nightly sate upon my pillow — a sure bedfellow, when my aunt or my maid was far from me. All day long, while the book was permitted me, I dreamed waking over his delineation, and at night (if I may use so bold an expression) awoke into sleep, and found the vision true. I durst not, even in the day-light, once enter the chamber where I slept, without my face turned to the window, aversely from the bed where my witch-ridden pillow was. Parents do not know what they do when they leave tender babes alone to go to sleep in the dark. The feeling about for a friendly arm — the hoping for a familiar voice — when they wake scream- ing — and find none to soothe them — what a terrible shaking it is to their poor nerves ! The keeping them up till midnight, through candle-light and the unwholesome hours, as they are called, — would, I am satisfied, in a WITCHES, AND OTHER NIGHT FEARS. 369 medical point of view, prove the better cau- tion. — That detestable picture, as I have said, gave the fashion to my dreams — if dreams they were — for the scene of them was inva- riably the room in which I lay. Had I never met with the picture, the fears would have come self-pictured in some shape or other — Headless bear, black man, or ape — but, as it was, my imaginations took that form. — 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 a direction. Dear little T. H., who of all children has been brought up with the most scrupulous exclusion of every taint of superstition — who was never allowed to hear of goblin or apparition, or scarcely to be told of bad men, or to read or hear of any distressing story — finds all this world of fear, from which he has been so rigidly excluded ab extra, in his own " thick-coming fancies ; " and from his little midnight pillow, this nurse-child of optimism will start at shapes, unborrowed of tradition, in sweats to which the reveries of the cell-damned murderer are tranquillity. Gorgons, and Hydras, and Chimgeras dire — stories of Celaeno and the Harpies — may reproduce themselves in the brain of super- stition — but they were there before. They are transci-ipts, types — the archetypes are in us, and eternal. How else should the recital of that, which we know in a waking sense to be false, come to afi'ect us at all ? — or Names, whose sense we see not. Fray us with things that be not? Is it that we naturally conceive terror from such objects, considered in their capacity of being able to inflict upon us bodily injury ? — 0, least of all ! These terrors are of older standing. They date beyond body — or, with- out the body, they would have been the same. All the cruel, tormenting, defined devils in Dante — tearing, mangling, choking, stifling, scorching demons — are they one half so fearful to the spirit of a man, as the simple idea of a spirit unembodied following him — Like one that on a lonesome road Doth walk in fear and dread, And having once turn'd round, walks on And turns no more his head; 24 Because he knows a frightful fiend Doth close behind him tread.* That the kind of fear here treated of is purely spiritual — that it is strong in propor- tion as it is objectless upon earth — that it predominates in the period of sinless infancy — are difficulties, the solution of which might afford some probable insight into our ante- mundane condition, and a peep at least into the shadow-land of pre-existence. My night-fancies have long ceased to be afflictive. I confess an occasional night- mare ; but I do not, as in early youth, keep a stud of them. Fiendish faces, with the extinguished taper, will come and look at me ; but I know them for mockeries, even while I cannot elude their presence, and I fight and grapple with theni. For the credit of my imagination, I am almost ashamed to say how tame and prosaic my dreams are grown. They are never romantic, seldom even rural, they are of architecture and of buildings — cities abroad, which I have never seen and hardly have hoped to see. I have traversed, for the seeming length of a natural day, Pvome, Amsterdam, Paris, Lisbon — their churches, palaces, squares, ' market-places, shops, suburbs, ruins, with an inexpressible sense of delight — a map-like distinctness of trace — and a day-light vividness of vision, that was all but being awake. — I have formerly travelled among the Westmoreland fells — my highest Alps, — but they are objects too mighty for the grasp of my dreaming recognition ; and I have again and again awoke with ineffectual struggles of the inner eye, to make out a shape in any way what- ever, of Helvellyn. Methought I was in that country, but the mountains were gone. The poverty of my dreams mortifies me. There is Coleridge, at his will can conjure up icy domes, and pleasure-houses for Kubla Khan, and Abyssinian maids, and songs of Abara, and caverns, Where Alph, the sacred river, runs, to solace his night solitudes — when I cannot muster a fiddle. Barry Cornwall has his tritons and his nereids gambolling before him in nocturnal visions, and proclaiming sons born to Neptune — when my stretch of imagi- native activity can hardly, in the night * Mr. Coleridge's Ancient Mariner. 370 VALENTINE'S DAY. season, raise up the ghost of a fish-wife. To set my failures in somewhat a mortifying light — it was after reading the noble Dream of this poet, that my fancy ran strong upon these marine spectra; and the poor plastic power, such as it is, within me set to work, to humour my folly in a sort of dream that very night. Methought I was upon the ocean billows at some sea nuptials, riding and mounted high, with the customary train sounding their conchs before me, (I myself, you may be sure, the leading. god,) and jollily M'e went careering over the main, till just where Ino Leucothea should have greeted me (I think it was Ino) with a white embrace, the billows gradually subsiding, fell from a sea-roughness to a sea calm, and thence to a river motion, and that river (as happens in the familiarisation of dreams) was no other than the gentle Thames, which landed me in the wafture of a placid wave or two, alone, safe and inglorious, somewhere at the foot of Lambeth palace. The degree of the soul's creativeness in sleep might furnish no whimsical criterion of the quantum of poetical faculty resident in the same soul waking. An old gentleman, a friend of mine, and a humourist, used to carry this notion so far, that when he saw any stripling of his acquaintance ambitious of becoming a poet, his first question would be, — " Young man, what sort of dreams have you ? " I have so much faith in my old friend's theory, that when I feel that idle vein returning upon me, I presently subside into my proper element of prose, remem- bering those eluding nereids, and that inauspicious inland landing. VALENTINE'S DAY. Hail to thy returning festival, old Bishop Valentine ! Great is thy name in the rubric, thou venerable Arch flamen of Hymen ! Immortal Go-between ; who and what manner of person art thou ? Art thou but a name, typifying the restless principle which impels poor humans to seek perfection in union ? or wert thou indeed a mortal prelate, with thy tippet and thy rochet, thy apron on, and decent lawn sleeves? Mysterious per- sonage 1' like unto thee, assuredly, there is no other mitred father in the calendar ; not Jerome, nor Ambrose, nor Cyril ; nor the consigner of undipt infants to eternal tor- ments, Austin, whom all mothers hate ; nor he who hated all mothers, Origen ; nor Bishop Bull, nor Archbishop Parker, nor Whitgift. Thou comest attended with thousands and ten thousands of little Loves, and the air is Brush'd with the hiss of rustling wmgs. Singing Cupids are thy choristers and thy precentors; and instead of the crosier, the mystical arrow is borne before thee. In other words, this is the day on which those charming little missives, ycleped Va- lentines, erase and intercross each other at every street and turning. The weary and all forspent twopenny postman sinks be- neath a load of delicate embarrassments, not his own. It is scarcely credible to what an extent this ephemeral courtship is carried on in this loving town, to the great enrichment of porters, and detriment of knockers and bell-wires. In these little visual interpreta- tions, no emblem is so common as the heart, — that little three-cornered exponent of all our hopes and fears, — the bestuck and bleeding heart ; it is twisted and tortured into more allegories and aflPectations than an opera-hat. What authority we have in his- tory or mythology for placing the head- quarters and metropolis of God Cupid in this anatomical seat rather than in any other, is not very clear ; but we have got it, and it will serve as well as any other. Else we might easily imagine, upon some other system which might have prevailed for anything which our pathology knows to the contrary, a lover addressing his mistress, in perfect simplicity of feeling, "Madam, my livei' and fortune are entirely at your disposal ; " or putting a delicate question, "Amanda, have you a midriff to bestow ? '' But custom has settled these things, and awarded the seat of VALENTINE'S DAY. 371 sentiment to the aforesaid triangle, while its less fortunate neighbours wait at animal and anatomical distance. Not many sounds in life, and I include all urban and all rural sounds, exceed in in- terest a knock at the door. It " gives a very echo to the throne where hope is seated." But its issues seldom answer to this oracle •within. It is so seldom that just the person we want to see comes. But of all the cla- morous visitations the welcomest in expecta- tion is the sound that ushers in, or seems to usher in, a Valentine. As the raven himself was hoarse that announced the fatal entrance of Duncan, so the knock of the postman on this day is light, airy, conlident, and befitting on that brjngeth good tidings. It is less mechanical than on other days ; you will say, " That is not the post I am sure." Visions of Love, of Cupids, of Hymens ! — delightful eternal common -places, which "having been will always be;'' which no school-boy nor school-man can write away ; having your irreversible throne in the fancy and affections — what, are your transports, when the happy maiden, opening with care- ful finger, careful not to break the emble- matic seal, bursts upon the sight of some well-designed allegory, some type, some youthful fancy, not without verses — Lovers all, A madrigal, or some such device, not over-abundant in sense — young Love disclaims it, — and not quite silly — something between wind and water, a chorus where the sheep might almost join the shepherd, as they did, or as I apprehend they did, in Arcadia. All Valentines are not foolish ; and I shall not easily forget thine, my kind friend (if I may have leave to call you so) E. B. — ' E. B. lived opposite a young maiden whom he had often seen, unseen, from his parlour window in C — e-street. She was all joyous- ness and innocence, and just of an age to enjoy receiving a Valentine, and just of a temper to bear the disappointment of missing one with good-humour. E. B. is an artist of no common powers ; in the fancy parts of designing, perhaps inferior to none ; his name is known at the bottom of many a well-executed vignette in the way of his profession, but no further ; for E. B. is modest, and the world meets nobody half- way. E. B. meditated how he could repay this young maiden for many a favour which she had done him unknown ; for when a kindly face greets us, though but passing by, and never knows us again, nor we it, we should feel it as an obligation ; and E. B. did. This good artist set himself at work to please the damsel. It was just before Va- lentine's day three years since. He wrought, unseen and unsuspected, a wondrous work. We need not say it was on the finest gilt paper with borders — full, not of common hearts and heartless allegory, but all the prettiest stories of love from Ovid, and older poets than Ovid (for E. B. is a scholar). There was Pyramus and Thisbe, and be sure Dido was not forgot, nor Hero and Leander, and swans more than sang in Cayster, with mottos and fanciful devices, such as beseemed, — a work in short of magic. Iris dipt the woof. This on Valentine's eve he com- mended to the all-swallowing indiscriminate orifice — (0 ignoble trust!) — of the common post ; but the humble medium did its duty, and from his ■watchful stand, the next morn- ing he saw the cheerful messenger knock, and by and by the precious chai-ge deli- vered. , He saw, unseen, the happy girl un- fold the Valentine, dance about, clap her hands, as one after one the pretty emblems unfolded themselves. She danced about, not with light love, or foolish expectations, for she had no lover; or, if she had, none she knew that could have created those bright images Avhich delighted her. It was more like some fairy present ; a God-send, as our familiarly pious ancestors termed a benefit received where the benefactor was unknown. It would do her no harm. It would do her good for ever after. It is good to love the unknown. I only give this as a specimen of E. B. and his modest way of doing a concealed kindness. Good morrow to my Valentine, sings poor Ophelia ; and no better wish, but with better auspices, we wish to all faithful lovers, who are not too wise to despise old legends, but are content to rank themselves humble dio- cesans of old Bishop Valentine and his true church. MY KELATIONS. MY RELATIONS. I AM arrived at that point of life at vehicb a man may account it a blessing, as it is a singularity, if he have either of his parents surviving. I have not that felicity — and sometimes think feelingly of a passage in Browne's Christian Morals, where he speaks of a man that hath lived sixty or seventy years in the vcorld. " In such a compass of time," he says, " a man may have a close apprehension w^hat it is to be forgotten, when he hath lived to find none who could remember his father, or scarcely the friends of his youth, and may sensibly see with what a face in no long time Oblivion will look upon himself." I had an aunt, a dear and good one. She was one whom single blessedness had soured to the world. She often used to say, that I was the only thing in it which she loved ; and, when she thought I was quitting it, she grieved over me with mother's tears. A partiality quite so exclusive my reason can- not altogether approve. She was from morn- ing till night poring over good books, and devotional exercises. Her favourite volumes were, Thomas a Kempis, in Stanhope's trans- lation ; and a Roman Catholic Prayer Book, with the matins and complines regularly set down, — terms which I was at that time too yOung to understand. She persisted in reading them, although admonished daily concerning their Papistical tendency ; and went to church every Sabbath as a good Protestant should do. These were the only books she studied ; though, I think at one period of her life, she told me, she had read ■with great satisfaction the Adventures of an Unfortunate Young Nobleman. Finding the door of the chapel in Essex-street open one day — it was in the infancy of that heresy — she went in, liked the sermon, and the manner of worship, and frequented it at in- tervals for some time after. She came not for doctrinal points, and never missed them. With some little asperities in her consti- tution, which I have above hinted at, she was a steadfast, friendly being, and a fine old Christian. She was a woman of strong sense, and a shrewd mind — extraordinary at a repartee; one of the few occasions of her breaking silence — else she did not much value wit. The only secular employment I remember to have seen her engaged in, was, the splitting of French beans, and dropping them into a china basin of fair water. The odour of those tender vegetables to this day comes back upon my sense, redolent of soothing recollections. Certainly it is the most delicate of culinary operations. Male aunts, as somebody calls them, I had none — to remember. By the uncle's side I may be said to have been born an orphan. Brother, or sister, I never 'had any — to know them. A sister, I think, that should have been Elizabeth, died in both our infencies. What a comfort, or what a care, may I not have missed in her! — But I have cousins sprinkled about in Hertfordshire — besides two, with whom I have been all my life in habits of the closest intimacy, and whom I may term cousins par excellence. These are James and Bridget Elia. They are older than myself by twelve, and ten, years; and neither of them seems disposed, in matters of advice and guidance, to waive any of the prerogatives which primogeniture confers. May they continue still in the same mind ; and when they shall be seventy-five, and seventy-three, years old (I cannot spare them sooner), persist in treating me in my grand climacteric precisely as a stripling, or younger brother ! James is an explicable cousin. Nature hath her unities, which not every critic can penetrate: or, if we feel, we cannot explain them. The pen of Yorick, and of none since his, could have drawn J. E. entire — those fine Shandean lights and shades, which make up his story. I must limp after in my poor antithetical manner, as the fates have given me grace and talent. J.E. then — to the eye of a common observer at least-^ — seemeth made up of contradictory principles. The genuine child of impulse, the frigid MY RELATIONS. 37-3 philosopher of prudence — the phlegm of my cousin's doctrine is invariably at war with his temperament, which is high sanguine. With always some fire-new project in his hrain, J. E. is the systematic opponent of innovation, and crier down 6f everything that has not stood the test of age and experi- ment. With a hundred fine notions chasing one another hourly in his fancy, he is startled at the least approach to the romantic in others : and, determined by his own sense in everything, commends you to the guidance of common sense on all occasions. — With a touch of the eccentric in all which he does, or says, he is only anxious that you should not commit yourself by doing anything ab- surd or singular. On my once letting slip at table, that I was not fond of a certain popular dish, he begged me at any rate not to say so — for the world would think me mad. He disguises a passionate fondness for works of high art (whereof he hath amassed a choice collection), under the pre- text of buying only to sell again — that his enthusiasm may give no encouragement to yours. Yet, if it were so, why does that piece of tender, pastoral Domenichino hang still by his wall? — is the ball of his sight much more dear to him? — or what picture- dealer can talk like him ? Whereas mankind in general are observed to warp their speculative conclusions to the bent of their individual humours, Ms theories are sure to be in diametrical opposition to his constitution. He is courageous as Charles of Sweden, upon instinct ; chary of his per- son upon principle, as a travelling Quaker. He has been preaching up to me, all my life, the doctrine of bowing to the great — the necessity of forms, and manner, to a man's getting on in the world. He himself never aims at either, that I can discover, — and has a spirit that would stand upright in the presence of the Cham of Tartary. It is pleasant to hear him discourse of patience — extolling it as the truest wisdom — and to see him during the last seven minutes that his dinner is getting ready. Nature never ran up in her haste a more restless piece of workmanship than when she moulded this impetuous cousin — and Art never turned out a more elaborate orator than he can display himself to be, upon this favourite topic of the advantages of quiet and contentedness , in the state, whatever it be, that we are placed in. He is triumphant on this theme, when he has you safe in one of those short stages that ply for the western road, in a very obstructing manner, at the foot of John Murray's street — where you get in when it is empty, and are expected to wait till the vehicle hath completed her just freight — a tr3nng three quarters of an hour to some people. He wonders at your fidgetiness, — " where could we be better than we are, thus sitthig, thus consulting f" — "prefers, for his part, a state of rest to locomotion," — with an eye all the while upon the coachman, — till at length, waxing out of all patience, at your leant of it, he breaks out into a pathetic remonstrance at the fellow for detaining us so long over the time which he had professed, and declares peremptorily, that " the gentleman in the coach is deter- mined to get out, if he does not drive on that instant." Very quick at inventing an argument, or detecting a sophistry, he is incapable of at- tending you in any chain of arguing. Indeed he makes wild work with logic ; and seems to jump at most admirable conclusions by some process, not at all akin to it. Conso- nantly enough to this, he hath been heard to deny, upon certain occasions, that there exists such a faculty at all in man as reason ; and wondereth how man came first to have a conceit of it — enforcing his negation with all the might of reasoning he is master of. He has some speculative notions against laughter, and will maintain that laughing is not natural to Mm — when peradventure the next moment his lungs shall crow like Chanticleer. He says some of the best things in the world — and declareth that wit is his aversion. It was he who said, upon seeing the Eton boys at play in their grounds — What a pity to think, that these fine ingenuous lads in a few years tvill all be changed into frivolous Members of Parliament ! His youth was fiery, glowing, tempestuous — and in age he discovereth no symptom of cooling. This is that which I admire in him. I hate people who meet Time half-way. I am for no compromise with that inevitable spoiler. While he lives, J. E. will take his swing. — It does me good, as I walk towards the street of my daily avocation, on some fine May morning, to meet him marching in a 374 MY RELATIONS. quite opposite direction, with a jolly handsome presence, and shining sanguine face, that indicates some purchase in his eye — a Claude — or a Hobbima — for much of his enviaVjle leisure is consumed at Christie's and Phillips's — or where not, to pick up pictures, and such gauds. On these occasions he mostly stop- peth mt , to read a short lecture on the ad- vantage a person like me possesses above himself, in having his time occupied with business which he mvst do — assureth me that he often feels it hang heavy on his hands — wishes he had fewer holidays — and goes off — Westward Ho! — chanting a tune, to Pall Mall — perfectly convinced that he has con- vinced me — while I proceed in my opposite direction tuneless. It is pleasant, again, to see this Professor of Indifference doing the honours of his new purchase, when he has fairly housed it. You must view it in every light, till he has found the best — placing it at this distance, and at that, but always suiting the focus of your sight to his own. You must spy at it through your fingers, to catch the aerial perspective — though you assure him that to you the landscape shows much more agree- able without that artifice. Woe be to the luckless wight who does not only not respond to his rapture, but who should drop an un- seasonable intimation of preferring one of his anterior bargains to the present! — The last is always his best hit — his " Cynthia of the minute." — Alas J how many a mild Ma- donna have I known to come in — a Raphael! ■ — keep its ascendancy for a few brief moons — then, after certain intermedial degrada- tions, from the front drawing-room to the back gallery, thence to the dark parlour, — adopted in turn by each of the Carracci, under successive lowering ascriptions of filiation, mildly breaking its fall — consigned to the oblivious lumber-room, go out at last a Lucca Giordano, or plain Carlo Maratti ! — which things when I beheld — musing upon the chances and mutabilities of fate below, hath made me to reflect upon the altered condition of great personages, or that woeful Queen of Richard the Second — set forth in pomp, She came adorn'd hither like sweet May. Sent back like Hallowmass or shortest day. With great love for you, J. E. hath but a limited sympathy with w^hat you feel or do. He lives in a world of his own, and makes slender guesses at what passes in your mind. He never pierces the marrow of your habits. He will tell an old-established play-goer, that Mr. Such-a-one, of So-and-so (naming one of the theatres), is a very lively comedian — as a piece of news ! He advertised me but the other day of some pleasant green lanes which he had found out for me, knowing me to be a great walker, in my own immediate vicinity — who have haunted the identical spot any time these twenty j'ears ! — He has not much respect for that class of feelings which goes by the name of sentimental. He applies the definition of real evil to bodily sufferings exclusively — and rejecteth all others as imaginary. He is affected by the sight, or the bare supposition, of a creature in pain, to a degree which I have never witnessed out of womankind. A constitutional acute- ness to this class of sufferings may in part account for this. The animal tribe in par- ticular he taketh under his especial protec- tion. A broken-winded or spur-galled hoj-se is sure to find an advocate in him. An over- loaded ass is his client for ever. He is the apostle to the brute kind — the never-failing friend of those who have none to care for them. The contemplation of a lobster boiled, or eels skinned alive, will wring him so, that " all for pity he could die." It will take the savour from his palate, and the rest from his pillow, for days and nights. With the in- tense feeling of Thomas Clarkson, he wanted only the steadiness of pursuit, and unity of purpose, of that "true yoke-fellow with Time," to have effected as much for the Animal as he hath done for the Negro Crea- tion. But my uncontrollable cousin is but imperfectly formed for purposes which de- mand co-operation. He cannot wait. His amelioration plans must be ripened in a day. For this reason he has cut but an equivocal figure in benevolent societies, and combina- tions for the alleviation of human sufferings. His zeal constantly makes him to outrun, and put out, his coadjutors. He thinks of relieving, — while they think of debating. He was black-balled out of a society for the Relief of**********.*, because the fervour of his humanity toiled beyond the formal apprehension, and creep- ing processes, of his associates. I shall always MACKERY END, IN HERTFOB,DSHIRE. 375 consider this distinction as a patent of nobi- lity in the Elia family ! . Do I mention these seeming inconsisten- cies to smile at, or upbraid, my unique cousin ? Marry, heaven, and all good manners, and the understanding that should be between kinsfolk, forbid! — With all the strange- nesses of this strangest oftlie Ellas — I would not have him in one jot or tittle other than he is ; neither would I barter or exchange my wild kinsman for the most exact, regular, and every way consistent kinsman breathing. In my next, reader, I may perhaps give you some account of my cousin Bridget — if you are not already surfeited with cousins — and take you by the hand, if you are willing to go with us, on an excursion which we made a summer or two since, in search of more cousins — Through the green plains of pleaaant Hertfordshire. MACKERY END, IN HERTFOEDSHIRE. Bridget Elia has been my housekeeper for many a long year. 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 dis- position to go out upon the mountains, with the rash king's offspring, to bewail my celi- bacy. 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 re- lations. Our sympathies are rather under- stood, 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 ur bizarre. Nothing goes down with her, that is quaint, irregular, or out of the road of common sympathy. She "holds Nature more clever." I can pardon her blindness to the beautiful obliquities of the Religio Medici ; hut she must apologize to me for certain disrespectful insinuations, which she has been pleased to throw out latterly, touching the intellectuals of a dear favourite of mine, of the last century but one — the thrice noble, chaste, and virtuous, — but again somewhat fantastical, and ori- ginal brained, generous Margaret Newcastle. It has been the lot of my cousin, oftener perhaps than I could have wished, to have had for her associates and mine, free-thinkers — leaders, and disciples, of novel philosophies and systems ; but she neither wrangles with, nor accepts, their opinions. That which was good and venerable to her, when a child, re- tains its authority over her mind still. She never juggles or plays tricks with her under- standing. 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 circum- stances, it turns out, that I was in the right, and niy cousin in the wrong. But where we have differed upon moral points ; upon some- thing proper to be done, or let alone ; what- ever heat of opposition, or steadiness of con- viction, 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 kins- woman with a gentle hand, for Bridget does not like to be told of her faults. She hath 376 MACKERY END, IN HERTFORDSHIRE 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 pro- voking, and derogatory in the highest degree to the dignity of the putter of the said ques- tion. Her presence of mind is equal to the most pressing trials of life, but will some- times 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 con- science, she hath been known sometimes to let slip a word less seasonably. Her education in youth was not much at- tended to ; and she happily missed all that train of female garniture, which passeth by the name of accomplishments. She was tumbled early, by accident or design, into a spacious closet of good old English reading, without much selection or prohibition, and browsed at will upon that fair and whole- some pasturage. Had I twenty girls, they should be bi'ought up exactly in this fashion. I know not whether their chance in wedlock might not be diminished by it ; but I can answer for it, that it makes (if the worst come to the worst) most incomparable old maids. In a season of distress, she is the truest comforter; but in the teasing accidents, and minor perplexities, which do not call out the loill 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. We made an excursion together a few summers since, into Hertfordshire, to beat up the quarters of some of our less-known relations in that fine corn country. The oldest thing I remember is Mackery End ; or Mackarel End, as it is spelt, perhaps more properly, in some old maps of Hertford- shire ; 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 grand- mother was a Bruton, married to a Field. The Gladmans and the Brutons are still flourishing in that part of the connty, but the Fields are almost extinct. More than forty years had elapsed since the visit I spoke of; and, for the greater portion of that period, we had lost sight of the other two branches also. Who or what sort of persons inherited Mackery End — kindred or strange folk — we were afraid almost to conjecture, but determined some day to explore. By somewhat a circuitous route, taking the noble park at Luton in our way from St. Albans, we ari-ived at the spot of our anxious curiosity about noon. The sight of the old farm-house, though every trace of it was effaced from my recollection, affected me with a pleasure which I had not experienced for many a year. For though /had forgotten it, ice had never forgotten being there together, and we had been talking about Mackery End all our lives, till memory on my part became mocked with a phantom of itself, and I thought I knew the aspect of a place, which, when pi-esent, how unlike it was to that, which I had conjured up so many times instead of it ! Still the air breathed balmily about it ; the season was in the " heart of June," and I could say with the poet, But thou, that didst appear so fair To fond imagination. Dost rival in the light of day Her delicate creation! Bridget's was more a waking bliss than mine, for she easily 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 tx'avei'sed 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 pardimable perhaps than decorous at the age of fifty odd. But Bridget in some things is behind her years. MY FIRST PLAY. 377 The only thing left was to get into the house — and that was a difficulty which to nie 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. It was the youngest of the Gladmans ; who, by marriage with a Burton, had become mistress of the old mansion. A comely brood are the Brutons. Six of them, females, were noted as the handsomest young women in the county. But this adopted Bruton, in my mind, was better than they all — more comely. She was born too late to have remembered me. She just recollected in early life to have had her cousin Bridget once pointed out to her, climbing a stile. But the name of kindred, and of cousinship, was enough. Those slender ties, that prove slight as gossamer in the rending atmosphere of a metropolis, bind faster, as we found it, in hearty, homely, loving Hertfordshire. In five minutes we were as thoroughly acquainted as if we had been born and bred up together ; were familiar, even to the calling each other by our Christian names. So Christians should call one another. To have seen Bridget, and her — it was like the meeting of the two scriptural cousins 1 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 — or so we thought it. "We were made welcome by husband and wife equally — we, and our friend that was with us. — I had almost forgotten him — but B. F. will not so soon forget that meeting, if peradventure he shall read this on the far distant shores where the kangaroo haunts. The fatted calf was made ready, or rather was already so, as if in anticipation of our coming; and, after an appropriate glass of native wine, never let me forget with what honest pride this hospi- table cousin made us proceed to Wheathamp- stead, to introduce us (as some new-found rarity) to her mother and sister Gladmans, who did indeed know something more of us, at a time when she almost knew nothing. — With what corresponding kindness we were received by them also — how Bridget's memory, exalted by the occasion, warmed into a thousand half-obliterated recollections of things and persons, to my utter astonish- ment, and her own — and to the astoundment of B. F. who sat by, almost the only thing that was not a cousin there, — old effaced images of more than half-forgotten names and circumstances still crowding back upon her, as words written in lemon come out upon exposure to a friendly warmth, — when I forget all this, then may my country cousins forget me ; and Bridget no more remember, that in the days of Aveakling infancy I was her tender charge — as I have been her care in foolish manhood since — in those pretty pastoral walks, long ago, about Mackery End, in Hertfordshire. MY FIRST PLAY. At the north end of Cross-court there yet stands a portal, of some architectural preten- sions, though reduced to humble use, serving at present for an entrance to a printin-g-office. This old door-way, if you are young, reader, you may not know was the identical pit entrance to old Drury — Garrick's Drury — all of it that is left. I never pass it without shaking some forty years from off my shoulders, recurring to the evening when I passed through it to see my first play. The afternoon had been wet, and the condition of our going (the elder folks and myseit) was, that the rain should cease. With what a beating heart did I watch from the window the puddles, from the stillness of which I was taught to prognosticate the desired cessation ! I seem to remember the last spurt, and the glee with which I ran to announce it. We went with orders, which my godfather F. had sent us. He kept the oil shop (now Davies's) at the corner of Featherstone- buildings, in Holborn. F. was a tall grave person, lofty in speech and had pretensions 378 MY FIRST PLAY. above his rank. He associated in those daj's with John Palmer, the comedian, whose gait and bearing he seemed to copj ; if John (which is quite as likely) did not rather borrow somewhat of his manner from my godfather. He was also known to, and visited by, Sheridan, It was to his house in Holborn that young Brinsley brought his first wife on her elopement with him from a boarding-school at Bath — the beautiful Maria Linley, My parents were present (over a quadrille table) when he arrived in the evening with his harmonious charge. From either of these connexions it may be inferred that my godfather could command an order for the then Drury-lane theatre at pleasure — and, indeed, a pretty liberal issue of those cheap billets, in Brinsley's easy autograph, I have heard him say was the sole remuneration which he had received for many years' nightly illumination of the orchestra and various avenues of that theatre — and he was content it should be. so. The honour of Sheridan's familiarity — or sap- posed familiarity — was better to my godfather than money. F. was the most gentlemanly of oilmen ; grandiloquent, yet courteous. His delivery of the commonest matters of fact was Ciceronian. He had two Latin words almost constantly in his mouth (how odd sounds Latin from an oilman's lips !), which my better knowledge since has enabled me to correct. In strict pronunciation they should have been sounded vice versa — but in those young years they impressed me with more awe than they W'Ould now do, read aright from Seneca or Varro — in his own peculiar pronunciation, monosyllabically elaborated, or Anglicised, into something like verse verse. By an imposing manner, and the help of these distorted syllables, he climbed (but that was little) to the highest parochial honours which St. Andrew's has to bestow. He is dead — and thus much I thought due to his memory, both for my first orders (little wondrous talismans! — slight keys, and insignificant to outward sight, but opening to me more than Arabian paradises!) and moreover that by his testamentary benefi- cence I came into possession of the only landed property which I could never call my own — situated near the road-way village of pleasant Puckeridge, in Hertfordshire. When I journeyed down to take possession, ani planted foot on my own ground, the stately habits of the donor descended upon me, and I strode (shall I confess the vanity?) with larger paces over my allotment of three quarters of an acre, with its commodious mansion in the midst, with the feeling of an English freeholder that all betwixt sky and centre was my own. The estate has passed into more prudent hands, and nothing but an agrarian can restore it. In those days were pit orders. Beshrew the uncomfortable manager who abolished them! — with one of these we went. I remember the waiting at the door — not that which is left — but between that and an inner door in shelter — when shall I be such an expectant again! — with the cry of nonpareils, an indispensable play-house ac- companiment in those days. As near as I can recollect,., the fashionable pronunciation of the theatrical fruiteresses then was, "Chase some oranges, chase some numparels, chase a bill of the play;" — chase pro chuse. But when we got in, and I beheld the green curtain that veiled a heaven to my imagina- tion, which was soon to be disclosed — breathless anticipations I endured ! I had seen something like it in the plate prefixed to Troilus and Cressida, in Kowe's Shak- speare — the tent scene with Diomede — and a sight of that plate can always bring back in a measure the feeling of that evening. — The boxes at that time, full of well-dressed women of quality, projected over the pit- and the pilasters reaching down were adorned with a glistering substance (I know not what under glass, as it seemed), resembling — a homely fancy — but I judged it to be sugar- candy — yet, to my raised imagination, divested of its homelier qualities, it appeared a glorified candy ! — The orchestra lights at length arose, those " fair Auroras ! " Once the bell sounded. It was to ring out yet once again — and, incapable of the anticipation,- I reposed my shut eyes in a sort of resignation upon the maternal lap. It rang the second time. The curtain drew up — I was not past six years old, and the play was Artaxerxes ! I had dabbled a little in the universal History — the ancient part of it — and here was the court of Persia. — It was being admitted to a sight of the past. I took no proper interest in the action going on, for I MY FIRST PLAT. 370 nnderstood not its import — but I heard the ■word Darius, and I was in the midst of Daniel. All feeling was absorbed in vision. Gorgeous vests, gardens, palaces, princesses, passed before me. I knew not players. I was in Persepolis for the time, and the burning idol of their devotion almost con- verted me into a worshipper. I was awe- struck, and believed those significations to be something more than elemental fires. It was all enchantment and a dream. No such pleasure has since visited me but in dreams. — Harlequin's invasion followed ; where, I remember, the transformation of the magis- trates into reverend beldams seemed to me a piece of grave histoinc justice, and the tailor carrying his own head to be as sober a verity as the legend of St. Denys. The next play to which I was taken was the Lady of the Manor, of which, with the exception of some scenery, very f\iint traces are left in my memory. It was followed by a pantomime, called Lun's Ghost — a satiric touch, I apprehend, upon Rich, not long since dead — but to my apprehension (too sincere for satire), Lun was as remote a piece of antiquity as Lud — the father of a line of Harlequins — transmitting his dagger of lath (the wooden sceptre) through countless ages. I saw the primeval Motley come from his silent tomb in a ghastly vest of white patch- work, like the apparition of a dead rainbow. So Harlequins (thought I) look w^hen they are dead. My third play followed in quick succession. It was the Way of the World. I think I must have sat at it as grave as a judge; for, I remember, the hysteric aflfectations of good Lady Wishfort affected me like some solemn tragic passion. Robinson Crusoe followed ; in which Crusoe, man Friday, and the parrot, were as good and authentic as in the story. — The clownery and pantaloonery of these pantomimes have clean passed out of my head. I believe, I no more laughed at them, than at the same age I should have been disposed to laugh at the grotesque Gothic heads (seeming to me then replete with devout meaning) that gape, and grin, in stone around the inside of the old Round Church (my church) of the Templars. I saw these plays in the season 1781-2, when I was from sis to seven years old. After the intervention of six or seven other years (for at school all play-going was in- hibited) I again entered the doors of a theatre. That old Artaxerxes evening had never done ringing in my fancy. , I expected the same feelings to come again with the same occasion. But we differ from ourselves less at sixty and sixteen, than the latter does from six. In that interval what had I not lost ! At the first period I knew nothing, understood nothing, discriminated nothing. I felt all, loved all, wondered all — Was nourished, I could not tell how — I had left the temple a devotee, and was returned a rationalist. The same things were there materially; but the emblem, the reference, was gone ! — The green cui'tain was no longer a veil, drawn betv;een two worlds, the unfolding of which was to briag back past ages to present a "royal ghost," — but a certain quantity of green baize, which was to separate the audience for a given time from certain of their fellow-men who were to come forwai'd and pretend those parts. The lights — the orchestra lights — came up a clumsy machinery. The first ring, and tiie second ring, was now but a trick of the prompter's bell — which had been, like the note of the cuckoo, a phantom of a voice, no hand seen or guessed at which ministered to its warning. The actors were men and women painted. I thought the fault was in them ; but it was in myself, and the altera- tion which those many centuries, — of six short twelvemonths — had wrought in me. — Perhaps it was fortunate for me that the play of the evening was but an indifferent comedy, as it gave me time to crop some unreasonable expectations, w-hich might have interfei'ed with the genuine emotions with which I was soon after enabled to enter upon the first appearance to me of Mrs, Siddons in Isabella. Comparison and retrospection soon yielded to the present attraction of the scene ; and the theatre became to me, upon a new stock, the most delightful of recreations. 380 MODERN GALLANTRY. MODERN GALLANTRY. Is comparing modern with ancient man- ners, we are pleased to compliment ourselves upon the point of gallantry ; a certain obse- quiousness, or deferential respect, which ■we are supposed to pay to females, as females. I shall believe that this principle actuates our conduct, when I can forget, that in the nineteenth century of the era from which we date our civility, we are but just begin- ning to leave off the very frequent practice of whipping females in public, in common with the coarsest male offenders. I shall believe it to be influential, when I can shut my eyes to the fact, that in England women are still occasionally — hanged. I shall believe in it, when actresses are no longer subject to be hissed off a stage by gentlemen. I shall believe in it, when Dorimant hands a fish-w-ife across the kennel ; or assists the apple-woman to pick up her wandering fruit, which some unlucky dray has just dissipated. I shall. .believe in it, when the Dorimants in humbler life, who would be thought in their way notable adepts in this refinement, shall act upon it in places where they are not known, or think themselves not observed — when I shall see the traveller for some rich tradesman part with his admired box-coat, to spread it over the defenceless shoulders of the poor woman, who is passing to her parish on the roof of the same stage-coach with him, drenched in the rain — when I shall no longer see a woman standing up in the pit of a London theatre, till she is sick and faint with the exertion, with men about her, seated at their ease, and jeering at her dis- tress ; till one, that seems to have more manners or conscience than the rest, signi- ficantly declares " she should be welcome to his seat, if she were a little younger and handsomer." Place this dapper warehouse- man, or that rider, in a circle of their own female acquaintance, and you shall confess you have not seen a paliter-bred man in Lothbury. Lastly, I shall begin to believe that there is some such principle influencing our conduct, when more than one-half of the drudgery and coarse servitude of the world shall cease to be performed by women. Until that day comes, I shall never believe this boasted point to be anything more than a conventional fiction ; a pageant got up between the sexes, in a certain rank, and at a certain time of life, in which both find their account equally. I shall be even disposed to rank it among the salutary fictions of life, when in polite circles I shall see the same attentions paid to age as to youth, to homely features as to handsome, to coarse complexions as to clear — to the woman, as she is a woman, not as she is a beauty, a fortune, or a title. I shall believe it to be something more than a name, when a well-dressed gentleman in a well-dressed company can advert to the topic 0^ female old age without exciting, and intending to excite, a sneer : — when the phrases " antiquated virginity," and such a one has " overstood her market," pronounced in good company, shall raise immediate ofience in man, or woman, that shall hear them spoken. Joseph Paice, of Bread-street-hill, mer- chant, and one of the Directors of the South- Sea company — the same to whom Edwards, the Shakspeare commentator, has addressed a fine sonnet — was the only pattern of con- sistent gallantry I have met with. He took me under his shelter at an early ago, and bestowed some pains upon me. I owe to his precepts and example whatever there is of the man of business (and that is not much) in my composition. It was not his fault that I did not profit more. Though bred a Presbyterian, and brought up a merchant, he was the finest gentleman of his time. He had not one system of attention to females in the drawing-room, and another in the shop, or at the stall. I do not mean that MODERN GALLANTRY. 381 he made no distinction. But he never lost sight of sex, or overlooked it in the casual- ties of a disadvantageous situation. I have seen him stand bareheaded — smile if you please — to a poor servant-girl, vrhile she has been inquiring of him the way to some street — in such a posture of unforced civility, as neither to embarrass her in the accept- ance, nor himself in the offer, of it. He was no dangler, in the common acceptation of the word, after women : but he reverenced and upheld, in every form in which it came before him, ivomanhood. I have seen him — nay, smile not — tenderly escorting a market- woman, whom he had encountered in a shower, exalting his umbrella over her poor basket of fruit, that it might receive no damage, with as much carefulness as if she had been a Countess. To the reverend form of Female Eld he would yield the wall (though it were to an ancient beggar-woman) with more ceremony than we can afford to show our grandams. He was the Preux Chevalier of Age; the Sir Calidore, or Sir Tristan, to those who have no Calidores or Tristans to defend them. The roses, that had long faded thence, still bloomed for him in those withered and yellow cheeks. He was never married, but in his youth he paid his addresses to the beautiful Susan Winstanley — old Winstanley's daughter of Clapton — who dying in the early days of their courtship, confirmed in him the reso- lution of perpetual bachelorship. It was during their short courtship, he told me, that he had been one day treating his mis- tress with a profusion of civil speeches — the common gallantries — to which kind of thing she had hitherto manifested no repugnance — but in this instance with no effect. He could not obtain from her a decent acknow- ledgment in return. She rather seemed to resent his compliments. He could not set it down to caprice, for the lady had always shown herself above that littleness. When he ventured on the following day, finding her a little better humoured, to expostulate with her on her coldness of yesterday, she confessed, with her usual frankness, that she Had no sort of dislike to his attentions; that she could even endure some high-flown compliments ; that a young woman placed in her situation had a right to expect all sort of civil things said to her; that she hoped she could digest a dose of adulation, short of insincerity, with as little injury to her humility as most young women : but that — a little before he had commenced his compli- ments — she had overheard him by accident, in rather rough language, rating a younw woman, who had not brought home his cravats quite to the appointed time, and she thought to herself, "As I am Miss Susan Winstanley, and a young lady — a reputed beauty, and known to be a fortune, — I can have my choice of the finest speeches from the mouth of this very fine gentleman who is courting me — but if I had been poor Mary Such-a-one {naming the milliner), — and had failed of bringing home the cravats to the appointed hour — though perhaps I had sat up half the night to forward them — what sort of compliments should I have received then? — And my woman's pride came to my assistance; and I thought, that if it were only to do me honour, a female, like myself, might have received handsomer usage: and I was determined not to accept any fine speeches, to the compromise of that sex, the belonging to which was after all my strongest claim and title to them." I think the lady discovered both gene- rosity, and a just way of thinking, in this rebuke which she gave her lover; and I have sometimes imagined, that the uncommon strain of courtesy, which through life regu- lated the actions and behaviour of my friend towards all of womankind indiscriminately, owed its happy origin to this seasonable lesson from the lips of his lamented mistress. I wish the whole female world would en- tertain the same notion of these things that Miss Winstanley showed. Then we should see something of the spirit of consistent gallantry ; and no longer witness the anomaly of the same man — a pattern of true polite- ness to a wife — of cold contempt, or rudeness, to a sister — the idolater of his female mis- tress — the disparager and dispiser of his no less female aunt, or unfortunate — still female — maiden cousin. Just so much re- spect as a woman derogates from her own sex, in whatever condition placed — her hand- maid, or dependant — she deserves to have diminished from herself on that score ; and probably will feel the diminution, when youth, and beauty, and advantages, not inseparable from sex, shall lose of their attraction. 382 THE OLD BENCHERS OF THE INNER TEMPLE. What a woman should demand of a man in courtship, or after it, is first — respect for her as. she is a woman; — and next to that — to be respected by him above all other women. But let her stand upon her female character as upon a foundation ; and let the attentions, incident to individual preference, be so many pretty additaments and orna- ments — as many, and as fanciful, as you please — to that main structure. Let her first lesson be with sweet Susan Winstanley — to reverence her sex. THE OLD BENCHERS OF THE INNER TEMPLE. 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 of 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 hrioky towers, The which on Themnies brode aged hack doth ride, Where now the studious lawyers have their howers, There whylome wont the Templer knights to bide, Till they decayed through pride. Indeed, it is the most elegant spot in the metropolis. What a transition for a country- man visiting London for the first time — the passing from the crowded Strand or Fleet- street, by unexpected avenues, into its mag- nificent ample squares, its classic green re- cesses ! 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 ti-ade-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 con- temporaries, 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 efi'aced sun-dials, with their moral inscriptions, seeming coevals M'ith that Time which they measured, and to take their revelations of its flight immediately from heaven, holding cor- respondence 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 dulness of communication, compared with the simple altar-like struc- ture, and silent heart-language of the. old dial ! It stood as the garden god of Chris- tian gardens. Why is it almost everywhere vanished ? If its business-use be superseded by more elaborate inventions, its moral uses, its beauty, might have pleaded for its con- tinuance. It spoke of moderate labours, of pleasures not protracted after sun-set, of temperance, and good hours. It was the primitive clock, the horologe of the first world. Adam could scarcely have missed it in Paradise. It was the measure appropriate for sweet plants and flowers to spring by, for the birds to apportion their silver warb- lings by, for flocks to pasture and be led to fold by. The shepherd "carved it out quaintly in the sun ; " and, turning philo- sopher by the very occupation, provided it with mottoes more touchine than tomb- THE OLD BENCHERS OF THE INNER TEMPLE. 8R3 stones It was a pretty device of the gar- dener, recorded by Marvell, who, in the days of artificial gardening, made a dial out of herbs and flowers. I must quote his verses a little higher up, for they are full, as all his serious poetry was, of a witty delicacy. They will not come in awkwardly, I hope, in a talk of fountains and sun-dials. He is speaking of sweet garden scenes : — What wondrous life is this I lead! Ripe apples drop about my head. The luscious clusters of the vine Upon my mouth do crush their wine. The nectarine, and curious peach. Into my hands themselves do reach. Stumbling on melons, as I pass, Insnared with flowers I fall on grass. Meanwhile the mind from pleasure less Withdraws into its happiness. The mind, that ocean, where each kind Does straight its own resemblance find ; Yet it creates, transcending these. Far other worlds and other seas; Annihilating all that's made To a green thought in a green shade. Here at the fountain's sliding foot. Or at some fruit-tree's mossy root. Casting the body's vest aside. My soul into the boughs does glide; There, like a bird, it sits and sings, Then wets and clasps its silver wings, And, till prepared for longer flight, Waves in its plumes the various light. How well the skilful gardener drew, Of flowers and herbs, this dial new ! Where, from above, the milder sun Does through a fragrant zodiac run : And, as it works, the industrious bee Computes its time as well as we. How could such sweet and wholesome Lours Be reokon'd, but with herbs and flowers?* The artificial fountains of the metropolis are, in like manner, fast vanishing. Most of them are dried up or .bricked over. Yet, where one is left, as in that little green nook behind the South-Sea House, what a fresh- ness it gives to the dreary pile ! Four little winged marble boys used to play their virgin fancies, spouting out ever fresh streams from their innocent-wanton lips in the square of Lincoln's Inn, when I was no bigger than they were figured. They are gone, and the spring choked up. The fashion, they tell me, is gone by, and these things are esteemed childish. Why not, then, gratify children, by letting them stand ? Lawyers, I suppose, were children once. They are awakening images to them at least. Why must every- thing smack of man and mannish? Is the world all grown up? Is childhood dead? * From a copy of verses entitled The Garden. Or is there not in the bosoms of the wisest and the best some of the child's heart left, to respond to its earliest enchantments? The figures Avere grotesque. Are the stifi"-wigged living figures, that still flitter and chatter about that area, less Gothic in appearance ? or is the splutter of their hot rhetoric one- half so refreshing and innocent as the little cool playful streams those exploded cherubs uttered ? They have lately gothicised the entrance to the Inner Temple -hall, and the library front; to assimilate them, I suppose, to the body of the hall, which they do not at all resemble. What is become of the winged horse that stood over the former ? a stately arms ! and who has removed those frescoes of the Virtues, which Italianised the end of the Paper-buildings? — my first hint of alle- gory ! They must account to me for these things, which I miss so greatly. The terrace is, indeed, left, which we used to call the parade ; but the traces are passed away of the footsteps which made its pave- ment awful ! It is become common and profane. The old benchers had it almost sacred to themselves, in the forepart of the day at least. They might not be sided or jostled. Their air and dress asserted the parade. You left wide spaces betwixt you when you passed them. We walk on even terms with their successors. The roguish eye of J — —11, ever ready to be delivered of a jest, almost invites a stranger to vie a repartee with it. Bat what insolent familiar durst have mated Thomas Coventry ? — whose person was a quadrate, his step massy and elephantine, his face square as the lion's, his gait peremptory and path-keeping, indi- vertible from his way as a moving column, the scarecrow of his inferiors, the brow- beater of equals and superiors, w^ho made a solitude of children wherever he came, .for they fled his insufferable presence, as they would have shunned an Elisha bear. His growl was as thunder in their ears, whether he spake to them in mirth or in rebuke ; his invitatory notes being, indeed, of all, the most repulsive and horrid. Clouds of snuff, aggravating the natural terrors of his speech, broke from each majestic nostril, darkening the air. He took it, not by pinches, but a palmful at once, — diving for it under the mighty flaps of his old-fashioned waistcoat 384 THE OLD BENCHEES OF THE INNER TEMPLE. pocket ; his waistcoat red and angry, his coat dark rappee, tinctured by dye original, and by adjuncts, with buttons of obsolete gold. And so he paced the terrace. By his side a milder form was sometimes to be seen ; the pensive gentility of Samuel Salt. They were coevals, and had nothing but that and their benchership in common. In politics Salt was a whig, and Coventry a staunch tory. Many a sarcastic growl did the latter cast out — for Coventry had a rough spinous humour — at the political con- federates of his associate, which rebounded from the gentle bosom of the latter like cannon-balls from wool. You could not ruffle Samuel Salt. S. had the reputation of being a very clever man, and of excellent discernment in the chamber practice of the law. I suspect his knowledge did not amount to much. When a case of dif&cult disposition of money, testamentary or otherwise, came before him, he ordinarily handed it over, with a few in- structions, to his man Lovel, who was a quick little fellow, and would dispatch it out of hand by the light of natural under- standing, of which he had an uncommon share. It was incredible what repute for talents S. enjoyed by the mei'e trick of gravity. He was a shy man ; a child might pose him in a minute — indolent and procras- tinating to the last degree. Yet men would give him credit for vast application, in spite of himself. He was not to be trusted with himself with impunity. He never dressed for a dinner party, but he forgot his sword — they wore swords then — or some other neces- sary part of his equipage. Lovel had his eye upon him on all these occasions, and ordinarily gave him his cue. If there was anything which he could speak unseasonably, he was sure to do it. — He was to dine at a relative's of the unfortunate Miss Blandy on the day of her execution ; — and L., who had a wary foresight of his probable hallucinations, be- fore he set out schooled him, with great anxiety, not in any possible manner to allude to her story that day. S. promised faithfully to observe the injunction. He had not been seated in the parlour, where the company was expecting the dinner summons, four minutes, when, a pause in the conversation ensuing, he got up, looked out of window, and pulling down his ruffles — an ordinary motion with him — observed, "it was a gloomy day," and added, " Miss Blandy must be hanged by this time, I suppose." Instances of this sort were perpetual. Yet S. was thought by some of the greatest men of his time a fit person to be consulted, not alone in matters pertaining to the law, but in the ordinary niceties and embarrassments of conduct — from force of manner entirely. He never laughed. He had the same good fortune among the female world, — was a known toast with the ladies, and one or two are said to have died for love of him — I sup- pose, because he never trifled or talked gal- lantry with them, or paid them, indeed, hardly common attentions. He had a fine face and person, but wanted, methought, the spirit that should have shown them off with advantage to the women. His eye lacked lustre. — Not so, thought Susan P ; who, at the advanced age of sixty, was seen, in the cold evening time, unaccompanied, wet- ting the pavement of B d Row, with tears that fell in drops which might be heard, be- cause her friend had died that day — he, whom she had pursued with a hopeless pas- |sion for the last forty years, — a passion, which years could not extinguish or abate ; nor the long -resolved, yet gently -enforced, puttings-off of unrelenting bachelorhood dis- suade from its cherished purpose. Mild Susan P , thou hast now thy friend in heaven ! Thomas Coventry was a cadet of the noble family of that name. He passed his youth in contracted circumstances, which gave him early those parsimonious habits which in after life never forsook him ; so that with one windfall or another, about the time I knew him he was master of four or five hundred thousand pounds ; nor did he look or walk worth a moidore less. He lived in a gloomy house opposite the pump in Ser- jeant's-inn, Fleet-street. J., the counsel, is doing self-imposed penance in it, for what reason I divine not, at this day. C. had an agreeable seat at North Cray, where he seldom spent above a -day or two at a time in the summer ; but preferred, during the hot months, standing at his window in this damp, close, well-like mansion, to watch, as he said, " the maids drawing water all day long." I suspect he had his within - door reasons for the preference. Hie ciirrus el THE OLD BENCHERS OF THE INNER TEMPLE. 885 arma fvere. He might think his treasures more safe. His house had the aspect of a strong-box. C. was a close hunks — a hoarder rather than a miser^or, if a miser, none of the mad Elwes breed, who have brought dis- credit upon a character which cannot exist without certain admirable points of steadi- ness and unity of purpose. One may hate a true miser, but cannot, I suspect, so easily despise him. By taking care of the pence he is often enabled to part with the pounds, upon a scale that leaves us careless generous fellows halting at an immeasurable distance behind. C. gave away SO.OOOZ. at once in his lifs-time to a blind charity. His house- keeping was severely looked after, but he kept the table of a gentleman. He would know who came in and who went out of his house, but his kitchen chimney was never suffered to freeze. Salt was his opposite in this, as in all — never knew what he was worth in the world ; and having but a competency for his rank, which his indolent habits were little ca,lcu- lated to improve, might have suffered severely if he had not had honest people about him. Level took care of everything. He was at once his clerk, his good servant, his dresser, his friend, his " flapper," his guide, stop- watch, auditor, treasurer. He did nothing without consulting Lovel, or failed in any- thing without expecting and fearing his ad- monishing. He put himself almost too much in his hands, had they not been the purest in the world. He resigned his title almost to respect as a master, if L. could ever have forgotten for a moment that he was a ser- vant. 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 n'ever considered inequalities, or calculated the number of his opponents. He once wrested a sword out of the hand of a man of quality that had drawn upon him, and pommelled him severely with the hilt of it. The swordsman had offered insult to a female — an occasion upon which no odds against him could have prevented the interference of Lovel. He would stand next day bareheaded to the same person modestly to excuse his interference — for L. never forgot rank where something better was not concerned. L. was the liveliest 25 little fellow breathing, had a face as gay as Garrick's, whom he was said greatly to re- semble (I have a portrait of him which con- firms it), possessed a fine turn for humorous poetry — next to Swift and Prior — moulded heads in clay or plaster of Paris to admira- tion, by the dint of natural genius merely; turned cribbage boards, and such small cabinet toys to perfection ; took a hand at quadrille or bowls with equal facility ; made punch better than any man of his degree in England ; had the merriest quips and con- ceits; and was altogether as brimful of rogueries and inventions as you could desire. He was a brother of the angle, moreover, and just such a free, hearty, honest com- panion as Mr. Izaak Walton would have chosen to go a-fishing with. I saw him in his old age and the decay of his faculties, palsy-smitten, in the last sad stage of human weakness — "a remnant most forlorn of what he was," — yet even then his eye would liglit up upon the mention of his favourite Garrick. He was greatest, he would say, in Bayes — " was upon the stage nearly throughout the whole performance, and as busy as a bee." At intervals, too, he would speak of his for- mer life, find how he came up a little boy from Lincoln, to go to service, and how his mother ciied at parting with him, and how he returned, after some few years' absence, in his smart new livery, to see her, and she blessed herself at the change, and could hardly be brought to believe that it was " her own bairn." And then, the excitement subsiding, he would weep, till I have wished that sad second- childbood might have a mother still to lay its head upon her lap. But the common' mother of us all in no long time after received him gently into hers. With Coventry, and with Salt, in their walks upon the terrace, most commonly Peter Pierson would join to make up a third. They did not walk linked arm -in- arm in those days — "as now our stout triumvirs sweep the sti-6ets," — but generally with both hands folded behind them for state, or with one at least behind, the other carrying a cane. P. was a ben,evolent, but not a prepossessing man. He had that in his face which you could not term unhappi- ness ; it rather implied an incapacity of being happy. His cheeks were colourless, even to whiteness. His look was uninviting, 8S6 THE OLD BENCHERS OF THE INNER TEMPLE. resembling (but without his sourness) that of our great philanthropist. I know that he did good acts, but I could never make out what he was. Contemporary with these, but subordinate, was Daines Barrington — another oddity — he walked burly and square — in imitation, I think, of Coventry — how- beit he attained not to the dignity of his prototype. Nevertheless, he did pretty well, upon the strength of being a tolerable anti- quarian, and having a brother a bishop. When the account of his year's treasurership came to be audited, the following singular charge was unanimously disallowed by the bench: "Item, disbursed Mr. Allen, the gar- dener, twenty shillings for stuff to poison the sparrows, by my orders." Next to him was old Barton — a jolly negation, who took upon him the ordering of the bills of fare for the parliament chamber, where the benchers dine — answering to the combination rooms at College — much to the easement of his less epicurean brethren. I know nothing more of him. — Then Read, and Twopeny — Read, good-humoured and personable — Twopeny, good-humoured, but thin, and felicitous in jests upon his own figure. If T. was thin, Wharry was attenuated and fleeting. Many must remember him (for he was rather of later date) and his singular gait, which was performed by three steps and a jump regu- larly succeeding. The steps were little efforts, like that of a child beginning to walk ; the jump comparatively vigorous, as a foot to an inch. Where he learned this figure, or what occasioned it, I could never discover. It was neither graceful in itself, nor seemed to answer the purpose any better than com- mon walking. The extreme tenuity of his frame, I suspect, set him upon it. It was a trial of poising. Twopeny would often rally him upon his leanness, and hail him as Bro- ther Lusty ; but W. had no relish of ajoke. His features were spiteful. I have heard that he would pinch his cat's ears extremely when anything had offended him. Jackson — the omniscient Jackson he was called — was of this period. He had the reputation of pos- sessing more multifarious knowledge than any man of his time. He was the Friar Bacon of the less literate portion of the Temple. I remember a pleasant passage of the cook applying to him, with much for- mality of apology, for instructions how to write down edge bone of beef in his bill of commons. He was supposed to know, if any man in the world did. He decided the ortho- graphy to be — as I have given it — forti- fying his authority with such anatomical reasons as dismissed the manciple (for the time) learned and happy. Some do spell it yet, perversely, aitch bone, from a fanciful resemblance between its shape and that of the aspirate so denominated. I had almost forgotten Mingay with the iron hand — but he was somewhat later. He had lost his right hand by some accident, and supplied it with a grappling-hook, which he wielded with a tolerable adroitness. I detected the substitute before I was old enough to reason whether it were artificial or not. I remem- ber the astonishment it raised in me. He was a blustering, loud-talking person ; and I reconciled the phenomenon to my ideas as an emblem of power — somewhat like the horns in the forehead of Michael Angelo's Moses. Baron Maseres, who walks (or did till very lately) in the costume of the reign of George the Second, closes my imperfect recollections of the old benchers of the Inner Temple. Fantastic forms, whither are ye fled ? Or, if the like of you exist, why exist they no more for me ? Ye inexplicable, half-under- stood appearances, why comes in reason to tear away the preternatural mist, bright or gloomy, that enshrouded you ? Why make ye so sorry a figure in my relation, who made up to me — to my childish eyes — the mythology of the Temple? In those days I saw Gods, as " old men covered with a mantle," walking upon the earth. Let the dreams of classic idolatry perish, — extinct be the fairies and faii-y trumpery of legendary fabling, in the heart of childhood there will, for ever, spring up a well of innocent or wholesome superstition — the seeds of exag- geration will be busy there, and vital — from every-day forms educing the unknown and the uncommon. In that little Goshen there will be light when the grown world flounders about in the darkness of sense and mate- riality. While childhood, and while dreams, reducing childhood, shall be left, imagination shall not have spread her holy wings totally to fly the earth. P.S. — I have done injustice to the soft GRACE BEFORE MEAT. 387 shade of Samuel Salt. See what it is to trust to imperfect memory, and the erring notices of childhood ! Yet I protest I always thought that he had been a bachelor ! This gentleman, R.N. informs me, married young, and losing his lady in childhood, within the first year of their union, fell into a deep melancholy, from the effects of which, pro- bably, he never thoroughly recovered. In what a new light does this place his rejection (0 call it by a gentler name !) of mild Susan P , unravelling into beauty certain pecu- liarities of this very shy and retiring cha- racter ! Henceforth let no one receive the narratives of Elia for true records ! They are, in truth, but shadows of fact — verisimi- litudes, not verities — or sitting but upon the remote edges and outskirts of history. He is no such honest chronicler as R. N., and would have done better perhaps to have con- sulted that gentleman before he sent these incondite reminiscences to press. But the worthy sub-treasurer — who respects his old and his new masters — would but have been puzzled at the indecorous liberties of Elia. The good man wots not, peradventure, of the licence which Magazines have arrived at in this plain-speaking age, or hardly dreams of their existence beyond the Gentleman's — his furthest monthly excursions in this natui-e having been long confined to the holy ground of honest Urban's obituary. May it be long before his own name shall help to swell those columns of unenvied flattery! — Meantime, ye New Benchers of the Inner Temple, cherish him kindly, for he is himself the kindliest of human creatures. Should infir- mities overtake him — he is yet in green and vigorous senility — make allowances foi* them, remembering that "ye yourselves are old." So may the Winged Horse, your ancient badge and cognisance, still flourish ! so may future Hookers and Seldens illustrate your church and chambers I so may the sparrows, in default of more melodious quiristers, un- poisoned hop about your walks ; so may the fresh -coloured and cleanly nursery -maid, who, by leave, airs her playful charge in your stately gardens, drop her prettiest blush- ing curtesy as ye pass, reductive of juvenes- cent emotion ! so may the younkers of this generation eye you, pacing your stately ter- race, with the same superstitious veneration with which the child Elia gazed on the Old Worthies that solemnised the parade before ye ! GRACE BEFORE MEAT. The custom of saying grace at meals had, probably, its origin in the early times of the world, and the hunter -state of man, when dinners were precarious things, and a full meal was something more than a common blessing! when a belly-full was a wind-fall, and looked like a special providence. In the shouts and triumphal songs with which, after .a season of sharp abstinence, a lucky booty of deer's or goat's flesh would naturally be ushered home, existed, perhaps, the germ of the modern grace. It is not otherwise easy to be understood, why the blessing of food — the act of eating — should have had a parti- cular expression of thanksgiving annexed to it, distinct from that implied and silent grati- tude with which we are expected to enter upon the enjoyment of the many other various gifts and good things of existence. I own that I am disposed to say grace upon twenty other occasions in the course of the day besides my dinner. I want a form for setting out upon a pleasant walk, for a moonlight ramble, for a friendly meeting, or a solved problem. Why have we none for books, those spiritual repasts — a grace before Milton — a grace before Shakspeare — a devo- tional exercise proper to be said before reading the Fairy Queen? — but the received ritual having prescribed these forms to the solitary ceremony of manducation, I shall confine my observations to the experience which I have had of the grace, properly so called ; commending my new scheme for extension to a niche in the grand philosophi- cal, poetical, and perchance in part heretical, liturgy, now compiling by my friend Homo Humanus, for the use of a certain snug con- 388 GEACE BEFORE MEAT. gregation of Utopian Rabelsesian Christians, no matter where assembled. The form, then, of the benediction before eating has its beauty at a poor man's table, or at the simple and unprovocative repast of children. It is here that the grace becomes exceedingly graceful. The indigent man, ■who hardly knows whether he shall have a meal the next day or not, sits down to his fare with a pi-esent sense of the blessing, which ean be but feebly acted by the rich, into whose minds the conception of wanting a dinner could never, but by some extreme theory, have entered. The proper end of food — the animal sustenance — is barely con- templated by them. The poor man's bread is his daily bread, literally his bread for the day. Their courses are perennial. Again the plainest diet seems the fittest to be preceded by the grace. That which is least stimulative to appetite, leaves the mind most free for foreign considerations. A man may feel thankful, heartily thankful, over a dish of plain mutton with turnips, and have leisure to reflect upon the ordinance and institution of eating; when he shall confess a perturbation of mind, inconsistent with the purposes of the grace, at the presence of venison or turtle. When I have sate (a rarus hospes) at rich men's tables, with the savoury soup and messes steaming up the nostrils, and moistening the lips of the guests with desire and a distracted choice, I have felt the introduction of that ceremony to be unseasonable. With the ravenous orgasm upon you, it seems impertinent to interpose a religious sentiment. It is a confusion of purpose to mutter out praises from a mouth that waters. The heats of epicurism put out the gentle flame of devotion. The incense which rises round is pagan, and the belly- god intercepts it for his own. The very excess of the provision beyond the needs, takes away all sense of proportion between the end and means. The giver is veiled by his gifts. You are startled at the injustice of returning thanks — for what? — for having too much, while so many starve. It is to praise the Gods amiss. I have observed this awkwardness felt, scarce consciously perhaps, by the good man who says the grace. I have seen it in clergy- men and others — a sort of shame-— a sense of the co-presence of circumstances which un- hallow the blessing. After a devotional tone put on for a few seconds, how rapidly the speaker will fall into his common voice ! helping himself or his neighbour, as if to get rid of some uneasy sensation of hypocrisy. Not that the good man was a hypocrite, or was not most conscientious in the discharge of the duty ; but he felt in his inmost mind the incompatibility of the Scene and the viands before him with the exercise of a calm and rational gratitude. I hear somebody exclaim, — Would you have Christians sit down at table, like hogs to their troughs, without remembering the Giver? — no — I would have them sit down as Christians, remembering the Giver, and lesa like hogs. Or if their appetites must run riot, and they must pamper themselves with delicacies for which east and west are ran- sacked, I would have them postpone their benediction to a fitter season, when appetite is laid ; when the still small voice can be heard, and the reason of the grace returns — with temperate diet and restricted dishes. Gluttony and surfeiting are no proper occa- sions for thanksgiving. When Jeshurum waxed fat, wo read that he kicked. Virgil knew the harpy-nature better, when he put into the mouth of Celseno anything but a blessing. We may be gratefully sensible of the deliciousness of some kinds of food beyond others, though that is a meaner and inferior gratitude : but the proper object of the grace is sustenance, not relishes ; daily bread, not delicacies ; the means of life, and not the means of pampering the carcass. With what frame or composure, I wonder, can a city chaplain pronounce his benediction at some great Hall-feast, when he knows that his last concluding pious word — and that in all probability, the sacred name which he preaches — is but the signal for so many impatient harpies to commence their foul orgies, with as little sense of true thank- fulness (which is temperance) as those Virgilian fowl ! It is well if the good man himself does not feel his devotions a little clouded, those foggy sensuous steams mingling with and polluting the pure altar sacrifice. The severest satire upon full tables and surfeits is the banquet which Satan, in the " Paradise Regained," provides for a tempta- tion in the wilderness : GRACE BEFORE MEAT. 389 A table richly spread In regal mode With dishes piled, and meats of noblest sort And savour ; beasts of chase, or fowl of game, In pastry built, or from the spit, or boiled, Gris-amber-steamed; all fish from sea or shore, Freshet or purling brook, for which was drained Pontus, and Lucrine bay, and Afric coast. The Tempter, I warrant you, thought these cates would go down without the recom- mendatory preface of a benediction. They are like to be short graces where the devil plays the host.— I am afraid the poet wants his usual decorum in this place. Was he thinking of the old Roman luxury, or of a gaudy day at Cambridge ? This was a tempta- tion fitter for a Heliogabalus. The whole banquet is too civic and culinary, and the accompaniments altogether a profanation of that deep, abstracted holy scene. The mighty artillery of sauces, which the cook-fiend conjures up, is out of proportion to the simple wants and plain hunger of the guest. He that disturbed him in his dreams, from his dreams might have been taught better. To the temperate fantasies of the famished Son of God, what sort of feasts presented themselves? — He dreamed indeed, As appetite is wont to dream, Of meats and drinks, nature's refreshment sweet. But what meats ? — Him thought, he by the brook of Cherith stood, And saw the ravens with their horny beaks Food to Elijah bringing even and morn; Though ravenous, taught to abstain from what they brought; He saw the prophet also how he fled Into the desert and bow there he slept Under a juniper ; then how awaked He found his supper on the coals prepared, And by the angel was bid rise and eat, And ate the second time after repose, The strength whereof sufficed him forty days : Sometimes, that with Elijah he partook. Or as a guest with Daniel at his pulse. Nothing in Milton is finelier fancied than these temperate dreams of the divine Hungerer. To which of these two visionary banquets, think you, would the introduction of what is called the grace have been the most fitting and pertinent? Theoretically I am no enemy to graces ; but practically I own that (before meat especially) they seem to involve something awkward and unseasonable. Ogr appetites, of one or another kind, are excellent spurs to our reason, which might otherwise but feebly set about the great ends of preserving and continuing the species. They are fit blessings to be contemplated at a distance with a becoming gratitude ; but the moment of appetite (the judicious reader will appre- hend me) is, perhaps, the least fit season for that exercise. The Quakers, who go about their business of every description with more calmness than we, have more title to the use of these benedictory prefaces. I have always admired their silent grace, and the more because I have observed their applications to the meat and drink following to be less passionate and sensual than ours. They are neither gluttons nor wine-bibbers as a people. They eat, as a horse bolts his chopped hay, with indifi'erence, calmness, and cleanly cir- cumstances. They neither grease nor slop themselves. When I see a citizen in his bib and tucker, I cannot imagine it a surplice. I am no Quaker at my food. I confess I am not indifi"erent to the kinds of it. Those unctuous morsels of deer's flesh were not made to be received with dispassionate services. I hate a man who swallows it, afi"ecting not to know what he is eating. I suspect his taste in higher matters. I shrink instinctively from one who professes to like minced veal. There is a physiognomical character in the tastes for food. C holds that a man cannot have a pure mind who refuses apple-dumplings. I am not certain but he is right. With the decay of my first innocence, I confess a less and less relish daily for those innocuous cates. The whole vegetable tribe have lost their gust with me. Only I stick to asparagus, which still seems to inspire gentle thoughts. I am impatient and querulous under culinary disappoint- ments, as to come home at the dinner hour, for instance, expecting some savoury mess, and to find one quite tasteless and sapidless. Butter ill melted — that commonest of kitchen failures — puts me beside my tenor. — The author of the Rambler used to make inarticu- late animal noises over a favourite food. Was this the music quite proper to be preceded by the grace? or would the pious man have done better to postpone his devotions to a season when the blessing might be contem- plated with less perturbation? I quarrel with no man's tastes, nor would set my thin face against those excellent things, in their way, jollity and feasting. But as these exercises, however laudable, have little in 890 GRACE BEFORE MEAT. them of grace or gracefulness, a man should be sure, before he ventures so to grace them, that while he is pretending his devotions otherwhere, he is not secretly kissing his hand to some great fish — his Dagon — with a special consecration of no ark but the fat tureen before him. Graces are the sweet preluding strains to the banquets of angels and children ; to the roots and jseverer repasts of the Chartreuse ; to the slender, but not slenderly acknowledged, refection of the poor and humble man : but at the heaped-up boards of the pampered and the luxurious they become of dissonant mood, less timed and tuned to the occasion, methinks, than the noise of those better befitting organs would be which children hear tales of, at Hog's Norton. We sit too long at our meals, or are too curious in the study of them, or too disordered in our application to them, or engross too great a portion of those good things (which should be common) to our share, to be able with any grace to say grace. To be thankful for what we grasp exceeding our proportion, is to add hypocrisy to injustice. A lurking sense of this truth is what makes the performance of this duty so cold and spiritless a service at most tables. In houses where the grace is as indispensable as the napkin, who has not seen that never-settled question arise, as to who shall say it ? while the good man of the house and the visitor clergyman, or some other guest belike of next authority, from years or gravity, shall be bandying about the office between them as a matter of compliment, each of them not unwilling to shift the awkward burthen of an equivocal duty from his own shoulders? I once drank tea in company with two Methodist divines of difi"erent persuasions, whom it was my fortune to introduce to each other for the first time that evening. Before the first cup was handed round, one of these reverend gentlemen put it to the other, with all due solemnity, whether he chose to say anything. It seems it is the custom with some sectaries to put up a short prayer before this meal also. His reverend brother did not at first quite apprehend him, but upon an explanation, with little less importance he made answer that it was not a^ custom known in his church : in which courteous evasion the other acquiescing for good man- ners' sake, or in compliance with a weak brother, the supplementary or tea-grace was waived altogether. With what spirit might not Lucian have painted two priests, of his religion, playing into each other's hands tho compliment of performing or omitting a sacrifice, — the hungry God meantime, doubt- ful of his incense, with expectant nostrils hovering over the two flamens, and (as be- tween two stools) going away in the end without his supper. A short form upon these occasions is felt to want reverence ; a long one, I am afraid, cannot escape the charge of impertinence. I do not quite approve of the epigrammatic conciseness with which that equivocal wag (but my pleasant school-fellow) C. V. L., when importuned for a grace, used to inquire, first slyly leering down the table, " Is there no clergyman here," — significantly adding, " Thank G— ," Nor do I think our old form at school quite pertinent, where we were used to. preface our bald bread-and-cheese- suppers with a preamble, connecting with that humble blessing a recognition of bene- fits the most awful and overwhelming to the imagination which religion has to oifer. Non tunc illis erat locus. I remember we were put to it to reconcile the phrase " good crea- tures," upon which the blessing rested, with the fare set before us, wilfully understanding that expression in a low and animal sense, — till some one recalled a legend, which told how, in the golden days of Christ's, the young Hospitallers were wont to hav& smok- ing joints of roast meat upon their nightly boards, till some pious benefactor, commiser- ating the decencies, rather than the palates, of the children, commuted our flesh for gar- ments, and gave us — horresco referens — trou- sers instead of mutton. DREAM CHILDREN ; A REVERIE. 391 DREAM CHILDREN; A REVERIE. Children love to listen to stories about their elders, when they were children; to stretch their imagination to the conception of a traditionary great-uncle, or grandame, whom they never saw. It was in this spirit that my little ones crept about me the other evening to hear about their great-grand- mother Field, who lived in a great house in Norfolk (a hundred times bigger than that in which they and papa lived) which had been the scene — so at least it was generally believed in that part of the country — of the tragic incidents which they had lately become familiar with from tlfe ballad of the Children in the Wood. Certain it is that the whole story of the children and their cruel uncle was to be seen fairly carved out in wood upon the chimney-piece of the great hall, the whole story down to the Robin Redbreasts ; till a foolish rich person pulled it down to set up a marble one of modern invention in its stead, with no story upon it. Here Alice put out one of her dear mother's looks, too tender to be called upbraiding. Then I went on to say, how religious and how good their great-grandmother Field was, how beloved and respected by everybody, though she was not indeed the mistress of this great house, biit had only the charge of it (and yet in some respects she might -be said to be the mistress of it too) committed to her by the owner, who preferred living in a newer and more fashionable mansion which he had pur- chased somewhere in the adjoining county; but still she lived in it in a manner as if it had been her own, and kept up the dignity of the great house in a sort while she lived, which afterwards came to decay, and was nearly pulled down, and all its old orna- ments stripped and carried away to the owner's other house, where they were set up, and looked as awkward as if some one were to carry away the old tombs they had seen lately at the Abbey, and stick them up in Lady C.'s tavrdry gilt drawing-room. Here John smiled, as much as to say, " that would be foolish indeed." And then I told how, when she came to die, her funeral was attended by a concourse of all the poor, and some of the gentry too, of the neighbourhood for many miles round, to show their respect for her memory, because she had been such a good and religious woman ; so good indeed that she knew all the Psaltery by heart, ay, and a great part of the Testament besides. Here little Alice spread her hands. Then I told what a tall, upright, graceful person their great-grandmother Field once was ; and how in her youth she was esteemed the best dancer — here Alice's little right foot played an involuntary movement, till, upon my look- ing grave, it desisted — the best dancer, I was saying, in the county, till a cruel disease, called a cancer, came, and bowed her down with pain ; but it could never bend her good spirits, or make them stoop, but they were still upright, because she was so good and religious. Then I told how she was used to sleep by herself in a lone chamber of the great lone house ; and how she believed that an apparition of two infants was to be seen at midnight gliding up and down the great staircase near vvhere she slept, but she said " those innocent would do her no harm ; " and how frightened I used to be, though in those days I had my maid to sleep with me, because I was never half so good or reli- gious as she — and yet I never saw the infants. Here John expanded all his eyebrows and tried to look courageous. Then I told how good she was to all her grandchildren, having us to the great house in the holydays, where I in particular used to spend many hours by myself, in gazing upon the old busts of the twelve Caesars, that had been Emperors of Rome, till the old marble heads would seem to live again, or I to be turned into marble with them ; how I never could be tired with roaming about that huge mansion, with its vast empty rooms, with their worn-out hang- ings, fluttering tapestry, and carved oaken pannels, with the gilding almost rubbed out — sometimes in the spacious old-fashioned gardens, which I had almost to myself, unless 392 DREAM CHILDREN: A REVERIE, when now and then a solitary gardening man would cross me — and how the nectarines and peaches hung upon the walls, without my ever offering to pluck them, because they were forbidden fruit, unless now and then, — and because I had more pleasure in strolling about among the old melancholy-looking yew- trees, or the firs, and picking up the red berries, and the fir-apples, which were good for nothing but to look at — or in lying about upon the fresh grass with all the fine garden smells around me — or basking in the orangery, till I could almost fancy myself ripening too along with the oranges and the limes in that grateful warmth — or in watch- ing the dace that darted to and fro in the fish-pond, at the bottom of the garden, with here and there a great sulky pike hanging midway down the water in silent state, as if it mocked at their impertinent friskings, — I had more pleasure in these busy-idle diver- sions than in all the sweet flavours of peaches, nectarines, oramges, and such-like common baits of children. Here John slyly deposited back upon the plate a bunch of grapes, which, rot unobserved by Alice, he had meditated dividing with her, and both seemed willing to relinquish them for the present as irrele- vant. Then, in somewhat a more heightened tone, I told how, though their great-grand- mother Field loved all her grandchildren, yet in an especial manner she might be said to love their uncle, John L— = — , because he was so handsome and spirited a youth, and a king to the rest of us; and, instead of moping about in solitary corners, like some of us, he would mount the most mettlesome horse he could get, when but an imp no bigger than themselves, and make it carry him half over the country in a morning, and join the hunters when there were any out — and yet he loved the old great house and gardens too, but had too much spirit to be always pent up within their boundaries — and how their uncle grew up to man's estate as brave as he was handsome, to the admira- tion of everybody, but of their great-grand- mother Field most especially; and how he used to carry me upon his back when I was a lame-footed boy — for he was a good bit older than me — many a mile when I could not wnlk-for pain ; — and how in after life he became lame-footed too, and I did not always (I fear) make allowances enough for him when he was impatient, and in pain, nor remember suiBciently how considerate he had been to me when I was lame-footed; 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 heatt 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, and was as uneasy without him, as he their poor uncle must have been when the doctor took ofi" his limb. — Here the children fell a crying, and asked if their little mourning which they had on was not for uncle John, and they looked up, and prayed me not to go on about their uncle, but to tell them some stories about their pretty dead mother. Then I told how for seven long years, in hope sometimes, sometimes in de- spair, yet persisting ever, I courted the fair Alice W n ; and, as much as children could understand, I explained to them what coyness, and difficulty, and denial, meant in maidens — 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. DISTANT CORRESPONDENTS. 393 DISTANT COEKESPONDENTS. IN A LETTER TO B. K. ESQ., AT SYDNEY, NEW SOUTH WALES, Mr DEAR F. — When I think how welcome the sight of a letter from the world where you were born must be to you in that strange one to which you have been trans- planted, I feel some compunctious visitings at my long silence. But, indeed it is no easy effort to set about a correspondence at our distance. The weary world of waters between us oppresses the imagination. It is difficult to conceive how a scrawl of mine should ever stretch across it. It is a sort of presumption to expect that one's thoughts should live so far. It is like writing for pos- terity ; and reminds me of one of Mrs. Rowe's superscriptions, " Alcander to Stre- phon in the shades." Cowley's Post-Angel is no more than would be expedient in such an intercourse. One drops a packet at Lom- bard-street, and in twenty-four hours a friend in Cumberland gets it as fresh as if it came in ice. It is only like whispering through a long trumpet. But suppose a tube let down from the moon, with yourself at one end and the man at the other ; it would be some balk to the spirit of conversation, if you knew that the dialogue exchanged with that in- teresting theosophist would take two or three revolutions of a higher luminary in its pas- sage. Yet, for aught I know, you may be some parasangs nigher that primitive idea — . Plato's man — than we in England here have the honour to reckon ourselves. Epistolary matter usually compriseth three topics ; news, sentiment, and puns. In the latter, I include all non-serious subjects ; or subjects serious in themselves, but treated after my fashion, non-seriously. • — And first, for news. In them the most desirable cir- cumstance, I suppose, is that they shall be true. But what security can I have that what I now send you for truth shall not, before you get it, unaccountably turn into a lie? For instance, our mutual friend P. is at this present writing — my Now — in good hfalth, and enjoys a fair share of worldly reputation. You are glad to hear it. This is natural and friendly. But at this present reading — your Noio — he may possibly be in the Bench, or going to be hanged, which in reason ought to abate something of your transport (i. e. at hearing he was well, &c.), or at least considerably to modify it. I am going to the play this evening, to have a laugh with Munden. You have no theatre, I think you told me, in your land of d d realities. You naturally lick your lips, and envy me my felicity. Think but a moment, and you will correct the hateful emotion. Why it is Sunday morning with you, and 1823. This confusion of tenses, this grand solecism of two ^jre5e?ii!5, is in a degree common to all postage. But if I sent you word to Bath or Devizes, that I was ex- pecting the aforesaid treat this evening, though at the moment you received the in- telligence my full feast of fun would be over, yet there would be for a day or two after, as you would well know, a smack, a relish left upon my mental palate, which would give rational encouragement for you to foster a portion, at least, of the disagreeable passion, which it was in part my intention to pro- duce. But ten months hence, your envy or your sympathy would be as useless as a passion spent upon the dead. Not only does truth, in these long intervals, un-essence herself, but (what is harder) one cannot venture a crude fiction, for the fear that it may ripen into a truth upon the voyage. What a wild improbable banter I put upon you, some three years since, of Will Weatherall having married a servant-maid ! I remember gravely consulting you how we were to receive her — for Will's wife was in no case to be rejected ; and your no less serious replication in the matter ; how ten- derly you advised an abstemious introduction of literary topics before the lady, with a caution not to be too forward in bringing on the carpet matters more within the sphere of her intelligence; your deliberate judgment, or rather wise suspension of sentence, how 894 DISTANT CORUESPONDENTS. far jacks, and spits, and mops, could, with propriety, be introduced as subjects ; whether the conscious avoiding of all such matters in discourse would not have a worse look than the taking of them casually in our way ; in what manner we should carry ourselves to our maid Becky, Mrs. William Weatherall being by ; whether we should show more delicacy, and a truer sense of respect for Will's wife, by treating Becky with our cus- tomary chiding before her, or by an unusual deferential civility paid to Becky, as to a person of great worth, but thrown by the caprice of fate into a humble station. There were difficulties, I remember, on both sides, which you did 'me the favour to state with the precision of a lawyer, united to the ten- derness of a friend. I laughed in my sleeve at your solemn pleadings, when lo ! while I was valuing myself upon this flam put upon you in New South Wales, the devil in Eng- land, jealous possibly of any lie-children not his own, or working after my copy, has actually instigated our friend (not three days since) to the commission of a matrimony, which I had only conjured up for your diversion. William Weatherall has married Mrs. Cotterel's maid. But to take it in its truest sense, you will see, my dear F., that news from me must become history to you ; which I neither profess to write, nor indeed care much for reading. No person, under a diviner, can, with any prospect of veracity, conduct a correspondence at such an arm's length. Two prophets, indeed, might thus interchange intelligence with effect ; the epoch of the writer (Ilabakkuk) falling in with the true present time of the receiver (Daniel); but 'then we are no prophets. Then as to sentiment. It fares little better with that. This kind of dish, above all, requires to be served up hot, or sent off in water-plates, that your friend may have it almost as warm as yourself. If it have time to cool, it is the most tasteless of all cold meats. I have often smiled at a conceit of the late Lord C. It seems that travelling somewhere about Geneva, he came to some pretty green spot, or nook, where a willow, or something, hung so fantastically and in- vitingly over a stream — was it ? — or a rock ? — no matter — but the stillness and the re- pose, after a weary journey, 'tis likely, in a languid moment of his Lordship's hot, rest- less life, so took his fancy that he could imagine no place so proper, in the event of his death, to lay his bones in. This was all very natural and excusable as a sentiment, and shows his character in a very pleasing light. But when from a passing sentiment it came to be an act; and when, by a posi- tive testamentary disposal, his remains were actually carried all that way from England ; who was there, some desperate sentimen- talists excepted, that did not ask the ques- tion, Why could not his Lordship have found a spot as solitary, a nook as romantic, a tree as green and pendent, with a stream as em- blematic to his purpose, in Surrey, in Dorset, or in Devon ? Conceive the sentiment boarded up, freighted, entered at the Custom House (startling the tide-waiters with the novelty), hoisted into a "ship. Conceive it pawed about and handled between the rude jests of tarpaulin ruffians — a thing of its delicate texture — the salt bilge wetting it till it became as vapid as a damaged lustring. Suppose it in material danger (mariners have some superstition about sentiments) of being tossed over in a fresh gale to some propitia tory shark (spirit of Saint Gothard, save us from a quietus so foreign to the deviser's purpose !) but it has happily evaded a fishy consummation. Trace it then to its lucky landing — at Lyons shall we say? — I have not the map before me — jostled upon four men's shoulders — baiting at this town — stopping to refresh at t'other village — waiting a passport hei-e, a license there; the sanction of the magistracy in this district, the concurrence of the ecclesiastics in that canton ; till at length it arrives at its desti- nation, tired out and jaded, from a brisk sentiment into a feature of silly pride or tawdry senseless affectation. How few sen- timents, my dear F., I am afraid we can set down, in the sailor's phrase, as quite sea- worthy. Lastly, as to the agreeable levities, which, though contemptible in bulk, are the twink- ling corpuscula which should irradiate a right friendly epistle — your puns and small jests are, I apprehend, extremely circum- scribed in their sphere of action. They are so far from a capacity of being packed up and sent beyond sea, they will scarce endure to be transported by hand fi-om this room to the next. Their vigour is as the instant of DISTANT CORRESPONDENTS. 395 their birth. Their nutriment for their brief existence is the intellectual atmosphere of the by-standers: or this last is the fine slime of Nilus — the melior lutus — whose maternal recipiency is as necessary as the sol pater to their equivocal generation. A pun hath a hearty kind of present ear-kissing smack with it ; you can ho more transmit it in its pristine flavour than you can send a kiss. — Have you not tried in some instances to palm off a yesterday's pun upon a gentleman, and has it answered? Not but it was new to his hearing, but it did not seem to come new from you. It did not hitch in. It was like picking up at a village ale-house a two- days'-old newspaper. You have not seen it before, but you resent the stale thing as an affront. This sort of merchandise above all requires a quick return. A pun, and its recognitory laugh, must be co-instantaneous. The one is the brisk lightning, the other the fierce thunder. A moment's interval, and the link is snapped. A pun is reflected from a friend's face as from a mirror. Who would consult his sweet visnomy, if the polished surface were two or three minutes (not to speak of twelve months, my dear F.) in giving back its copy? I cannot image to myself whereabout you are. When I try to fix it, Peter Wilkins's island comes across me. Sometimes you seem to be in the Hades of Thieves. I see Diogenes prying among you with his pei-- petual fruitless lantern. What must you be willing by this time to give for the sight of an honest man ! You must almost have for- gotten how ive look. And tell me what your Sydneyites do? are they th**v*ng all day long? Merciful heaven! what property can stand against such a depredation ! The kangaroos — "your Aborigines — do they keep their primitive simplicity un-Europe-tainted, with those little short fore puds, looking like a lesson framed by nature to the pickpocket ! Marry, for diving into fobs they are rather lamely provided a priori; but if the hue and cry were once up, they would show as fair a pair of hind-shifters las the expertest loco-motor in the colony. We hear the most improbable tales at this distance. Pray is it true that the young Spartans among you are born with six fingers, which spoils their scanning? — It miast look very odd, but use reconciles. For their scansion, it is less to be regretted; for if they take it into their heads to be poets, it is odds but they turn out, the greater part of them, vile plagiarists. Is there much difference to see, too, between the son of a th**f and the grandson ? or where does the taint stop? Dd you bleach in three or in four generations ? I have many questions to put, but ten Delphic voyages can be made in a shorter time than it will take to satisfy my scruples. Do you grow your own hemp? — What is your staple trade, — exclusive of the national profession, I mean? Your locksmiths, I take it, are some of your great capitalists. I am insensibly chatting to you as fami- liarly as when we used to exchange good- morrows out of our old continguous windows, in pump-famed Ilare-court in the Temple, Why did you ever leave that quiet corner ? — Why did I? — with its complement of four poor elms, from whose smoke-dyed barks, the theme of jesting ruralists, I picked my first lady-birds ! My heart is as dry as that spring sometimes proves in a thirsty August, when I revert to the space that is between us ; a length of passage enough to render obselete the phrases of our English letters before they can reach you. But while I talk I think you hear me, — thoughts dallying with vain surmise — Aye me! whUe thee the seas and sounding shores Hold far away. Come back, before I am grown into a very old man, so as you shall hardly know me. Come, before Bridget walks on crutches. Girls whom you left children have become sage matrons while you are tarrying there. The blooming Miss W — r (you remember Sally W — r) called upon us yesterday, an aged crone. Folks whom you knew die off every year. Formerly, I thought that death was wearing out, — I stood ramparted about with so many healthy friends. The depar- ture of J. W., two springs back, corrected my delusion. Since then the old divorcer has been busy. If you do not make haste to return, there will be little left to greet you, of me, or mine. 396 THE PRAISE OF CHIMNEY-SWEEPERS. THE PRAISE OF CHIMNEY-SWEEPERS. I LIKE to meet a sweep — understand me — not a grown sweeper — old chimney-sweepers are by no means attractive — but one of those tender novices, blooming through their first nigritude, the maternal washings not quite effaced from the cheek — • such as come forth with the dawn, or somewhat earlier, with their little professional notes sounding like the peep peep of a young sparrow; or liker to the matin lark should I pronounce them, in their aerial ascents not seldom anticipating the sun-rise ? I have a kindly yearning toward these dim specks — poor blots — innocent blacknesses — I reverence these young Africans of our own growth — these almost clergy imps, who sport their cloth without assumption ; and from their little pulpits (the tops of chimneys,) in the nipping air of a December morning, preach a lesson of patience to mankind. When a child, what a mysterious pleasure it was to witness their operation ! to see a chit no bigger than one's-self, enter, one knew not by what process, into what seemed the fauces Avei-ni — to pursue him in imagination, as he went sounding on through so many dark stifling caverns, horrid shades ! to shudder with the idea that " now, surely, he must be lost forever!" — to revive at hearing his feeble shout of discovered day-light — and then (0 fulness of delight!) running out of doors, to come just in time to see the sable phenomenon emerge in safety, the brandished weapon of his art victorious like some flag waved over a conquered citadel ! I seem to remember having been told, that a bad sweep was once left in a stack with his brush, to indicate which way the wind blew. It was an awful spectacle certainly ; not much unlike the old stage direction in Macbeth, where the " Apparition of a child crowned, with a tree in his hand, rises." Reader, if thou meetest one of these small gentry in thy early rambles, it is good to give him a pennyi It is better to give him two- pence. If it be starving weather, and to the proper troubles of his hard occupation, a pair of kibed heels (no unusual accompaniment) be superadded, the demand on thy humanity will surely rise to a tester. There is a composition, the ground-work of which I have understood tb be the sweet wood 'yclept sassafras. This wood boiled down to a kind of tea, and tempered with an infusion of milk and sugar, hath to some tastes a delicacy beyond the China luxury. I know not how thy palate may relish it; for myself, with every deference to the judicious Mr. Read, who hath time out of mind kept open a shop (the only one he avers in London) for the vending of this "whole- some and pleasant beverage," on the south- side of Fleet-street, as thou approachest Bridge-street — the only Salopian house — I have never yet adventured to dip my own particular lip in a basin of his commended ingredients — a cautious premonition to the olfactories constantly whispering to me, that my stomach must infallibly, with all due courtesy, decline it. Yet I have seen palates, otherwise not uninstructed in dietetical elegancies, sup it up with avidity. I know not by what particular conforma- tion of the organ it happens, but I have always found that this composition is sur- prisingly 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 sassafrass 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 ex- citement 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 spring of THE PRAISE OF CHIMNEY-SWEEPERS. 897 valerian. ' There is something more in these sympathies than philosophy can inculcate. Now albeit Mr. Read boasteth, not with- out reason, that his is the onhj Salopian house; yet be it known to thee, reader — if thou art one who keepest what are called good hours, thou art haply ignorant of the fact — he hath a race of industrious imitators, who from stalls, and under open sky, dispense the same savoury mess to humbler customers, at that dead time of the dawn, when (as extremes wieet) the rake, reeling home from his mid- night cups, and the hard-handed artisan leaving his bed to resume the premature labours of the day, jostle, not unfrequently to the manifest disconcerting of the former, for the honours of the pavement. It is the time when, in summer, between the espijed and the not yet relumined kitchen-fires, the kennels of our fair metropolis give forth their least satisfactory odours. The rake, who wisheth to dissipate his o'ernight vapours in more grateful coffee, curses the ungenial fume, as he passeth ; but the artisan stops to taste, and blesses the fragrant breakfast. This is saloop — the precocious herb-woman's darling — the delight of the early gardener, who transports his smoking cabbages oy break of day from Hammersmith to Covent- f;arden's famed piazzas — the delight, and oh ! I fear, too often the envy, of the unpennied sweep. Him, shouldst thou haply encounter, with his dim visage pendent over the grateful steam, regale him with a sumptuous basin (it will cost but three-halfpennies) and a slice of delicate bread and butter (an added halfpenny) — so may thy culinary fires, eased of the o'er-charged secretions from thy worse- placed hospitalities, curl up a lighter volume to the welkin — so may the descending soot never taint thy costly well-ingredienced soups — nor the odious cry, quick-reaching from street to street, of the Jired chimney, invite the rattling engines from ten adjacent parishes, to disturb for a casual scintillation thy peace and pocket ! I am by nature extremely susceptible of street affronts ; the jeers and taunts of the populace ; the low-bred triumph they display over the casual trip, or splashed stocking, of a gentleman. Yet can I endure the jocularity of a young sweep with something more than forgiveness. — In the last winter but one, pacing along Cheapside with my accustomed precipitation when I walk westward, a treacherous slide brought me upon my back in an instant. I scrambled up with pain and shame enough — yet outwardly trying to face it down, as if nothing had happened — when the roguish grin of one of these young wits encountered me. There he stood, point- ing me out with his dusky finger to the mob, and to a poor woman (I suppose his mother) in particular, till the tears for the exquisite- ness of the fun (so he thought it) worked themselves out at the corners of his poor red eyes, red from many a previous weeping, and soot-inflamed, yet twinkling through all with such a joy, snatched out of desolation, that Hogarth but Hogarth has got him already (how could he miss him?) in the March to Finchley, grinning at the pieman — there he stood, as he stands in the picture, irremovable, as if the jest was to last for ever — with such a maximum of glee, and minimum of mischief, in his mirth — for the grin of a genuine sweep hath absolutely no malice in it — that I could have been content, if the honour of a gentleman might endure it, to have remained his butt and his mockery till midnight. I am by theory obdurate to the seductive- ness of what are called a fine set of teeth. Every pair of rosy lips (the ladies must pardon me) is a casket presumably holding such jewels; but, methinks, they should take leave to " air" them as frugally as possible. The fine lady, or fine gentleman, who show me their teeth, show me bones. Yet must I confess, that from the mouth of a true sweep a display ( even to ostentation) of those white and shining ossifications, strikes me as an agreeable anomaly in manners, and an allow- able piece of foppery. It is, as when A sable cloud Turns forth her silver lining on the night. It is like some remnant of gentry not quite extinct ; a badge of better days ; a hint of nobility : — and, doubtless, under the ob- scuring darkness and double night of their forlorn disguisement, oftentimes lurketh good blood, and gentle conditions, derived from lost ancestry, and a lapsed pedigree. The premature apprenticements of these tender victims give but too much encouragement, I fear, to clandestine and almost infanti^ abductions; the seeds of civility and true 398 THE PRAISE OF CHIMNEY-SWEEPEES. courtesy, so often discernible in these yoong grafts (not otherwise to be accounted for) plainly hint at some forced adoptions ; many noble Rachels mourning for their children, even in our days, countenance the fact ; the tales of fairy-spiriting may shadow a lament- able verity, and the recovery of the young Montague be but a solitary instance of good fortune out of many irreparable and hopeless defiliations. In one of the state-beds at Arundel Castle, a few years since — under a ducal canopy — (that seat of the Howards is an object of curiosity to visitors, chiefly for its beds, in ■which the late duke was especially a connois- seur) — encircled with curtains of delicatest crimson, with starry coronets inwoven — folded between a pair of sheets whiter and softer than the lap where Venus lulled Ascanius — was discovered by chance, after all methods of search had failed, at noon-day, fast asleep, a lost chimney-sweeper. The little creature, having somehow conijjounded his passage among the intricacies of those lordly chimneys, by some unknown aperture had alighted upon this magnificent chamber; and, tired with his tedious explorations, was unable to resist the delicious invitement to repose, which he there saw exhibited ; so creeping between the sheets very quietly, laid his black head upon the pillow, and slept like a young Howard. Such is the account given to the visiters at the Castle. — But I cannot help seeming to perceive p confirmation of what I had just hinted at in this story. A high instinct was at work in the case, or I am mistaken. Is it probable that a poor child of that descrip- tion, with whatever weariness he might be visited, would have ventured, under such a penalty as he would be taught to expect, to uncover the sheets of a Duke's bed, and deliberately to lay himself down between them, when the rug, or the carpet, presented an obv'ous couch, still far above his preten- sions — is this probable, I would ask, if the great power of nature, which I contend for, had not been manifested within him, prompt- ing to the adventure? Doubtless this young nobleman (for such my mind misgives me that he must be) was allured by some memory, not amounting to' full consciousness, of his condition in infancy, when he was used to be lapped by his mother, or his nurse, in just such sheets as he there found, into which he was now but creeping back as into his proper incunabula, and resting-place. — By no other theory than by this sentiment of a pre- existent state ( as I may call it), can I explain a deed so venturous, and, indeed, upon any other system, so indecorous, in this tender, but unseasonable, sleeper. My pleasant friend Jem White was so impressed with a belief of metamorphoses like this frequently taking place, that in some sort to reverse the wrongs of fortune in these poor changelings,, he instituted an annual feast of chimney-sweepers, at which it was his pleasure to officiate as host and waiter. It was a solemn supper held in Smithfield, upon the yearly return of the fair of St. Bar);holomew. Cards were issued a week berore to the master-sweeps in and about the metropolis, confining the invitation to their younger fry. Now and then an elderly stripling would get in among us, and be good- naturedly winked at ; but our main body were infantry. One unfortunate wight indeed, who, relying upon his dusky suit, had intruded himself into our party, but by tokens was providentially discovered in time to be no chimney-sweeper, (all is not soot which looks so,) was quoited out of the presence with universal indignation, as not having on the wedding garment ; but in general the greatest harmony prevailed. The place chosen was a convenient spot among the pens, at the north side of the fair, not so far distant as to be impervious to the agree- able hubbub of that vanity ; but remote enough not to be obvious to the interruption of every gaping spectator in it. The guests assembled about seven. In those little tem- porary parlours three tables were spread with napery, not so fine as substantial, and at every board a comely hostess presided with her pan of hissing sausages. The nostrils of the young rogues dilated at the savour. James White, as head waiter, had charge of the first table ; and myself, with our trusty companion Biood, ordinarily ministered to the other two. There was clambering and jostling, you may be sure, who should get at the first table — for Rochester in his maddest days could not have done the humours of the scene with more spirit than my friend. After some general expression of thanks for the honour A COMPLAINT OF THE DECAY OF BEGGAES. 899 the company had done him, his inaugural ceremony was to clasp the greasy waist of old dame Ursula (the fattest of the three), that stood frying and fretting, half-blessing, half-cursing "the gentleman," and imprint upon her chaste lips a tender salute, whereat the universal host would set up a shout that tore the concave, while hundreds of grinning teeth startled the night with their brightness. it was a pleasure to see the sable younkers lick in the unctuous meat, with his more unctuous sayings — how he would fit the tit bits to the puny mouths, reserving the lengthier links for the seniors — how he would intercept a morsel even in the jaws of some young desperado, declaring it ''must to the pan again to be browned, for it was not fit for a gentleman's eating"— how he would recomm-end this slice of white bread, or that piece of kissing-crust, to a tender juvenile, advising them all to have a care of cracking their teeth, which were their best patrimony, — how genteelly he would deal about the small ale, as if it were wme, paming the brewer, and protesting, if it were not good, he should lose their custom ; with a special recommendation to wipe the lip before drinking. Then we had our toasts — "The King,"— "the Cloth,"— which, whether they understood or not, was equally diverting and flattering ; — and for a crowning senti- ment, which never failed, "May the Brusti supersede the Laurel ! " All these, and fifty other fancies, which were rather felt than comprehended by his guests, would he utter, standing upon tables, and prefacing every sentiment with a " Gentlemen, give me leave to propose so and so," which was a prodigious comfort to those young orphans; every now and then stuffing into his mouth (for it did not do to be squeamish on these occasions) indiscriminate pieces of those reeking sausages, which pleased them mightily, and was the savouriest part, you may believe, of the entertainment. Golden lads and lasses must, As chimney-sweepers, come to dust — James White is extinct, and with him these 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 for ever. A COMPLAINT OF THE DECAY OF BEGaARS, IN THE METROPOLIS. The all-sweeping besom of societarian re- formation—your only modern Alcides' club to rid the time of its abuses — is uplift with many- handed sway to extirpate the last fluttering tatters of the bugbear Mendicity from the metropolis. Scrips, wallets, bags — staves, dogs, and crutches — the whole men- dicant fraternity, with all their baggage, are fast posting out of the purlieus of this eleventh persecution. From the crowded crossing, from the corners of streets and turnings of alleys, the parting Genius of Beggary is " with sighing sent." I do not approve of this wholesale going to work, this impertinent crusado, or helium ad exterminationem, proclaimed against a species. Much good might be sucked from these Beggars. They were the oldest and the honourablest form of pauperism. Their appeals were to our common nature ; less revolting to an in- genuous mind than to be a suppliant to the particular humours or caprice of any fellow- creature, or set of fellow-creatures, parochial or societarian. Theirs were the only rates luninvidious in the levy, ungrudged in the I assessment. There was a dignity springing from the very depth of their desolation ; as to be naked is to be so much nearer to the being a man, than to go in livery. The greatest spirits have felt this in their reverses; and when Dionysius from king turned schoolmaster, do we feel anything towards him but contempt? Could Van- , dyke have made a picture of him, swaying 400 A COMPLAINT OF THE DECAY OF BEGGARS. n a ferula for a sceptre, which would have affected our minds with the same heroic pity, the same compassionate admiration, with which we regard his Belisarius begging for an obohirn f Would the moral have been more graceful, more pathetic? The Blind Beggar in the legend — the father of pretty Bessy — whose story doggrel rhymes and ale-house signs cannot so degrade or attenuate but that some sparks of a lustrous spirit will shine through the disguisements — this noble Earl of Cornwall (as indeed he was) and memorable sport of fortune, fleeing from the unjust sentence of his liege lord, stript of all, and seated on the flowering green of Bethnal, with his more fresh and springing daughter by his side, illumining his rags and his beggary — would the child and parent have cut a better figure doing the honours of a counter, or expiating their fallen condition upon the three-foot eminence of some sempstering shop-board ? In tale or history your Beggar is ever the just antipode to your King. The poets and roraancical writers (as dear Margaret New- castle would call them,) when they would most sharply and feelingly paint a reverse of fortune, never stop till they have brought down their hero in good earnest to rags and the wallet. The depth of the descent illus- trates the height he falls from. There is no medium which can be presented to the imagination without offence. There is no breaking the fall, Lear, thrown from his palace, must divest him of his garments, till he answer "mere nature;" and Cresseid, fallen from a prince's love, must extend her pale arms, pale with other whiteness than of beauty, supplicating lazar arms with bell and clap-dish. The Lucian wits knew this very well ; and, with a converse policy, when they would express scorn of greatness without the pity, they show us an Alexander in the shades cobbling shoes, or a Semiramis getting up foul linen. How would it sound in song, that a great monarch had declined his affections upon the daughter of a baker ! yet do we feel the imagination at all violated when we read the " true ballad," where King Cophetua woos the beggar maid? Pauperism, pauper, poor man, are expres- sions of pity, but pity alloyed with contempt. No one properly contemns a Beggar. Poverty is a comparative thing, and each degree of it is mocked by its " neighbour grice." Its poor rents and comings-in are soon summed up and told. Its pretences to property are almost ludicrous. Its pitiful attempts to save excite a smile. Every scornful com- panion can weigh his trifle-bigger purse against it. Poor man reproaches poor man in the street with impolitic mention of his condition, his own being a shade better, while the rich pass by and jeer at both. No rascally comparative insults a Beggar, or thinks of weighing purses with him. He is not in the scale of comparison. He is not under the measure of property. He con- fessedly hath none any more than a dog or a sheep. No one twitteth him with ostenta- tion above his means. No one accuses him of pride, or upbraideth him with mock humility. None jostle with him for the wall, or pick quarrels for precedency. No wealthy neighbour seeketh to eject him from his tenement. No man sues him. No man goes to law with him. If I were not the in- dependent gentleman that I am, rather than I would be a retainer to the great, a led captain, or a poor relation, I would choose, out of the delicacy and true greatness of my mind, to be a Beggar. Rags, which are the reproach of poverty, are the Beggar's robes, and graceful insignia of his profession, his tenure, his full dress, the suit in which he is expected to show himself in public. He is never out of the fashion, or limpeth awkwardly behind it. He is not required to put on court mourn- ing. He weareth all colours, fearing none. His costume hath undergone less change than the Quaker's. He is the only man in the universe who is not obliged to study appearances. The ups and downs of the world concern him no longer. He alone continueth in one stay. ■ The price of stock or land affecteth him not. The fluctuations of agricultural or commercial prosperity touch him not, or at worst but change his customers. He is not expected to become bail or surety for any one. No man troubleth him Avith questioning his religion or politics. He is the only free man in the universe. The Mendicants of this great city were so many of her sights, her lions. I can no more spare them than I could the Cries of London. A COMPLAINT OF THE DECAY OF BEGGARS. 401 No corner of a street is complete without them. They are as indispensable as the Ballad Singer; and in their picturesque attire as ornamental as the signs of old London. They were the standing morals, emblems, mementos, dial-mottos, the spital sermons, the books for children, the salutary checks and pauses to the high and rushing tide of greasy citizenry — Upon that poor and broken bankrupt there. Above all, those old blind Tobits that used' to line the wall of Lincoln^s-inn Garden, before modern fastidiousness had expelled them, casting up their ruined orbs to catch a ray of pity, and (if possible) of light, with their faithful Dog Guide at their feet, — whither are thej^ fled ? or into what corners, blind as themselves, have they been driven, out of the wholesome air and sun-warmth ? immersed between four walls, in what wither- ing poor-house do they endure the penalty of double darkness, where the chink of the dropt half-penny no more consoles their for- lorn bereavement, far from the sound of the cheerful and hope-stirring tread of the pas- senger? Where hang their useless staves? and who will farm their dogs? — Have the overseers of St. L — caused them to be shot ? or were they tied up in sacks and dropt into the Thames, at the suggestion of B — , the mild rector of ? Well fare the soul of unfastidious Vincent Bourne, most classical, and at the same time, most English of the Latinists ! — who has treated of this human and quadrupedal alliance, this dog and man friendship, in the sweetest of his poems, the EpitapMuin in Canem, or Dog's Epitaph. Reader, peruse it ; and say, if customary sights, which could call up such gentle poetry as this, were of a nature to do more harm or good to the moral sense of the passengers through the daily thoroughfares of a vast and busy metropolis. Pauperis hie Iri requieseo Lyciscus, herilis, Dutn vixi, tutela vigil columenque senect». Dux cseoo fidus; nee, me ducente, solebat, Prateuso bine atque hiuc baculo, per iniqua locorum Incertam explorare viani ; sed fila secutus, Qu£e dubios regerent passfts, vestigia tuta Fixit inofl'enpo gressu; gelidumque sedile In nudo nactus saxo, qua prajtereuntium Unda frequens coufluxit, ibi miserisque tenebras Lamentis, noctemque oculis ploravit obortam. Ploravit nee frustra ; obolum dedit alter et alter, 26 Queis corda et mentem indiderat natura benignam. Ad latus interea jacui sopitus berile, Tel mediis vigil in soranis; ad herilia jussa Auresque atque animum arrectus, seu frustula amic6 Porrexit sociasque dapes. seu longa diei T»dia perpessus, reditum sub noote parabat. Hi mores, hjec vita fuit, dum fata sinebant, Dum neque languebam morbis, neo inerte seneetS; Quse tandem obrepsit, veterique satellite CEeoum Orbavit dominum ; prisci sed gratia facti Ne tota intereat, lougos delecta per annos, Exiguum hunc Irus tumulum de cespite fecit, Etsi inopis, non ingratas, munuscula dextrse ; Carmine signavitque brevi, dominumque canemque Quod memoret, fidumque canem dominumque benignum. Poor Trus' faithful wolf-dog here I lie, That -wont to tend my old blind master's steps. His guide and guard : nor, while my service lasted, Had he occasion for that staff, with which He now goes picking out his path in fear Over the highways and crossings; but would plant, Safe in the conduct of my friendly string, A firm foot forward still, till he had reach'd His poor seat on some stone, nigh where the tide Of passers-by in thickest confluence flow'd: To whom with loud and passionate laments From morn to eve his dark estate he wail'd. Nor wail'd to all in vain ; some here and there, ^ The well-disposed and good, their pennies gave. I meantime at his feet obsequious slept; Not all-asleep in sleep, but heart and ear Prick'd up at his least motion ; to receive At his kind hand my customary crumbs. And common portion in his feast of scraps ; Or when night warn'd us homewB -d, tired and spent With our long day and tedious beggary. These were my manners, this my way of life, Till age and slow disease me overtook. And severed from my sightless master's side. But lest the grace of so good deeds should die. Through tract of years in mute obliviin lost. This slender tomb of turf hath Irus reared. Cheap monument of no ungrudging hand. And with short verse inscribed it, to attijt, In long and lasting union to attest, The virtues of the Beggar and his Dog. These dim eyes have in vain explored for some months past a well-known figure, or part of the figure of a man, who used to glide his comely upper half over the pave- ments of London, wheeling along with most ingenious celerity upon a machine of wood ; a spectacle to natives, to foreigners, and to children. He was of a robust make, with a florid sailor-like complexion, and his head was bare to the storm and sunshine. Ho was a natural curiosity, a speculation to the scientific, a prodigy to the simple. The in- fant would stare at the mighty man brought down to his own level. The common cripple would despise his own pusillanimity, viewing the hale stoutness, and hearty heart, of this half-limbed giant. Few but must have noticed him ; for the accident which brought 402 A COMPLAINT OF THE DECAY OF BEGGARS. him low took place during the riots of 1780, and he has been a groundling so long. He seemed earth-born, an Antaeus, and to suck in fresh vigour from the soil which he neigh- boured. He was a grand fragment; as good as an Elgin marble. The nature, which should have recruited his reft legs and thighs, was not [ost, but only retired into his upper parts, and he was half a Hercules. I heard a tre- mendous voice thundering and growling, as before an earthquake, and casting down my eyes, it was this mandrake reviling a steed that had started at his portentous appearance. He seemed to want but his just stature to have rent the offending quadruped in shivers. He vas as the man-part of a centaur, from which the horse half had been cloven in some dire Lapithan controversy. He moved on, as if he could have made shift with yet hali of the body-portion which was left him. The OS sublime was not wanting ; and he threw out yet a jolly countenance upon the heavens. Forty-and-two years had he driven this out-of-door trade, and now that his hair is grizzled in the service, but his good spirits no tray impaired, because he is not content to exchange his free air and exercise for the restraints of a poor-house, he is expiating his contumacy in one of those houses (ironically christened) of Correction. Was a daily spectacle like this to be deemed a nuisance, which called for legal in- terference to remove ? or not rather a salu- tary and a touching object to the passers- by in a great city? Among her shows, her museums, and supplies for ever-gaping curiosity (and what else but an accumula- tion of sights — endless sights — is a great city; or for what else is it desirable?) was there not room for one Lusus (not Naturce indeed, but) Accidentium ? What if in forty- and-two-years' going about, the man had scraped together enough to give a portion to his child, (as the rumour ran) of a few hun- dreds — whom had he injured? — whom had he imposed upon? The contributors had enjoyed their sight for their pennies. What if after being exposed all day to the heats, the rains, and the frosts of heaven — shuffling his ungainly trunk along in an elaborate and painful motion — he was enabled to retire at night to enjoy himself at a club of his fellow (iripples over a dish of hot meat and vege- tables, as the charge was gravely brought against him by a clergyman deposing before a House of Commons' Committee — was this, or was his truly paternal consideration, which (if a fact) deserved a statue rather than a whipping-post, and is inconsistent, at least, with the exaggeration of nocturnal orgies which he has been slandered with — a reason that he should,be deprived of his chosen, harm- less, nay edifying, way of life, and be commit- ted in hoary age for a sturdy vagabond? — There was a Yorick once, whom it would not have shamed to have sate down at the cripples' feast, and to have thrown in his benediction, ay, and his mite too, for a com- panionable symbol. "Age, thou hast lost thy breed." — Half of these stories about the prodigious fortunes made by begging are (I verily be- lieve) misers' calumnies. One was much talked of in the public papers some time since, and the usual charitable inferences deduced. A clerk in the Bank was surprised with the announcement of a five-hundred- pound legacy left him by a person whose name he was a stranger to. It seems that in his daily morning walks from Peckham (or some village thereabouts) where he lived, to his office, it had been his practice for the last twenty years to drop his halfpenny duly into the hat of some blind Bartimeus, that sate begging alms by the way-side in the Borough. The good old beggar recognised his daily benefactor by the voice only ; and, when he died, left all the amassings of hia alms (that had been half a century perhaps in the accumulating) to his old Bank friend. Was this a story to purse up people's hearts, and pennies, against giving an alms to the blind? — or not rather a beautiful moral of well-directed charity on the one part, and noble gratitude upon the other? I sometimes wish I had been that Bank clerk. I seem to remember a poor old grateful kind of creature, blinking, and looking up with his no eyes in the sun — Is it possible I could have steeled my purse against him? Perhaps I had no small change. Reader, do not be frightened at the hard words imposition, imposture — give, and ask no questions. Cast thy bread upon the waters. Some have unawares (like ^his Bank clerk) entertained angels. CMO'^ATylJ. a A DISSERTATION UPON ROAST PIG. 403 Shut not thy purse-strings always against painted distress. Act a charity sometimes. When a poor creature (outwardly and visibly such) comes before thee, do not stay to in- quire whether the " seven small children," in whose name he implores thy assistance, have a veritable existence. Rake not into the bowels of unwelcome truth to save a half- penny. It is good to believe him. If he be not all that he pretendeth, give, and under a personate father of a family, think (if thou pleasest) that thou hast relieved an indigent bachelor. When they come with their coun- terfeit looks, and mumping tones, think them players. You pay your money to see a comedian feign these things,, which, concern- ing these poor people, thou canst not cer- tainly tell whether they are feigned or not. A DISSERTATION UPON ROAST PIG. Mankind, says a Chinese manuscript, which my friend M. was obliging enough to read and explain to me, for the first seventy thousand ages ate their meat raw, clawing or bitifig-it from the living animal, just as they do in Abyssinia to this day. This period is not obscurely hinted at by their great Confucius in the second chapter of his Mundane Mutations, where he designates a kind of golden age by the term Cho-fang, literally the Cooks' Holiday. The manuscript goes on to say, that the art of roasting, or rather broiling (which I take to be the elder brother) was accidentally discovered in the manner following. The swine-herd, Ho-ti, having gone out into the woods one morning, as his manner was, to collect mast for his hogs, left his cottage in the care of his eldest son Bo-bo, a great lubberly boy, who being fond of playing with fire, as younkers of his age commonly are, let some sparks escape into a bundle of straw, which kindling quickly, spread the conflagration over every part of their poor mansion, till it was reduced to ashes. Together with the cottage (a sorry antediluvian make-shift of a building, you may think it), what was of much more im- • ortance, a fine litter of new-farrowed pigs, vo less than nine in number, perished. China igs have been esteemed a luxury all over the East, from the remotest periods that we read of. Bo-bo was in the utmost consterna- tion, as you may think, not so much for the sake of the tenement, which his father and he could easily build up again with a few dry branches, and the labour of an hour or two, at any time, as for the loss of the pigs. While he was thinking what he should say to his father, and wringing his hands over the smoking remnants of one of those un- timely sufferers, an odour assailed his nostrils, unlike any scent which he had before ex- perienced. What could it proceed from? — not from the burnt cottage — he had smelt that smell before — indeed this was by no means the first accident of the kind which had occurred through the negligence of this unlucky young fire-brand. Much less did it resemble that of any known herb, weed, or flower. A premonitory moistening at the same time overflowed his nether lip. He knew not what to think. He nex;t stooped down to feel the pig, if there were any signs of life in it. He burnt his fingers, and to cool them he applied them in his booby fashion to his mouth. Some of the crumbs of the scorched skin had come away with his fingers, and for the first time in his life (in the world's life indeed, for before him no man had known it) he tasted — crackling! Again he felt and fumbled at the pig. It did not burn him so much now, still he licked his fingers from a sort of habit. The truth at length broke into his slow understanding, that it was the pig that smelt so, and the pig that tasted so delicious ; and surrendering himself up to the new-born pleasure, be fell to tearing up whole handfuls of the scorched skin with the flesh next it, and was cramming it down his throat in his beastly fashion, when his sire entered amid the smoking rafters, armed with retributory cudgel, and finding how affairs stood, began to rain blows upon the young rogue's shoulders, as thick as hail-stones, which Bo-bo heeded not any more than if they had been flies. The 404 A DISSEKTATION UPON EOAST PIG. tickling ploasure, which he experienced in his lower regions, had rendered him quite callous to any inconveniences he might feel in those remote quarters.. His father might lay on, but he could not beat him from his pig, till he had fairly made an end of it, when, be- coming a little more sensible of his situation, something like the following dialogue ensued. ' " You graceless whelp, what have you got there devouring? Is it not enough that you have burnt me down three houses with your dog's tricks, and be hanged to you ! but you must be eating fire, and I know not what — what have you got there, I say?" " 0, father, the pig, the pig ! do come and taste how nice the burnt pig eats." The ears of Ho-ti tingled with horror. He cursed his son, and he cursed himself that ever he should beget a son that should eat burnt pig. Bo-bo, whose scent was wonderfully sharpened since morning, soon raked out another pig, and fairly rending it asunder, tlirust the lesser half by main force into the fists of Ho-ti, still shouting out, " Eat, eat, eat the burnt pig, father, only taste — Lord!" — with such-like barbarous ejacula- tions, cramming all the while as if he would choke. Ho-ti trembled every joint while he grasped the abominable thing, wavering whether he should not put his son to death for an unnatural young monster, when the crackling scorching his fingers, as it had done his son's, and applying the same remedy to them, he in his turn tasted some of its flavour, which, make what sour mouths he would for a pretence, proved not altogether displeasing to him. In conclusion (for the manuscript here is a little tedious), both father and son fairly sat down to the mess, and never left off till they had despatched all that remained of the litter. Bo-bo was strictly enjoined not to let the secret escape, for the neighbours would cer- tainly have stoned them for a couple of abominable wretches, who could think of improving upon the good meat which God had sent them. Nevertheless, strange stories got about. It was observed that Ho-ti's cottage was burnt down now more frequently than ever. Ncithing but fires from this time forward. Some would break out in broad day, others in the nightrtime. As often as the sow farrowed, so sure was the house of Ho-ti to be in a blaze ; and Ho-ti himself, which was the more remarkable, instead of chastising his son, seemed to grow more in- dulgent to him than ever. At length they were watched, the terrible mystery dis- covered, and father and son summoned to take their trial at Pekin, then an inconsider- able assize town. Evidence was given, the obnoxious food itself produced in court, and verdict about to be pronounced, when the foreman of the jury begged that some of th6 burnt pig, of which the culprits stood accused, might be handed into the box. He handled it, and they all handled it ; and burning their fingers, as Bo-bo and his father had done before them, and nature prompting to each of them the same remedy, against the face of all the facts, and the clearest charge which judge had ever given, — to the surprise of the whole court, townsfolk, strangers, reporters, and all present — without leaving the box, or any manner of consultation what- ever, they brought in a simultaneous verdict of Not Guilty. The judge, who was a shrewd fellow, winked at the manifest iniquity of the decision : and when the court was dismissed, went privily and bought up all the pigs that could be had for love or money. In a few days his lordship's town-house was observed, to be on fire. The thing took wing, and now there was nothing to be seen but fire in every direction. Fuel and pigs grew enor- mously dear all over the district. The insurance-offices one and all shut up shop. People built slighter and slighter every day, until it was feared that the very science of architecture would in no long time be lost to the world. Thus this custom of firing houses continued, till in process of time, says my manuscript, a sage arose, like our Locke, who made a discovery that the flesh of swine, or indeed of any other animal, might be cooked {burnt, as they called it) without the necessity of consuming a whole house to dress it. Then first began the rude form of a gridiron. Ptoasting by the string or spit came in a century or two later, I forget in whose dynasty. By such slow degrees, con- cludes the manuscript, do the most useful, and seemingly the most obvious, arts make their way among mankind Without placing too implicit faith in the A DISSERTATION UPON ROAST PIG. 405 account above given, it must be agreed that it a vrorthy pretext for so dangerous an expe- riment as setting houses on fire (especially in these days) could be assigned in favour of any culinary object, that pretext and excuse might be found in roast pig. Of all the delicacies in the vrhole mundus edibiles, I will maintain it to be the most delicate — princeps obsoniorum. I speak not of your grown porkers — things between pig and pork — those hobby- dehoys — but a young and tender suckling — under a moon old — guiltless as yet of the sty — with no original speck of the amor immim- ditice, the hereditary failing of the first parent, yet manifest — his voice as yet not broken, but something between a childish ■treble and a grumble — the mild forerunner or jyrceludium of a grunt. ffe must he roasted. I am not ignorant that our ancestors ate them seethed, or boiled — but what a sacrifice of the exterior tegument ! There is no flavour comparable, I will contend, to that of the crisp, tawny, well- watched, not over-roasted, crackling, as it is well called — the very teeth are invited to their share of the pleasure at this banquet in over- coming the coy, brittle resistance — with the adhesive oleaginous — call it not fat! but an indefinable sweetness growing up to it — the tender blossoming of fat — fat cropped in the bud — taken in the shoot — in the first innocence — the cream and quintessence of the child-pig's yet pure food the lean, no lean, but a kind of animal manna — or, rather, fat and lean (if it must be so) so blended and running into each other, that both together make but one ambrosian result or common substance. Behold him, while he is "doing" — it eeemeth rather a refreshing warmth, than a bcorching heat, that he is so passive to. IIow equably he twirleth round the string ! — Now he is just done. To see the extreme sensibi- lity of that tender age ! he hath wept out his pretty eyes — radiant jellies — shooting stars. — See him in the dish, his second cradle, how meek he lieth ! — wouldst thou have had this innocent grow up to th6 grossness and indo- cility which too often accompany maturer Bwinehood? Ten to one he would have proved a glutton, a sloven, an obstinate, dis- agreeable animal — wallowing in all manner of filthy conversation — from these sins he is happily snatched away — Ere sin could Wight or sorrow fade, Death came with timely care — his memory is odoriferous — no clown curseth, while his stomach half rejecteth, the rank bacon — no coalheaver bolteth him in reeking sausages — he hath a fair sepulchre in the grateful stomach of the judicious epicure — and for such a tomb might be content to die. He is the best of sapors. Pine-apple is great. She is indeed almost too trancend- ent — a delight, if not sinful, yet so like to sinning that really a tender-conscienced person would do well to pause — too ravishing for mortal taste, she woundeth and exco- riateth the lips that approach her — like lovers' kisses, she biteth — she is a pleasure bordering on pain from the fierceness and insanity of her relish — but she stoppeth at the palate — she meddleth not with the appe- tite — and the coarsest hunger might barter her consistently for a mutton-chop. Pig — let me speak his praise — is no less provocative of the appetite, than he is satis- factory to the criticalness of the censorious palate. The strong man may batten on him, and the weakling refuseth not his mild juices. Unlike to mankind's mixed characters, a bundle of virtues and vices, inexplicably intertwisted, and not to be unravelled with- out hazard, he is — good throughout. No part of him is better or worse than another. He helpeth, as far as his little means extend, all around. He is the least envious of ban- quets. He is all neighbours' fare. I am one of those, who freely and un. grudgingly impart a share of the good things of this life which fall to their lot (few as mine are in this kind) to a friend. I protest I take as great an interest in my friend's pleasures, his relishes, and proper satis- factions, as in mine own. " Presents," I often say, "endear Absents." Hares, pheasants, partridges, snipes, barn-door chickens (those "tame villatic fowl,") capons, plovers, brawn, barrels of oysters, I dispense as freely as I receive them. I love to taste them, as it were, upon the tongue of my friend. But a stop must be put somewhere. One would not, like Lear, " give everything." I make my stand upon pig. Methinks it is an ingratitude to the Giver of all good flavours 406 A BACHELOR'S COMPLAINT OF THE BEHAVIOUR OF MARRIED PEOPLE. to extra-domiciliate, or send out of the house slightingly (under pretest of friendship, or I know not what) a blessing so particularly adapted, predestined, I may say, to my individual palate. — It argues an insensibility. I remember a touch of conscience in this kind at school. My good old aunt, who never parted from me at the end of a holiday without stuffing a sweetmeat, or some nice thing into my pocket, had dismissed me one evening with a smoking plum-cake, fresh from the oven. In my way to school (it was over London bridge) a grey-headed old beggar saluted me (I have no doubt, at this time of day that he was a counterfeit.) I had no pence to console him with, and in the vanity of self-denial, and the very coxcombry of charity, schoolboy-like, I made him a pre- sent of — the whole cake ! I walked on a little, buoyed up, as one is on such occasions, with a sweet soothing of self-satisfaction ; but before I had got to the end of the bridge, my better feelings returned, and I burst into tears, thinking how ungrateful I had been to my good aunt, to go and give her good gift away to a stranger that I had never seen before, and who might be a bad man for aught I knew; and then I thought of the pleasure my aunt would be taking in think- ing that I — I myself, and not another — would eat her nice cake — and what should I say to her the next time I saw her — how naughty I was to part with her pretty present! — and the odour of that spicy cake came back upon my recollection, and the pleasure and the curiosity I had taken in seeing her make it, and her joy when she sent it to the oven, and how disappointed she would feel that I had never had a bit of it in my mouth at last — and I blamed my impertinent spirit of alms- giving, and out of-place hypocrisy of 'good- ness ; and above all I wished never to see the face again of that insidious, good-for-no- thing, old grey impostor. 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 philoso- phical light merely) what effect this process might have towards intenerating and dulci- fying 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. — I remember an hypothesis, argued upon by the young students, when I was at St. Omer's, and maintained with much learning and pleasantry on both sides, "Whether, sup- posing that the flavour of a pig who obtained his death by whipping {per fiagellationem extremam.) superadded a pleasure upon the palate of a man more intense than any possible sufi'ering we can conceive in the animal, is man justified in using that method of putting the animal to death?" I forget the decision. His sauce should be considered. Deci- dedly, a few bread crumbs, done up with his liver and brains, and a dash of mild sage. But banish, dear Mrs. Cook, I beseech you, the whole onion tribe. Barbecue your whole hogs to your palate, steep them in shalots, stuff them out with plantations of the rank and guilty garlic ; yon cannot poison therfa, or make them stronger than they are — but consider, he is a weakling — a flower. A BACHELOR'S COMPLAINT OF THE BEHAVIOUR OF MARRIED PEOPLE. As a single man, I have spent a good deal of my time in noting down the infirmities of Married People, to console myself for those superior pleasures, which they tell me I have lost by remaining as I am. I cannot say that the quarrels of men and their wives ever made any great impression upon me, or had much tendency to strengthen me in those anti-social resolutions, which I took up long ago upon more substantial con- siderations. What oftenest offends me at the houses of married persons where I visit, is an error of quite a different description ; — it is that they are too loving. A BACHELOR'S COMPLAINT OF THE BEHAVIOUR OP MARRIED PEOPLE. 407 Not too loving neither : that does not ex- plain my meaning. Besides, why should that offend me ? The very act of separating them- selves from the rest of the world, to have the fuller enjoyment of each other's society, implies that they prefer one anothor to all the world. But what I complain of is, that they carry this preference so undisguisedly, they perk it up in the faces of us single people so shamelessly, you cannot be in their company a moment without being made to feel, by some indirect hint or open avowal that you are not the object of this preference. Now there are some things which give no offence, while implied or taken for granted merely ; but expressed, there is much offence in them. If a man were to accost the first homely- featured or plain-dressed young woman of his acquaintance, and tell her bluntly, that she was not handsome or rich enough for him, and he could not marry her, he would deserve to be kicked for his ill manners ; yet no less is implied in the fact, that having access and opportunity of putting the question to her, he has never yet thought fit to do it. The young woman understands this as clearly as if it were put into words ; but no reason- able young woman would think of making this the ground of a quarrel. Just as little right have a married couple to tell me by speeches, and looks that are scarce less plain than speeches, that I am not the happy man, — the lady's choice. It is enough that I know I am not : I do not want this perpetual re- minding. The display of superior knowledge or riches may be made sufficiently mortifying; but these admit of a palliative. The knowledge which is brought out to insult me, may acci- dentally improve me ; and in the rich man's houses and pictures, — his parks and gardens, I have a temporary usufruct at least. But the display of married happiness has none of these palliatives: it is throughout pure, un- recompensed, unqualified insult. Marriage by its best title is a monopoly, and not of the least invidious sort. It is the cunning of most possessors of any exclusive privilege to keep their advantage as much out of sight as possible, that their less favoured neighbours, seeing little of the benefit, may the less be disposed to question the right. But these married monopolists thrust the most obnoxious part of their patent into our faces. Nothing is to me more distasteful than that entire complacency and satisfaction which beam in the countenance of a new- married couple, — in that of the lady particu- larly : it tells you, that her lot is disposed of in this world : that you can have no hopes of her. It is true, I have none : nor wishes either, perhaps: but this is one of those truths which ought, as I said before, to be taken for granted, not expressed. The excessive airs which those people give themselves, founded on the ignorance of us un- married people, would be more offensive if they were less irrational. We will allow them to understand the mysteries belonging to their own craft better than we, who have not had the happiness to be made free of the com- pany; but their arrogance is not content within these limits. If a single person pre- sume to offer his opinion in their presence, though upon the most indifferent subject, he is immediately silenced as an incompetent person. Nay, a young married lady of my ac- quaintance, who, the best of the jest was, had not changed her condition above a fortnight before, in a question on which I had the misfortune to differ from her, respecting the properest mode of breeding oysters for the London market, had the assurance to ask with a sneer, how such an old Bachelor as I could pretend to know anything about such matters ! But what I have spoken of hitherto is no- thing to the airs which these creatures give themselves when they come, as they generally do, to have children. When I consider how little of a rarity children are, — that every street and blind alley swarms with them, — that the poorest people commonly have thera in most abundance, — that there are few mar- riages that are not blessed with at least one of these bargains, — how often they turn out ill, and defeat the fond hopes of their parents, taking to vicious courses, which end in poverty, disgrace, the gallows, &c., — I cannot for my life tell what cause for pride there can possibly be in having them. If they were young phoenixes, indeed, that were born but one in a year, there might be a pretext. But when they are so common I do not advert to the insolent merit which they assume with their husbands on these 408 A BACHELOR'S COMPLAINT OF THE BEHAVIOUR OP MARRIED PEOPLE. oocasioiis. Let them look to that. But why tve, who are not their natural-born subjects, should be expected to bring our spices, myrrh, and incense, — our tribute and homage of admiration, — I do not see. " Like as the arrows in the hand of the giant, even so are thg young children i" so says the excellent office in our Prayer-book appointed for the churching of women. " Happy is the man that hath his quiver full of them : " So say I ; but then don't let him discharge his quiver upon us that are weapon- less ; — let them be arrows, but not to gall and stick us. I have generally observed that these arrows are double-headed : they have two forks, to be sure to hit with one or the other. As for instance, where you come into a house which is full of children, if you happen to take no notice of them (you are thinking of something else, perhaps, and turn a deaf ear to their innocent caresses), you are set down as untractable, morose, a hater of children. On the other hand, if you find them more than usually engaging, — if you are taken with their pretty manners, and set about in earnest to romp and play with them, some pretext or other is sure to be found for sending them out of the room ; they are too noisy or boisterous, or Mr. does not like children. With one or other of these folks the arrow is sure to hit you. I could forgive their jealousy, and dispense with toying with their brats, if it gives them any pain ; but I think it unreasonable to be called upon to love them, where I see no occasion, — to love a whole family, perhaps eight, nine, or ten, indiscriminately, — to love all the pretty dears, because children are so engaging! I know there is a proverb, "Love me, love my dog ; " that is not always so very practi- cable, particularly if the dog be set upon you to tease you or snap at you in sport. But a dog, or a lesser thing — any inanimate sub- stance, as a keepsake, a watch or a ring, a tree, or the place where we last parted when my friend went away upon a long absence, I can make shift to love, because I loved him, and anything that reminds me of him ; pro- vided it be in its nature indifferent, and apt to receive whatever hue fancy can give it. But children have a real character, and an essential being- of themselves: they are amiable or unamiable 2?e?' se; I must love or hate them as I see cause for either in their qualities. A child's nature is too serious a thing to admit of its being regarded as a mere appendage to another being,- and to be loved or hated accordingly : they stand with me upon their own stock, as much as men and women do. Oh ! but you will say, sure it is an attractive age, — there is something in the tender years of infancy that of itself charms us ? That is the very reason why I am more nice about them. I know that a sweet child is the sweetest thing in nature, not even excepting the delicate creatures which bear them ; but the prettier the kind of a thing is, the more desirable it is that it should be pretty of its kind. One daisy differs not much from another in glory ; but a violet should look and smell the daintiest. — I was always rather squeamish in my women and children. But this is not the worst: one must be admitted into their familiarity at least, before they can complain of inattention. It implies visits, and some kind of intercourse. But if the husband be a man with whom you have lived on a friendly footing before marriage — if you did not come in on the wife's side — if you did not sneak into the house in her train, but were an old friend in fast habits of intimacy before their courtship was so much as thought on, — look about you — your tenure is precarious — before a twelvemonth shall roll over your head, you shall find your old friend gradually grow cool and altered towards you, and at last seek opportunities of breaking with you. I have scarce a married friend of my acquaintance, upon whose firm faith I can rely, whose friendship did not commence after the period of his marriage. With some limitations, they can endure that ; but that the good man should have dared to enter into a solemn league of friendship in which they were not consulted, though it happened before they knew him, — before they that are now man and wife ever met, — this is intolerable to them. Every long friendship, every old authentic inti- macy, must be brought into their office to be new stamped with their currency, as a sovereign prince calls in the good old money that was coined in some reign before he was born or thought of, to be new marked and minted with the stamp of his authority, A BACHELOR'S COMrLAINT OF THE BEHAVIOUR OF MARRIED PEOPLE. 409 before he will let it pass current in the world. You may guess what luck generally befalls such a rusty piece of metal as I am in these new mintings. , Innumerable are the ways which they take to insult and worm you out of their hus- band's confidence. Laughing at all you say with a kind of wonder, as if you^were a queer kind of fellow that said good things, hut an oddity, is one of the ways ;— they have a particular kind of stare for the purpose ; — till at last the husband, who used to defer to your judgment, and would pass over some excrescences of understanding and manner for the sake of a general vein of observation (not quite vulgar) which he perceived in you, begins to suspect whether you are not altogether a humourist,— a fellow well enough to h°ave consorted with in his bachelor days, but not quite so proper to be introduced to ladies. This may be called the staring way ; and is that which has oftenest been put in practice against me. Then there is the exaggerating way, or the way of irony ; that is, where they find you an object of especial regard with their husband, who is not so easily to be shaken from the lasting attachment founded on esteem which he has conceived towards you, by never qualified exaggerations to cry up all that you say or do, till the good man, who understands well enough that it is all done in compliment to him, grows weary of the debt of gratitude which is due to so much candour, and by relaxing a little on his part, and taking down a peg or tvvo in his enthusiasm, sinks at length to the kindly level of moderate esteem — that "decent affection and complacent kindness" towards you, where she herself can join in sympathy with him without much stretch and violence to her sincerity. Another way (for the ways they have to accomplish so desirable a purpose are infi- nite) is, with a kind of innocent simplicity, continually to mistake what it was which first made their husband fond of you. If an esteem for something excellent in your moral character was that which riveted the chain which she is to break, upon any imaginary discovery of a want of poignancy in your conversation, \ she will cry, "I thought, my dear, you described your friend, Mr. , 18 a great wit ? " If, on the other hand, it was for some supposed charm in your conver- sation that he first grew to like you, and was content for this to overlook some trifling irregularities in your moral deportment, upon the first notice of any of these she as readily exclaims, "This, my dear, is your good Mr. ■!" One good lady whom I took the liberty of expostulating with for not showing me quite so much respect as I thought due to her husband's old friend, had the candour to confess to me that she had often heard Mr. speak of me before marriage, and that she had conceived a great desire to be acquainted with me, but that the sight of me had very much disappointed her expectations ; for from her husband's representations of me, she had formed a notion that she was to see a fine, tall, officer- like-looking man (I use her very words), the very reverse of which proved to be the truth. This was candid; iand I had the civility not to ask her in return, how she came to pitch upon a standard of personal accomplishments for her husband's friends which differed so much from his own ; for my friend's dimensions as near as possible approximate to mine ; he standing five feet five in his shoes, in which I have the advan- tage of him by about half an inch ; and^ he no more than myself exhibiting any indica- tions of a martial character in his air or countenance. These are some of the mortifications which I have encountered in the absurd attempt to visit at their houses. To enumerate them all would be a vain endeavour ; I shall therefore just glance at the very common impropriety of which married ladies {ire guilty, — of treating us as if we were their husbands, and vice versa. I mean, when they use us with familiarity, and their hus- bands with ceremony. Testacea, for instance, kept me the other night two or three hours beyond my usual time of supping, while she was fretting because Mr. did not come home, till the oysters were all spoiled, rather than she would be guilty of the impoliteness of touching one in his absence. This was reversing the point of good manners: for ceremony is an invention to take off the uneasy feeling which we derive from know- ing ourselves to be less the object of love and esteem with a fellow-creature than some other person is. It endeavours to make up. 410 ON SOME OF THE OLD ACTORS. by superior attentions in little points, for that invidious preference which it is forced to deny in the greater. Had Testacea kept the oysters back for me, and withstood her husband's importunities to go to supper, she would have acted according to the strict rules of propriety. I know no ceremony that ladies are bound to observe to their husbands, beyond the point of a modest behaviour and decorum : therefore I must protest against the vicarious gluttony of Verasia, who at her own table sent away a dish of Morellas, which I was applying to with great good-will, to her husband at the other end of the table, and recommended a plate of less extraordinary gooseberries to my unwedded palate in their stead. Neither can I excuse the wanton affront of But I am weary of stringing up all my married acquaintance by Roman denomina- tions. Let them amend and change their manners, or I promise to record the full- length English of their names, to the terror of all such desperate offenders in future. ON SOME OF THE OLD ACTOKS. The casual sight of an old Play Bill, which I picked up the other day — I know not by what chance it was preserved so long — tempts me to call to mind a few of the Players, who make the principal figure in it. It presents the cast of parts in the Twelfth Night, at the old Drury-lane Theatre two- and-thirty years ago. There is something very touching in these old remembrances. They make us think how we -once used to read a Play Bill — not, as now peradventure, singling out a favourite performer, and cast- ing a negligent eye over the rest ; but spell- ing out every name, down to the very mutes and servants of the scene ; — when it was a matter of no small moment to us whether Whitfield, or Packer, took the part of Fabian ; when Benson, and Burton, and Phillimore — names of small accounts — had an importance beyond what we can be content to attribute now to the time's best actors. — " Orsino, by Mr. Barrymore." — What a full Shakspearian sound it carries! how fresh to memory arise the image and the manner of the gentle actor! Those who have only seen Mrs. Jordan within the last ten or fifteen yeai*s, can have no adequate notion of her performance of such parts as Ophelia ; Helena, in All's Well that Ends Well ; and Viola in this play. Her voice had latterly acquired a coarseness, which suited well enough with her Nells and Hoydens, but in those days it sank, with her steady, melting eye, into the heart. Her joyous parts — in which her memory now chiefly lives — in her youth were outdone by her plaintive ones. There is no giving an account how she delivered the disguised story of her love for Orsino. It was no set speech, that she had foreseen, so as to weave it into an harmonious period, line necessarily following line, to make up the music — yet I have heard it so spoken, or rather read, not without its grace and beauty — but, when she had declared her sister's history to be a " blank," and that she " never told her love," there was a pause, as if the story had ended — and then the image of the " worm in the bud," came up as a new suggestion — and the heightened image of " Patience" still followed after that, as by some growing (and not mechanical) process, thought springing up after thought, I would almost say, as they were watered by her tears. So in those fine lines — Eight loyal cantos of contemned love — Hollow your name to the reverberate hills — there was no preparation made in the fore- going image for that which was to follow. She used no rhetoric in her passion ; or it was nature's own rhetoric, most legitimate then, when it seemed altogether without rule or law. Mrs. Powel (now Mrs. Renard), then in the pride of her beauty, made an admirable Olivia. She was particularly excellent in her unbending scenes in conversation with the Clown. I have seen some Olivias — and those very sensible actresses too — who in these interlocutions have seemed to set their ON SOME OF THE OLD ACTORS. 411 wits at the jester, and to vie conceits with him in downright emulation. But she used him for her sport, like what he was, to trifle a leisure sentence or two with, and then to be dismissed, and she to be the Great Lady still. She touched the imperious fantastic humour of the character with nicety. Her fine spacious person filled the scene. The part of Malvolio has, in my judgment, been so often misunderstood, and the general merits of the actor, who then played it, so unduly appreciated, that I should hope for pardon, if I am a little prolix upon these points. Of all the actors who flourished in my time — a melancholy phrase if taken aright, reader — Bensley had most of the swell of soul, was greatest in the delivery of heroic , conceptions, the emotions consequent upon the presentment of a great idea to the fimcy. He had the true poetical enthusiasm — the rarest faculty among players. None that I remember possessed even a portion of that fine madness which he threw out in Hot- spur's famous rant about glory, or the trans- ports of the Venetian incendiary at the vision of the fired city. His voice had the dissonance, and at times the inspiriting efi'ect, of the trumpet. His gait was uncouth and stiff, but no way embarrassed by affec- tation ; and the thorough -bred gentleman was uppermost in every movement. He seized the moment of passion with greatest truth ; like a faithful clock, never striking before the time ; never anticipating or leading you to anticipate. He was totally' destitute of trick and artifice. He seemed come upon the stage to do the poet's message simply, and he did it with as genuine fidelity as the nuncios in Homer deliver the errands of the gods. He let the passion or the sentiment do its own work without prop or bolstering. He would have scorned to mountebank it; and betrayed none of that cleverness which is the bane of serious acting. For this reason, his lago was the only endurable one which I remember to have seen. No spectator, from his action, could divine more of his artifice than Othello was supposed to do. His confession in soliloquy alone put you in possession of the mystery. There were no by-intimations to make the audience fancy their own discernment so much greater than that of the Moor — who commonly stands like a great helpless mark, set up for mine Ancient, and a quantity of barren spectators, to shoot their bolts at. The lago of Bensley did not go to work so grossly. There was a triumphant tone about the character, natural to a general consciousness of power; but none of that petty vanity which chuckles and cannot contain itself upon any little successful stroke of its knavery — as is common with your small villains, and green probationers in mischief. It did not clap or crow before its time. Tt was not a man setting his wits at a child, and winking all the while at other children, who are mightily pleased at being led into the secret; but a consummate villain en- trapping a noble nature into toils, against which no discernment was available, where the manner was as fathomless as the purpose seemed dark, and without motive. The part of Malvolio, in the Twelfth Night, was per- formed by Bensley, with a richness and a dignity, of which (to judge from some recent castings of that character) the very tradition must be worn out from the stage. No manager in those days would have dreamed of giving it to Mr. Baddeley, or Mr. Parsons ; when Bensley was occasionally absent from the theatre, John Kemble thought it not derogation to succeed to the part. Malvolio is not essentially ludicrous. He becomes comic but by accident. He is cold, austere, repelling ; but dignified, consistent, and, for what appears, rather of an over-stretched morality. Maria describes him as a sort of Puritan ; and he might have worn his gold chain with honour in one of our old round- head families, in the service of a Lambert, or a Lady Fairfax. But his morality and his manners are misplaced in Illyria. He is opposed to the proper levities of the piece, and falls in the unequal contest. Still his pride, or his gravity (call it which you will), is inherent, and native to the man, not mock or affected, which latter only are the fit objects to excite laughter. His quality is at the best unlovely, but neither buffoon nor con- temptible. His bearing is lofty, a little above his station, but probably not much above his deserts. We see no reason why he should not have been brave, honourable, accomplished. His careless committal of the ring to the ground (which he was com- missioned to restore to Cesario), bespeaks a 412 ON SOME OF THE OLD ACTORS. generosity of birth and feeling. His dialect on all occasions is that of a gentleman, and a man of education. We must not confound him with the eternal old, low steward of comedy. He is master of the household to a great princess ; a dignity probably conferred upon him for other respects than age or length of service. Olivia, at the first indi- cation of his supposed madness, declares that she " would not have him miscarry for half of her dowry." Does this look as if the character was meant to appear little or insignificant? Once, indeed, she accuses him to his face — of what? — of being "sick of self-love," — but with a gentleness and considerateness, which could not have been, if she had not thought that this particular infirmity shaded some virtues. His rebuke to the knight, and his sottish revellers, is sensible and spirited ; and when we take into consideration the unprotected condition of his mistress, and the strict regard with which her state of real or dissembled mourning would draw the eyes of the world upon her house-afi'airs, Malvolio might feel the honour of the family in some sort in his keeping ; as it appears not that Olivia^ had any more brothers, or kinsman, to look to it ■ — for Sir Toby had dropped all such nice respects at the buttery-hatch. That Malvolio was meant to be represented as possessing estimable qualities, the expression of the Duke, in his anxiety to have him reconciled, almost infers : " Pursue him, and entreat him to a peace." Even in his abused state of chains and darkness, a sort of greatness seems never to desert him. He argues highly and well with the supposed Sir Topas, and philosophises gallantly upon his straw.* There must have been some shadow of worth about the man ; he must have been some- thing more than a mere vapour — a thing of straw, or Jack in office — before Fabian and Maria could have ventured sending him upon a courting-errand to Olivia. There was some • consonancy (as he would say) in the under- taking, or the jest would have been too bold even for that house of misrule. * Clown. What is the opinion of Pythagoras ooncerning wild fowl? Mat. That the soul of our gvandam might haply in- habit a hird. C?OK»i.What thinkest thou of his opinion? Ual. I think nobly of the soul, and no way approve of his opinion. Bensley, accordingly, threw over the part an air of Spanish loftiness. He looked, spake, and moved like an old Castllian. He was starch, spruce, opinionated, but his superstructure of pride seemed bottomed upon a sense of worth. There was some- thing in it beyond the coxcomb. It was big and swelling, but you could not be sure that it was hollow. You might wish to see it taken down, but you felt that it was upon an elevation. He was magnificent from the outset; but when the decent sobrieties of the character began to give way, and the poison of self-love, in his conceit of the Countess's affection, gradually to work, you would have thought that the hero of La Mancha in person stood before you. How he went smiling to himself! with what inefi'able carelessness would he twirl his gold chain ! what a dream it was ! you were infected with the illusion, and did not wish that it should be removed ! you had no room for laughter! if an unseasonable reflection of morality obtruded itself, it was a deep sense of the pitiable infirmity of man's nature, that can lay him open to such frenzies — but, in truth, you rather admired than pitied the lunacy while it lasted — you felt that an hour of such mistake was worth an age with the eyes open. Who would not wish to live but for a day in the conceit of such a lady's love as Olivia ? Why, the Duke would have given his principality but for a quarter of a minute, sleeping or waking, to have been so deluded. The man seemed to tread upon air, to taste manna, to walk with his head in the clouds, to mate Hyperion. ! shake not the castles of his pride — endure yet for a season bright moments of confidence — " stand still, ye, watches of the element," that Malvolio may be still in fancy fair Olivia's lord! — but fate and retribution say no — I hear the mischievous titter of Maria — the witty taunts of Sir Toby — the still more insupportable triumph of the foolish knight — the counterfeit Sir Topas is un- masked — and " thus the whirligig of time," as the true clown hath it, " brings in his revenges." I confess that I never saw the catastrophe of this character, while Bensley played it, without a kind of tragic interest. There was good foolery too. Few now remember Dodd. What an Aguecheek the stage lost in him ! Lovegrove, who came ON SOME OF THE OLD ACTORS, 413 nearest to the old actors, revived the character some few seasons ago, and made it sufficiently grotesque ; but Dodd was it, as it came out of nature's hands. It might be said to remain in pitris naturalihus. In expressing slowness of apprehension, this actor surpassed all others. You could see the first dawn of an idea stealing slowly over his countenance, climbing up by little and little, with a painful process, till it cleared up at last to the fulness of a twilight con- ception — its highest meridian. He seemed to keep back his intellect, as some have hud the power to retard their pulsation. The balloon takes less time in filling than it took to cover the expansion of his broad moony face over all its quarters with expression. A glimmer of understanding would appear in a corner of his eye, and for lack of fuel go out again. A part of his forehead would catch a little intelligence, and be a long time in communicating it to the remainder. I am ill at dates, but I think it is now better than five - and - twenty years ago, that walking in the gardens of Gray's Inn — they wei'e then far finer than they are now — the accursed Verulam Buildings had not en- croached upon all the east side of them, cutting out delicate green crankles, and shouldering away one of two of the stately alcoves, of the terrace — the survivor stands gaping and relationless as if it- remembered its brother — they are still the best gardens of any of the Inns of Court, my beloved Temple not forgotten — have the gravest character ; their aspect being altogether reverend and law-breathing — Bacon has left the impress of his foot upon their gravel walks taking my afternoon solace on a summer day upon the aforesaid terrace, a comely sad personage came towards me, whom, from his grave air and deportment, I judged to be one of the old Benchers of the Inn. He had a seVious, thoughtful forehead, and seemed to be in meditations of mortality. As I have an instinctive awe of old Benchers, I was passing him with that sort of sub- indicative token of respect which one is apt to demonstrate towards a venerable stranger, and which rather denotes an inclination to greet him, than any positive motion of the body to that efi'ect — a species of humility and will-worship which I observe, nine times out of ten, rather puzzles than pleases the person it is offered to — when the face turning full upon me, strangely identified itself with that of Dodd. Upon close inspection I was not mistaken. But could this sad thoughtful countenance be the same vacant face of folly which I had hailed so often under circum- stances of gaiety ; which I had never seen without a smile, or recognised but as tho usher of mirth ; that looked out so formally flat in Foppington, so frothily pert in Tattle, so impotently busy in Backbite ; sii blankly divested of all meaning, or resolutely expressive of none, in Acres, in Fribble, and a thousand agreeable impertinences? Was this the face — full of thought and carefulness — that had so often divested itself at will of every trace of either to give me diversion, to clear my cloudy face for two or three hours at least of its furrows ? Was this the face — manly, sober, intelligent — which I had so often despised, made mocks at, made merry with ? The remembrance of the freedoms which I had taken with it came upon me with a reproach of insult. I could have asked it pardon. I thought it looked upon me with a sense of injury. There is some- thing strange as well as sad in seeing actors — your pleasant fellows particularly — sub- jected to and suffering the common lot; — their fortunes, their casualties, their deaths, seemed to belong to the scene, their actions to be amenable to poetic justice only. We can hardly connect them with more awful responsibilities. The death of this fine actor took place shortly after this meeting. He had quitted the stage some months ; and, as I learned afterwards, had been in the habit of resorting daily to these gardens, almost to the day of his decease. In these serious walks, probi^bly, he was divesting himself of many scenic and some real vanities — weaning himself from the frivolities of the lesser and the greater theatre — doing gentle penance for a life of no very reprehensible fooleries — taking off by degrees the buffoon mask, which he might feel he had worn too long — and rehearsing for a more solemn cast of part. Dying, he " put on the weeds of Dominic."* * Dodd was a man of reading, and left at his death a choice collection of old English literature. I should judge him to have been a man of wit. I know one instance of an impromptu which no length of study oould have bettered. My merry friend, Jem White, had seen him one evening in Aguecheek, and recognising 414 ON SOME OF THE OLD ACTORS. If few can remember Dodd, many yet living will not easily forget the pleasant creature, who in those days enacted the part of the Clown to Dodd's Sir Andrew. — Richard, or rather Dicky Suett — for so in his life-time he delighted to be called, and time hath ratified the appellation — lieth buried on the north side of the cemetery of Holy Paul, to whose service his nonage and tender years were dedicated. There are who do yet remember him at that period — his pipe clear and harmonious. He would often speak of his chorister days, when he was " cherub Dicky," What clipped his wings, or made it expe- dient that he should exchange the holy for the profane state ; whether he had lost his good voice (his best recommendation to that office), like Sir John, "with hallooing and singing of anthems ; " or whether he was adjudged to lack something, even in those early years, of the gravity indispensable to an occupation which professeth to " com- merce with the skies," — I could never rightly learn ; but we find him, after the probation of a twelvemonth or so, reverting to a secular condition, and become one of us. I think he was not altogether of that timber out of which cathedral seats and sounding-boards are hewed. But if a glad heart — kind, and therefore glad — be any part of sanctity, then might the robe of Motley, with which he invested himself with so much humility after his deprivation, and which he wore so long with so much blame- less satisfaction to himself and to the public, be accepted for a surplice — his white stole, and albe. The first fruits of his secularisation was an engagement upon the boards of Old Drury, at which theatre he commenced, as I have been told, with adopting the manner of Parsons in old men's characters. At the period in which most of us knew him, he was no more an imitator than he was in any true sense himself imitable. He was the Robin Goodfellow of the stage. He came in to trouble all things with a welcome perplexity, himself no whit troubled Dodd the next day in Fleet Street, was irresistibly impelled to take off his hat and salute him as the identical Knight of the preceding evening with a " Save you, Sir Andrew." Bodd, not at all disconcerted at this unusual address from a stranger, with a courteous half-robuking wave of the hand, put him off with an " Away, Fool.' for the matter. He was known, like Puck, by his note — Ha ! Ha ! Ha I — sometimes deepening to Ho! Ho! Ho! with an irre- sistible accession, derived, perhaps, remotely from his ecclesiastical education, foreign to his prototype of — La! Thousands of hearts yet respond to the chuckle La! of Dicky Suett, brought back to their remem- brance by the faithful transcript of his friend Mathews's mimicry. The "force of nature could no further go." He drolled upon the stock of these two syllables richer than the cuckoo. Care, that troubles all the world, was for- gotten in his composition. Had he had but two grains (nay, half a grain) of it, he could never have supported himself upon those two spider's strings, which served him (in the latter part of his unmixed existence) as legs. A doubt or a scruple must have made him totter, a sigh have pufied him down ; the weight of a frown had staggered him, a wrinkle made him lose his balance. But on he went, scrambling upon those airy stilts of his, with Robin Goodfellow, " through brake, through briar," reckless of a scratched face or a torn doublet. Shakspeare foresaw him, when he framed his fools and jesters. They have all the true Suett stamp, a loose and shambling gait, a slippery tongue, this last the ready midwife to a without-pain-delivered jest; in words, light as air, venting truths deep as the centre ; with idlest rhymes tagging conceit when busiest, singing with Lear in the tempest, or Sir Toby at the buttery-hatch. Jack Bannister and he had the fortune to be more of personal favourites with the town than any actors before or after. The differ- ence, I take it, was this: — Jack was more beloved for his sweet, good-natured, moral pretensions. Dicky was more liked for his sweet, good-natured, no pretensions at all. Your whole conscience stirred with Ban- nister's pei'forraance of Walter in the Chil- dren in the Wood — but Dicky seemed like a thing, as Shakspeare says of Love, too young to know what conscience is. He put us into Vesta's days. Evil fled before him — not as from Jack, as from an antagonist,— but because it could not touch him, any more than a cannon-ball a fly. He was delivered from the burthen of that death ; and, vilien Death came himself, not in metaphor to ON SOME OF THE OLD ACTORS 415 fetch Dicky, it is recorded of him by Robert Palmer, who kindly watched his exit, that he received the last stroke, neither varying his accustomed tranquillity, nor tune, with the simple exclamation, worthy to have been recorded in his epitaph — OLa! La! Bohhy! The elder Palmer (of stage-treading cele- brity) commonly played Sir Toby in those days ; but there is a solidity of wit in the jests of that half-Falstaff which he did not quite fill out. He was as much too showy as Moody (who sometimes took the part) was dry and sottish. In sock or buskin there was an air of swaggering gentility about Jack Palmer. He was a gentleman with a slight infusion of the footman. His brother Bob (of recenter memory,) who was his shadow in everything while he lived, and dvrindled into less than a shadow afterwards — was a gentleman with a little stronger in- fusion of the latter ingredient ; that was all. It is amazing how a little of the more or less makes a difference in these things. When you saw Bobby in the Duke's Servant,* you said " What a pity such a pretty fellow was only a servast !" When you saw Jack figuring in Captain Absolute, you thought you could trace his promotion to some lady of quality who fancied the handsome fellow in his topknot, and had bought hira a conftr mission. Therefore Jack in Dick Amlet was insuperable. Jack had two voices, both plausible, hypo- critical, and insinuating ; but his secondary or supplemental voice still more decisively histrionic than his common one. It was reserved for the spectator ; and the dramatis personae were supposed to know nothing at all about it. The lies of Young Wilding, and the sentiments in Joseph Surface, were thus marked out in a sort of italics to the audience. This secret correspondence with the company before the curtain (which is the bane and death of tragedy) has an ex- tremely happy effect in some kinds of comedy, in the more highly artificial comedy of Con- greve or of Sheridan especially, where the absolute sense of reality (so indispensable to scenes of interest) is not required, or would rather interfere to diminish your pleasure. The fact is, you do not believe in such cha- racters as Surface — the villain of artificial comedy — even while you read or see them. * High Life Below Stairs. If you did, they would shock and not divert you. When Ben, in Love for Love, returns from sea, the following exquisite dialogue occurs at his first meeting with his father: — Sir Sampson. Thou hast been many a weary league Ben, since I saw thee. Ben. Ey, ey, been. Been far enough, an that he all. —Well, father, and how do all at home ? how does brother Dick, and brother Val ? Sir Sampson. Dick! body o' me, Dick has been dead thene two years. I writ you word when you were at Leghorn. Ben. Mess, that's true; Marry, I had forgot. Dick's dead, as you say — well, and how? — I have a many questions to ask you — Here is an instance of insensibility which in real life would be revolting, or rather in real life could not have co-existed with the warm-hearted temperament of the character. But when you read it in the spirit with which such playful selections and specious combinations rather than strict metaphrases of nature should be taken, or when you- saw Bannister play it, it neither did, nor does, wound the moral sense at all. For what is Ben — the pleasant sailor which Bannister gives us — but a piece of satire — a creation of Congreve's fancy — a dreamy combination of all the accidents of a sailor's character — his contempt of money — his credulity to women — with that necessary estrangement from home which it is just within the verge of credibility to suppose might produce such an hullucination as is here described. We never think the worse of Ben for it, or feel it as a stain upon his character. But when an actor comes, and instead of the delightful phantom — the creature dear to half-belief — which Bannister exhibited — dis- plays before our eyes a downright concretion of a Wapping sailor — a jolly warm-hearted Jack Tar — and nothing else — when instead of investing it with a delicious confusednesa of the head, and a veering undirected good- ness of purpose — he gives to it a downright daylight understanding, and a full conscious- ness of its actions ; thrusting forward the sensibilities of the character with a pretence as if it stood upon nothing else, and was to be judged by them alone — we feel the discord of the thing ; the scene is disturbed ; a real man has got in among the dramatis personae, and puts them out. We want the sailor turned out. We feel that his true place is not behind the curtain, but in the first ,or second gallery. 416 ON TIIE ARTIFICIAL COMEDY OF THE LAST CENTURY. ON THE ARTIFICIAL COMEDY OF THE LAST CENTURY. The artificial Comedy, or Comedy of man- ners, is quite extinct on our stage. Congreve and Farquhar show their heads once in seven years only, to be exploded and put down instantly. The times cannot bear them. Is it for a few wild speeches, an occasional licence of dialogue? I think not altogether. The business of their dramatic characters will not stand the moral test. "We screw everything up to that. Idle gallantry in a fiction, a dream, the passing pageant of an evening, startles us in the same way as the alarming indications of profligacy in a son or ward in real life should startle a parent or guardian. We have no such middle emotions as dramatic interests left. We see a stage libertine playing his loose pranks of two hours' duration, and of no after conse- quence, vrith the severe eyes vrhich inspect real vices with their bearings upon two worlds. We are spectators to a plot or intrigue (not reducible in life to the point of strict morality), and take it all for truth. We substitute a real for a dramatic person, and judge him accordingly. We try him in )ur courts, from which there is no appeal to the dramatis personce, his peers. We have been spoiled with — not sentimental comedy — but a tyrant far more pernicious to our pleasures which has succeeded to it, the ex- clusive and all-devouring drama of common life ; where the moral point is everything ; where, instead of the fictitious half-believed personages of the stage (the phantoms of old comedy), we recognise ourselves, our brothers, aunts, kinsfolk, allies, patrons, enemies, — the same as in life, — with an interest in what is going on so hearty and substantial, that we cannot aiFord our moral judgment, in its deepest and most vital results, to compromise or slumber for a moment. What is there transacting, by no modification is made to affect us in any other manner than the same events or characters would do in our relation- ships of life. We carry our fire-side concerns to the theatre with us. We do not go thither, like our ancestors, to escape from the pressure of reality, so much as to confirm our expe- rience of it; to make assurance double, and take a bond of fate. We must live our toil- some lives twice over, as it was the mournful privilege of Ulysses to descend twice to the shades. All that neutral ground of character, which stood between vice and virtue ; or which in fact was indifferent to neither, where neither properly was called in ques- tion ; that happy breathing-plaee from the burthen of a perpetual moral questioning — the sanctuary and quiet Alsatia of hunted casuistry — is broken up and disfranchised, as injurious to the interests of society. The privileges of the place are taken away by law. We dare not dally with images, or names, of wrong. We bark like foolish dogs at shadows. We dread infection from the scenic representation of disorder, and fear a painted pustule. In our anxiety that our morality should not take cold, we wrap it up in a great blanket surtout of precaution against the breeze and sunshine. I confess for myself that (with no great delinquencies to answer for) I am glad for a season to take an airing beyond the diocese of the strict conscience, — not to live always in the precincts of the law-courts, — but now and then, for a dream-while or so, to imagine a world with no meddling restrictions — to get into recesses, whither the hunter cannot follow me — -Secret shades Of woody Ida's inmost groTe, While yet there was no fear of Jove. I come back to my cage and my restraint the fresher and more healthy for it. I wear my shackles more contentedly for having respired the breath of an imaginary freedom. I do not know how it is with others, but I feel the better always for the perusal of one of Congreve's — nay, why should I not add even of Wycherly's — comedies. I am the gayer at least for it ; and I could never connect those sports of a witty fancy in any shape with any result to be drawn from ON THE AETIFICIAL COMEDY OF THE LAST CENTURY. 417 them to imitation in real life. They are a world of themselves almost as much as faLi'y- land. Take one of their characters, male or female (with few exceptions they are alike), and place it in a modern play, and my virtuous indignation shall rise against the profligate' wretch as warmly as the Catos of the pit could desire; because in a modern play I am to judge of the right and the wrong. The standard of police is the measure of political justice. The atmosphere will blight it; it cannot live here. It has got into a moral world, where it has no business, from which it must needs fall headlong ; as dizzy, and incapable of making a stand, as a Swedenborgian bad spirit that has wandered unawares into the sphere of one of his Good Men, or Angels. But in its own world do we feel the creature is so very bad? — The Fainalls and the Mirabels, the Dorimants and the Lady Touchwoods, in their own sphere, do not offend my moral sense; in fact they do not appeal to it at all. Th^y seem engaged in their proper element. They break through no laws, or conscientious restraints. They know of none. They have got out of Christendom into the laild — what phall I call it? — of cuckoldry — the Utopia of gallantry, where pleasure is duty, and the manners perfect freedom. It is. altogether a speculative scene of things, which has no reference whatever to the world that is. No good person can be justly offended as, a gpect^ator, because no good person suffers on the stage. Judged morally, every character in these plays — the few exceptions only are 7nisiakes — is alike essentially vain and worth- less. The great art of Congreve is especially shown in this, that he has entirely excluded from his scenes-r-some little generosities in the part of Angelica perhaps excepted — not only anything like a faultless character, but any pretensions to goodness or good feelings whatsoever. Whether he did this designedly, or instinctively, the effect is as happy, as the design (if design) was bold. I used to wonder at the strange power which his Way of the World in particular possesses of interesting you all along in the pursuits of characters, for whom you absolutely care nothing — for you neither hate nor love his personages — and I think it is owing to this very indifference for any, that you endure the whole. He has spreaKi a privation of 27 moral light, I will call it, rather than by the ugly name of palpable darkness, over his creations ; and his shadows flit before you without distinction or preference. Had he introduced a good character, a single gush of moral feeling, a revulsion of the judgment to actual life and actual duties, the impertinent Goshen would have only lighted to the discovery of deformities, which now are none, because we think them none. , Translated into real life, the characters of his, and his friend Wycherley's dramas, are profligates and strumpets, — the business of their brief existence, the undivided pursuit of lawless gallantry. No other spring of, action, or possible motive of conduct, is re- cognised; principles which, universally acted upon, must reduce this frame of things to a chaos. But we do them wrong in so trans- lating them. No such effects are produced, in their world. When we are among them, we are amongst a chaotic people. We are not to judge them by our usages. No re- verend iustitntioris are insulted by their pro- ceedings — for they have none among them. No peace of families is violated — for no family ties exist among them. No purity of the marriage bed is stained — for none is sup- posed to have a being. No deep affections are disquieted, no holy wedlock bands are snapped asunder — for affection's depth and wedded faith are not of the growth of that soil. There is neither right nor wrong, — ■ gratitude or its opposite, — claim or duty, — paternity or sonship. Of what consequence is it to Virtue, or how is she at all concerned about it, whether Sir Simon, or Dapperwit steal away Miss Martha ; or who is the father of Lord Froth's or Sir Paul Pliant's children ? The whole is a passing pageant, where we should sit as unconcerned at the issues, for life or death, as at a battle of the frogs and mice. But, like Don Quixote, we take part against the puppets, and quite as imperti- nently. We dare not contemplate an . At- lantis, a scheme, out of which our cox- combical moral sense is for a little transitory ease excluded. We have not the courage to imagine a state of things for which there ia neither reward nor punishment. We cling to the painful necessities of shame and blamo We would indict our very dreams. 418 ON THE ARTIFICIAL COMEDY OF THE LAST CENTURY. Amidst the inortifying circumstances at- tendant upon growing old, it is hometiiing to have seen the School for Scandal in its glory. This comedy grew out of Congreve and Wycherley, but gathered some alloys of the sentimental comedy which followed theirs. It is impossible that it should be now acted, though it continues, at long intervals, to be announced in the bills. Its hero, vrhen Palmer played it at least, was Joseph Sur- face. When I remember the gay boldness, the graceful solemn plausibility, the measured step, the insinuating voice — to express it in a word — the downright acted villany of the part, so different from the pressure of con- scious actual wickedness — the hypoci'itical assumption of hypocrisy, — which made Jack so deservedly a favourite in that character, I must needs conclude the present generation of playgoers more virtuous than myself, or more dense. I freely confess that he divided the palm with me with his better brother ; that, in fact, I .liked him quite as well. Not but there are passages, — like that, for in- stance, where Joseph is made to refuse a pittance to a poor relation, — incongruities which Sheridan was forced upon by the attempt to join the artificial with the senti- mental comedy, either of which must destroy the other — but over these obstructions Jack's manner floated him so lightly, that a refusal from him no more shocked you, than the easy compliance of Charles gave you in reality any pleasure : you got over the paltry ques- tion as quickly as you could, to get back into the regions of pure comedy, where no cold moral reigns. The highly artificial manner of Palmer in this character counteracted every disagreeable impression which you might have received from the contrast, supposing them real, between the two brothers. You did not believe in Joseph with the same faith •with which you believed in Charles. The latter was a pleasant reality, the former a no less pleasant poetical foil to it. The comedy, I have said, is incongruous ; a mixture of Congreve with sentimental incompatibilities ; • the gaiety upon the whole is buoyant; but it required the consummate art of Palmer to reconcile the discordant elements. A player with Jack's talents, if we had one now, would not dare to do the part in the same manner. He would instinctively avoid every turn which might tend to unrealise, and so to make the character fascinating. lie must take his cue from his spectators, who would expect a bad man and a good man as rigidly opposed to each other as the death- beds of those geniuses are contrasted in the prints, which I am sorry to say have disap- peared from the windows of my old friend Carrington Bowles, of St. Paul's Churchyard memory — (an exhibition as venerable as the adjacent cathedral, and almost coeval) of the bad and good man at the hour of death ; where the ghastly apprehensions of the former, — • and truly the grim phantom with his reality of a toasting-fork is not to be despised, — so finely contrast with the meek complacent kiss- ing of the rod, — taking it in like honey and butter, — with which the latter submits to the scythe of the gentle bleeder. Time, who wields his lancet with the apprehensive finger of a popular young ladies' surgeon. What flesh, like loving grass, would not covet to meet half-way the stroke of such a delicate mower ? — John Palmer was twice an actor in this exquisite part. He was playing to you all the while that he was playing upon Sir Peter and his lady. You had the first intimation of a sentiment before it was on his lips. His altered voice was meant to you, and you were to suppose that his fictitious co-flutterers on the stage perceived nothing at all of it. What was it to you if that half reality, the husband, was overreached by the puppetry — or the thin thing (Lady Teazle's reputation) was persuaded it was dying of a plethory ? The fortunes of Othello and Desdemona were not concerned in it. Poor Jack has passed from the stage in good time, that he did not live to this our age of seriousness. The pleasant old Teazle King, too, is gone in good time. His manner would scarce have passed current in our day. We must love or hate — acquit or condemn — censure or pity — exert our de- testable coxcombry of moral judgment upon everything. Joseph Surface, to go down now, must be a downright revolting villain — no compromise — his first appearance must shock and give horror — his specious plausibilities, which the pleasurable faculties of our fathers welcomed with such hearty greetings, know- ing that no harm (dramatic harm even) could come, or was meant to come, of them, mu5;t inspire a cold and killing aversion. Charles (the real canting person of the scene — for the hypocrisy of Joseph has its ulterior legitimate ON THE ARTIFICIAL COMEDY OF THE LAST CENTURY. 419 ends, but his brother's professions of a good heart centre in downright self-satisfaction) must be loved, and Joseph hated. To balance one disagreeable reality with another, Sir Peter Teazle must be no longer the comic idea of a fretful old bachelor bridegroom, whose teasings (while King acted it) were evidently as much played off at you, as they were meant to concern anybody on the stage, — he must be a real person, capable in law of sustaining an injury — a person towards whom duties are to be acknowledged — the genuine crim. con. antagonist of the villanous seducer Joseph. To realise him more, his sufferings under his unfortunate match must have the downright pungency of life — must (or should) make you not mirthful but un- comfortable, just as the same predicament would move you in a neighbour or old friend. The delicious scenes w^hich give the play its name and zest, must affect you in the same serious manner as if you heard the reputa- tion of a dear female friend attacked in your real presence. Crabtree and Sir Benjamin — those poor snakes that live but in the sun- shine of your mirth — must be ripened by this hot-bed process of realisation into asps or amphisbaenas ; and Mrs. Candour — 0! frightful ! — become a hooded serpent. Oh ! who that remembers Parsons and. Dodd — the wasp and butterfly of the School for Scandal — in those two characters; and charming natural Miss Pope, the perfect gentlewoman as distinguished from the fine lady of comedy, in this latter part — would £)rego the true scenic delight — the escape from life — the oblivion of consequences — the holiday barring out of the pedant Reflection — those Saturnalia of two or three brief hours, well vron from the world — to sit in- stead at one of our modern plays — to have his coward conscience (that forsooth must not be left for a moment) stimulated with per- petual appeals — dulled rather, and blunted, as a faculty without repose must be — and his moral vanity pampered with images of notional justice, notional beneficence, lives saved without the spectator's risk, and for- tunes generously given away that cost the author nothing? No piece was, perhaps, ever so completely cast in all its parts as this manager's comedy. Miss Farren had succeeded to Mrs. Abington in Lady Teazle ; and Smith, the original Charles, had retired when I first saw it. The rest of the characters, with very slight ex- ceptions, remained. I remember it was then the fashion to cry down John Kemble, who took the part of Charles after Smith ; but, I thought, very unjustly. Smith, I fancy, was more airy, and took the eye with a certain gaiety of person. He brought vrith him no sombre recollections of tragedy. He had not to expiate the fault of having pleased beforehand in lofty declamation. He had no sins of Hamlet or of Richard to atone for. His failure in these parts was a passport to success in one of so opposite a tendency. But, as far as I could judge, the weighty sense of Kemble made up for more personal incapacity than he had to answer for. His hurshest tones in this part came steeped and dulcified in good-humour. He made his defects a grace. His exact declamatory manner, as he managed it, only served to convey the points of his dialogue with more precision. It seemed to head the shafts to carry them deeper. Not one of his sparkling sentences was lost. I remember minutely how he delivered each in succession, and cannot by any effort imagine how any of them could be altered for the better. No man could deliver brilliant dialogue — the dialogue of Congreve or of Wycherley — be- cause none understood it — half so well as John Kemble. His Valentine, in Love for Love, was, to my recollection, faultless. He flagged sometimes in the intervals of tragic passion. He would slumber over the level parts of an heroic character. His Macbeth has been known to nod. But he always seemed to me to be particularly alive to pointed and witty dialogue. The relaxing levities of tragedy have not been touched by any since him — the playful court-bred spirit in which he condescended to the players in Hamlet — the sportive relief which he threw into the darker shades of Richard — disappeared with him. He had his sluggish moods, his torpors — but they were the halting-stones and resting-place of his tra- gedy — politic savings, and fetches of the breath — husbandry of the lungs, where na- ture pointed him to be an economist — rather, I think, than errors of the judgment. They were, at vrorst, less painful than the eternal tor- menting unappeasable vigilance, — the " lidless dragon eyes," of present fashionable tragedy. 420 ON THE ACTING OF MUNDEN. ON THE ACTING OF MUNDEN. Not many nights ago, I had come home from seeing this extraordinary performer in Cockletop ; and when I retired to my pillow, his whimsical image still stuck by me, in a manner as to threaten sleep. In vain I tried to divest myself of it, by conjuring up the most opposite associations. I resolved to be serious. I raised up the gravest topics of life ; private misery, public calamity. AH would not do : There the antic sate Mocking our state his queer Visnomy — his bewildering costume — all the strange things which he had raked together — his serpentine rod, swagging about in his pocket — Cleopatra's tear, and the rest of his relics — O'Keefe's wild farce, and his wnlder commentary — till the passion of laugh- ter, like grief in excess, relieved itself by its own weight, inviting the sleep which in the first instance it had driven away. But I was not to escape so easily. No sooner did I fall into slumbers, than the same image, only more perplexing, assailed me in the shape of dreams. Not one Munden, but five hundred, were dancing before me, like the faces which, whether you will or no, come when you have been taking opium — all the strange combinations, which this strangest of all strange mortals ever shot his proper coun- tenance into, from the day he came commis- sioned to dry up the tears of the town for the loss of the now almost forgotten Edwin. fur the power of the pencil to have fixed them when I awoke ! A season or two since, there was exhibited a Hogarth gallery. I do not see why there should not be a Munden gal- lery. In richness and variety, the latter would not fall far short of the former. There is one face of Farley, one face of Knight, one (but what a one it is !) of Liston ; but Munden has none that you can properly pin down, and call his. When you think he has exhausted his battery of looks, in unac- countable warfare with your gravity, sud- denly he sprouts out an entirely new set of features, like Hydra. He is not one, but legion ; not so much a comedian, as a com- pany. If his name could be multiplied like his countenance, it might fill a play-bill. He, and he alone, literally maJces faces: applied to any other person, the phrase is a mere figure, denoting certain modifications of th^ human countenance. Out of some invisible wardrobe he dips for faces, as his friend Suett used for wigs, and fetches them out as easily. I should not be surprised to see him some day put out the head of a river-horse : or come forth a pewitt, or lapwing, some feathered metamorphosis. I have seen this gifted actor m Sir Chris- topher Curry — in old Dornton — diffuse a glow of sentiment which has made the pulse of a crowded theatre beat like that of one man ; when he has come in aid of the pulpit, doing good to the moral heart of a people. I have seen some faint approaches to this sort of excellence in other players. But in the grand grotesque of farce, Mnnden stands out as single and unaccompanied as Hogarth. Hogarth, strange to tell, had no followers. The school of Munden began, and must e'^d, with himself. Can any man loonder, lik j him? can any man see ghosts, like him ? or fight tvith his oivn shadoio — " sessa" — as he does in that strangely-neglected thing, the Cobbler of Preston — where his alternations from the Cobbler to the Magnifico, and from the Mag- nifico to the Cobbler, keep the brain of the spectator in as wild a ferment as if some Arabian Night were being acted before him. Who like him can throw, or ever attempted to throw, a preternatural interest over the commonest daily-life objects ? A table or a joint-stool, in his conception, rises into a dignity equivalent to Cassiopeia's chair. It is invested with constellatory importance. You could not speak of it with more deference,- if it were mounted into the firmament. A beg- gar in the hands of Michael Angelo, says Fuseli, rose the Patriarch of Povert}'. So the gusto of Munden antiquates and ennobles what it touches. His pots and his ladles are as grand and primal as the seething-pots and hooks seen in old prophetic vision. A tub of butter, contemplated by him amounts to a Platonic idea. He understands a leg of mut- ton in its quiddity. He stands wondering, amid the common-place materials of life, like primeval man with the sun and stars about him. THE LAST ESSAYS OF BLIA. 421 PREFAC E. BY A FRIEND OF THE LATE ELIA. This poor gentleman, who for some months past had been in a declining way, hath at length paid his final tribute to nature. To say truth, it is time he were gone. The humour of the thing, if ever there was much in it, was pretty well exhausted; and a two years' and a half existence has been a tolerable duration for a phantom. I am now at liberty to confess, that much which I have heard objected to my late friend's writings was well-founded. Crude they are, I grant you — a sort of unlicked, incondite things — villanously pranked in an affected array of antique modes and phrases. They had not been Ms, if they had been other than such ; and better it is, that a writer should be natural in a self-pleasing quaintness, than to affect a naturalness (so called) that should be strange to him. Egotistical they have been pronounced by some who did not know, that what he tells us, as of himself, was often true only (historically) of another ; as in a former Essay (to save many instances) — where under t\xQ Jirst person (his favourite figure) he shadows forth the forlorn estate of a country-boy placed at a London school, far from his friends and connections — in direct opposition to his own early history. If it be egotism to imply and twine with his own identity the griefs and affections of another — making himself many, or reducing many unto himself — then is the skilful novelist, who all along brings in his hero or heroine, speaking of themselves, the greatest egotist of all ; who yet has never, therefore, been accused of that narrowness. And how shall the intenser dramatist escape being faulty, who, doubtless, under cover of passion uttered by another, oftentimes gives blameless vent to his most inward feelings, and expresses his own story modestly ? My late friend was in many respects a singular character. Those who did not like him, hated him ; and some, who once liked him, afterwards became his bitterest haters. The truth is, he gave himself too little concern what he uttered, and in whose presence. He ob- served neither time nor place, and would e'en out with what came uppermost. With the severe religionist he would pass for a free-thinker ; while the other faction set him down for a bigot, or persuaded themselves that he belied his sentiments. Few understood him ; and I am not certain that at all times he quite understood himself. He too much affected that dangerous figure — irony. He sowed doubtful speeches, and reaped plain, unequivocal hatred. — He would interrupt the gravest discussion with some light jest ; and yet, perhaps, not quite irrelevant in ears that could understand it. Your long and much talkers hated him. The informal habit of his mind, joined to an inveterate impediment of speech, forbade him to be an orator ; and he seemed determined that no one else should play that part when he was present. He was petit and ordinary in his person and appearance. I have seen him sometimes in what is called good company, but where he has been a stranger, sit silent, and 423 424 PREFACE. be suspected for an odd fellow ; till some unlucky occasion provoking it, he would stutter out some senseless pun (not altogether senseless perhaps, if rightly taken), which has stamped his character for the evening. It was hifr or miss with him ; but nine times out of ten, he contrived by this device to send away a whole company of his enemies. His concep- tions rose kindlier than his utterance, and his happiest impromptus had the appearance of effort. He has been accused of trying to be witty, when in truth he was but struggling to give his poor thoughts articulation. He chose his companions for some individuality of cha- racter which they manifested. — Hence, not many persons of science, and few professed literati, were of his councils. They were, for the most part, persons of an uncertain fortune ; and, as to such people commonly nothing is more obnoxious than a gentleman of settled (though moderate) income, he passed with most of them for a great miser. To my knowledge this was a mistake. His intimados, to confess a truth, Avere in the world's eye a ragged regiment. He found them floating on the surface of society ; and the colour, or something else, in the weed pleased him. The burrs stuck to him — but they were good and loving burrs for all that. He never greatly cared for the society of what are called good people. If any of these were scandalised (and offences were sure to arise) he could not help it. When he has been remonstrated with for not making more concessions to the feelings of good people, he would retort by asking, what one point did these good people ever concede to him ? He was tem- perate in his meals and diversions, but always kept a little on this side of abstemiousness. Only in the use of the Indian weed he might be thought a little excessive. He took it, he would say, as a solvent of speech. Marry — as the friendly vapour ascended, how his prattle would curl up sometimes with it! the ligaments which tongue-tied him, were loosened, and the stammerer proceeded a statist ! I do not know whether I ought to bemoan or rejoice that my old friend is departed. His jests were beginning to grow obsolete, and his stories to be found out. He felt the approaches of age ; and while he pretended to cling to life, you saw how slender were the ties left to bind him. Discoursing with him latterly on this subject, he expressed himself with a pettish- ness, which I thought unworthy of him. In our walks about his suburban retreat (as he called it) at Shacklewell, some children belonging to a school of industry had met us, and bowed and curtseyed, as he thought, in an especial manner to Mm. " They take me for a visiting governor," he muttered earnestly. He had a horror, which he carried to a foible, of looking like anything important and parochial. He thought that he approached nearer to that stamp daily. He had a general aversion from being treated like a grave or respectable character, and kept a wary eye upon the advances of age that should so entitle him. He herded always, while it was possible, with people younger than himself. He did not con- form to the march of time, but was dragged along in the procession. His manners lagged behind his years. He was too much of the boy-man. The toga virilis never sate gracefully on his shoulders. The impressions of infancy had burnt into him, and he resented the im- pertinence of manhood. These were weaknesses ; but such as they were, they .are a key to explicate some of his writings. THE LAST ESSAYS OF ELIA. BLAKESMOOR IN H- -SHIRE. 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 contempla- tions 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 differ- ence 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, disharmonising the place and the occasion. But wouldst thou know the beauty of holi- ness? — go alone on some week-day, borrow- ing 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. Journeying northward lately, I could not resist going some few miles out of my road to look upon the remains of an old great house with which I had been impriessed in this way in infancy. I was apprised that the owner of it had lately pulled it down ; still I had a vague notion that it could not all have perished, that so much solidity with magnificence could not have been crushed all at once into the mere dust and rubbish which I found it. The work of ruin had proceeded with a swift hand indeed, and the demolition of a few weeks had reduced it to — an antiquity. I was astonished at the indistinction of everything. Where had stood the great gates ? What bounded the court-yard ? Whereabout did the out-houses commence? A few bricks only lay as representatives of that which was so stately and so spacious. Death does not shrink up his human vic- tim at this rate. The burnt ashes of a man weigh more in their proportion. Had I seen these brick-and-mortar knaves at their process of destruction, at the pluck- ing of every panel I should have felt the varlets at my heart. I should have cried out to them to spare a plank at least out of the cheerful store-room, in whose hot window- seat I used to sit and read Cowley, with the grass-plot before, and the hum and flappings of that one solitary wasp that ever haunted it about me — it is in mine ears now, as oft as summer returns ; or a panel of the yellow- room. Why, every plank and panel of that house for me had magic in it. The tapestried 425 426 BLAKESMOOR IN H ^^SHIRE. bedrooms — tapestry so much better than painting — not adorning merely, but peopling the wainscots — at which childhood ever and anon would steal a look, shifting its coverlid (replaced as quickly) to exercise its tender courage in a momentary eye-encounter with those stern bright visages, staring reci- .procally — all Ovid on the walls, in colours vivider than his descriptions. Actason in mid sprout, with the unappeasable prudery of Diana ; and the still more provoking, and almost culinary coolness of Dan Phoebus, eel-fashion, deliberately divesting of Marsyas. Then, that haunted room — in which old Mrs. Battle died — whereinto I have crept, but always in the daytime, with a passion of fear ; and a sneaking curiosity, terror-tainted, to hold communication with the past. — How shall they build it up again ? It was an old deserted place, yet not so long deserted but that traces of the splen- dour of past inmates were everywhere appa- rent. Its furniture was still standing — even to the tarnished gilt leather battledores, and crumbling feathers of shuttlecocks in the nursery, which told that children had once played there. But I was a lonely child, and had the range at will of every apartment, knew every nook and corner, wondered and worshipped everywhere. The solitude of childhood is not so much the mother 'of thought, as it is the feeder of love, and silence, and admiration. So strange a passion for the place possessed me in those years, that, though there lay — I shame to say how few roods distant from the mansion — half hid by trees what I judged some romantic lake, such was the spell which bound me to the house, and such my careful- ness not to pass its strict and proper pre- cincts, that the idle waters lay unexplored for me; and not till late in life, curiosity prevailing over elder devotion, I found, to my astonishment, a pretty brawling brook had been the Lacus Incognitus of my infancy. Variegated views, extensive prospects — and those at no great distance from the house — I was told of such — what were they to me, being out of the boundaries of my Eden? — So far from a wish to roam, I would have drawn, methought, still closer the fences of my chosen prison ; and have been hemmed in by a yet securer cincture of those excluding garden walls. 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, brambles, chain me too, And, courteous briars, nail me through. I was here as in a lonely temple. Snug fire-sides — the low-built roof — parlours ten feet by ten — frugal boards, and all the home- liness of home — these were the condition of my birth — the wholesome soil which I was planted in. Yet, without impeachment to their tenderest lessons, I am not sorry to have had glances of something beyond ; and to have taken, if but a peep, in childhood, at the contrasting accidents of a great for- tune. To have the feeling of gentility, it is not necessary to have been born gentle. The pride of ancestry may be had on cheaper terms than to be obliged to an importunate race of ancestors ; and the coatless anti- quary in his unemblazoned cell, revolving the long line of a Mowbray's or De Clifford's pedigree, at those sounding names may warm himself into as gay a vanity as these who do inherit them. The claims of birth are ideal merely, and what herald shall go about to strip me of an idea? Is it trenchant to their swords? can it be hacked off as a spur can ? or torn away like a tarnished garter? What else were the families of the great to us ? what pleasure should we take in their tedious genealogies, or their capitulatory brass monuments? What to us the unin- terrupted current of their bloods, if our own did not answer within us to a cognate and correspondent elevation. Or wherefore else, tattered and dimin- ished 'Scutcheon that hung upon the time-worn walls of thy princely stairs, Blakesmoor? have I in childhood so oft stood poring upon the mystic characters — thy emblematic supporters, with their pro- phetic "Resurgam" — till, every dreg of peasantry purging off, I received into myself Very Gentility ? Thou wert first in my morning eyes ; and of nights hast detained my steps from bedward, till it was but a step from gazing at thee to dreaming on thee^ This is the only true gentry by adoption ; POOR RELATIONS. A21 the veritable change of blood, and not, as empirics have fabled, by transfusion. Who it was by dying that had earned the splendid trophy, I know not, I inquired not ; but its fading rags, and colours cobweb- stained, told that its subject was of two centuries back. And what if my ancestor at that date was some Damoetas — feeding flocks — not his own, upon the hills of Lincoln — did I in less earnest vindicate to myself the family trap- pings of this once proud ^gon ? repaying by a backward triumph the insults he might possibly have heaped in his life -time upon my poor pastoral progenitor. If it were presumption so to speculate, the present owners of the mansion had least reason to complain. They had long forsaken the old house of their fathers for a newer trifle ; and I was left to appropriate to myself what images I could pick up, to raise my fancy, or to soothe my vanity. I was the true descendant of those old "W" s; and not the present family of that name, who had fled the old waste places. Mine was that gallery of good old family portraits, which as I have gone over, giving them in fancy my own family name, one — and then another — would seem to smile, reaching forward from the canvas, to recog- nise the new relationship; while the rest looked grave, as it seemed, at the vacancy in their dwelling, and thoughts of fled posterity. The 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. Mine, too, Blakesmoor, was thy noble Marble Hall, with its mosaic pavements, and its Twelve Coesars — stately busts in marble — ranged round ; of whose countenances, young reader of faces as I was, the frowning beauty of Nero, I remember, had most of my wonder: but the mild Galba had my love. There they stood in the coldness of death, yet freshness of immortality. Mine, too, thy lofty Justice Hall, with its one chair of authority, high- backed and wickered, once the terror of luckless poacher, or self- forgetful maiden — so common since, that bats have roosted in it. Mine, too, — whose else ? — thy costly fruit- garden, with its sun -baked southern wall ; the ampler pleasure-garden, rising backwards from the house in triple terraces, with flower-pots now of palest lead, save that a speck here and there, saved from the elements, bespeak their pristine state to have been gilt and glittering; the verdant quarters backwarder still; and, stretching still beyond, in old formality, thy firry wilderness, the haunt of the squirrel, and the day-long murmuring wood-pigeon, with that antique image in the centre, God or Goddess I wist not ; but child of Athens or old Rome paid never a sincerer worship to Pan or to Sylvanus in their native groves, than I to that fragmental mystery. Was it for this, that I kissed my childish hands too fervently in your idol - worship, walks and windings of Blakesmoor ! for this, or what sin of mine, has the plough passed over your pleasant places? I some- times think that as men, when they die, do not die all, so of their extinguished habitations there may be a hope — a germ to be revivified. POOR RELATIONS. A Poor Relation — is the most irrelevant thing in nature, — a piece of impertinent correspondency, — an odious approximation, — a haunting conscience, — a preposterous shadow, lengthening in the noOn-tide of our prosperity, — an unwelcome remembrancer, — a perpetually recurring mortification, —a drain on your purse, a more Intolerable dun upon your pride, — a drawback upon success, — a rebuke to your rising, — a stain in your blood, — a blot on your 'scutcheon, — a rent in your garment, — a death's-head at your bjin- quet, — Agathocles' pot, — a Mordecai in your gate, a Lazarus at your door, — a lion in your 428 POOR RELATIONS. path, — a frog in your chamber, — a fly in your ointment, — a mote in your eye, — a triumph to your enemy, an apology to your friends, — the one thing not needful, — the hail in harvest, — the ounce of sour in a pound of sweet. He is known by his knock. Your heart telleth you "That is Mr. ." A rap, between familiarity and respect; that de- mands, and at the same time seems to despair of, entertainment. He entereth smiling and — embarrassed. He holdeth out his hand to you to shake, and — draweth it back again. He casually looketh in about dinner-time — when the table is full. He ofiForeth to go away, seeing you have company — but is induced to stay. He filleth a chair, and your visitor's two children are accom- modated at a side-table. He never cometh upon open days, when your wife says, with some complacency, " My dear, perhaps Mr. will drop in to-day." He remembereth birth-days — and professeth he is fortunate to have stumbled upon one. He declareth against fish, the turbot being small — yet suifereth himself to be importuned into a slice, against his first resolution. He sticketh by the port — yet will be prevailed upon to empty the remaining glass of claret, if a stranger press it upon him. He is a puzzle to the servants, who are fearful of being too obsequious, or not civil enough, to him. The guests think " they have seen him befoi-e." Every one speculateth upon his condition ; and the most part take him to be — a tide- waiter. He calleth you by your Christian name, to imply that his other is the same with your own. He is too familiar by half, yet you wish he had less difiSdence. With half the familiarity, he might pass for a casual dependant ; with more boldness, he would be in no danger of being taken for what he is. He is too humble for a friend ; yet taketh on him more state than befits a client. He is a worse guest than a country tenant, inasmuch as he bringeth up no rent — yet 'tis odds, from his garb and demeanour, that your guests take him for one. He is asked to make one at the whist table ; refuseth on the score of poverty, and — resents being left out. When the company break up, he proffereth to go for a coach — and lets the servant go. He recollects your grandfather ; and will thrust in some mean and quite unimportant anecdote — of the family. He knew it when it was not quite so flourishing as " he is blest in seeing it now." He reviveth past situations, to institute what he calleth — favourable com- parisons. With a reflecting sort of con- gratulation, he will inquire the price of your furniture ; and insults you with a special commendation of your window- curtains. He is of opinion that the urn is the more elegant shape, but, after all, there was some- thing more comfortable about the old tea- kettle — which you must remember. He dare say you must find a great convenience in having a carriage of your own, and appealeth to your lady if it is not so. Inquireth if you have had your arms done on vellum yet ; and did not know, till lately, that such-and-such had been the crest of the family. His memory is unseasonable ; his compliments perverse ; his talk a trouble ; his stay pertinacious ; and when he goeth away, you dismiss his chair into a corner, as precipitately as possible, and feel fairly rid of two nuisances. There is a worse evil under the sun, and that is — a female Poor Relation. You may do something with the other ; you maj pass him ofi" tolerably well ; but your indigent she -relative is hopeless. "He is an old humourist," you may say, " and affects to go threadbare. His circumstances are better than folks would take them to be. You are fond of having a Character at your table, and truly he is one." But in the indications of female poverty there can be no disguise. No woman dresses below herself from caprice. The truth must out without shufiling. " She is plainly related to the L s ; or what does she at their house?" She is, in all probability, your wife's cousin. Nine times out of ten, at least, this is the case. — Her garb is something between a gentlewoman and a beggar, yet the former evidently predominates. She is most provokingly humble, and ostentatiously sensible to her inferiority. He may require to be repressed sometimes — aliquando sufflaminandus erat — but there is no raising her. You send her soup at dinner, and she begs to be helped — after the gentlemen. Mr. requests the honour of taking wine with her ; she hesitates between Port and Madeira, and chooses the former — because he does. She POOE RELATIONS. 429 calls the servant Sir; and insists on not troubling him to hold her plate. The house- keeper patronises her. The children's governess takes upon her to correct her, when she has mistaken the piano for the harpsichord. Eichard Amlefc, Esq., in the play, is a notable instance of the disadvantages to which this chimerical notion of qffinitTj constituting a claim to acquaintance, may subject the spirit of a gentleman. A little foolish blood is all that is betwixt him and a lady with a great estate. His stars are perpetually crossed by the malignant maternity of an old woman, who persists in calling him "her son Dick." Bilt she has wherewithal in the end to recompense his indignities, and float him. again upon the brilliant surface, under which it had been her seeming business and pleasure all along to sink him. All men, besides, ai-e not of Dick's temperament. I knew an Amlet in real life, who, wanting Dick's buoyancy, sartk indeed. Poor W was of my own standing at Christ's, a fine classic, and a youth of promise. If he had a blemish, it was too much pride ; but its quality was inoffensive; it was not of that sort which hardens the heart, and serves to keep inferiors at a distance ; it only sought to ward off derogation from itself. It was the principle of self-respect carried as far as it could go, without infringing upon that respect, which he would have every one else equally maintain for himself. He would have you to think alike with him on this topic. Many a quarrel have I had with him, when we were rather older boys, and our tallness made us more obnoxious to obser- vation in the blue clothes, because I would not thread the alleys and blind ways of the town with him to elude notice, when we have been out together on a holiday in the streets of this sneering and prying metropolis. W went, sore with these notions, to Oxford, where the dignity and sweetness of a scholar's life, meeting with the alloy of a humble introduction, wrought in him a passionate devotion to the place, with a profound aversion from the society. The ' servitor's gown (worse than his school array) clung to him with Nessian venom. He thought himself ridiculous in a garb, under which Latimer must have walked erect, and in which Hooker, in his young days, possibly flaunted in a vein of no discommendable vanity. In the depth of college shades, or in his lonely chamber, the poor student shrunk from observation. He found shelter among books, which insult not; and studies, that ask no questions of a youth's finances. He was lord of his library, and seldom cai-ed for looking out beyond his domains. The healing influence of studious pursuits was upon him, to soothe and to abstract. He was almost a healthy man ; when the waywai'dness of his fate broke out against him with a second and worse malignity- The father of W ■ had hitherto exercised the humble profession of house-painter at N , near Oxford. A supposed interest with some of the heads of colleges had now induced him to take up his abode in that city, with the hope of being employed upon some public works which were talked of. From that moment I read in the countenance of the young man the determination which at length tore him from academical pursuits for ever. To a person unacquainted with our universities, the distance between the gownsmen and the townsmen, as they are called — the trading part of the latter especially — is carried to an excess that would appear harsh and incre- dible. The temperament of W 's father was diametrically the reverse of his own. Old W was .a little, busy, cringing tradesman, who, with his son upon his arm, would stand bowing and scraping, cap in hand, to anything that wore the semblance of a gown — insensible to the winks and opener remonstrances of the young man, to whose chamber-fellow, or equal in standing, perhaps, he was thus obsequiously and gratuitously ducking. Such a state of things could not last, W must change the air of Oxford, or be suffocated. He chose the former; and let the sturdy moralist, who strains the point of the filial duties as high as they can bear, censure the dereliction ; he cannot estijuate the struggle. I stood with W , the last afternoon I ever saw him, under the eaves of his paternal dwelling. It was in the fine lane leading from the High -street to the back of * * * * college, where W ■ kept his rooms. He seemed thoughtful and more reconciled. I ventured to rally him — finding him in a better mood — ■ upon a representation of the Artist Evan 430 POOR RELATIONS. gelist, which the old man, whose affairs were beginning to flourish, had caused to be set up in a splendid sort of frame over his really handsome shop, either as a token of pros- perity or badge of gratitude to his saint. W looked up at the Luke, and, like Satan, "knew his mounted sign — and fled." A letter on his father's table, the next morning, announced that he had accepted a commission in a regiment about to embark for Portugal. He was among the first who perished before the walls of St. Sebastian. I do not know how, upon a subject which I began with treating half seriously, I should have fallen upon a recital so eminently pain- ful ; but this theme of poor relationship is replete with so much matter for tragic as well as comic associations, that it is diflScult* to keep the account distinct without blending. The earliest impressions which I received on this matter, are certainly not attended with anything painful, or very humiliating, in the recalling. At my father's table (no very splendid one) was to be found, every Satur- day, the mysterious figure of an aged gentle- man, clothed in neat black, of a sad yet comely appearance. His deportment was of the essence of gravity ; his words few or none ; and I was not to make a noise in his presence. I had little inclination to have done so — for my cue was to admire in silence. A particular elbow-chair was appropriated to him, which was in no case to be violated. A peculiar sort of sweet pudding, which appeared on no other occasion, distinguished the days of his coming. I used to think him a prodigiously rich man. All I could make out of him was, that he and my father had been schoolfellows, a world ago, at Lincoln, and that he came from the Mint. The Mint I knew to be a place where all the money was coined — and I thought he was the owner of all that money. Awful ideas of the Tower twined themselves about his presence. He seemed above human infirmities and passions. A sort of melancholy grandeur invested him. From some inexplicable doom I fancied him obliged to go about in an eternal suit of mourning ; a captive — a stately being let out of the Tower on Saturdays. Often have I wondered at the temerity of my father, who, in spite of an habitual general respect which wii all in common manifested towards him, A'ould venture now and then to stand up against him in some argument, touching their youthful days. The houses of the ancient city of Lincoln are divided (as most of my readers know) between the dwellers on the hill and in the valley. This marked dis- tinction formed an obvious division between the boys who lived above (however brought together in a common school) and the boys whose paternal residence was on the plain ; a sufficient cause of hostility in the code of these young Grotiuses. My father had been a leading Mountaineer ; and would stijl main- tain the general superiority, in skill and hardihood, of the Above Boys (his own faction) over the Beloio Boys (so were they called), of which party his contemporary had been a chieftain. Many and hot were the skirmishes on this topic — the only one upon which the old gentleman was ever brought out — and bad blood bred; even sometimes almost to the recommencement (so I ex- pected) of actual hostilities.' But my father, who scorned to insist upon advantages, generally contrived to turn the conversation upon some adroit by-commendation of the old minster; in the general preference of which, before all other cathedrals in the island, the dweller on the hill, and the plain- born, could meet on a conciliating level, and lay down their less important differences. Once only I saw the old gentleman really ruffled, and I remembered with anguish the thought that came over me: "Perhaps he will never come here again." He had been pressed to take another plate of the viand, whic-h I have already mentioned as the indis- pensable concomitant of his visits. He had refused with a resistance amounting to rigour, when my aunt, an old Lincolnian, but who had something of this, in common with my cousin Bridget, that she would sometimes press civility out of season — uttered the following memorable application — "Do take another slice, Mr. Billet, for you do not get I pudding every day." The old gentleman said nothing at the time — but he took occa- sion in the course of the evening, when some argument had intervened between them, tj utter with an emphasis which chilled th i company, and which chills me now as I write it — " Woman, you are superannuated ! " John Billet did not survive long after the digesting of tbis affront; but he survived long enough to assure me that peace was DETACHED THOUGHTS ON BOOKS AND EEADING. 431 actually restored ! and, if I remember right, another pudding was discreetly substituted in the place of that which had occasioned the offence. He died at the Mint (anno 1781), where he had long held, what he accounted, a comfortable independence; and with five pounds, fourteen shillings, and a penny, which were found in his escritoire after his decease^ left the world, blessing God that he had enough to bury him, and that he had never been obliged to any man for a sixpence. Thia was — a Poor Relation. DETACHED THOUGHTS ON BOOKS AND READING. To mind the inside of a book is to entertain one's self witli the forced product of another man's train. Now I think a man of quality and breeding may he much amused with the natural sprouts of his own. Lord Foppingtnn, in the Relapse. dream I love When cannot An ingenious acquaintance of my own 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 thouglits. I away my life in others' speculations. to lose myself in other men's minds. I am not walking, I am reading; I 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—l reckon Court Calen- dars, Directories, Pocket Books, Draught Boards, bound and lettered on the back. Scientific Treatises, Almanacs, Statutes at Large: the works of Hume, Gibbon, Robert- son, Beattie, Soame Jenyns, and generally, all those volumes which "no gentleman's library should be without:" the Histories of riavius Josephus (that learned Jew), and Paley's Moral Philosophy. With these ex- ceptions, I can read almost anything. I bless my stars for a taste so catholic, so unex- cluding. 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, thrust ing out the legitimate occupants. To reach down a well-bound semblance of a volume, and hope it some kind-hearted play-book, 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 Ency- clopaedias (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 like himself again in the world. I never see these impostors, but I long to strip them, to warm my ragged veterans in their spoils. To be strong-backed and neat-bound is the desideratum of a volume. Magnificence comes after. This, when it can be afforded, is not to be lavished upon all kinds of books indiscriminately. I would not dress a set of Magazines, for instance, in full suit. The dishabille, or half-binding (with russia backs ever) is our costume. A Shakspeare or a Milton (unless the first editions), it were mere foppery to trick out in gay apparel. The possession of them confers no distinction. The exterior of them (the things themselves being so common), strange to say, raises no sweet emotions, no tickling sense of property in the owner. Thomson's Seasons, again, looks best (I maintain it) a little torn and dog's-eared. How beautiful to a genuine lover of reading are the sullied leaves and worn-out appearance, nay, the very odour (beyond russia), if we would not forget kind feelings in fastidiousness,. of an old "Circu- lating Library" Tom Jones, or Vicar of Wakefield! How they speak of the thou- sand thumbs that have turned over their pages with delight! — of the lone sempstress, whom they may have cheered (milliner, or 432 DETACHED THOUGHTS ON BOOKS AND READING. harder-working mantua-maker) after her long day's needle-toil, running far into mid- night, when she has snatched an hour, ill- spared from sleep, to steep her cares, as in some Lethean cup, in spelling out their enchanting contents ! Who would have them a whit less soiled ? What better condition could we desire to see them in ? In some respects the better a book is, the less it demands from binding. Fielding, Smollett, Sterne, and all that class of per- petually self-reproductive volumes — Great Nature's Stereotypes —we see them indi- vidually perish with less regret, because we know the copies of tTiem to be " eterne." But where a book is at once both good and rare — where the individual is almost the species, and when that perishes, We know not where is that Promethean torch That can its light relumine. such a book, for instance, as the Life of the Duke of Newcastle by his Duchess — no casket is rich enough, no casing sufficiently durable, to honour and keep safe such a jewel. Not only rare volumes of this description, which seem hopeless ever to be reprinted, but old editions of writers, such as Sir Philip Sydney, Bishop Taylor, Milton in his prose works. Fuller — of whom we have reprints, yet the books themselves, though they go about, and are talked of here and there, we know have not endenizened themselves (nor possibly ever will) in the national heart, so as to become stock books — it is good to possess these in durable and costly covers. I do not eare for a First Folio of Shakspeare. I rather prefer the common editions of Rowe and Toneon, without notes, and with plates, which, being so execrably bad, serve as maps or modest remembrancers, to the text ; and without pretending to any supposable* emula- tion with it, .are so much better than the Shakspeare gallery engravings, which did. I have a community of feeling with my countrymen about his Plays, and I like those editions of him best which have been oftenest tumbled about and handled. — On the con- trary, I cannot read Beaumont and Fletcher but in Folio. The Octavo editions are pain- ful to look at. I have no sympathy with them. If they were as much read as the current editions of the other poet, I should prefer them in that shape to the older one. I do not know a more heartless sight than the reprint of the Anatomy of Melancholy. What need was there of unearthing the bones of that fantastic old great man, to expose them in a winding-sheet of the newest fashion to modern censure? vfhat hapless stationer could dream of Burton ever becoming popular? — The wretched Malone could not do worse, when he bribed the sexton of Stratford church to let him whitewash the painted effigy of old Shakspeare, which stood there, in rude but lively fashion depicted, to the very colour of the cheek, the eye, the eyebrow, hair, the very dress he used to wear — the only authentic testimony we had, however imperfect, of these curious parts and parcels of him. They covered him over with a coat of white paint. By , if I had been a justice of peace for Warwickshire, I would have clapt both commentator and sexton fast in the stocks, for a pair of meddling sacrile- gious va'rlets. I think I see them at their work — these sapient trouble-tombs. Shall J be thought fantastical, if I confess, that the names of some of our poets sound sweeter, and have a finer relish to the ear — to mine, at least — than that of Milton or of Shakspeare ? It may be that the latter are more staled and rung upon in common dis- course. The sweetest names, and which carry a pei-fume in the mention, are. Kit Marlowe, Drayton, Drummond of Hawthornden, and Cowley, Much depends upon when and ivhere you read a book. In the five or sis impatient minutes before the dinner is quite ready, who would think of taking up the Fairy Queen for a stop-gap, or a volume of Bishop An- drewes' Sermons? Milton almost requires a solemn service of music to be played before you enter upon him. But he brings his music, to which, who listens, had need bring docile thoughts, and purged ears. Winter evenings — the world shut out — with less of ceremohy the gentle Shakspeare enters. At such a season the Tempest, or his own Winter's Tale — These two poets you cannot avoid reading aloud — to yourself, or (as it chances) to some single person listening. More than one — and it degenerates into an audience. Books of quick interest that hurry on for DETACHED THOUGHTS ON BOOKS AND HEADING. 483 incidents, are for the eye to glide over only. It will not do to read them out. I could never listen to even the better kind of modern novels without extreme irksomeness. A newspaper, read out, is intolerable. In some of the Bank offices it is the custom (to save so much individual time) for one of the clerks — who is the best scholar — to com- mence upon the " Times," or the " Chronicle," and recite its entire contents aloud pro bono publico. With every advantage of lungs and elocution, the effect is singularly vapid. In barbers' shops and public -houses a fellow will get up and spell out a paragraph, which he communicates as some discovery. Another follows with Ms selection. So the entii-e journal transpires at length by piece-meal. Seldom-readers are slow readers, and, with- out this expedient, no one in the company would probably ever travel through the con- tents of a whole paper. Newspapers always excite curiosity. No one ever lays one down without a feeling of disappointment. What an eternal time that gentleman in black, at Nando's, keeps the paper! I am sick of hearing the waiter bawling out inces- santly, " The 'Chronicle' is in hand. Sir." Coming into an inn at night — having ordered your supper — what can be more de- lightful than to find lying in the window- seat, left there time out of mind by the care- lessness of some former guest — two or three numbers of the old Town and Country Magazine, with its amusing tete-d-fete pictures — "the Royal Lover and Lady G ;" "The Melting Platonic and the old Beau,"— and such-like antiquated scandal? Would you exchange it — at that time, and in that place — for a better book ? Poor Tobin, who latterly fell blind, did not regret it so much for the weightier kinds of reading — the Paradise Lost, or Comus, he could have read to him — but he missed the pleasure of skimming over with his own eye & magazine, or a light pamphlet. I should not care to be caught in the serious avenues of some cathedral alone, and reading Candide. I do not remember a more whimsical surprise than having been once detected — by a familiar damsel — reclining at my ease upon the grass, on Primrose Hill (her Cythera), reading — Pamela. There was nothing in the 28 book to make a man seriously ashamed at the exposure ; but as she seated herself down by me, and seemed determined to read in company, I could have wished it had been — any other book. We read on very sociably for a few pages ; and, not finding the author much to her taste, she got up, and — went away. Gentle casuist, I leave it to thee to conjecture, whether the blush (for there was one between us) was the property of the nymph oi: the swain in this dilemma. From me you shall never get the secret. I am not much a friend to out-of-doors reading. I cannot settle my spirits to it. I knew a Unitarian minister, who was generally to be seen upon Snow-hill (as yet Skinner's- street was not), between the hours of ten and eleven in the morning, studying a volume of Lardner. I own this to have been a strain of abstraction beyond my reach. I used to admire how he sidled along, keeping clear of secular contacts. An illiterate encounter with a porter's knot, or a bread-basket, would have quickly put to flight all the theology I am master of, and have left me worse than indifferent to the five points. There is a class of street readers, whom I can never contemplate without affection — the poor gentry, who, not having where- withal to buy or hire a book, filch a little learning at the open stalls — the owner, with his hard eye, casting envious looks at thera all the while, and thinking when they will have done. Venturing tenderly, page after page, expecting every moment when he shall interpose his interdict, and yet unable to deny themselves the gratification, they " snatch a fearful joy." Martin B , in this way, by daily fragments, got through two volumes of Clarissa, when the stall-keeper damped his laudable ambition, by asking him (it was in his younger days) whether he meant to purchase the work. M. declares, that under no circumstances in his life did he ever peruse a book with half the satisfaction which he took in those uneasy snatches. A quaint poetess of our day has moralised upon this subject in two very touching but homely stanzas.- I saw a boy with eager eye Open a 'book upon a stall, And read, as he 'd devour it all ; Which when the stall-man did espy, Soon to the boy I heard him call, 434 STAGE ILLUSION. "You Sir, you never buy a loook, Therefore in one you shall not look." The boy pass 'd slowly on, and with a sigh He wish 'd he never had been taught to read, Then of the old churl's books he should have had no need. Of sufferings the poor have many, Which never can the rich annoy: I soon perceived another boy, Who look 'd as if he had not any Food, for that day at least — enjoy The sight of cold meat in a tavern larder. This boy's case, then thought I, is surely harder, Thus hungry, longing, thus without a penny, Beholding choice of dainty-dressed meat: No wonder if ho wish he ne'er had leEirn'd to eat. STAGE ILLUSION. A PLAT is said to be well or ill acted, in proportion to the scenical illusion produced. Whether such illusion can in any case be perfect, is not the question. The nearest approach to it, we are told, is, when the actor appears wholly unconscious of the presence of spectators. In tragedy — in all which is to affect the feelings — this undivided atten- tion to his stage business seems indispens- able. Yet it is, in fact, dispensed with every day by our cleverest tragedians ; and while these references to an audience, in the shape of rant or sentiment, are not too frequent or palpable, a sufiScient quantity of illusion for the purposes of dramatic interest may be said to be produced in spite of them. But, tragedy apart, it may be inquired whether, in certain characters in comedy, especially those vehich are a little extravagant, or which involve some notion repugnant to the moral sense, it is not a proof of the highest skill in the comedian when, without absolutely appealing to an audience, he keeps up a tacit under- standing vrith them : and makes them, un- consciously to themselves, a party in ~the scene. The utmost nicety is required in the mode of doing this ; but we speak only of the great artists in the profession. The most mortifying infirmity in human nature, to feel in ourselves, or to contemplate in another, is, perhaps, cowardice. To see a coward done to the life upon a stage would produce anything but mirth. Yet we most of us remember Jack Bannister's cowards. Could anything be more agreeable, more pleasant? We loved the rogues. How was this effected but by the exquisite art of the actor in a perpetual sub-insinuation to us, the spectators, even in the extremity of the shaking fit, that he was not half such a coward as we took him for? We saw all the common symptoms of the malady upon him ; the quivering lip, the cowering knees, the teeth chattering; and could have sworn "that man was frightened." But we forgot all the while — or kept it almost a secret to ourselves — that he never once lost his self- possession ; that he let out, by a thousand droll looks and gestures — meant at lis, and not at all supposed to be visible to his fellows in the scene, that his confidence in his own resources had never once deserted him. Was this a genuine picture of a coward ; or not rather a likeness, which the clever artist contrived to palm upon us instead of an original ; while we secretly connived at the delusion for the purpose of greater pleasure, than a more genuine counterfeiting of the imbecility, helplessness, and utter self- de- sertion, whicli we know to be concomitants of cowardice in real life, could have given us ? Why are misers so hateful in the world, and so endurable on the stage, but because the skilful actor, by a sort of sub-reference, rather than direct appeal to us, disarms the character of a great deal of its odiousness, by seeming to engage our compassion for the insecure tenure by which he holds his money- bags and parchments? By this subtle vent half of the hatefulness of the character — the self-closeness with which in real life it coils itself up from the sympathies of men — evaporates. The miser becomes sympathetic ; i. e. is no genuine miser. Here again a diverting likeness is substituted for a very disagreeable reality. Spleen, irritability — the pitiable infirmities of old men, which produce only pain to be- hold in the realities, counterfeited upon a stage, divert not altogether for the comic STAGE ILLUSION. 435 appendages to them, but in part from an inner conviction that they are being acted before us ; that a likeness only is going on, and not the thing itself. They please by being done under the life, ol- beside it ; not to the life. When Gattie acts an old man, is he angry indeed? or only a pleasant counter- feit, just enough of a likeness to recognise, without pressing upon us the uneasy sense of a reality ? Comedians, pai'adosical as it may seem, may be too natural. It was the case with a late actor. Nothing could be more earnest or true than the manner of Mr. Emery ; this told excellently in his Tyke, and characters of a tragic cast. But when he carried the same rigid exclusiveness of attention to the stage bu^siness, and wilful blindness and obli- vion of everything before the curtain into his comedy, it produced a harsh and dissonant effect. He was out of keeping with the rest of the Personce Dramatis. There was as little link between him and them, as betwixt him- self and the audience. He was a third estate, dry, repulsive, and unsocial to alL ' In- dividually considered, his execution was masterly. But comedy is not this unbending thing ; for this reason, that the same degree of credibility is not required of it as to serious scenes. The degrees of credibility demanded to the two things, may be illus- trated by the different sort of truth which we expect when a man tells us a mournful or a merry story. If we suspect the former of falsehood in any one tittle, we reject it alto- gether. Our tears refuse to flow at a suspected imposition. But the teller of a mirthful tale has latitude allowed him. We are content with less than absolute truth. 'Tis the same with dramatic illusion. We confess we love in comedy to see an audience naturalised behind the scenes, taken into the interest of the drama, welcomed as by- standers however. There is something un- gracious in a comic actor holding himself aloof from all participation or concern with those who are come to be diverted by him. Macbeth must see the dagger, and no ear but his own be told of it ; but an old fool in farce may think he sees something, and by conscious words and looks express it, as plainly as he can speak, to pit, box, and gal- lery. When an impertinent in tragedy, an Osric, for instance, breaks in upon the serious passions of the scene, we a,pprove of the contempt with which he is treated. But when the pleasant impertinent of comedy, in a piece purely meant to give delight, and raise mirth out of whimsical perplexities, worries the studious man with taking up his leisure, or making his house his home, the same sort of contempt expressed (however natural) would destroy the balance of delight in the spectators. To make the intrusion comic, the actor who plays the annoyed man must a little desert nature ; he must, in short, be thinking of the audience, and express only so much dissatisfaction and peevishness as is consistent with the pleasure of comedy. In other words, his perplexity must seem half put on. If he repel the intruder with the sober set face 'of a man in earnest, and more especially if he deliver his expostula- tions in a tone which in the world must necessarily provoke a duel ; his real-life manner will destroy the whimsical and purely dramatic existence of the other cha- racter (which to render it comic demands an antagonist comicality on the part of the character opposed to it), and convert what was meant for mirth, rather thf^n belief, into a downright piece of impertinence indeed, which would raise no diversion in us, but rather stir pain, to see inflicted in earnest upon any unworthy person. A very judicious actor (in most of his parts) seems to have fallen into an error of this sort in his playing with Mr. Wrench in the farce of Free and Easy. Many instances would be tedious ; these may suffice -to show that comic acting at least does not alw'ays demand from the performer that strict abstraction from all reference to an audience which is exacted of it ; but that in some cases a sort of compromise may take place, and all the purposes of dramatic de- light be attained by a judicious understand- ing, not too openly announced, between the ladies and gentlemen — on both sides of the curtain. 436 TO THE SHADE OF ELLISTON. TO THE SHADE OF ELLISTON. JoTOTJSEST of once embodied spirits, whither at length hast thou flown ? to what genial region are we permitted to conjecture that thou hast flitted ? Art thou sowing thy wild oats yet (the harvest time was still to come with thee) upon casual sands of Avernus? or art thou enacting Kover (as we would gladlier think) by wandering Elysian streams. This mortal frame, while thou didst play thy brief antics amongst us, was in truth anything but a prison to thee, as the vain Platonist dreams of this body to be no better than a county gaol, forsooth, or some house of durance vile, whereof the five senses are the fetters. Thou knowest better than to be in a hurry to cast oif those gyves ; and had notice to quit, I fear, before thou wert quite ready to abandon this fleshy tenement. It was thy Pleasure-House, thy Palace of Dainty Devices : thy Louvre, or thy White- Hall: What new mysterious lodgings dost thou tenant now? or when may we expect thy aerial house-warming ? Tartarus we know, and we have read of the Blessed Shades ; now cannot I intelligibly fancy thee in either. Is it too much to hazard a conjecture, that (as the schoolmen admitted a receptacle apart for Patriarchs and un-chrisom babes) there may exist — not far perchance from that store-house of all vanities, which Milton saw in vision — a Limbo somewhere for Players? and that Up thither like aerial vapours fly- Both all Stage things, and all that in Stage things Built their fond hopes of glory, or lasting fame ? All the unaccomplish'd t^orks of Authors' hands, Ahortive, monstrous, or unkindly mix'd, Damn'd upon earth, fleet thither — Play, Opera, Farce, with all their trumpery.— There, by the neighbouring moon (by some not improperly supposed thy Regent Planet upon earth), mayst thou not still be acting thy managerial pranks, great dis- embodied Lessee ? but Lessee still, and still a manager. In Green Rooms, impervious to mortal eye, the muse beholds thee wielding posthu- mous empire. Thin ghosts of Figurantes (never plump on earth) circle thee in endlessly, and still their song is Fie on sinful Phantasy ! Magnificent were thy capriccios on this globe of earth, Robert William Elliston ! for as yet we know not thy new name in heaven. It irks me to think, that, stript of thy regalities, thou shouldst ferry over, a poor forked shade, in crazy Stygian wherry. Methinks I hear the old boatman, paddling by the weedy wharf, with raucid voice, bawling "Sculls, Sculls:" to which, with waving hand, and majestic action, thou deignest no reply, other than in two curt monosyllables, " No : Oars." But the laws of Pluto's kingdom know small difi'erence between king, and cobbler ; manager, and call-boy ; and, if haply your dates of life were conterminant, you are quietly taking your passage, cheek by chaek (0 ignoble levelling of Death) with the shade of some recently departed candle- snuffer. But mercy! what strippings, what tearing, off of histrionic robes, and private vanities ! what denudations to the bone, before the surly Ferryman will admit you to set a foot within his battered lighter. Crowns, sceptres ; shield, sword, and truncheon; "th^ own coronation robes (for thou hast brought the whole property- man's wardrobe with thee, enough to sink a navy) ; the judge's ermine : the coxcomb's wig; the snuff-box a la Foppington — all must overboard, he positively swears — and that Ancient Mariner brooks no denial ; for, since the tiresome monodrame of the old Thracian Harper, Charon, it is to be believed, hath shown small taste for theatricals. Ay, now 'tis done. You are just boat- weight ; yura et puta anima. But, bless me, how little yo\x look ! ELLISTONIANA. 437 So shall we all look — kings and keysars — stripped for the last voyage. But the murky rogue pushes off. Adieu, pleasant, and thrice pleasant shade ! with my parting thanks for many a heavy hour of life lightened by thy harmless extravaganzas, public or domestic. Rhadamanthus, who tries the lighter causes below, leaving to his two brethren the heavy calendars — honest Rhadamanth, always partial to players, weighing their parti-coloured existence here upon earth, — making account of the few foibles, that may have shaded thy real life as we call it, (though, substantially, scarcely less a vapour than thy idlest vagaries upon the boards of Drury,) as but of so many echoes, natural re -percussions, and results to be expected from the assumed extravagancies of thy secondary or mock life, nightly upon a stage — after a lenient castigation, with rods lighter than of those Medusean ringlets, but just enough to "whip the offending Adam out of thee," shall courteously dismiss thee at the right hand gate — the o. p. side of Hades — that conducts to masques and merry-makings in the Theatre Royal of Proserpine. PLAUDITO, ET VALETO. ELLISTONIANA. My acquaintance with the pleasant crea- ture, whose loss we all deplore, was but slight. My first introduction to E., which after- wards ripened into an acquaintance a little on this side of intimacy, was over a counter in the Leamington Spa Library, then newly entered upon by a branch of his family. E., whom nothing misbecame — to auspicate, I suppose, the filial concern, and set it a-going with a lustre — was serving in person two damsels fair, who had come into the shop ostensibly to inquire for some new publica- tion, but in reality to have a sight of the illustrious shopman, hoping some conference. With what an air did he reach down the volume, dispassionately giving his opinion of the worth of the work in question, and launching out into a dissertation on its com- parative merits with those of certain publi- cations of a similar stamp, its rivals ! his enchanted customers fairly hanging on his lips, subdued to their authoritative sentence. So have I seen a gentleman in comedy acting the shopman. So Lovelace sold his gloves in King Street. I admired the histrionic art, by which he contrived to carry clean away every notion of disgrace, from the occupation he had so generously submitted to ; and from that hour I judged him, with no after repent- ance, to be a person with whom it would be a felicity to be more acquainted. T.0 descant upon his merits as a comedian would be superfluous. With his blended private and professional habits alone I have to do; that harmonious fusion of the manners of the player into those of every-day life, which brought the stage boards into streets, and dining-parlours, and kept up the play when the play was ended. — "I like Wrench,'' a friend was saying to him one day, " be- cause he is the same, natural, easy creature, on the stage, that he is off." "My case exactly," retorted EUiston — with a charming forgetfulness, that the converse of a pro- position does not always lead to the same conclusion — "I am the same person off the stage that I am on." The inference, at first sight, seems identical; but examine it a little, and it confesses only, that the one performer was never, and the other always, acting. And in truth this was the charm of Ellis- ton's private deportment. You had spirited performance always going on before your eyes, with nothing to pay. As where a monarch takes up his casual abode for a night, the poorest hovel which he honours by his sleeping in it, becomes ipso facto for that time a palace ; so wherever EUiston walked, sate, or stood still, there was the theatre. He carried about with him his pit, boxes, and galleries, and set up his portable play- house at corners of streets, and in the market- places. Upon flintiest pavements he trod the boards still ; and if his theme chanced to 43S ELLISTONIANA. be passionate, the green baize carpet of tragedy spontaneously rose beneath his feet. Now thi? was hearty, and showed a love for his art. So Apelles always painted — in thought. So G. Y)., always poetises, I hate a lukewarm artist, I have known actors — and some of them of Elliston's own stamp — who shall have agreeably been amusing you in the part of a rake or a coxcomb, through the two or three hours of their dramatic existence ; but no sooner does the curtain fall with its leaden clatter, but a spirit of lead seems to seize on all their faculties They emerge sour, morose persons, intolerable to their families, servants, &c. Another shall have been expanding your heart with generous deeds and sentiments, till it even beats with yearnings of universal sympathy; you absolutely long to go home and do some good action. The play seems tedious, till you can get fairly out of the house, and realise your laudable intentions. At length the final bell rings, and this cordial repre- sentative of all that is amiable in human breasts steps forth — a miser, Elliston was more of a piece. Did he play Ranger? and did Ranger fill the general bosom of the town, with satisfaction ? why should he not be Ranger, and diiFuse the same cordial satisfaction among his private circles ? with his temperament, his animal spirits, his good- nature, Ms follies perchance, could he do better than identify himself with his imper- sonation ? Are we to like a pleasant rake, or coxcomb, on the stage, and give ourselves airs of aversion for the identical character, presented to us in actual life ? or what would the performer have gained by divesting him- self of the impersonation? Could the man Elliston have been essentially different from his part, even if he had avoided to reflect to us studiously, in private circles, the airy briskness, the forwardness, and 'scape-goat trickeries of his prototype? "But there is something not natural in this everlasting acting; we want the real man." Are you quite sure that it is not the man himself, whom you cannot, or will not see, under some adventitious trappings, which, nevertheless, sit not at all inconsistently upon him ? What if it is the nature of some men to be highly artificial? The fault is least reprehensible in -players. Gibber was his own Foppington, with almost as much wit as Vanbrugh could add to it. "My conceit of his person," — it is Ben Jonson speaking of Lord Bacon, — "was never increased towards him by his ylace or honou7's. But I have, and do reverence him for the greatness that was only proper to himself; in that he seemed to me ever one of the greatest men, that had been in many ages. In his adversity I ever prayed that Heaven would give him strength ; for great- ness he could not want," The quality here commended was scarcely less conspicuous in the subject of these idle reminiscences than in my Lord Verulam. Those who have imagined that an unexpected elevation to the direction of a great London Theatre afi"ected the consequence of Elliston, or at all changed his nature, knew not the essential greatness of the man whom they disparage. It was my fortune to encounter him near St. Dunstan's Church (which, with its punctual giants, is now no more than dust and a shadow), on the morning of his election to that high office. Grasping my hand with a look of significance, he only uttered, — "Have you heard the news?" — then, with another look following up the blow, he subjoined, " I am the future Manager of Drury Lane Theatre." — Breath- less as he saw me, he stayed not for con- gratulation or reply, but mutely stalked away, leaving me to chew upon his new- blown dignities at leisure. In fact, nothing could be said to it. Expressive silence alon6 could muse his praise. This was in his great style. But was he less great, (be witness, ye Powers of Equanimity, that supported in the ruins of Carthage the consular exile, and more recently transmuted, for a more illus- trious exile, the barren constableship of Elba into an image of Imperial France), when, in melancholy after-years, again, much near the same spot, I met him, when that sceptre had been wrested from his hand, and his dominion was curtailed to the petty managership, and part proprietorship, of the small Olympic, his Elba? He still played nightly upon the boards of Drury, but in parts, alas ! allotted to him, not magnificently distributed by him. Waiving his great loss as nothing, and mag- nificently sinking the sense of fallen material grandeur in the more liberal resentment of ELLISTONIANA. 489 depreciations done to his more lofty intellec- tual pretensions, "Have you heard" (his cus- tomary exordium) — "have you heard," said he, "hovr they treat me? they put me in jcomedy." Thought I — but his finger on his lips forbade any verbal interruption — " where could they have put you better?" Then, after a pause — "Where I .formerly played Romeo, I novr play Mercutio," — and so again he stalked away, neither staying, nor caring for responses. 0, it was a rich scene, — but Sir A C , the best of story-tellers and surgeons, ■who mends a lame narrative almost as well as he sets a fracture, alone could do justice to it, — that I was a witness to, in the tar- nished room (that had once been green) of that same little Olympic. There, after his deposition from imperial Drury, he substi- tuted a throne. That Olympic Hill was his "highest heaven;" himself "Jove in his chair." There he sat in state, while before him, on complaint of prompter, was brought for judgment — how shall I describe her? — one of those little tawdry things that flirt at the tails of choruses — a probationer for the town, in either of its senses — the pertest little drab — a dirty fringe and* appendage of the lamp's smoke — who, it seems, on some disapprobation expressed by a " highly re- spectable" audience, — had precipitately quitted her station on the boards, and with- drawn her small talents in disgust. "And how dare you," said her manager, — assuming a censorial severity, which would have crushed the confidence of a Vestris, and disarmed that beautiful Rebel herself of her professional caprices — I verily believe, bethought her standing before him — "how dare- you. Madam, withdraw yourself, without a notice, from your theatrical duties ?" " I was hissed. Sir." " And you have the pre- sumption to decide upon the taste of the town ?" " I don't know that. Sir, but I will never stand to be hissed," was the subjoinder of young Confidence — when gathering up his features into one significant mass of wonder, pity, and expostulatory indignation — in a lesson never to have been lost upon a creature less forward than she who stood be- fore him — his words were these : " They have hissed me." 'Twas the identical argument a fortiori' which the son of Peleus uses to Lycaon trembling under his lance, to persuade him to take his destiny with a good grace. " I too am mortal." And it is to be believed that in both cases the rhetoric missed of its application for want of a proper understand- ing with the faculties of the respective reci- pients. " Quite an Opera pit," he said to me, as he was courteously conducting me over the benches of his Surrey Theatre, the last retreat, and recess, of his every-day waning grandeur. Those who knew Elliston, will know the manner in which he pronounced the latter sentence of the few words I am about to record. One proud day to me he took his roast mutton with us in the Temple, to which I had superadded a preliminary haddock. After a rather plentiful partaking of the meagre banquet, not unrefreshed with the humbler sort of liquors, I made a sort of apology for the humility of the fare, observing that for my own part I never ate but one dish at dinnei". " I too never eat but one thing at dinner," — was his reply — then after a pause — "reckoning fish as nothing." The manner was all. It was as if by one peremp- tory sentence he had decreed the annihilation of all the savory esculents, which the pleasant and nutritious-food-giving Ocean pours forth upon poor humans from her watery bosom. This was greatness, tempered with considerate tenderness to the feelings of his scanty but welcoming entertainer. Great wert thou in thy life, Robert William Elliston ! and not lessened in thy death, if report speak truly, which says that thou didst direct that thy mortal remains should repose under no inscription but one of pure Latinity. Classical was thy bringing up ! and beautiful was the feeling on thy last bed, which, connecting the man with the boy, took thee back to thy latest exercise of imagination, to the days when, undreaming of Theatres and Managerships, thou wert a scholar, and an early ripe one, under the roofs builded by the munificent and pious Colet. For thee the Pauline Muses weep. In elegies, that shall silence this crude prose, they shall celebrate thy praise. 440 THE OLD MARGATE HOY. THE OLD MARaATE HOY. 1 AM fond of passing my vfications (I believe 1 have said so before) at one or other of the Universities. Next to these my choice vcould fix me at some woody spot, such as the neighbourhood of Henley affords in abund- ance, on the banks of my beloved Thames. But somehow or other my cousin contrives to wheedle me, once in three or four seasons, to a watering-place. Old attachments cling to her in spite of experience. We have been dull at Worthing one summer, duller at Brighton another, dullest at Eastbourn a third, and are at this moment doing dreary penance at — Hastings! — and all because we were happy many years ago for a brief week at Margate. That was our first sea-side experiment, and many circumstances com- bined to make it the most agreeable holiday of my life. We had neither of us seen the sea, and we had never been from home so long together in company. Can I forget thee, thou old Margate Hoy, with thy weather-beaten, sun-burnt captain, and his rough accommodations — ill ex- changed for the foppery and fresh-water niceness of the modern steam-packet? To the winds and waves thou committedst thy goodly freightage, and didst ask no aid of magic fumes and spells, and boiling caldrons. With the gales of heaven thou wentest swimmingly ; or, when it was their pleasure, stoodest still with sailor-like patience. Thy course was natural, not forced, as in a hot- bed ; nor didst thou go poisoning the breath of ocean with sulphureous smoke — a great sea chimera, chimneying and furnacing'the deep ; or liker to that fire-god parching up Scamander. Can I forget thy honest, yet slender crew, with their coy reluctant responses (yet to the suppression of anything like contempt) to the raw questions, which we of the great city would be ever and anon putting to them, as to the uses of this or that strange naval implement? 'Specially can I forget thee, thou happy medium, thou shade of refuge between us and them, conciliating interpreter of their skill to our simplicity, comfortable ambassador between sea and land ! — whose sailor-trousers did not more convincingly assure thee to be an adopted denizen of the former, than thy white cap, and whiter apron over them, with thy neat-figured practice in thy culinary vocation, bespoke thee to have been of inland nurture heretofore — a master cook of Eastcheap ? How busily didst thou ply thy multifarious' occupation, cook, mari- ner, attendant, chamberlain ; here, there, like another Ariel, flaming at once about all parts of the deck, yet with kindlier ministrations — not to assist the tempest, but, as {{ touched with a kindred sense of our infirmities, to soothe the qualms which that untried motidn might haply raise in our crude land-fancies. And when the o'erwashing billows drove us below deck (for it was far gone in October, and we had stiff and blowing weather), how did thy officious ministerings, still catering for our comfort, with cards, and cordials, and thy more cordial conversation, alleviate the closeness and the confinement of thy else (truth to say) not very savoury, nor very in- viting little cabin ? With these additaments to boot, we had on board a fellow-passenger, whose discourse in verity might have beguiled a longer voyage than we meditated, and have made mirth and wonder abound as far as the Azores. He was a dark, Spanish-complexioned young man, remarkably handsome, with an officer- like assurance, and an insuppressible volu- bility of assertion. He was, in fact, the greatest liar I had met with then, or since. He was none of your hesitating, half-story- tellers (a most painful description of mortals) who go on sounding your belief, and only giving you as much as they see you can swallow at a time — the nibbling pick-pockets of your patience — but one who committed downright, daj^ight depredations upon his neighbour's fait^i.. He did not stand shivering upon the brink, but was a hearty, thorough- paced liar, and plunged at once into the depths of your credulity. I partly believe, THE OLD MAKGATE HOY. 441 he made pretty sure of his company. Not many rich, not many wise, or learned, com- posed at that time the common stowage of a Margate packet. We were, I am afraid, a set of as unseasoned Londoners (let our enemies give it a worse name) as Alderman- bury, or Watling-street, at that time of day could have supplied. There might be an exception or two' among us, but I scorn to make any invidious distinctions among such a jolly, companionable ship's company, as those were whom I sailed with. Something too must be conceded to the Genius Loci. Had the confident fellow told us half the legends on land, which he favoured us with on the other element, I flatter myself the good sense of most of us would have revolted. But we were in a new world, with every- thing unfamiliar about us, and the time and place disposed us to the reception of any prodigious marvel whatsoever. Time has obliterated from my memory much of his wild fablings; and the rest would appear but dull, as written, and to be read on shore. He had been Aide-de-camp (among other rare accidents and fortunes) to a Persian Prince, and at one blow had stricken off the head of the King of Carimania on horseback. He, of course, married the Prince's daughter. I forget what unlucky turn in the politics of that court, combining with the loss of his consort, was the reason of his quitting Persia ; but, with the- rapidity of a magician, he transported himself, along with his hearers, back to England, where we still found him in the confidence of great ladies. There was some story of a princess — Elizabeth, if I remember — having intrusted to his care an extraordinary casket of jewels, upon some extraordinary occasion — but, as I am not certain of the name or circumstance at this distance of time, I must leave it to the Royal daughters of England to settle the honour among themselves in private. I cannot call to mind half his pleasant wonders ; but I perfectly remember, that in the course of his travels he had seen a phoenix ; and h-e obligingly undeceived us of the vulgar error, that there is but one of that species at a time, assuring us that they were not uncommon in some parts of Upper Egypt. Hitherto he had found the most implicit listeners. His dreaming fancies had transported us beyond the "ignorant present." But when (still hardying more and more in his triumphs over our simplicity) he went on to affirm that he had actually sailed through the legs of the Colossus at Rhodes, it really became necessary to make a stand. And here 1 must do justice to the good sense and intrepidity of one of our party, a youth, that had hitherto been one of his most deferential auditors, who, from his recent reading, made bold to assure the gentleman, that there must be some mistake, as " the Colossus in question had been destroyed long since ;" to whose opinion, delivered with all modesty, our hero was obliging enough to concede thus much, that the " the figure was indeed a little damaged." This was the only opposi- tion he met with, and it did not at all seem to stagger him, for he proceeded with his fables, which the same youth appeared to swallow with still more complacency than ever, — confirmed, as it were, by the extreme candour of that concession. With these prodigies he wheedled us on till we came in sight of the Reculvers, which one of our own company (having been the voyage before) immediately recognising, and pointing out to us, was considered by us as no ordinary seaman. All this time sat upon the edge of the deck quite a different character. It was a lad, apparently very poor, very infirm, and very patient. His eye was ever on the sea, with a smile ; and, if he caught now and then some snatches of these wild legends, it was by accident, and they seemed not to concern him. The waves to him whispered more pleasant stories. He was as one, being with us, but not of us. He heard the bell of dinner ring without stirring ; and vt'hen some of us pulled out our private stores — our cold meat and our salads — he produced none, and seemed to want none. Only a solitary biscuit he had laid in ; provision for the one or two days and nights, to which these vessels then were oftentimes obliged to prolong their voyage. Upon a nearer , acquaintance with him, which he seemed neither to court nor decline, we learned that he was going to Margate, with the hope of being admitted into the Infirmary there for sea-bathing. Ilis disease was a scrofula, which appeared to have eaten all over him. He expressed great hopes of a cure ; and when we asked him, whether he had any 442 THE OLD MARGATE HOY. friends where he was goiug, he replied, "he Tiad no friends." These pleasant, and some mournful pas- sages with the first sight of the sea, co- operating with youth, and a sense of holi- days, and out-of-door adventure,' to me that had been pent up in populous cities for many months before, — have left upon my mind the fragrance as of summer days gone by, bequeathing nothing but their remem- brance for cold and wintry hours to chew upon. Will it be thought a digression (it may spare some unwelcome comparisons), if I endeavour to account for the dissatisfaction which I have heard so many persons confess to have felt (as I did myself feel in part on this occasion), at the sight of the sea for the ■first time? I think the reason usually given — referring to the incapacity of actual ob- jects for satisfying our preconceptions of them — scarcely goes deep enough into the question. Let the same person see a lion, an elephant, a mountain f6r the first time in his life, and he shall perhaps feel himself a little mortified. The things do not fill up that space, which the idea of them seemed to take up in his mind. But they have still a cor- respondency to his first notion, and in time grow up to it, so as to produce a very similar impression : enlarging themselves (if I may say so) upon familiarity. But the sea re- mains a disappointment. — Is it not, that in the latter we had expected to behold (absurdly, I grant, but, I am afraid, by the law of imagination, unavoidably) not a definite ob- ject, as those wild beasts, or that mountain compassable by the eye, but all the sea at once, THE COMMENSURATE ANTAGONIST OP THE EARTH ? I do not say we tell ourselves so much, but the craving of the mind is to be satisfied with nothing less. I will suppose the case of a young person of fifteen (as I then was) knowing nothing of the sea, but from description. He comes to it for the first time — all that he has been reading of it all his life, and that the most enthusiastic part of life, — all he has gathered from narra- tives of wandering seamen, — what he has gained from true voyages, and what he cherishes as credulously from romance and poetry, — crowding their images, and exacting strange tributes from expectation. — He thinks of the great deep, and of those who go down unto it ; of its thousand isles, and of the vast continents it washes : of its re- ceiving the mighty Plate, or Orellana, into its bosom, without disturbance, or sense of augmentation ; of Biscay swells, and the mariner For many a clay, and many a dreadful night, Incessant labouring round the stormy Cape ; of fatal rocks, and the " still-vexed Ber- moothes ;" of great whirlpools, and the water-spout ; of sunken ships, and sumless treasures swallowed up in the unrestoring depths ; of fishes and quaint monsters, to which all that is terrible on earth — Be but as buggs to frighten babes withal. Compared with the creatures in the sea's enthral. of naked savages, and Juan Fernandez ; of pearls, and shells ; of coral beds, and of en- chanted isles ; of mermaids' grots — I do not assert that in sober earnest he expects to be shown all these wonders at once, but he is under the tyranny of a mighty faculty, which haunts him with confused hints and shadows of all these ; and when the actual object opens first upon him, seen (in tame weather, too, most likely) from our unromantic coasts — a speck, a slip of sea- water, as it shows to him — what can it prove but a very unsatisfying and even diminutive entertainment ? Or if he has come to it from the mouth of a river, was it much more than the river widening ? and, even out of sight of land, what had he but a flat watery horizon about him, nothing comparable to the vast o'er-curtaining sky, his familiar object, seen daily without dread or amaze- ment? — Who, in similar circumstances, has not been tempted to exclaim with Charoba, in the poem of Gebir, Is this the mighty ocean? is this all? I love town, or country ; but this detest- able Cinque Port is neither. I hate these scrubbed shoots, thrusting out their starved foliage from between the horrid fissures of dusty innnutritious rocks; which the amateur calls " verdure to the edge of the sea." I require woods, and they show me stunted coppices. I cry out for the water-brooks, and pant for fresh streams, and inland murmurs. I cannot stand all day on the naked beach, watching the capricious hues THE OLD MARGATE HOY. 443 of the sea, shifting like the colours of a dying mullet. I am tired of looking out at the windows of this island-prison. I would fain retire into the interior of my cage. While I gaze upon the sea, I want to be on it, over it, across it. It binds me in with chains, as of iron. My 'thoughts are abroad. I should not so feel in Staffordshire. There is no home for me here. There is no sense of home at Hastings. It is a place of fugitive resort, an heterogeneous assemblage of sea- mews and stock-brokers, Amphitrites of the town, and misses that coquet with the Ocean. If it were what it was in its primitive shape, and what it ought to have remained, a fair, honest fishing-town, and no more, it were something — with a few straggling fishermen's huts scattered about, artless as its cliffs, and with their materials filched from them, it were something. I could abide to dwell with Meshech; to assort with fisher-swains, and smugglers. There are, or I dream there are many of this latter occupation here. Their faces become the place. I like a smuggler. He is the only honest thief. He robs nothing but the revenue, — an abstrac- tion I never greatly cared about. I could go out with them in their mackerel boats, or about their less ostensible business, with some satisfaction. I can even tolerate those poor victims to monotony, who from day to day pace along the beach, in endless progress and recurrence, to watch their illicit country- men — townsfolk or brethren perchance — whistling to the sheathing and unsheathing of their cutlasses (their only solace), who, under the mild name of preventive service, keep up a legitimated civil warfare in the deplorable absence of a foreign one, to show their detestation of run hoUands, and zeal for Old England. But it is the visitants from town, that come here to say that thejr have been here, with no more relish of the sea than a pond-perch or a dace might be sup- posed to have, that are my aversion. I feel like a foolish dace in these regions, and have as little toleration for myself here, as for them. What can they want here ? if they *had a true relish of the ocean, why have they brought , all this land luggage with them? or why pitch their civilised tents in the desert? What mean these scanty book- rooms — marine libraries as they entitle them — if the sea were, as they would have us believe, a book " to read strange matter in ? " what are their foolish concert-rooms, if they come, as they would fain be thought to do, to listen to the music of the waves? All is false and hollow pretension. They come, because it is the fashion, and to spoil the nature of the place. They are, mostly, as I have said, stock-brokers ; but I have watched the better sort of them — now and then, an honest citizen (of the old stamp), in the simplicity of his heart, shall bring down his wife and daughters, to taste the sea breezes. I always know the date of their arrival. It is easy to see it in their countenance. A day or two they go wandering on the shingles, picking up cockle-shells, and think- ing them great things ; but, in a poor week, imagination slackens : they begin to discover that cockles produce no pearls, and then — then ! — if I could interpret for the pretty creatures (I know they have not the courage to confess it themselves) how gladly would they exchange their sea-side rambles for a Sunday walk on the green -sward of their accustomed Twickenham meadows ! I would ask of one of these sea-charmed emigrants, who think they truly love the sea, with its wild usages, what would their feelings be, if some of the unsophisticated aborigines of this place, encouraged by their courteous questionings here, should venture, on the faith of such assured sympathy be- tween them, to return the visit, and come up to see — London. I must imagine them with their fishing- tackle on their back, as we carry our town necessaries. What a sensa- tion would it cause in Lothbury ? What vehement laughter would it not excite among The daughters of Cheapside, and wives of Lomtard-Street ! I am sure that no town-bred or inland- born subjects can feel their true and natural nourishment at these sea -places. Nature, where she does not mean us for mariners and vagabonds, bid us stay at home. The salt foam seems to nourish a spleen. I am not half so good-natured as by the milder waters of my natural river. I would ex- change these sea-gulls for swanp, and scud a swallow for ever about the banks of Thamesis. 444 THE CONVALESCENT. THE CONVALESCENT. A PRETTY severe fit of indisposition which, under the name of a nervous fever, has made a prisoner of me for some weeks past, and is but slowly leaving me, has reduced me to an incapacity of reflection upon any topic foreign to itself. Expect no healthy conclusions from me this month, reader ; I can offer you only sick men's dreams. And truly the whole state of sickness, is such ; for what else is it but a magnificent dream for a man to lie a-bed, and draw day- light curtains about him ; and, shutting out the sun, to induce a total oblivion of all the works which are going on under it ? To be- come insensible to all the operations of life, except the beatings of one feeble pulse? If there be a regal solitude, it is a sick bed. How the patient lords it there ; what caprices he acts without control ! how king- like he sways his pillow — tumbling, and toss- ing, and shifting, and lowering, and thumping, and flatting, and moulding it, to the ever- varying requisitions of his throbbing temples. He changes sides oftener than a politician. Now he lies full length, then half-length, obliquely, transversely, head and feet quite across the bed ; and none accuses him of ter- giversation. Within the four curtains he is absolute. They are his Mare Clausum. How sickness enlarges the dimensions of a man's self to himself! he is his own exclusive object. Supreme selfishness is inculcated upon him as his only duty. 'Tis the Two Tables of the Law to him. He has nothing to think of but how to get well. What passes out of doors, or within them, so he hear not the jarring of them, affects him not. A little while ago he was greatly con- cerned in the event of a lawsuit, which was to be the making or the marring of his dearest friend. He was to be seen trudging about upon this man's errand to fifty quarters 5)f the town at once, jogging this witness, re- freshing that solicitor. The cause was to come on yesterday. He is absolutely as in- different to the decision, as if it were a question to be tried at Pekin. Peradventure from some whispering, going on about the house, not intended for his hearing, he picks up enough to make him understand, that things went cross-grained, in the court yester- day, and his friend is ruined. But the word " friend," and the word " ruin," dis- turb him no more than so much jargon. He is not to think of anything but how to get better. What a world of foreign cares are merged in that absorbing consideration ! He has put on the strong armour of sick- ness, he is wrapt in the callous hide of suffering; he keeps his sympathy, like some curious vintage, under trusty lock and key, for his own use only. ■ He lies pitying himself, honing and moan- ing to himself; he yearneth over himself; his bowels are even melted within him, to think what he suffers ; he is not ashamed to weep over himself. He is for ever plotting how to do some good to himself; studying little stratagems and artificial alleviations. He makes the most of himself; dividing himself, by an allowable fiction, into as many distinct individuals, as he hath sore and sorrowing members. Sometimes he medi- tates—as of a thing apart from him — upon his poor aching head, and that dull pain Avhich, dozing or waking, lay in it all the past night like a log, or palpable substance of pain, not to be removed without opening the very skull, as it seemed, to take it thence. Or he pities his long, clammy, attenuated fingers. He compassionates himself all over; and his bed is a very discipline of humanity, and tender heart. He is his own sympathiser ; and in- stinctively feels that none can so well per- form that office for him. He cares for few spectators to his tragedy. Only that punctual face of the old nurse pleases him, that an- nounces his broths and his cordials. He likes it because it is so unmoved, and be- I cause he can pour forth his feverish ejacu- THE CONVALESCENT. 445 lations before it as unreservedly as to his bed-post. To the world's business he is dead. He understands not what the callings and occu- pations of mortals are; only he has a glim- mering conceit of some such thing, when the doctor makes his daily call : and even in the lines on that busy face he reads no multiplicity of patients, but solely conceives of himself as the sick man. To what other uneasy couch the good man is hastening, when he slips out of his chamber, folding up his thin douceur so carefully, for fear of rustling — is no specu- lation which he can at present entertain. He thinks only of the regular return of the same phenomenon at the same hour to- morrow. Household rumours touch him not. Some faint murmur, indicative of life going on within the house, soothes him, while he knows not distinctly what it is. He is not to know anything, not to think of anything. Servants gliding up or down the distant staircase, treading as upon velvet, gently keep his ear awake, so long as he troubles not himself further than with some feeble guess at their errands. Exactor knowledge would be a burthen to him: he can just endure the pressure of conjecture. He opens his eye faintly at the dull stroke of the muf&ed knocker, and closes it again without asking "Who was it?" He is flattered by a general notion that inquiries are making after him, but he cares not to know the name of the inquirer. In the general stillness, and awful hush of the house, he lies in state, and feels his sovereignty. To be sick is to enjoy monarchal prero- gatives. Compare the silent tread, and quiet ministry, almost by the eye only, with which he is served — with the careless demeanour, the unceremonious goings in and out (slap- ping of doors, or leaving them open) of the very same attendants, when he is getting a little better — and you will confess, that from the bed of sickness (throne let me rather call it) to the elbow-chair of convalescence, is a fall from dignity, amounting to a deposition. How convalescence shrinks a man back to his pristine stature ! where is now the space, which he occupied so lately, in his own, in the family's eye ? The scene of his regalities, his sick room, which was his presence chamber, where he lay and acted his despotic fancies — how is it reduced to a common bed-room ! The trim- ness of the very bed has something petty and unmeaning about it. It is made every day. How unlike to that wavy, many-fur- rowed, oceanic surface, which it presented so short a time since, when to make it was a service not to be thought of at oftener than three or four day revolutions, when the pa- tient was with pain and grief to be lifted for a little while out of it, to submit to the encroachments of unwelcome neatness, and decencies which his shaken frame deprecated ; then to be lifted into it again, for another three or four days' respite, to flounder it out of shape again, while every fresh furrow was an historical record of some shifting pos- ture, some uneasy turning, some seeking for a little ease ; and the shrunken skin scarce told a truer story than the crumpled coverlid. Hushed are those mysterious sighs — those groans — so much more awful, while we knew not from what caverns of vast hidden suffering they proceeded. The Lernean pangs are quenched. The riddle of sickness is solved ; and Philoctetes is become an ordi- nary personage. Perhaps some relic of the sick man's dream of greatness survives in the still lingering visitations of the medical attendant. But how is he, too, changed with everything else ! Can this be he — this man of news — of chat — of anecdote — of everything but physic — can this be he, who so lately came between the patient and his cruel enemy, as on some solemn embassy from Nature, erecting her- self into a high mediating party? — Pshaw ! 'tis some old woman. Farewell with him all that made sickness pompous — the spell that hushed the house- hold — the desert-like stillness, felt through- out its inmost chambers — the mute attend- ance — the inquiry by looks — the still softer delicacies of self-attention — the sole and single eye of distemper alonely fixed upon itself — world-thoughts excluded — the man a world unto himself — his own theatre — What a speck is he dwindled into! In this flat swamp of convalescence, left by the ebb of sickness, yet far enough from the terra firma of established health, your note, dear Editor, reached me, requesting — an 446 SANITY OF TEUE GENIUS. article. In Articuk Mortis, thought I ; but it is something hard — and the quibble, wretched as it was, relieved me. The sum- mons, unseasonable as it appeared, seemed to link me on again to the petty businesses of life, which I had lost sight of; -a gentle call to activity, however trivial ; a wholesome meaning from that preposterous dream of 1 self-absorption — the puffy state of sickness — in which I confess to have lain so long, insen- sible to the magazines and monarchies, of the , world alike ; to its laws, and to its literature. The hypochondriac flatus is subsiding; the acres, which in imagination I had spread over — for the sick man swells in the sole con- templation of his single sufferings, till he becomes a Tityus to himself — are wasting to a span ; and for the giant of self-importance, which I was so lately, you have me once again in my natural pretensions — the lean and meagre figure of your ipsignificant Essayist. SANITY OF TRUE GENIUS. So far from the position holding true, that great wit (or genius, in our modern vray of speaking) has a necessary alliance with insanity, the greatest wits, on the contrary, will ever be found to be the sanest writers. It is impossible for the mind to conceive of a mad Shakspeare. The greatness of wit, by which the poetic talent is here chiefly to be understood, manifests itself in the admirable bs^lance of all the faculties. Madness is the disproportionate straining or excess of any one of them. " So strong a wit," says Cow- ley, speaking of a poetical friend, " did Nature to him frame, , As all things but his judgment overcame; His judgment like the heavenly moon did show. Tempering that mighty sea below." The ground of the mistake is, that men, find- ing 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 mad- ness, 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 still 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. From beyond the scope of Nature if he summon possible existences, he subjugates them to the law of her consistency. He is beautifully loyal to that sovereign directress, even when he appears most to betray and desert her. His idpal tribes submit to policy ; his very monsters are tamed to his hand, even as that wild sea brood, shepherded by Proteus. He tames, and he clothes them with attributes of flesh and blood, till they wonder at them- selves, like Indian Islanders forced to submit to European vesture. Caliban, the Witches, are as true to the laws of their own nature (ours with a difference), as Othello, Hamlet, and Macbeth. Herein the great and the little wits are differenced ; that if the latter wander ever so little from nature or actual existence, they lose themselves, and their readers. Their phantoms are lawless ; their visions night-mares. They do not create, which implies shaping and consistency. Their imaginations are not active — for to be active is to call something into act and form — but passive, as men in sick dreams. For the super-natural, or something super-added to what we know of nature, they give you the plainly non-natural. And if this were all, CAPTAIN JACKSON. 447 and that these mental hallucinations were discoverable only in the treatment of subjects out of nature, or transcending it, the judg- ment might with some plea be pardoned if it ran riot, and a little wantonised : but even in the describing of real and every-day life, that which is before their eyes, one of these lesser wits shall more deviate from nature — show more of that inconsequence, which has a natural alliance with frenzy, — than a great genius in his " maddest fits," as Withers somewhere calls them. We appeal to any one that is acquainted with the com- mon run of Lane's novels, — as they existed some twenty or thirty years back, — those scanty intellectual viands of the whole female reading public, till a happier genius arose, and expelled for ever the innutritious phantoms, — whether he has not found his brain more " betossed," his memory more puzzled, his sense of when and where more confounded, among the improbable events, the incoherent incidents, the inconsistent characters, or no- characters, of some third-rate love-intrigue — where the persons shall be a Lord Glenda- mour and a Miss Rivers, and the scene only alternate between Bath and Bond-street — a more bewildering dreaminess induced upon him, than he has felt wandering over all the fairy-grounds of Spenser. In the productions we refer to, nothing but names and places is familiar ; the persons are neither of this world nor of any other conceivable one ; an endless stream of activities without purpose, of purposes destitute of motive: — we meet phantoms in our known walks ; fantasques only christened. In the poet we have names which announce fiction ; and we have abso- lutely no place at all, for the things and persons of the Fairy Queen prate not of their " M'hereabout." But in their inner nature, and the law of their speech and actions, we are at home, and upon acquainted ground. The one turns life into a dream ; the other to the wildest dreams gives the sobrieties of every-day occurrences. By what subtle art of tracing the mental processes it is eifected, we are not philosophers enough to explain, but in that wonderful episode of the cave of Mammon, in which the Money God appears first in the lowest form of a miser, is then a worker of metals, and becomes the god of all the treasures of the world ; and has a daughter. Ambition, before whom all the world kneels for favours — with the Hesperian fruit, the waters of Tantalus, with Pilate washing his hands vainly, but not imperti- nently, in the same stream — that we should be at one moment in the cave of an old hoarder of treasures, at the next at the forge of the Cyclops, in a palace and yet in hell, all at once, with the shifting mutations of the most rambling dream, and our judgment yet all the time awake, and neither able nor willing to detect the fallacy, — is a proof of that hidden sanity which still guides the poet in the wildest seeming aberrations. It is not enough to say that the whole episode is a copy of the mind's conceptions in sleep ; it is, in some sort — but what a copy ! Let the most romantic of us, that has been entertained all night with the spectacle of some wild and magnificent vision, recombine it in the morning, and try it by his waking judgment. That which appeared so shifting, and yet so coherent, while that faculty was passive, when it comes under cool examina- tion shall appear so reasonless and so un- linked, that we are ashamed to have been so deluded ; and to have taken, though but in sleep, a monster for a god. But the transi- tions in this episode are every whit as violent as in the most extravagant dream, and yet the waking judgment ratifies them. CAPTAIN JACKSON. Among the deaths in our obituary for this month, I observe with concern "At his cot- tage on the Bath road, Captain Jackson." The name and attribution are common enough ; but a feeling like reproach per- suades me, that this could have been no other in fact than my dear old friend, who some fiv'e-and-twenty years ago rented a tenement, which he was pleased to dignify with the appellation here used, about a mile from 448 CAPTAIN JACKSON. Westbourn Green. Alack, how good men, and the good turns they do us, slide out of memory, and are recalled but by the surprise of some such sad memento as that which now lies before us ! He whom I mean was a retired half-pay officer, with a w^ife and two grown-up daugh- ters, whom he maintained with the port and notions of gentlewomen upon that slender professional allowance. Comely girls they were too. And was I in danger of forgetting this man ? — his cheerful suppers — the noble tone of hospitality, when first you set your foot in the cottage — the anxious ministerings about you, where little or nothing (God knows) was to be ministered. — Althea's horn in a poor platter— the power of self-enchant- ment, by which, in his magnificent wishes to entertain you, he multiplied his means to bounties. You saw with your bodily eyes indeed what seemed a bare scrag, cold savings from the foregone meal — remnant hardly suffi- cient to send a mendicant from the door contented. But in the copious will — the revelling imagination of your host — the " mind, the mind, Master Shallow," whole beeves were spread before you — hecatombs — no end appeared to the profusion. It was the widow's cruse — the loaves and fishes ; carving could not lessen, nor help- ing diminish it — the stamina were left — the elemental bone still flourished, divested of its accidents. "Let us live while we can," methinks I hear the open-handed creature exclaim ; " while we have, let us not want," " here is plenty left;" "want for nothing" — with many more such hospitable sayings, the spurs of appetite, and old concomitants of smoking boards, and feast-oppressed chargers. Th'en sliding a slender ratio of Single Gloucester upon his wife's plate, or the daughters', he would convey the remanent rind into his own, with a merry quirk of " the nearer the bone," &c., and declaring that he universally preferred the outside. For we had our table distinctions, you are to know, and some of us in a manner sate above the salt. None but his guest or guests dreamed of tasting flesh luxuries at night, the fragments were veri Jiospitibus sacra. But of one thing or another there was always enough, and leavings : only he would sometimes finish the remainder crust, to show that he wished no savings. Wine we had none ; nor, except on very rare occasions, spirits ; but the sensation of wine was there. Some thin kind of ale I remember — "British beverage," he would say ! " Push about, my boys ;" " Drink to your sweethearts, girls." At every meagre draught a toast must ensue, or a song. All the forms of good liquor were there, with none of the efiects wanting. Shut your eyes, and you would swear a capacious bowl of punch was foaming in the centre, with beams of generous Port or Madeira radiating to it from each of the table corners.' You got flustered, without knowing whence ; tipsy upon words ; and reeled under the potency of his unperforming Bacchanalian encourage- ments. "We had our songs — " Why, Soldiers, why," — and the "British Grenadiers" — in which last we were all obliged to bear chorus. Both the daughters sang. Their proficiency was a nightly theme — the masters he had given them — the "no-expense" which he spared to accomplish them in a science " so necessary to young women." But then — they could not sing " without the instru- ment." Sacred, and, by me, never-to-be-violated, secrets of Poverty ! Should I disclose your honest aims at grandeur, your makeshift efi'orts of magnificence ? Sleep, sleep, with all thy broken keys, if one of the bunch be extant ; thrummed by a thousand ancestral thumbs ; dear, cracked spinnet of dearer Louisa ! Without mention of mine, be dumb, thou thin accompanier of her thinner warble ! A veil be spread over the dear delighted face of the well-deluded father, who now haply listening to cherubic notes, scarce feels sincerer pleasure than when she awakened thy time-shaken chords responsive to the twitterings of that slender image of a voice. We were not without our literary talk either. It did not extend far, but as far as it went, it was good. It was bottomed well ; had good grounds to go upon. In the cottage was a room, which tradition authenticated to- have been the same in which Glover, in his occasional retirements, had penned the greater part of his Leonidas. This circumstance was nightly quoted, though none of the present CAPTAIN JACKSON. 449 inmates, that I could discover, appeared ever to have met with the poem in question. But that vras no matter. Glover had written there, and the anecdote was pressed into the account of the family importance. It diffused a learned air through the apartment, the little side casement of which (the poet's study window), opening upon a superb view as far as the pretty spire of Harrow, over domains and patrimonial acres, not a rood nor square yard whereof our host could call his own, yet gave occasion to an immoderate expansion of —vanity shall I call it? — in his bosom, as he showed them in a glowing summer evening. It was all his, he took it all in, and communi- cated rich portions of it to his guests. It was a part of his largess, his hospitality ; it was going over his grounds; he was lord for the time of showing them, and you the implicit lookers-up to his magnificence. He was a juggler, who threw mists before your eyes — you had no time to detect his fallacies. He would say, " Hand me the silver sugar tongs;" and before you could discover it was a single spoon, and that plated, he would disturb and captivate your imagin- ation by a misnomer of " the urn" for a tea- kettle ; or by calling a homely bench a sofa. Rich men direct you to their furniture, poor ones divert you from it ; he neither did one nor the other, but by simply assuming that everything was handsome about him, you were positively at a demur what you did, or did not see, at the cottage. With nothing to live on, he seemed to live on everything. He had a stock of wealth in his mind ; not that which is properly termed Content, for in truth he-was not to be contained at all, but over- flowed all bounds by the force of a magnificent self delusion. Enthusiasm is catching; and even his wife, a sober native of North Britain, who generally saw things more as they Avere, was not proof against the continual collision of his credulity. Her daughters were rational and discreet young women ; in the main, perhaps, not insensible to their true circum- stances. I have seen them aseume a thought- ful air at times. But such was the pre- ponderating opulence of his fancy, that I am persuaded, not for any half hour togetht-i did they ever look their own prospects fairlj in the face. There was no resisting the vortex of his temperament. His riotous imagination conjured up handsome settle- ments before their eyes, which kept them up in the eye of the world too, and seem at last to have realized themselves ; for they both have married since, I am told, more than respectably. It is long since, and my memory waxes dim on some subjects, or I should wish to convey some notion of the manner in which the plea- sant creature described the circumstances of his own wedding-day. I faintly remember something of a chaise-and-four, in which he made his entry into Glasgow on that morning to fetch the bride home, or carry her thither, I forget which. It so completely made out the stanza of the old ballad — When we came down through Glasgow town, We were a comely sight to see ; My love was clad in hlack velvet. And 1 myself in cramasie I suppose it was the only occasion upon which his own actual splendour at all corre- sponded with the world's notions on that subject. In homely cart, or travelling caravan, by what ever humble vehicle they chanced to be transported in less prosperous days, the ride through Glasgow came back upon his fancy, not as a humiliating contrast, but as a fair occasion for reverting to that one day's state. It seemed an " equipage etern" from which no power of fate or fortune, once mounted, had power thereafter to dis- lodge him. 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 be always 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. 23 450 THE SUPERANNUATED I\IAN. THE SUPEKANNUATED MAN. Sera tamen respexit Libertas. Virgil. A Clerk I was in London gay. — O'Keefe. If peradventure, Keader, it has been thy lot to waste the golden years of thy life — thy shining youth — in the irksome confinement of an office ; to have thy prison days pro- longed through middle age down to decrepi- tude and silver hairs, without hope of release or respite ; to have lived to forget that there are such things as holidays, or to remember them but as the prerogatives of childhood ; then, and then only, will you be able to appre- ciate my deliverance. It is now six-and-thirty years sinpe I took my seat at the desk in Mincing-lane. Melan- choly was the transition at fourteen from the abundant playtime, and the frequently-inter- vening vacations of school days, to the eight, nine, and sometimes ten hours' a-day attend- ance at the counting-house. But time par- tially reconciles us to anything. I gradually became content — doggedly contented, as M'ild animals in cages. It is true I had my Sundays to myself; but Sundays, admirable as the institution of them is for purposes of worship, are for that very reason the very worst adapted for days of unbending and recreation. In particular, there is a gloom for me attendant upon a city Sunday, a weight in the air. I miss the cheerful cries of London, the music, and the ballad-singers — the buzz and stirring murmur of the streets. Those eternal bells depress me. The closed shops repel me. Prints, pictures, all the glittering and endless succes- sion of knacks and gewgaws, and ostenta- tiously displayed wares of tradesmen, which make a week-day saunter through the less Tausy parts of the metropolis so delightful — are shut out. No book-stalls deliciouslj to idle over — no busy faces to recreate the idle man who contemplates them ever passing by — the very face of business a charm by con- trast to his temporary relaxation from it. Nothing to be seen but unhappy countenances — or half-happy at best — of emancipated 'pren- tices and little tradesfolks, with here and there a servant-maid that has got leave to go out, who, slaving all the week, with the habit has lost almost the capacity of enjoying a free hour; and livelily expressing the hollowness of a day's pleasuring. The very strollers in the fields on that day look anything but com- fortable. But besides Sundays, I had a day at Easter, and a day at Christmas, with a full week in the summer to go and air myself in my native fields of Hertfordshire. This last was a great indulgence ; and the prospect of its recurrence, I believe, alone kept me up through the year, and made my durance tolerable. But when the week came round, did the glittering phantom of the distance keep touch with me ? or rather was it not a series of seven uneasy days, spent in restless pursuit of pleasure, and a wearisome anxiety to find out how to make the most of them ? Where was the quiet, where the promised rest? Before I had a taste of it, it was vanished. I was at the desk again, counting upon the fifty-one tedious weeks that must intervene before such another snatch would come. Still the prospect of its coming threw something of an illumination upon the darker side of my captivity. Without it, as I have said, I could scarcely have sustained my thraldom. Independently of the rigours of attendance, I have eVer been haunted with a sense {perhaps a mere caprice) of incapacity for business. This, during my latter years, had increased to such a degree, that it was visible in all the lines of my countenance. My health and my good spirits flagged. I had perpetually a dread of some crisis, to which I should be found unequal. Besides my daylight servitude, I served over again' all night in my sleep, and would awake with terrors of imaginary false entries, errors in my accounts, and the like. I wa* fifty years THE SUPERANNUATED MAN. 451 of age, and no prospect of emancipation presented itself. I had grown to my desk, as it were ; and the wood had entered into my soul. My fellows in the office would sometimes rally me upon the trouble legible in my counte- nance ; but I did not know that it had raised the suspicions of any of my employers, when on the fifth of last month, a day ever to be remembered by me, L , the junior partner in the firm, calling me on one side, directly taxed me with my bad looks, and frankly inquired the cause of them. So taxed, I honestly made confession of my infirmity, and added that I was afraid I should even- tually be obliged to resign his service. He spoke some words of course to hearten me, and there the matter rested. A whole week I remained labouring under the impression that I had acted imprudently in my dis- closure ; that I had foolishly given a handle against myself, and had been anticipating my own dismissal. A week passed in this manner, the most anxious one, I verily believe, in my whole life, when on the evening of the 12th of April, just as I was about quitting my desk to go home (it might be about eight o'clock) I received an awful summons to attend the presence of the whole assembled firm in the formidable back parlour. I thought now my time is surely come, I have done for myself, 1 am going to be told that they have no longer occasion for me. L , I could see, smiled at the terror I was in, which was a little relief to me, — when to my utter astonishment B , the eldest partner, began a formal harangue to me on the length of my services, my very meritorious conduct during the whole of the time (the deuce, thought I, how did he find out that? I protest I never had the confidence to think as much.) He went on to descant on the expediency of retiring at a certain time of life (how my heart panted !), and asking me a few questions as to the amount of my own property, of which I have a little, ended with a proposal, to which his three partners nodded a grave assent, that I should accept from the house, which I had served so well, a pension for life to the amount of two-thirds of my accustomed salary — a magnificent offer ! I do not know what I answered 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 — for ever. This noble benefit — gratitude forbids me to conceal their names — I owe to the kindness of the most munificent firm in the world — the house of Boldero, Merry weather, Bosanquet, and Lacy. Esto perpetual For the first day or two I felt stunned, overwhelmed. I could -only apprehend my felicity: I was too confused to taste it sin- cerely. 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 Eter- nity for a man to have his Time all to him- self. 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 bailifi", to manage my estates in Time for me. And here let me caution persons grown old in active busi- ness, 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 uo 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 tho man that's born, and has his years come to him. In some green desert. 452 THE SUPERANNUATED MAN. "Years!" you -will say; "what is this superannuated simpleton calculating upon? He has already told us he is past fifty." I have indeed lived nominally fifty years, Lut deduct out of them the hours which I have lived to other people, and not to myself, and you will find me still a young fellow. For that is the only true Time, which a man can properly call his own, that which he has all to himself; the rest, though in some sense he may be said to live it, is other people's Time, not his. The remnant of my poor days, long or short, is at least multiplied for me threefold. My ten next years, if I stretch so far, will be as long as any preceding thirty. 'Tis a fair rule-of-three sum. Among the strange fantasies which beset me at the commencement of my freedom, and of which all traces are not yet gone, one was, that a vast tract of time had intervened since I quitted the Counting House. I could not conceive of it as an aifair of yesterday. The partners, and the clerks with whom I had for so many years, and for so many hours in each day of the year, been closely associated — being suddenly removed from them — they seemed as dead to me. There is a fine pas- sage, W'hich may serve to illustrate this fancy, in a Tragedy by Sir Robert Howard, speaking of a friend's death : — 'Twas but just now he went away; 1 have not since had time to shed a tear : And yet the distance does the same appear - As if he had heeu a thousand years from me. Time takes no measure in Eternity. To dissipate this awkward feeling, I have been fain to go among them once or twice since; to visit my old desk-fellows — my co- brethren of the quill — that I had left below in the state militant. Not all the kindness with which they received me could quite re- store to me that pleasant familiarity, which I had heretofore enjoyed among them. We cracked some of our old jokes, but methought they went oiT but faintly. My old desk ; the peg where I hung my hat, were appropriated to another. I knew it must be, but I could not take it kindly. D 1 take me if I did not feel some remorse — beast if I had rot — at quitting my old compeers, the faith- ful partners of my toils for six-and-thirty years, that smoothed for me with their jokes and conundrums the ruggedness of my pro- fessional road. Had it been so rugged then, after all? or was I a coward simply? Well it is too late to repent ; and I also know that these suggestions are a common fallacy of the mind on such occasions. But my heart smote me. I had violently broken the bands betwixt us. It was at least not cour- teous. I shall be some time before I get quite reconciled to the separation. Farewell, old cronies, yet not for long, for again and again I will come among ye, if I shall have your leave. Farewell, Ch , dry, sarcastic, and friendly! Do , mild, slow to move, and gentlemanly ! PI , officious to do, and to volunteer, good services — and thou, thou dreary pile, fit mansion for a Gresham or a Whittington of old, stately house of Mer- chants ; with thy labyrinthine passages, and light-excluding, pent-up ofiices, where candles for one-half the year supplied the place of the sun's light; unhealthy contributor to my weal, stern fosterer of my living, fare- well ! In thee remain, and not in the obscure collection of some wandering bookseller, my " works ! " There let them rest, as I do from my labours, piled on thy massy shelves, more MSS. in folio than ever Aquinas left, and full as useful ! My mantle I bequeath among ye. A fortnight has passed since the date of my first communication. At that period I was approaching to tranquillity, but had not reached it. I boasted of a calm indeed, but it was comparative only. Something of the first flutter was left; an unsettling sense of novelty ; the dazzle to weak eyes of un- accustomed light. I missed my old chains, forsooth, as if they had been some necessary part of my apparel. I was a poor Carthu- sian, from strict cellular discipline suddenly by some revolution returned upon the world. I am now as if I had never been other than my own master. It is natural to me to go where I please, to do what I please. I find myself at eleven o'clock in the day in Bond- street, and it seems to me that I have been sauntering there at that very hour for years past. I- digress into Soho, to explore a book- stall. Methinks I have been thirty years a collector. There is nothing strange nor new in it. I find myself before a fine picture in the morning. Was it ever othe - wise? What is become of Fish-street Hil'^' Where is Fenchurch-street? Stones of ( " Mincing-lane, which I have worn with •''^•■' THE GENTEEL STYLE IN WRITING. 453 daily pilgrimage for sis-and-thirty years, to the footsteps of what toil-worn clerk are your everlasting flints now vocal ? I indent the gayer flags of Pall Mall. It is 'Change time, and I am strangely among the Elgin marbles. It was no hyperbole when I ven- tured to compare the change in my condition to a passing into another world. Time stands still in a manner to me. I have lost all dis- tinction of season. I do not know the day of the week or of the month. Each day used to be individually felt by me in its refer- ence to the foreign post days ; in its distance from, or propinquity to, the next Sunday. I had my Wednesday feelings, my Saturday nights' sensations. The genius of each day .was upon me distinctly during the whole of it, affecting my appetite, spirits, &c. The phantom of the next day, with the dreary five to follow, sate as a load upon «iy poor Sabbath recreations. What charm has washed that Ethiop white ? What is gone of Black Monday? All days are the same. Sunday itself — that unfortunate failure of a holiday, as it too often proved, what with my sense of its fugitiveness, and over-care to get the greatest quantity of pleasure out of it — is melted down into a week day. I can spare to go to church now, without grudging the huge cantle M'hich it used to seem to cut out of the holiday. I have Time for every- thing. I can visit a sick friend. I can interrupt the man of much occupation when he is busiest. I can insult over him with an invitation to take a day's pleasure with me to Windsor this fine May- morning. It. is Lucretian pleasure to behold the poor drudges, whom I have left behind in the world, cork- ing and caring ; like horses in a mill, drudg- ing on in the same eternal round — and what is it all for ? A man can never have too much Time to himself, nor too little to do. Had I a little son, I would christen him NoTHiNG-TO-DO ; he should do nothing. Man, I verily believe, is out of his element as long as he is operative. I am altogether for the life contemplative. A¥ill no kindly earth- quake come and swallow up those accursed cotton mills ? Take me that lumber of a desk there, and bowl it down As low as to the fiends. I am no longer ****** clerk to the Firm of, &c. I am Retired Leisure. I ani to be met with in trim gardens. I am already come to be known by my vacant face and careless gesture, perambulating at no fixed pace, nor with any settled purpose. I walk about; not to and from. They tell me, a certain cum dignitate air, that has been buried so long with my other good parts, has begun to shoot forth in my person. I grow into gentility perceptibly. When I take up a newspapers, it is to read the state of the opera. Opus operatum est. I have done all that I came into this world to do. I have worked task-work, and have the rest of the day to myself. THE GENTEEL STYLE IN WRITING. It is an ordinary criticism, that my Lord Shaftesbury, and Sir William Temple, are models of the genteel style in Meriting. We should prefer saying — of the lordly, and the gentlemanly. Nothing can be more unlike, than the inflated finical rhapsodies of Shaf- tesbury and the plain natural chit-chat of Temple. The man of rank is discernible in both writer-s; but in the one it is only in- sinuated gracefully, in the other it stands out offensively. The peer seems to have written with his coronet on, and his Earl's mantle before him j the commoner in his elbow-chair and undress. — What can be more pleasant than the way in which the retired statesman peeps out in his essays, penned by the latter in his delightful retreat at Shene ? They scent of Nimeguen and the Hague. Scarce an authority is quoted under an ambassador. Don Francisco de Melo, a " Portugal Envoy in England," tells him it was frequent in his country for men, spent with age and other decays, so as they could not hope for above a year or two of life, to ship themselves away in a Brazil fleet, and after their arrival there to go on a great 454 THE GENTEEL STYLE IN WRITING. length, sometimes of twenty or thirty years, or more, by the force of that vigour they recovered with that remove. "Whether such an effect (Temple beautifully adds) might grow from the air, or the fruits of that climate, or by approaching nearer the sun, which is the fountain of light and heat, when their natural heat was so far decayed: or whether the piecing out of an old man's life were worth the pains ; I cannot tell ; perhaps the play is not worth the candle." Monsieur Pompone, "French Ambassador in his (Sir William's) time at the Hague," certifies him, that in his life he had never heard of any man in France that arrived at a hundred years of age ; a limitation of life which the old gentleman imputes to the ex- cellence of their climate, giving them such a liveliness of temper and humour, as disposes them to more pleasures of all kinds than in other countries ; and moi-alises upon the matter very sensibly. The "late Eobert Earl of Leicester" furnishes him with a story of a countess of Desmond, married out of England in Edward the Fourth's time, and who lived far in King James's reign. The " same noble person " gives him an account, how such a year, in the same reign, there went about the country a set of morrice-dancers, composed of ten men who danced, a Maid Marian, and a tabor and pipe ; and how these twelve, one with ano- ther, made up twelve hundred years. "It was not so much (says Temple) that so many in one small county (Hertfordshire) should live to that age, as that they should be in vigour and in humour to travel and to dance." Monsieur Zulichem, one of his " colleagues at the Hague," informs him of a cure for the gout; which is confirmed by another " Envoy," Monsieur Serinchamps, in that town, who had tried it. — Old Prince Mau- rice of Nassau recommends to him the use of hammocks in that complaint ; having been allured to sleep, while suiFering under it himself, by the " constant motion or swing- ing of those airy beds." Count Egmont, and the Rhinegrave who " was killed last sum- mer before Maestricht," impart to him their experiences. But the rank of the writer is never more in- nocently disclosed, than where he takes for granted the compliments paid by foreigners to his fruit-trees. For the taste and perfec- tion of what we esteem the best, he can truly say, that the French, who have eaten his peaches and grapes at Shene in no very ill year, have generally concluded that the last are as good as any they have eaten in France on this side Fontainebleau ; and the first as good as any they have eat in Gascony. Italians have agreed his white figs to be as good as any of that sort in Italy, which is the earlier kind of white fig there ; for in the later kind and the blue, we cannot come near the warm climates, no more than in the Frontignac or Muscat grape. His orange- trees, too, are as large as any he saw when he was young in France, except those of Fontainebleau ; or what he has seen since in the Low Countries, except some very old ones of the Prince of Orange's. Of grapes he had the honour of bringing over four soRts into England, which he enumerates, and supposes that they are all by this time pretty common among some gardeners in his neighbourhood, as well as several per- sons of quality ; for he ever thought all things of {his kind " the commoner they are made the better." The garden pedantry with which he asserts that 'tis to little pur- pose to plant any of the best fruits, as peaches or grapes, hardly, he doubts, beyond Northamptonshire at the furthest north- wards; and praises the "Bishop of Mun- ster at Cosevelt," for attempting nothing beyond cherries in that cold climate ; is equally pleasant and in character. " I may perhaps" (he thus ends his sweet Garden Essay with a passage worthy of Cowley) " be allowed to know something of this trade, since I have so long allowed myself to be i good for nothing else, which few men will I do, or enjoy their gardens, without often looking abroad to see how other matters play, what motions in the state, and what invitations they may hope for into other scenes. For my own part, as the country life, and this part of it more particularly, were the inclination of my youth itself, so they are the pleasure of my age ; and I can truly say that, among many great employ- ments that have fallen to my share, I have never asked or sought for any of them, but have often endeavoured to escape from them, into the ease and freedom of a private scene, where a man may go his own way and his own pace, in the common paths and circles THE GENTEEL STYLE IN WRITING. 455 of life. The measure of choosing well is whether a man likes what he has chosen, which, I thank God, has befallen me ; and though among the follies of my life, building and planting have not been the least, and have cost me more than I have the confi- dence to own ; yet they have been fully re- compensed by the sweetness and satisfaction of this retreat, where, since my resolution taken of never entering again into any public employments, I have passed five years with- out ever once going to town, though I am almost in sight of it, and have a house there always ready to receive me. Nor has this been any sort of aff'ectation, as some have thought it, but a mere want of desire or humour to make so small a remove ; for when I am in this corner, I can truly say with Horace, Me quoties rejtcit, &c. " Me, when the cold Digentian stream revives, What does my friend believe I think or ask ? Let me yet less possess, so I may live, Whate'er of life remains, unto myself. May I have books enough ; and one year's store, Not to depend upon each doubtful hour : This is enough of mighty Jove to pray. Who, as be pleases, gives and takes away." The writings of Temple are, in general, after this easy copy. On one occasion, indeed, his wit, which was mostly subordi- nate to nature and tenderness, has seduced him into a string of felicitous antitheses ; which, it is obvious to I'emark, have been a model to Addison and succeeding essay- ists. " Who would not be covetous, and with reason," he sa^ys, " if health could be purchased with gold ? who not ambitious, if it were at the command of power, or restored by honour? but, alas ! a white stafi" w-ill not help gouty feet to walk better than a common cane ; nor a blue riband bind up a wound 80 well as a fillet. The glitter of gold, or of diamonds, will but hurt sore eyes instead of curing them ; and an aching head will be no more eased by wearing a crown than a common night-cap." In a far better style, and more accordant with his own humour of plainness, are the concluding sentences of his " Discourse upon Poetry." Temple took a part in the controversy about the ancient and the modern learning ; and, with that partiality so natural and so graceful in an old man, whose state engagements had left him little leisure to look into modern pro- ductions, while his retirement gave him occasion to look back upon the classic studies of his youth — decided in favour of the latter. "Certain it is," he says, "that whether the fierceness of the Gothic humours, or noise of their perpetual wars, frighted it away, or that the unequal mixture of the modern languages would not bear it — the great heights and excellency both of poetry and music fell with the Roman learning and empire, and have never since recovered the admiration and applauses that before attended them. Yet, such as they are amongst us, they must be confessed to be the softest and the sweetest, the most general and most innocent amusements of common time and life. They still find room in the courts of princes, and the cottages of shepherds. They serve to revive and animate the dead calm of poor and idle lives, and to allay or divert the violent passions and perturbations of the greatest and the busiest men. And both these effects are of equal use to human life ; . for the mind of man is like the sea, which is neither agreeable to the beholder nor thff voyager, in a calm or in a storm, but is so to both when a little agitated by gentle gales ; and so the mind, when moved by soft and easy passions or afi'ections. I know very well that many who pretend to be wise by the foi-ms of being grave, are apt to despise both poetry and music, as toys and trifles too light for the use or entertainment of serious men. But whoever find themselves wholly insensible to their charms, would, I think, do well to keep their own counsel, for, fear of reproaching their own temper, and bring- ing the goodness of their natures, if not of their' understandings, into question. While this world lasts, I doubt not but the pleasure and request of these two entertainments will do so too ; and happy those that content themselves with these, or any other so easy and so innocent, and do not trouble the world or other men, because they cannot be quiet themselves, though nobody hurts them." " When all is done (he concludes), human life is at the greatest .and the best but like a froward child, that must be played with, and humoured a little, to keep it quiet, till it falls asleep, and then the care is over." 456 BARBARA S- BARBAEA S- On the noon of the 14th of November, I 1743 or 4, I forget which it was, just as the | clock had struck one, Barbara S , with 1 her accustomed punctuality, ascended the | long rambling staircase, with awkward inter- posed landing-places, which led to the office, or rather a sort of box with a desk in it, whereat sat the then Treasurer of (what few of our readers may remember) the Old Bath Theatre. All over the island it was the custom, and remains so I believe to this day, for the players to receive their weekly stipend on the Saturday. It was not much that Barbara had to claim. This little maid had just entered her eleventh year; but her important station at the theatre, as it seemed to her, with 'the benefits which she felt to accrue from her pious application of her small earnings, had given an air of womanhood to her steps and to her behaviour. You would have taken her to have been at least five years older. Till latterly she had merely been employed in choruses, or where children were wanted to fill up the scone. But the manager, observing a diligence and adi'oitness in her above her age, had for some few months past intrusted to her the performance of whole parts. You may guess the self- consequence of the promoted Barbara. She had already drawn tears in young Arthur ; had rallied Richard with infantine petulance in the Duke of York ; and in her turn had rebuked that petulance when she was Prince of Wales. She would have done the elder child in Morton's pathetic afterpiece to the life ; but as yet the " Children in the Wood" was not. Long after this little girl was grown an aged woman, I have seen some of these SQiall parts, each making two or three pages at most, copied out in the rudest hand of the then prompter, who doubtless transcribed a little more carefully and fairly for the grown-up tragedy ladies of the establish- ment. But such as they were, blotted and scrawled, as for a child's use, she kept them all ; and in the zenith of her after reputation it was a delightful sight to behold them bound up in costliest morocco, each single — each small part making a book — with fine clasps, gilt-splashed, &c. She had conscien- tiously kept them as they had been delivered to her ; not a blot had been effaced or tampered with. They were precious to her for their affecting remembrancings. They were her principia, her rudiments ; the elementary atoms ; the little steps by which she pressed forward to perfection. " What," she would say, "could India-rubber, or a pumice-stone, have done for these darlings ?" I am in no hurry to begin my story — indeed I have little or none to tell — so I will just mention an observation of hers con- nected with that interesting time. Not long before she died I had been dis- coursing with her on the quantity of real present emotion which a great tragic per- former experiences during acting. I ventured to think, that though in the first instance such players must have possessed the feel- ings which they so powerfully called up in others, yet by frequent repetition those feel- ings must become deadened in great measure, and the performer trust to the memory of past emotion, rather than express a present one. She indignantly repelled the notion, that with a truly great tragedian the opera- tion, by which such efi'ects were produced upon an audience, could ever degrade itself into what was purely mechanical. With much delicacy, avoiding to instance in her seZj^experience, she told me, that so long ago as when she used to play the part of the Little Son to Mrs. Porter's Isabella, (I think it was,) when that impressive actress has been bending over her in some heart-rending colloquy, she has felt real hot tears come trickling from her, which, (to use her power- ful expression) have perfectly scalded her back. I am not- quite so sure that it vcas Mrs. Porter ; but it waa some great actress of that day. The name is indifferent ; but BARBARA S- 457 the fact of the scalding tears I most dis- tinctly remember. I was always fond of the society of players, and am not sure that an impediment in my speech (which certainly kept me out of the pulpit) even more than certain personal dis- qualifications, which are often got over in that profession, did not prevent me at one time of life from adopting it. I have had the honour (I must ever call it) once to have been admitted to the tea-table of Miss Kelly. I have played at serious whist with Mr. Liston. I have chattered with ever good-humoured Mrs. Charles Kemble. I have conversed as friend to friend with her accomplished husband. I have been indulged with a classical conference with Macready ; and with a sight of the Player- picture gallery, at Mr. Mathews's, when the kind owner, to remunerate me for my love of the old actors, (whom he loves so much), went over it with me, supplying to his capital collection, what alone the artist could not give them — voice; and their living motion. Old tones, half-faded, of Dodd, and Parsons, and Baddeley, have lived again for me at his bidding. Only Edwin he could not restore to me. I have supped with ; but I am growing a coxcomb. As I was about to say — at the desk of the then treasurer of the old Bath theatre — not Diamond's — presented herself the little Barbara S . The parents of Barbara had been in repu- table circumstances. The father had prac- tised, I believe, as an apothecary in the town. But his practice, from causes which I feel my own infirmity too sensibly that way to arraign — or perhaps from that pure infelicity which accompanies some people in their walk through life, and which it is impossible to lay at the door of imprudence — was now reduced to nothing. They were in fact in the very teeth of starvation, when the manager, who knew and respected them in better days, took the little Barbara into his company. At the period I commenced with, her Blender earnings were the sole support of the family, including two younger sisters. I must throw a veil over some mortifying circumstances. Enough to say, that her Saturday's pittance was the only chance of a Sunday's (generally their only) meal of meat. One thing I will only mention, that in some child's part, where in her theatrical character she was to sup ofi" a roast fowl (0 joy to Barbara!) some comic actor, who was for the night caterer for this dainty — in the misguided humour of his part, threw over the dish such a quantity of salt (0 grief and pain of heart to Barbara!) that when she crammed a portion of it into her mouth, she was obliged sputteringly to reject it ; and what with shame of her ill- acted part, and pain of real appetite at missing such a dainty, her little heart sobbed almost to breaking, till a flood of tears, which the well- fed spectators were totally unable to com- prehend, mercifully relieved her. This was the little starved, meritorious maid, who stood before old Ravenscroft, the treasurer, for her Saturday's payment. Ravenscroft was a man, I have heard many old theatrical people besides herself say, of all men least calculated for a treasurer. He had no head for accounts, paid away at random, kept scarce any books, and summing up at the week's end, if he found himself a pound or so deficient, blest himself that it was no worse. Now Barbara's weekly stipend was a bare half guinea. — By mistake he popped into her hand — a whole one. Barbara tripped away. She was entirely unconscious at first of the mistake : God knows, Ravenscroft would never have discovered it. But when she had got down to the first of those uncouth landing-places, she became sensible of an unusual weight of metal pres- sing her little hand. Now mark the dilemma. She was by nature a good child. From her parents and those about her she had imbibed no ■ contrary influence. But then they had taught her nothing. Poor men's smoky cabins are not always porticoes of moral philosophy. This little maid had no instinct to evil, but then she might be said to have no fixed principle. She had heard honesty commended, but never dreamed of its application to herself. She thought of it as something which concerned grown-up people, men and women. She had never known temptation, or thought of preparing resistance against it. Her first impulse was to go back to the 458 THE TOMBS IN THE ABBEY. old treasurer, and explain to him his blunder. He was already so confused with age, besides a natural want of punctuality, that she would have had some difficulty in making him understand it. She saw that in an instant. And then it was such a bit of money ! and then the image of a larger allowance of butcher's-meat on their table next day came across her, till her little eyes glistened, and her mouth moistened. But -then Mr. Ravenscroft had always been so good-natured, had stood her friend behind the scenes, and even recommended her pro- motion to some of her little parts. But again the old man was reputed to be worth a world of money. He was supposed to have fifty pounds a-year clear of the theatre. And then came staring upon her the figures of her little stockingless and shoeless sisters. And when she looked at her own neat white cotton stockings, which her situation at the theatre had made it indispensable for her mother to provide for her, with hard straining and pinching from the family stock, and thought how glad she should be to cover their poor feet with the same — and how then they could accompany her to rehearsals, which they had hitherto been precluded from doing, by reason of their unfashionable attire, — in these thoughts she reached the second landing-place — the second, I mean, from the top — for there was still another left to traverse. Now virtue support Barbara ! And that never-failing friend did step in — fot at that moment a strength not her own, I have heard her say, was revealed to her — a reason above reasoning — and without her own agency, as it seemed (for she never felt her feet to move), she found herself transported back to the individual desk she had just quitted, and her hand in the old hand of Ravenscroft, who in silence took back the refunded treasure, and who had been sitting (good man) insensible to the lapse of minutes, which to her were anxious ages ; and from that moment a deep peace fell upon her heart, and she knew the quality of honesty. A year or two's unrepining application to her profession brightened up the feet, and the prospects, of her little sisters, set the whole family upon their legs again, and released her from the difficulty of discussing moral dogmas upon a landing-place. I have heard her say that it was a surprise, not much short of mortification to her, to see the coolness with which the old man pocketed the diffej-ence, which had caused her such mortal throes. This anecdote of herself I had in the year 1800, from the mouth of the late Mrs. Crawford,* then sixty-seven years of age (she died soon after) ; and to her struggles upon this childish occasion I have sometimes ventured to think her indebted for that power of rending the heart in the repre- sentation of conflicting emotions, for which in after years she was considered as little inferior (if at all so in the part of Lady Randolph) even to Mrs. Siddons. * The maiden name of this lady was Street, which she changed hy successive marriages, for those of Dancer, Barry, and Crawford. She was Mrs. Crawford, a third time a widow, when I knew her. THE TOMBS IN THE ABBEY. IN A JLEITER 10 R- Though in some points of doctrine, and perhaps of discipline, I am diffident of lending a perfect assent to that church which you have so worthily historified, yet may the ill time never come to me, when with a chilled heart or a portion of irreverent sentiment, I shall enter her beautiful and time-hallowed Edifices. Judge, then, of my mortification when, after attending the choral anthems of last Wednesday at West- minster, and being desirous of renewing my acquaintance, after lapsed years, with the tombs and antiquities theie, I found myself excluded ; turned out, like a dog, or some profane person, into the common street, with feelings not very congenial to the place, or THE TOMBS IN THE ABBEY. 459 to the solemn service which I had been listen- ing to. It was ajar after that music. You had your education at Westminster ; and doubtless among those dim aisles and cloisters, you must have gathered much of that devotional feeling in those young years, on which your purest mind feeds still — and may it feed ! The antiquarian spirit, strong in you, and gracefully blending ever with the religious, may have been sown in you among those wrecks of splendid mortality. You owe it to the place of your education ; you owe it to your learned fondness for the architecture of your ancestors ; you owe it to the venerableness of your ecclesiastical establishment, which is daily lessened and called in question through these pi-actices — to speak aloud your sense of them ; never to desist raising your voice against them, till they be totally done away with and abolished; till the doors of Westminster Abbey be no longer closed against the decent, though low-in-purse, enthusiast, or blameless devotee, who must commit an injury against his family economy, if he would be indulged with a bare admission within its walls. You owe it to the decencies, which you wish to see maintained, in its impressive services, that our Cathedral be no longer an object of inspection to the poor at those times only, in which they must rob from their attendance on the worship every minute which they can bestow upon the fabric. In vain the public prints have taken up this subject, — in vain such poor, nameless writers as myself express their indignation. A word from you, sir, — a hint in your journal would be sufficient to fling open the doors of the Beautiful Temple again, as we can remember them when we were boys. At that time of life, what would the imaginative faculty (such as it is) in both of us, have suffered, if the entrance to so much reflection had been obstructed by the demand of so much silver ! — If we had Bcraped it up to gain an occasional admission (as we certainly should have done) would the sight of those old tombs have been as impressive to us (while we have been weighing anxiously prudence against senti- ment) as when the gates stood open as those of the adjacent Park ; when we could walk in at any time, as the mood brought us, for a shorter or longer time, as that lasted? Is the being shown over a place the same as silently for ourselves detecting. the genius of it? In no part of our beloved Abbey now can a person find entrance (out of service time) under the sum of two shillings. The rich and the great will smile at the anti- climax, presumed to lie in these two short words. But you can tell them, sir, how much quiet worth, how much capacity for enlarged feeling, how much taste and genius, may coexist, especially in youth, with a purse incompetent to this demand. A respected friend of ours, during his late visit to the metropolis, presented himself for admission to St. Paul's. At the same time a decently clothed man, with as decent a wife and child, were bargaining for the same indulgence. The price was only two-pence each pers ^n. The poor but decent man hesitated, desirous to go in ; but there were three of them, and he turned away reluc- tantly. Perhaps he wished to have seen the tomb of Nelson. Perhaps the Interior of the Cathedral was his object. But in the state of his finances, even sixpence might reasonably seem too much. Tell the Aris- tocracy of the country (no man can do it more impressively) ; instruct them of what value these insignificant pieces of money, these minims to their sight, may be to their humbler brethren. Shame these Sellers out of the Temple. Stifle not the suggestions of your better nature with the pretext, that an indiscriminate admission would expose the Tombs to violation. Remember your boy- days. Did you ever see, or hear, of a mob in the Abbey, while it was free to all? Do the rabble come there, or trouble their heads about such speculations ? It is all that you can do to drive them into your churches; they do not voluntarily offer themselves. They have, alas! no passion for antiquities; for tomb of king or prelate, sage or poet. If they had, they would be no longer the rabble. For forty years that I have known the Fabric, the only well-attested charge of violation adduced, has been — a ridiculous dismembermpnt committed upon the efligy of that amiable spy. Major Andre. And is it for this — the wanton mischief of some school-boy, fired perhaps with raw notions of Transatlantic Freedom — or the remote possibility of such a mischief occurring again, so easily to be prevented by stationing a 460 AMICUS REDIVIVUS. constable within the walls, if the vergers are incompetent to the duty — is it upon such wretched pretences that the people of England are made to pay a new Peter's themselves with contemplating the ragged Exterior of their Cathedral ? The mischief was done about the time that you were a scholar there. Do you know anything about Pence, so long abrogated; or must content i the unfortunate relic? — AMICUS REDIVIVUS. ■Where were ye, Nymphs, when the remorseless deep Closed o'er the head of your loved Lycidas ? I DO not know when I have experienced a stranger sensation, than on seeing my old fi-iend, G. D., who had been paying me a morning visit, a few Sundays back, at my cottage at Islington, upon taking leave, instead of turning down the right-hand path by which he had entered — with staff in hand, and at noonday, deliberately march right forwards into the midst of the stream that runs by us, and totally disappear. A spectacle like this at dusk would have been appalling enough ; but in the broad, open daylight, to witness such an unreserved motion towards self-destruction in a valued friend, took from me all power of speculation. How I found my feet I know not. Con- sciousness was quite gone. Some spirit, not my own, whirled me to the spot. I remember nothing but the silvery apparition of a good white head emerging; nigh which a staff on, — shall I confess? — in this emergency it was to me as if an Angel had spoken. Great previous exertions — and mine had not been inconsiderable — are commonly followed by a debility of purpose. This was a moment of irresolution. MoNOCULUS — for so, in default of catching his true name, I choose to designate the medical gentleman who now appeared — is a grave, middle-aged person, who, without having studied at the college, or truckled to the pedantry of a diploma, hath employed a great portion of his valuable time in experi- mental processes upon the bodies of unfor- tunate fellow-creatures, in whom the vital spark, to mere vulgar thinking, would seem extinct and lost for ever. He omitteth no occasion of obtruding his services, from a case of common surfeit suffocation to the ignobler obstructions, sometimes induced by (the hand unseen that wielded it) pointed i a too-wilful application of the plant cannabis upwards, as feeling for the skies. In a moment (if time was in that time) he was on my shoulders; and I — freighted with a load more precious than his who bore Anchises. And here I cannot but do justice to the officious zeal of sundry passers by, who, albeit arriving a little too late to participate in the honours of the rescue, in philanthropic shoals came thronging to communicate their advice as to the recovery ; prescribing variously the application, or non-application, of salt, &c., to the person of the patient. Life, meantime, was ebbing fast away, amidst the stifle of conflicting judgments, when one, more sagacious than the rest, by a bright thought, proposed sending for the Doctor. Trite as the counsel was, and impossible, as one should think, to be missed outwardly. But though he declineth not altogether these drier extinctions, his occu- pation tendeth, for the most part, to water- practice : for the convenience of which, he hath judiciously fixed his quarters near the grand repository of the stream mentioned, where day and night, from his little watch- tower, at the Middleton'a Head, he listeneth to detect the wrecks of drowned mortality — partly, as he saith, to be upon the spot — and partly, because the liquids which he useth to prescribe to himself and his patients, ou these distressing occasions, are ordinarily more conveniently to be found at these com- mon hostelries than in the shops and phials of the apothecaries. His ear hath arrived to such finesse by practice, that it is reported he can distinguish a plunge, at half a furlong distance ; and can tell if it be casual or AMICUS REDIVIVUS. 461 deliberate. He weareth a medal, suspended over a suit, originally of a sad brown, but which, by time and frequency of nightly divings, has been dinged into a true profes- sional sable. He passeth by the name of Doc- tor, and is remarkable for wanting his left eye. His remedy— after a sufficient application of ^v:^rm blankets, friction, &c., is a simple tumbler or more, of the purest Cognac, •with water, made as hot as the convalescent can bear it. Where he findeth, as in the case of my friend, a squeamish subject, he condescendeth to be the taster ; and showeth, by his own example, the innocuous nature of the prescription. Nothing can be more kind or encouraging than this procedure. It addeth confidence to the patient, to see his medical adviser go hand in hand with him- self in the remedy. When the doctor swalloweth his own draught, what peevish invalid can refuse to pledge him in the potion? In fine, Monoculus is a humane, sensible man, who, for a slender pittance, scarce enough to sustain life, is content to wear it out in the endeavour to save the lives of others — his pretensions so moderate that with difficulty I could press a crown upon him, for the price of restoring the existence of such an invaluable creature to society as G. D. It was pleasant to observe the effect of the subsiding alarm upon the nerves of the dear absentee. It seemed to have given a shake to memory, calling up notice after notice, of all the providential deliverances he had ex- perienced in the course of his long and inno- cent life. Sitting up in my couch — my couch which, naked and void of furniture hitherto, for the salutary repose which it administered, shall be honoured with costly valance, at some price, and henceforth be a state-bed at Colebrook, — he discoursed of marvellous escapes — by carelessness of nurses — by pails of gelid, and kettles of the boiling element, in infancy — by orchard pVanks, and snapping twigs, in schoolboy frolics — by descent of tiles at Trumpington, and of heavier tomes at Pembroke — by studious watchings, in- ducing frightful vigilance — by want, and the fear of want, and all the sore th robbings of the learned head. — Anon, he would burst out into little fragments of chanting — of songs long ago — ends of deliverance hymns, not remembered before since childhood, but coming up now, when his heart was made tender as a child's — for the tremor cordis, in the retrospect of a recent deliverance, as in a case of impending danger, acting upon an innocent heart, will produce a self-tender- ness, which we should do ill to christen cowardice ; and Shakspeare, in the latter crisis has made his good Sir Hugh to remem- ber the sitting by Babylon, and to mutter of shallow rivers. Waters of Sir Hugh Mlddleton — what a spark you were like to have extinguished for ever? Your saliabrious streams to this City, for now near two centuries, would hardly have atoned for what you were in a moment washing away. Mockery of a river —liquid artifice— wretched conduit! henceforth rank with canals and sluggish aqueducts. Was it for this that, smit in boyhood with the explo- rations of that Abyssinian traveller, I paced the vales of Amwell to explore your tribu- tary springs, to trace your salutary waters) sparkling through green Hertfordshire, and cultured Enfield parks? — Ye have no swans — no Naiads — no river God — or did the benevolent hoary aspect of my friend tempt ye to suck him in, that ye also might have the tutelary genius of your waters? Had he been drowned in Cam, there would have been some consonancy in it ; but what willows had ye to wave and rustle over his moist sepulture? — or having no name, besides that unmeaning assumption o{ eternal novity, did ye think to get one by the noble prize, and henceforth to be termed the Stream Dyerian ? . " And could such spacious -virtue find a grave Beneatli the imposthumed buhble of a wave? I protest, George, you shall not venture out again — no, not by daylight — without a sufficient pair of spectacles — in your musing moods especially. Your absence of mind we have borne, till your presence of body came to be called in question by it. You shall not go wandering into Euripus with Aristotle, if we can help it. Fie, man, to turn dipper at your years, after your many tracts in favour of sprinkling only! I have nothing but water in my head o'nights since this frightful accident. Some- times I am with Clarence in his dream. At others, I behold Christian beginning to sink, and crying out to his good brother Hopeful 462 SOME SONNETS OF SIR PHILIP SYDNEY. that is, to me), " I sink in deep waters ; the billows go over my head, all the waves go over me. Selah." Then I have before me Palinurus, just letting go the steerage. I cry out too late to save. Next follow — a mournful procession — suicidal faces, saved against their will from drowning; dolefully trailing a length of reluctant gratefulness, with r-opy weeds pendent from locks of watchet hue — constrained Lazari — Pluto's half-subjects — stolen fees from the grave — bilking Charon of his fare. At their head Arion — or is it G. D. ? — in his singing gar- ments marcheth singly, with harp in hand, and votive garland, which Machaon (or Dr. Hawes) snatcheth straight, intending to suspend it to the stern God of Sea. Then follow dismal streams of Lethe, in vrhich the half-drenched on earth are constrained to drown downright, by wharfs where Ophelia twice acts her muddy death. And, doubtless, there is some notice in that invisible world when one of us approacheth (as my friend did so lately) to their inexorable precincts. When a soul knocks once, twice, at Death's door, the sensation aroused within the palace must be considerable ; and the grim Feature, by modern science so often dispossessed of his prey, must have learned by this time to pity Tantalus. A pulse assuredly was felt along the line of the Elysian shades, when the near arrival of G. D. was announced by no equivocal indications. From their seats of Asphodel arose the gentler and the graver ghosts — poet, or historian — of Grecian or of Roman lore — to crown with unfading chaplets the half-finished love -labours of their un- wearied scholiast. Him Markland ex- pected — him Tyrwhitt hoped to encounter — him the sweet lyrist of Peter House, whom he had barely seen upon earth,* with newest airs prepared to greet ; and patron of the gentle Christ's boy, — who should have been his patron through life — the mild Askew, with longing aspirations leaned fore- most from his venerable jEsculapian chair, to welcome into that happy company the matured virtues of the man, whose tender scions in the boy he himself upon earth had so prophetically fed and watered. * Graium tantum vidit. SOME SONNETS OF SIR PHILIP SYDNEY. Sydney's Sonnets — I speak of the best of them — are among the very best of their sort. They fall below the plain moral dignity, the sanctity, and high yet modest spirit of self- approval, of Milton, in his compositions of a similar structure. They are in truth what Milton, censuring the Arcadia, says of that work (to which they are a sort of after-tune or application), "vain and amatorious" enough, yet the things in their £ind (as he confesses to be true of the romance) may be " full of worth and wit." They savour of the Courtier, it must be allowed, and not of the Commonwealthsman. But Milton was a Courtier when he wrote the Masque at Lud- low Castle, and still more a Courtier when he composed the Arcades. When the national struggle w.as to begin, he becomingly cast these vanities behind him ; and if the order of time had thrown Sir Philip upon the crisis which preceded the revolution, there is no reason why he should not have acted the same part in that emergency, which ha? glorified the name of a later Sydney. He did not want for plainness or boldness of spirit. His letter on the French match may testify he could speak his mind freely to Princes. The times did not call him to the scaffold. The Sonnets which we oftenest call to mind of Milton were the compositions of his maturest years. Those of Sydney, which I am about to produce, were written in the very heyday of his blood. They are stuck full of amorous fixncies — far-fetched conceits, befitting his occupation ; for True Love thinks no labour to send out Thoughts upon the vast and more than Indian voyages, to bring home rich pearls, outlandish wealth,, gums, jewels, spicery, to sacrifice in self- depreciating similitudes, as shadows of true amiabilities in the Beloved. We must be Lovers — or at least the cooling touch of time, SOME SONNETS OF SIR PHILIP STDNE7. 463 the circum prcecordia frigus must not have so damped our faculties, as to take away our recollection that we were once so — before we can duly appreciate the glorious vanities, and graceful hyperboles, of the passion. The images which lie before our feet (though by some accounted the only natural) are least natural for the high Sydnean love to express its fancies by. They may serve for the loves of Tibullus, or the dear Author of the School- mistress ; for passions that creep and whine in Elegies and Pastoral Ballads. I am sure Milton never loved at this rate. I am afraid some of his addresses [ad Leonoram I mean) have rather erred on the farther side ; and that the poet came not much short of a religious indecorum, when he could thus apostrophise a singing-girl: — Angelus unicuiq^ue suus (sic credite gentes) Obtigit sethereis ales ab ordinibus. Quid mirutn, Leonora, tibi si gloria major. Nam tua prajsentem vox sonat ipsa Deum? Aut Deus, aut Tacui certe mens tertia coeli. Per tua secreto guttura serpit ageus; Serpit agens, facilisque docet mortalia corda Sensim immortali assuescere posse sono. Quod si cuncta quidem Dsns est, per cunctaq0E PUSUS, In te una loquitur, cetera mutus habet. This is loving in a strange fashion ; and it requires some candour of construction (besides the slight darkening of a dead language) to cast a veil over the ugly appear- ance of something very like blasphemy in the last two verses. I think the Lover would have been staggered if he had gone about to express the same thought in English. I am sure Sydney has no flights like this. His extravaganzas do not strike at the sky, though he takes leave to adopt the pale Dian into a fellowship with his mortal passions. I. Witb how sad steps, IMoon, thou climb'st the skies; How silently ; and with how wan a face ! What! may it be, that even in heavenly place That busy Archer his sharp arrow tries? Sure, if that long-with-love-acquainted eyes Can judge of love, thou feel'st a lover's case; I read it in thy looks , thy languisht grace To me, that feel the like, thy state descries. Then, even of fellowship, Moon, tell nie, Is constant love deem 'd there but want of wit ? Are beauties there as proud as here they be? Do they above love to be loved, and yet Those lovers scorn, whom that love doth possess? Do they call virtue there — ungratefulness! The last line of this poem is a little obscured by transposition, lie means, Do they call ungratefulness there a virtue ? I Come, Sleep, Sleep the certain knot of peace, The baiting place of wit, the balm of woe, The poor man's wealth, (he prisoner's release. The indifferent judge between the high and low; With shield of proof shield me from out the prease * Of those fierce darts despair at me doth throw; make in me those civil wars to cease: 1 will good tribute pay If thou do so. Take thou of me sweet pillows, sweetest bed ; A chamber deaf to noise, and blind to light ; A rosy garland, and a weary head. And if these things, as being thine by right. Move not thy heavy grace, thou shalt in me, Livelier than elsewhere, Stella's image see. in. The curious wits, seeing dull pensiveness Bewray itself in vay long-settled eyes, Whence those same fumes of melancholy rise, With idle pains, and missing aim, do guess. Some, that know how my spring 1 did address. Deem that my Muse some fruit of knowledge plies Others, because the Prince my service tries. Think, that I think state errors to redress; But harder judges judge, ambition's rage. Scourge of itself, still climbing slippery place. Holds my young brain captived in golden cage. fools, or over-wise! alas, the race Of ail my thoughts have neither stop nor start. But only Stella's eyes, and Stella's heart. Because I oft in diirk abstracted guise Seem most alone in greatest company. With dearth of words, or answers quite awry. To them that would make speech of speech arise; They deem, and of their doom the rumour flies, That poison foul of bubbling Pride doth lie So in my swelling breast, that only I Fawn on myself, and others to despise Yet Pride, I think, doth not my soul possess. Which looks too oft in his unflattering glass ; But one worse fault — Ambition — I confess, That makes me oft my best friends overpass. Unseen, unheard — while Thought to highest place Bends all his powers, even unto Stella's grace. V. Having this day, my horse, my hand, my lance. Guided so well that I obtained the prize. Both by the judgment of the English eyes, And of some sent from that sweet enemy, — France; Horsemen my skill in horsemanship advance; Townsfolk my strength ; a daintier judge applies His praise to sleight, which from good use doth rise ; Some lucky wits impute it but to chance ; Others, because of both sides I do take My blood from them, who did excel in this. Think Nature me a man of arms did make. How far they shot awry ! the true cause is, Stella looked on, and from her heavenly face Sent forth the beams which made so fair my race. VI. In martial sports I had my cunning tried. And yet to break more staves did me address, While with the people's shouts (I must confess) Youth, luck, and praise, even fill'd my veins witb pride — When Cupid having me (his slave) descried * Press. 4fi4 SOME SONNETS OF SIR PHILIP SYDNEY. In Mars's livery, prancing in the press, " What now. Sir Fool ! " said he : "I would no less : Look here, I say." I look'd. and Stella spied, Wbo hard by made a window send forth light. Sly heart then quaked, then dazzled were mine eyes; One hand forgot to rule th' other to flight; Nor trumpet's sound I heard, nor friendly cries. My foe came on. and beat the air for me — Till that her hlush made me my shame to see. vn. No more, my dear, no more these counsels try; give my passions leave to run their race; Let Fortune lay on me her worst disgrace; Let folk o'ercharged with brain against me cry; Let clouds bedim my face, break in mine eye ; Let me no steps, but of lost labour, trace ; Let all the earth with scorn recount my case — . But do not will me from my love to fly. 1 do not envy Aristotle's wit. Nor do aspire to CiBsar's bleeding fame ; Nor aught do care, though some above me sit; Nor hope, nor wish, another course to frame, But that which once may win thy cruel heart : Thou art my wit, and thou my virtue art. VIII. Love still a boy, and oft a wanton, is School'd only by his mother's tender eye; "What wonder then, if he his lesson miss. When for so soft a rod dear play he try? And yet my Star, because a siigar'd kiss In sport I suck'd, while she asleep did lie, Doth lour, nay chide, nay threat, for only this Sweet, it was saucy Love, not humble I. But no 'scuse serves : she makes her wrath appear In beauty's throne — see now who dares come near Those scarlet judges, threfit'ning bloody pain? heav'nly Fool, thy most kiss-worthy face Anger invests with such a lovely grace. That anger's self I needs must kiss again. IX. 1 never drank of Aganippe well. Nor ever did in shade of Temple sit. And muses scorn with vulgar brains to dwell; Poor lay-man I, for sacred rites unfit. Some do I hear of Poet's fury tell, But (God wot) wot not what they mean by it; And this I swear by blackest book of hell, I am no pick-purse of another's wit. How falls it then, that with so smooth an ease_ 51y thoughts I speak, and what I speak doth flow In verse, and that my verse best wits doth please? G uess me the cause — what is it thus ? — fye, no. Or so ? — much less. How then ? sure thus it is, My lips are sweet, inspired with Stella's kiss. X. Of all the kings that ever here did reign, Edward, named Fourth, as first in praise I name. Not for his fair outside, nor well-lined brain — Although less gifts imp feathers oft -on Fame. Nor that he could, young-wise, wise-valiant, frame His sire's revenge, join'd with a kingdom's gain ; And, gain'd by Mars, could yet mad Mars so tame. That Balance weigh'd what Sword did late obtain. Nor that he made the Floure-de-luce so 'afraid, Though strongly hedged of bloody Lions' paws, That witty Lewis to him a tribute paid. Nor this, nor that, nor any such small cause — But only, for this worthy knight durst prove To lose his crown rather than fail his love. happy Thames, that didst my Stella bear, 1 saw thyself, with many a smiling lino Upon thy cheerful face, Joy's livery wear, While those fair planets on thy streams did shine The boat for joy could not to dance forbear, While wanton winds, with beauty so divine .Ravish'd, stay'd not, till in her golden hair They did themselves (0 sweetest prison) twine. And fain those ^ol's youth there would their stay Have made ; but, forced by nature still to fly, First did with puffing kiss those locks display. She, so dishevell'd, blush'd; from window I With sight thereof cried out, fair disgrace. Let honour's self to thee grant highest place! xn. Highway, since you my chief Parnassus be; And that my Muse, to some ears not unsweet, Tempers her words to trampling horses' feet. More soft than to a chamber melody ; Now blessed You bear onward blessed Me To Her, where I my heart safe left shall meet, My Muse and I must you of duty greet With thanks and wishes, wishing thankfully, Be you still fair, honour'd by public heed. By no encroachment wrong'd nor time forgot ; Nor blamed for blood, nor shamed for sinful deed. And that you know, I envy you no lot Of highest wish, I wish you so much bliss, Hundreds of years you Stella's feet may kiss. Of the foregoing, the first, the second, and the last sonnets, are my favourites. But the general beauty of them all is, that they are so perfectly characteristical. The spirit of "learning and of chivalry," — of which union, Spenser has entitled Sydney to have been the "president," — shines through them. I confess I can see nothing of the "jejune" or "frigid" in them; much less of the "stiff" and "cumbrous" — which I have sometimes heard objected to the. Arcadia. The verse runs off swiftly and gallantly. It might have been tuned to the trumpet; or tempered (as himself expresses it) to "trampling horses' feet." They abound in felicitous phrases — heav'nly Fool, the most kiss-worthy face — 8ih Sonnet. Sweet pillows, sweetest bed; A chamber deaf to noise, and blind to light; A rosy garland, and a weary head. 2nd Sonnet. That sweet enemy, — France — 5th Sonnet. But they are not rich in words only, in vague and unlocalised feelings — the failing too much of some poetry of the present day — they are full,' material, and circumstan- tiated. Time and place appropriates every one of them. It is not a fever of passion wasting itself upon a thin diet of dainty NEWSPAPERS THIRTY-FIVE YEARS AGO. 465 words, but a transcendent passion pervading and illuminating action, pursuits, studies, feats of arms, the opinions of contemporaries and his judgment of them. An historical thread runs through them, which almost affixes a date to them ; marks the when and where they were written. I have dwelt the longer upon what I con- ceive the merit of these poems, because I have been hurt by the wantonness (I wish I could treat it by a gentler name) with which W. H. takes every occasion of insulting the memory of Sir Philip Sydney. But the de- cisions of the Author of Table Talk, &c. (most profound and subtle where they are, as for the most part, just) are more safely to be relied upon, on subjects and authors he has a partiality for, than on such as he has conceived an accidental pi-ejudice against. Milton wrote sonnets, and was a king-hater ; and it was congenial perhaps to sacrifice a courtier to a patriot. But I was unwilling to lose ajine idea from my mind. The noble images, passions, sentiments, and poetical delicacies of character scattered all over the Arcadia (spite of some stiffness and encum- berment), justify to me the character which his contemporaries have left us of the writer, I cannot think with the. " Critic," that Sir Philip Sydney was that opprobrious thing which a foolish nobleman in his insolent hostility chose to term him. I call to mind the epitaph made on him, to guide me to juster thoughts of him ; and I repose upon the beautiful lines in the "Friend's Passion for his Astrophel," printed with the Elegies of Spenser and others. You knew — who knew not Astrophel? (That 1 should live to say I knew And have not in possession still !) Things known permit me to renew — Of him you know his merit such, I cannot say — you hear — too much. Within these woods of Arcady He chief delight and pleasure took ; And on the mountain Partheny, Upon the crystal liquid hrook, The muses met him every day, That taught him sing, to write, and say. When he descended down the mount. His personage seemed most divine; A thousand graces one might count Upon his lovely cheerful eyne. To hear him speak, and sweetly smile. You were in Paradise the while. A sweet attractive kind of grace; A full assurance given hy looks; Continual comfort in a face, The lineaments of Gospel books — I trow that count'nanoe cannot lye Whose thoughts are legible in the eye. Ahove all others this is he, Which erst approved in his song, That love and honour might agree, And that pure love will do no wrong. Sweet saints, it is no sin or hlame To love a man of virtuous name. Did never love so sweetly breathe In any mortal breast before : * Did never Muse inspire beneath A Poet's brain with finer store. He wrote of Love with high conceit, And Beauty rear'd ahove her height. Or let any one read the deeper sorrows (grief running into rage) in the Poem, — the last in the collection accompanying the above, — which from internal testimony I believe to be Lord Brooke's — beginning with " Silence augmenteth grief," and then seriously ask himself, whether the subject of such absorb- ing and confounding regrets could have been that thing which Lord Oxford termed him. NEWSPAPEKS THIRTY-FIVE YEARS AGO. Dan Stuart once told us, that he did not remember that he ever deliberately walked into the Exhibition at Somerset House in his life. He might occasionally have escorted a party of ladies across the way, that were going in ; but he never went in of his own head. Yet the office of the "Morning Post" newspaper stood then just where it does now 30 — we are carrying you back, Reader, some thirty years or more — with its gilt-globe- topt front facing that emporium of our artists' grand Annual Exposure. "We sometimes wish that we had observed the same abstinence with Daniel. A word or two of D. S. He ever appeared to us one of the finest tempered of Editors. 466 NEWSPAPERS THIRTY-FIVE YEARS AGO. Perrv, of the Morning Chronicle, was equally pleasant, with a dash, no slight one either, of the courtier. S. was frank, plain, and English all over. We have worked for both these gentlemen. It is soothing to contemplate the head of the Gaiiges ; to trace the first little bubblings of a mighty river, With toly reverence to approach the rocks, Whence glide the streams renowned in ancient song. Fired with a perusal of the Abyssinian Pilgrim's exploratory ramblings after the cradle of the infant Nilus, we well remember on one fine summer holyday (a "whole day's leave" we called it at Christ's hospital) sal- lying forth at rise of sun, not very well pro- visioned either for such an undertaking, to trace the current of the New River — Middle- tonian stream ! — to its scaturient source, as we had read, in meadows by fair Amwell. Gallantly did we commence our solitary quest — for it was essential to the dignity of a Discovert, that no eye of schoolboy, save our own, should beam on the detection. By flowery spots, and verdant lanes skirting Hornsey, Hope trained us on in many a bafiiing turn ; endless, hopeless meanders, as it seemed ; or as if the jealous waters had dodged us, reluctant to have the humble spot of their nativity revealed ; till spent, and nigh famished, before set of the same sun, we sate down somewhere by Bowes Farm near Tottenham, with a tithe of our proposed la,bours only yet accomplished ; sorely con- vinced in spirit, that that Brucian enterprise was as yet too arduous for our young shoulders. Not more refreshing to the thirsty curio- sity of the traveller is the tracing of some mighty waters up to their shallow fontlet, than it is to a pleased and candid reader to go back to the inexperienced essays, the first callow flights in authorship, of some esta- blished name in. literature ; from the Gnat which preluded to the .iEneid, to the Duck which Samuel Johnson trod on. In those days every Morning Paper, as an essential retainer to its establishment, kept an author, who was bound to furnish daily a quantum of witty paragraphs. Sixpence a joke — and it was thought pretty high too — was Dan Stuart's settled remuneration in these ceses. The chat of the day, scandal. but, above all, dress, furnished the material. The length of no paragraph was to exceed seven lines. Shorter they might be, but they must be poignant. A fashion of /?es7^, or rather J9^?^^*-coloured hose for the ladies, luckily coming up at the juncture when we were on our probation for the place of Chief Jester to S.'s Paper, esta- blished our reputation in that line. We were pronounced a "capital hand." the conceits which we varied upon red in all its prismatic differences ! from the trite and obvious flower of Cytherea, to the flaming costume of the lady that has her sitting upon " many waters." Then there was the collateral topic of ankles. What an occasion to a truly chaste writer, like ourself, of touching that nice brink, and yet never tumbling over it, of a seemingly ever approxi- mating something " not quite proper ;" while, like a skilful posture-master, balancing be- twixt decorums and their opposites, he keeps the line, from which a hair's-breadth devia- tion is destruction ; hovering in the confines of light and darkness, or where " both seem either;" a hazy uncertain delicacy; Auto- lycus-like in the Play, still putting off" his expectant auditory with "Whoop, do me no harm, good man I " But, above all, that conceit arrided us most at that time, and still tickles our midriff" to remember, where, allusively to the flight of Astraea — ultima Coehsium terras reliquit — we pro- nounced — in reference to the stockings still — that Modesty, taking her final leave OF MORTALS, HER LAST BlUSH WAS VISIBLE IN HER ASCENT TO THE IIeAVENS BV THE TRACT OP THE GLOWING INSTEP. This might be called the crowning conceit; and was esteemed tolerable writing in those days. But the fashion of jokes, with all other things, passes away ; as did the transient mode which had so favoured us. The ankles of our fair friends in a few weeks began to reassume their whiteness, and left us scarce a leg to stand upon. Other female whims followed, but none methought so pregnant, so invitatory of shrewd conceits, and more than single meanings. Somebody has said, that to swallow six cross-buns daily, consecutively for a fortnight, would surfeit the stoutest digestion. But to have to furnish as many jokes daily, and NEWSPAPERS THIRTY-FIVE YEARS AGO. 467 that not for a fortnight, but for a long twelvemonth, as we were constrained to do, was a little harder exaction. " Man goeth forth to his work until the evening" — from a reasonable hour in the morning, we pre- sume it was meant. Now, as our main occupation took us up from eight till five every day in the City ; and as our evening hours, at that time of life, had generally to do with anything rather than business, it follows, that the only time we could spare for this manufactory of jokes — our supple- mentary livelihood, that supplied us in every want beyond mere bread and cheese — was exactly that part of the day which (as we have heard of No Man's Land) may be fitly denominated No Man's Time ; that is, no time in which a man ought to be up, and awake, in. To speak more plainly, it is that time of an hour, or an hour and a half's duration, in which a man, whose occasions call him up so preposterously, has to wait for his breakfast. those head-aches at dawn of day, when at five, or half-past five in summer, and not much later in the dark seasons, we were compelled to rise, having been perhaps not above four hours in bed — (for we were no go-to-beds with the lamb, though we anticipated the lark ofttimes in her rising — w^e like a parting cup at midnight, as all young men did before these eS"eminate times, and to have our friends about us — we were not constellated under Aquarius, that watery sign, and therefore incapable of Bacchus, cold, washy, bloodless — we were none of your Basilian water-sponges, nor had taken our degrees at Mount Ague — we were right toping Capulets, jolly companions, we and they) — but to have to get up, as we said before, curtailed of half our fair sleep, fasting, with only a dim vista of refreshing bohea, in the distance — to be necessitated to rouse ourselves at the detestable rap of an old hag of a domestic, wh.o seemed to take a diabolical pleasure in her announcement that it was " time to rise ;" and whose chappy knuckles we have often yearned to amputate, and string them up at our chamber door to be a terror to all such unseasonable rest-breakers in future — " Facil" and sweet, as Virgil sings, had been the " descending" of the over-night, balmy the first sinking of the heavy head upon the pillow ; but to get up, as he goes on to say, revocare gradus, superasque evadere ad auras — and to get up moreover to make jokes with malice prepended — there was the " labour, "' there the " work." No Egyptian taskmaster ever devised a slavery like to that, our slavery. No fractious operants ever turned out for half the tyranny which this necessity exercised upon us. Half a dozen jests in a day, (bating Sundays too,) why, it seems nothing ! We make twice the number every day in our lives as a matter of course, and claim no Sabbatical exemptions. But then they come into our head. But when the head has to go out to them — when the mountain must go to Mahomet — Reader, try it for once, only for one short twelvemonth. It was not every week that a fashion of pink stockings came up ; but mostly, instead of it, some rugged untractable subject ; some topic impossible to be contorted into the risible ; some feature, upon which no smile could play ; some flint, from which no process of ingenuity could procure a scintillation. There they lay ; there your appointed tale of brick-making was set before you, which you must finish, with or without straw, as it happened. The craving Dragon — thePtiblic — like him in Bel's temple — must be fed ; it expected its daily rations ; and Daniel, and ourselves, to do us justice, did the best we could on this side bursting him. While we were wringing out coy spright- linesses for the Post, and writhing under the toil of what is called " easy writing," Bob Allen, our quondam schoolfellow, was tapping his impracticable brains in a like service for the " Oracle." Not that Robert troubled himself much about wit. If his paragraphs had a sprightly air about them, it was sufiicient. He carried this nonchalance so far at last, that a matter of intelligence, and that no very important one, was not seldom palmed upon his employers for a good jest ; for example sake — " Walking yesterday morn- ing casually down Snow Hill, ivJio shoidd w& meet hut Mr. Deputy Humphreys ! we rejoice to add, that the worthy Deputy appeared to enjoy a good state of health. We do not ever remember to have ^een him look better." This 468 NEWSPAPERS THIETY-FIVE YEAES AGO. gentleman so surprisingly met upon Snow Hill, from some peculiarities in gait or gesture, was a constant butt for mirth to the small paragraph-mongers of the day ; and our friend thought that he might have his fling at him with the rest. We met A. in Holborn shortly after this extraordinary rencounter, which he told with tears of satisfaction in his eyes, and chuckling at the anticipated effects of its announcement next day in the paper. We did not quite com- prehend where the wit of it lay at the time ; nor was it easy to be detected, when the thing came out advantaged by type and letter-press. He had better have met any- thing that morning than a Common Council Man. His services were shortly after dispensed with, on the plea that his para- graphs of late had been deficient in point. The one in question, it must be owned, had an air, in the opening especially, proper to awaken curiosity ; and the sentiment, or moral, wears tlie aspect of humariity and good neighbourly feeling. But somehow the conclusion was not judged .altogether to answer to the magnificent promise of the premises. We traced our friend's pen after- wards in the " True Briton," the " Star," the " Traveller," — from all which he was suc- cessively dismissed, the Proprietors having " no further occasion for his services." Nothing was easier than to detect him. When wit failed, or topics ran low, there constantly appeared the following — "It is not generally Tcnoion tliat the three Blue Balls at the Pawnbrokers' shops are the ancient arms of Lomhardy. The Lombards were the first money-brokers in Europe." Bob has done more to set the public right on this important point of blazonry, than the whole College of Heralds. The appointment of a regular wit has long ceased to be a part of the economy of a Morning Paper. Editors find their own jokes, or do as well without them. Parson Este, and Topham, brought up the set custom of " witty paragraphs" first in the " World." Boaden was a reigning para- graphist in his day, and succeeded poor Allen in the " Oracle." But, as we said, the fashion of jokes passes away ; and it would be difficult to discover in the biographer of Mrs. Siddons, any traces of that vivacity and Axncv which charmed the whole town at the commencement of the present century. Even the prelusive delicacies of the present writer — the curt " Astrsean allusion" — would be thought pedantic and out of date, in these days. 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 exchange ! 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 deter- mined 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 ON THE PRODUCTIONS OF MODERN ART. 469 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 insufBcient to detect the lurking snake among them. There were times, indeed, when we sighed for our more gentle- man-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 particular- ising,) 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 esta- blishment, left us to the safe, but somewhat mortifying neglect of the Crown Lawyers. It was about this time, or a little earlier, that Dan Stuart made that curious confession to us, that he had "never deliberately walked into an Exhibition at Somerset House in his life." BARRENNESS OF THE IMAGINATIVE FACULTY IN THE PRODUCTIONS OF MODERN ART. HoGAKTH excepted, can we produce any one painter within the last fifty years, or since the humour of exhibiting began, that has treated a story imaginaiively ? By this we mean, upon whom his subject has so acted, that it has seemed to direct Jiim — not to be arranged by him ? Any upon whom its leading or collateral points have impressed themselves so tyrannically, that he dared not treat it otherwise, lest he should falsify a revelation ? Any that has imparted to his compositions, not merely so much truth as is enough to convey a story with clearness, but that individualizing property, which should keep the subject so treated distinct in feature from every other subject, however similar, and to common apprehensions almost identical ; so as that we might say, this and this part could have found an appropriate place in no other picture in the world but this? Is there anything in modern art — we will not demand that it should be equal — but in any way analogous to what Titian has effected, in that wonderful bringing together of two times in the "Ariadne," in the National Gallery? Precipitous, with his reeling satyr rout about him, re-peopling and re-illuming suddenly the waste places, drunk with a new fury beyond the grape, Bacchus, born in fii'e, fire-like flings himself at the Cretan. This is the time present. With this telling of the story — an artist, and no ordinary one, might remain richly proud. Guido, in his harmonious version of it, saw no further. But from the depths of the imaginative spirit Titian has recalled past time, and laid it contributory with the present to one simultaneous effect. With the deseri all ringing with the mad cymbals of his followers, made lucid with the presence and new offers of a god, — as if unconscious of Bacchus, or but idly casting her eyes as upon some unconcerning pageant — her soul undis- tracted from Theseus — Ariadne is still pacing the solitary shore in as much heart silence, and in almost the same local solitude, with which she awoke at day-break to catch the forlorn last glances of the sail that bore away the Athenian. Here are two points miraculously co- uniting ; fierce society, with the feeling of solitude still absolute ; noon-day revelations, 470 ON THE PRODUCTIONS OF MODERN ART. •with the accidents of the dull grey dawn unquenched and lingering; the present Bac- chus, with the past Ariadne ; two stories, with double Time ; separate, and harmonising. Had the artist made the woman one shade less indifferent to the God ; still more, had she ex- pressed a rapture at his advent, where would have been the story of the mighty desolation of the heart previous ? merged in the insipid accident of a flattering offer met with a wel- come acceptance. The broken heart for Theseus was not lightly to be pieced up by a God. We have before us a fine rough print, from a picture by Raphael in the Vatican. It is the Presentation of the new-born Eve to Adam by the Almighty. A fairer mother of mankind we might imagine, and a goodlier sire perhaps of men since born. But these are matters subordinate to the conception of the situation, displayed in this extraordinary production. A tolerably modern artist ■would have been satisfied with tempering certain raptures of connubial anticipation, with a suitable acknowledgment to the Giver of the blessing, in the countenafnce of the first bridegroom ; something like the divided attention of the child (Adam was here a child-man) between the given toy, and the mother who had just blessed it with the bauble. This is the obvious, the first- sight view, the superficial. An artist of a higher grade, considering the awful presence they were in, would have taken care to subtract something from the expression of the more human passion, and to heighten the more spiritual one. This would be as much as an exhibition-goer, from the opening of Somerset House to last year's show, has been encouraged to look for. It is obvious to hint at a lower expression yet, in a picture that, for respects of drawing and colouring, might be deemed not wholly inadmissible within these art-fostering walls, in which the raptures should be as ninety-nine, the grati- tude as one, or perhaps zero! By neither the one passion nor the other has Raphael expounded the situation of Adam. Singly upon his brow sits the absorbing sense of wonder at the created miracle. The moment is seized by the intuitive artist, perhaps not self-conscious of his art, in which neither of the conflicting emotions ^— a moment how abstracted 1 — have ha4 time to spring up, or to battle for indecorous mastery. — We have seen a landscape of a justly admired neoteric, in which he aimed at delineating a fiction, one of the most severely beautiful in antiquity — the gardens of the Hesperides. To do Mr. justice, he had painted a laudable orchard, with fitting seclusion, and a veritable dragon (of which a Polypheme, by Poussin, is somehow a fac-simile for the situation), looking over into the world shut out back- wards, so that none but a " still-climbing Hercules" could hope to catch a peep at the admired Ternary of Recluses. No conventual porter could keep his eyes better than this custos with the "lidless eyes." He not only sees that none do intrude into that privacy, but, as clear as daylight, that none but Her- cules aut Diabolus by any manner of means can. So far all is well. We have absolute solitude here or nowhere, Ab extra the dam- sels are snug enough. But here the artist's courage seems to have failed him. He began to pity his pretty chai-ge, and, to comfort the irksomeness, has peopled their solitude with a bevy of fair attendants, maids of honour, or ladies of the bed-chamber, according to the approved etiquette at a court of the nineteenth century ; giving to the whole scene the air of a fete champetre, if we will but excuse the absence of the gentlemen. This is well, and Watteauish. But what is become of the soli- tary mystery — the Daughters three, That sing arOund the golden tree? This is not the way in which Poussin would have treated this subject. The paintings, or rather the stupendous architectural designs, of a modern artist, have been urged as objections to the theory of our motto. They are of a character, we confess, to stagger it. His towered structures are of the highest order of the material sublime. Whether they were dreams, or transcripts of some elder workmanship — Assyrian ruins old — restored by this mighty artist, they, satisfy our most stretched and craving con- ceptions of the glories of the antique world. It is a pity that they were ever peopled. On that side, the imagination of the artist halts, and appears defective. Let us examine the point of the story in the " Belshazzar'a Feast." We will introduce it by an apposita anecdote. ON THE PRODUCTION OF MODERN ART. 471 The court historians of the day record, that at the first dinner given by the late King (then Prince Regent) at the Pavilion, the following characteristic frolic was played off. The guests were select and admiring ; the banquet profuse and admirable ; the lights lustrous and oriental ; the eye was perfectly dazzled with the display of plate, among which the great gold salt-cellar, brought from the regalia in the Tower fur this especial purpose, itself a tower! stood conspicuous for its magnitude. And now the Rev. * * * *, the then admired court Chaplain, was pro- ceeding with the grace, when at a signal given, the lights were suddenly overcast, and a huge transparency was discovered, in which glittered in gold letters — ' Brighton — Earthquake - ALIVE ! " SWALLOW-UP- Imagine the confusion of the gnests ; the Georges and garters, jewls, bi-acelets, moulted upon the occasion ! The fans dropped, and picked up the next morning by the sly court- pages ! Mrs. Fitz-what's-her-name fainting, and the Countess of * * * holding the smell- ing-bottle, till the good-humoured Prince caused harmony to be restored, by calling in fresh candles and declaring that the whole was nothing but a pantomime hoax, got up by the ingenious Mr. Parley, of Covent Garden, from hints which his Royal High- ness himself had furnished ! Then imagine the infinite applause that followed, the mutual rallyings, the declarations that "they were not much frightened," of the assembled galaxy. The point of time in the picture exactly answers to the appearance of the trans- parency in the anecdote. The huddle, the flutter, the bustle, the escape, the alarm, and the mock alarm ; the prettinesses heightened by consternation ; the courtier's fear which was flattery ; and the lady's which was affectation ; all that we may conceive to have taken place in a mob of Brighton courtiers, sympathising with the well-acted surprise of their sovereign ; all this, and no more, is exhibited by the well-dressed lords and ladies in the Hall of Belus. Just this sort of consternation we have seen among a flock of disquieted wild geese at the report only of a gun having gone off! But is this vulgar fright, this mere animal anxiety for the preservation of their persons, — such' as we have witnessed at a theatre, when a slight alarm of fire has been given — an adequate exponent of a supernatural terror ? the way in which the finger of God, writing judgments, would have been met by the withered conscience ? There is a human fear, and a divine fear. The one is disturbed, restless, and bent upon escape. The other is bowed down, effortless, passive. When the spirit appeared before Eliphas in the visions of the night, and the hair of his flesh stood up, was it in the thoughts of the Temanite to ring the bell of his chamber, or to call up the servants? But let us see in the text what there is to justify all this huddle of vulgar consternation. From the words of Daniel it appears that Belshazzar had made a great feast to a thousand of his lords, and drank wine before the thousand. The golden and silver vessels are gorgeously enumerated, with the princes, the king's concubines, and his wives. Then follows — "In the same hour came forth fingers of a man's hand, and wrote over against the candlestick upon the plaster of the wall of the king's palace ; and the king saw the part of the hand that wrote. Then the kmg's countenance was changed, and his thoughts troubled him, so that the joints of his loins were loosened, and his knees smote one against another." This is the plain text. By no hint can it be otherwise inferred, but that the appearance was solely confined to the fancy of Belshazzar, that his single brain was troubled. Not a word is spoken of its being seen by any else there present, not even by the queen herself, who merely undertakes for the interpretation of the phenomenon, as related to her, doubt- less, by her husband. The lords are simply said to be astonished ; i. e. at the trouble and the change of countenance in their sovereign. Even the prophet does not appear to have seen the scroll, which the king saw. He recals it only, as Joseph did the Dream to the King of Egypt. " Then was the part of the hand sent from him [the Lord], and this writing was written." He speaks of the phantasm as past. Then what becomes of this needless multi- plication of the miracle? this message to a royal conscience, singly expressed — for it was said, 472 ON THE PRODUCTIONS OF MODERN ART. " Thy kingdom is divided," — simultaneously impressed upon the fancies of a thousand courtiers, who were implied in it neither directly nor grammatically ? But admitting the artist's own version of the story, and that the sight was seen also by the thousand courtiers — let it have been visible to all Babylon — as the knees of Bel- shazzar were shaken, and his countenance troubled, even so would the knees of every man in Babylon, and their countenances, as of an individual man, have been troubled ; bowed, bent down, so would they have re- mained, stupor -fixed, with no thought of struggling with that inevitable judgment Not all that is optically possible to be seen, is to be shown in every picture. The eye delightedly dwells' upon the brilliant individualities in a " Marriage at Cana," by Veronese, or Titian, to the very texture and colour of the wedding garments, the ring glittering upon the bride's fingers, the metal and fashion of the wine -pots; for at such seasons there is leisure and luxury to be curious. But in a " day of judgment," or in a " day of lesser horrors, yet divine," as at the impious feast of Belshazzar, the eye should see, as the actual eye of an agent or patient in the immediate scene would see, only in masses and indistinction. Not only the female attire and jewelry exposed to the critical eye of fashion, as minutely as the dresses in a Lady's Magazine, in the criticised picture, ^- but perhaps the curiosities of ana- tomical science, and studied diversities of posture, in the falling angels and sinners of Michael Angelo, — have no business in their great subjects. There was no leisure for them. By a wise falsification, the great masters of painting got at their true conclusions ; by not showing the actual appearances, that is, all that was to be seen at any given moment by an indifferent eye, but only what the eye might be supposed to see in the doing or suffering of some portentous action. Sup- pose the moment of the swallowing up of Pompeii. There they were to be seen — houses, columns, architectural proportions, differences of public and private buildings, men and women at their standing occupa- tions, the diversified thousand postures, attitudes, dresses, in some confusion truly, but physically they were visible, Biu what eye saw them at that eclipsing moment, which reduces confusion to a kind of unity, and when the senses are upturned from their proprieties, when sight and hearing are a feeling only ? A thousand years have passed, and we are at leisure to contemplate the weaver fixed standing at his shuttle, the baker at his oven, and to turn over with antiquarian coolness the pots and pans of Pompeii, "Sun, stand thou still upon Gibeon, and thou. Moon, in the valley of Ajalon." Who, in reading this magnificent Hebraism, in his conception, sees aught but the heroic son of Nun, with the outstretched -arm, and the greater and lesser light obsequious ? Doubt- less there were to be seen hill and dale, and chariots and horsemen, on open plain, or winding by secret defiles, and all the circum- stances and stratagems of war. But whose eyes would have been conscious of this array at the interposition of the synchronic miracle ? Yet in the picture of this subject by the artist of the " Belshazzar's Feast" — no ignoble work either — the marshalling and landscape of the war is everything, the miracle sinks into an anecdote of the day ; and the eye may " dart through rank and file traverse " for some minutes, before it shall discover, among his armed followers, loliich is Joshua ! Not modern art alone, but ancient, where only it is to be found if anywhere, can be detected erring, from defect of this imagina- tive fiiculty. The world has nothing to show of the preternatural in painting, transcending the figure of Lazarus bursting his grave- clothes, in the great picture at Angerstein's.^ It seems a thing between two beings. A ghastly horror at itself struggles with newly- apprehending gratitude at a second life be- stowed. It cannot forget that it was a ghost It has hardly felt that it is a body. It has to tell of the world of spirits. — A¥as it from a feeling, that the crowd of half-impassioned by-standers, and the still more irrelevant herd of passers-by at a distance, who have not heard, or but faintly have been told of the passing miracle, admirable as they are in design and hue — for it is a glorified work — do not respond adequately to the action — that the single figure of the Lazarus has been attributed to Michael Angelo, and the mighty Sebastian unfoirly robbed of the fame of the greater half of the interest ? Now that there were not indifferent passers- ON THE PRODUCTIONS OF MODERN ART. 473 by within actual scope of the eyes of those present at the miracle, to whom the sound of it had but faintly, or not at all, reached, it •wonld be hardihood to deny ; but would they see them ? or can the mind in the con- ception of it admit of such unconcerning ob- jects ; can it think of them at all ? or what associating league to the imagination can there be between the seers, and the seers not, of a presential miracle ? Were an artist to paint upon demand a picture of a Dryad, we will ask whether, in ! the present low state of expectation, the patron would not, or ought not be fully satis- fied with a beautiful naked figure recumbent under wide-stretched oaks ? Disseat those woods, and place the same figure among fountains, and fall of pellucid water, and you have a — Naiad ! Not so in a rough print we have seen after Julio Romano, we think — for it is long since — there, by no process, with mere change of scene, could the figure have reciprocated characters. Long, gro- tesque, fantastic, yet with a grace of her own, beautiful in convolution and distortion, linked to her connatural tree, co-twisting with its limbs her own, till both seemed either — these, animated branches ; those, disanimated members — yet the animal and vegetable lives sufficiently kept distinct — his Dryad lay — an approximation of two natures, which to conceive, it must be seen ; analogous to, not the same with, the delicacies of Ovidian transformations. To the lowest subjects, and, to a superficial comprehension, the most barren, the Great Masters gave loftiness and fruitfulness. The large eye of genius saw in the meanness of present objects their capabilities of treatment from their relations to some grand past or Future. How has Raphael — we must still linger about the Vatican — treated the humble craft of the ship-builder, in his " Building of the Ark ?" It is in that scriptural series, to which we have referred, and which, judg- ing from some fine rough old graphic sketches of them which we possess, seem to be of a higher and more poetic grade than even the Cartoons. The dim of sight are the timid and the shrinking. There is a cowardice in modern art. Aa the Frenchman, of whom Coleridge's friend made the prophetic guess at Rome, from the beard and horns of the Mrses of Michael Angelo collected no in- ferences beyond that of a He Goat and a Cornuto ; so from this subject, of mere me- chanic promise, it would instinctively turn away, as from one incapable of investiture with any grandeur. The dock-yards at Wool- wich would object derogatory associations. The depot at Chatham would be the mote and the beam in its intellectual eye. But not to the nautical preparations in the ship- yards of Civita Vecchia did Raphael look for instructions, when he imagined the building of the Vessel that was to be conservatory of the wrecks of the species of drowned man- kind. In the intensity of the action, he keeps ever out of sight the meanness of the operation. There is the Patriarch, in calm forethought, and witli holy prescience, giving directions. And there are his agents — the solitary but sufficient Three — hewing, sawing, every one with the might and earnestness of a Demiurgus ; under some instinctive rather than technical guidance ! giant-muscled ; every one a Hercules, or liker to those Vulcanian Three, that in sounding caverns under Mongibello wrought in fire — Brontes, and black Steropes, and Pyracmon. So work the workmen that should repair a world! Artists again err in the confounding of poetic with pictorial subjects. In the latter, the exterior accidents are nearly everything, the unseen qualities 'tis nothing. Othello's colour — the infirmities and corpulence of a Sir John Falstaff — do they haunt us perpetually in the reading? or are they obtruded upon our conceptions one time for ninety-nine that we are lost in admiration at the re- spective moral or intellectual attributes of the character ? But in a picture Othello is aliuays a Blackamoor ; and the other only Plump Jack. Deeply corporealised, and enchained hopelessly in the grovelling fetters of externality, must be the mind, to which in its better moments, the image of the high- soulcd, high-intelligenced Quixote — the errant Star of Knighthood, made more tender by eclipse — has never presented itself divested from the unhallowed accompani- ment of a Sancho, or a rabblement at the heels of Rosinante. That man has read his book by halves ; he has laughed, mistaking his author's purport, which was — tears. The artist that pictures Quixote (and it is in this degrading point that he is every season held up at our Exhibitions) in the shallow hope of 474 ON THE PRODUCTIONS OF MODERN ART. exciting mirth, would have joined the rabble at the heels of his starved steed. We wish not to see that counterfeited, which we would not have wished to see in the reality. Con- scious of the heroic inside of the noble Quixote, who, on hearing that his withered person was passing, would have stepped over bis threshold to gaze upon his forlorn habili- ments, and the " strange bed-fellows which misery brings a man acquainted with ?" Shade of Cervantes ! who in thy Second Part could put into the mouth of thy Quixote those high aspirations of a super-chivalrous gallantry, where he replies to one of the shepherdesses, apprehensive that he would spoil their pretty net -works, and inviting him to be a guest with them, in accents like these : " Truly, fairest Lady, Actgeon was not more astonished when he saw Diana bathing herself at the fountain, than I have been in beholding your beauty : I commend the manner of your pastime, and thank you for your kind offers ; and, if I may serve you, so I may be sure you will be obeyed, you may command me : for my profession is this, To show myself thankful, and a doer of good to all sorts of people, especially of the rank that your person shows you to be ; and if those nets, as they take up but a little piece of ground, should take up the whole world, I would seek out new worlds to pass through, rather than break them : and (he adds) that you may give credit to this my exaggeration, behold at least he that promiseth you this, is Don Quixote de la Mancha, if haply this name hath come to your hearing." Illus- trious Romancer! were the "fine frenzies," which possessed the brain of thy own Quixote, a fit subject, as in this Second Part, to be exposed to the jeers of Duennas and Serving men ? to be monstered, and shown up at the heartless banquets of great men ? Was that pitiable infirmity, which in thy First Part misleads him, always from within, into half-ludicrous, but more than half-com- passionable and admirable errors, not inflic- tion enough from heaven, that men by studied artifices must devise and practise upon the humour, to inflame where they should soothe it ? Why, Goneril would have blushed to practise upon the abdicated king at this rate, and the she-wolf Regan not have endured to play the pranks upon his fled wits, which thou hast made thy Quixote sufi'er in Duchesses' halls, and at the hands of that unworthy nobleman.* In the First Adventures, even, it needed all the art of the most consummate artist in the Book Avay that the world hath yet seen, to keep up in the mind of the reader the heroic attributes of the character without relaxing ; so as absolutely that they shall suffer no alloy from the debasing fellowship of the clown. If it ever obtrudes itself as a disharmony, are we inclined to laugh ; or not, rather, to indulge a contrary emotion? — Cervantes, stung, perchance, by the relish with which his Reading Public had received the fooleries of the man, more to their palates than the generosities of the master, in the sequel let his pen run riot, lost the harmony and the balance, and sacrificed a great idea to the taste of his contemporaries. We know that in the present day the Knight has fewer admirers than the Squire. Anti- cipating, what did actually happen to him — as afterwards it did to his scarce inferior follower, the Author of " Guzman de Alfa- rache" — that some less knowing hand would prevent him by a spurious Second Part ; and judging that it would be easier for his com- petitor to outbid him in the comicalities, than in the romance, of his work, he aban- doned his Knight, and has fairly set up the Squire for his Hero. For what else has he unsealed the eyes of Sancho ? and instead of that twilight state of semi-insanity — 4;he madness at second-hand — the contagion, caught from a stronger mind infected — that war between native cunning, and hereditary deference, with which he has hitherto accom- panied his master — two for a pair almost — does he substitute a downright Knave, with open eyes, for his own ends only following a confessed Madman ; and offering at one time to lay, if not actually laying, hands upon him ! From the moment that Sancho loses his reverence, Don Quixote is become — a treatable lunatic. Our artists handle him acccordingly. * Yet from this Second Part, our cried -up pictures are mostly selected ; the waiting- women with beards, &ii THE WEDDING. 475 THE WEDDING. I DO not know when I have been better pleased than at being invited last week to be present at the wedding of a friend's daughter. I like to make one at these cere- monies, which to us old people give back our youth in a manner, and restore our gayest season in the remembrance of our own suc- cess, or the regrets, scarcely less tender, of our own youthful disappointments, in this point of a settlement. On these occasions I am sure to be in good-humour for a week or two after, and enjoy a reflected honey-moon. Being without a family, I am flattered with these temporary adoptions into a friend's family ; I feel a sort of cousinhood, or uncle- ship, for the season ; I am inducted into de- grees of affinity ; and, in the participated so- cialities of the little community, I lay down for a brief while my solitary bachelorship. I carry this humour so far, that I take it un- kindly to be left out, even when a funeral is going on in the house of a dear friend. But to my subject. The union itself had been long settled, but its celebration had been hitherto deferred, to an almost unreasonable state of suspense in the lovers, by some invincible prejudices which the bride's father had unhappily con- tracted upon the subject of the too early marriages of females. He has been lecturing any time these five years — for to that length the courtship has been protracted — upon the propriety of putting off the solemnity, till the lady should have completed her five-and- twentieth year. We all began to be afraid that a suit, which as yet had abated of none of its ardours, might at last be lingered on, till passion had time to cool, and love go out in the experiment. But a little wheedling on the part of his wife, who was by no means a party to these overstrained notions, joined to some serious expostulations on that of his friends, who, from the growing infirmities of the old gentleman, could not promise ourselves many years' enjoyment of his company, and were anxious to bring mat- ters to a conclusion during his lifetime, at length prevailed; and on Monday last the daughter of my old friend, Admiral , having attained the womanly age of nineteen, was conducted to the church by her plea- sant cousin J , who told some few years older. Before the youthful part of my female readers express their indignation at the abominable loss of time occasioned to the lovers by the preposterous notions of my old friend, they will do well to consider the reluctance which a fond parent naturally feels at parting with his child. To this unwillingness, I believe, in most cases may be traced the difference of opinion on this point between child and parent, whatever pretences of interest or prudence may be held out to cover it. The hard-heartedness of fathers is a fine theme for romance writers, a sure and moving topic ; but is there not something untender, to say no more of it, in the hurry which a beloved child is sometimes in to tear herself from the paternal stock, and commit herself to strange graftings? The case is heightened where the lady, as ic the present instance, happens to be an only child. I do not understand these matters experimentally, but I can make a shrewd guess at the wounded pride of a parent upon these occasions. It is no new observation, I believe, that a lover in most cases has no rival so much to be feared as the father. Certainly there is a jealousy in unparalhled subjects, which is little less heart-rending than the passion which we more strictly christen by that name. Mothers' scruples are more easily got over ; for this reason, I suppose, that the protection transferred to a husband is less a derogation and a loss to their authority than to the paternal. Mothers, besides, have a trembling foresight, which paints the inconveniences (impossible to be conceived in the same degree by the other parent) of a life of forlorn celibacy, which the refusal of a tolerable match may entail upon their child. Mothers' instinct is a surer guide here, than the cold reasonings of a 476 THE WEDDING. father on such a topic. To this instinct may be imputed, and by it alone may be excused the unbeseeming artifices by which some wives push on the matrimonial projects of their daughters, which the husband, however approving, shall entertain with comparative indifference. A little shamelessness on this head is pardonable. "With this explanation, forwardness becomes a grace, and maternal importunity receives the name of a virtue. — But the parson stays, while I preposterously assume his office ; I am preaching, while the bride is on the threshold. Nor let any of my female readers suppose that the sage reflections ' which have just escaped me have the obliquest tendency of application to the young lady, who, it will be seen, is about to venture upon a change in her condition, at a mature and competent age, and not without the fullest approbation of all parties. I only deprecate very hasty marriages. It had been fixed that the ceremony should be gone through at an early hour, to give time for a little dejeunc afterwards, to which a select party of friends had been invited. We were in church a little before the clock struck eight. Nothing could be more judicious or grace- ful than the dress of the bride-maids — the three charming Miss Foresters — on this morning. To give the bride an opportunity of shining singly, they had come habited all in green. I am ill at describing female apparel ; but while she stood at the altar in vestments white and candid as her thoughts, a sacrificial whiteness, they assisted in robes, such as might become Diana's nymphs — Foresters indeed — as such who had not yet come to the resolution of putting off cold virginity. These young maids, not being so blest as to have a mother living, I am told, keep single for their father's sake, and live altogether so happy with their remaining parent, that the hearts of their lovers are ever broken with the prospect (so inauspicious to their hopes) of such uninterrupted and pro- voking home-comfort. Gallant girls! each a victim worthy of Iphigenia ! I do not know what business I have to be present in solemn places. I cannot divest me of an unseasonable disposition to levity upon the most awful occasions. I was never cut out for a public functionary. Ceremony and I have long shaken hands ; but I could not resist the importunities of the young lady's father, whose gout unhappily confined him at home, to act as parent on this occa- sion, and give away the bride. Something ludicrous occurred to me at this most serious of all moments — a sence of my unfitness to have the disposal, even in imagination, of the sweet young creature beside me. I fear I was betrayed to some lightness, for the awful eye of the parson — and the rector's eye of Saint Mildred's in the Poultry is no trifle of a rebuke — was upon me in an instant, souring my incipient jest to the ti'ist- ful severities of a funeral. This was the only misbehaviour which I can plead to upon this solemn occasion, unless what was objected to me after the ceremony, by one of the handsome Miss T s, be accounted a solecism. She was pleased to say that she had never seen a gentleman before me give away a bride, in black. Now black has been my ordinary apparel so long ^indeed I take it to be the proper costume of an author — the stage sanctions it — that to have appeared in some lighter colour would have raised more mirth at my expense, than the anomaly had created censure. But I could perceive that the bride's mother, and some elderly ladies present (God bless them !) would have been well content, if I had come in any other colour than that. But I got over the omen by a lucky apologue, which I remembered out of Pilpay, or some Indian author, of all the birds being invited to the linnet's wedding, at which, when all the rest came in their gayest feathers, the raven alone apologised for his cloak because " he had no other." This tolerably reconciled the elders. But with the young people all was merriment, and shaking of hands, and congratulations, and kissing away the bride's tears, and kissing from her in return, till a young lady, who assumed some experience in these matters, having worn the nuptial bands some four or five weeks longer than her friend, rescued her, archly observing, with half an eye upon the bridegroom, that at this rate she would have " none left." My friend the Admiral was in fine wig and buckle on this occasion — a striking con- trast to his usual neglect of personal appear- ance, lie did not once shove up his borrowed THE WEDDING. 477 J. V rv^Avn^no- <5tndies'i I strokes of chance as well as skill, -which locks (his custom ever a h.sn,orn^ngst^^^^^ opportunely on his side -lengthened to betray the few gjfj ^^^^^^gjers ot h till midnight-dismissed the old gentle- own beneath them He wore an asp^^^^^ ^^ ^^^^ S ^.^ ^^^ ^.^^ comparatively thonghtful satisfaction. 1 tremDiea lor me _ after a protracted breakjast ot three nouis i -^ _ . . . if stores of cold fowls, tongues, hams, botar goes, dried fruits, wines, cordials, &c., can deserve so meagre an appellation— the coach was announced, which was come to carry off the bride and bridegroom for a season, as custom has sensibly ordained, into the country ; upon which design, wishing them a felicitous journey, let us return to the assembled guests. As when a well-graced actor leaves the stage, The eyes of men Are idly hent on him that enters next. 80 idly did we bend our eyes upon one another, when the chief performers in the morning's pageant had vanished. None told his tale. None sipped her glass. The poor Admiral made an effort — it was not much. I had anticipated so far. Even the infinity of full satisfaction, that had betrayed itself through the prim looks and quiet deport- ment of his lady, began to wane into some- thing of misgiving. No one knew whether to take their leaves or stay. We seemed assembled upon a silly occasion. In this crisis, betwixt tarrying and departure, I must do justice to a foolish talent of mine, which had otherwise like to have brought me into " disgrace in the fore-part of the day ; I mean a power, in any emergency, of thinking and giving vent to all manner of strange non- sense. In this awkward dilemma I found it sovereign. I rattled off some of my most excellent absurdities. All were willing to be relieved, at any expense of reason, from the pressure of the intolerable vacuum which had succeeded to the morning bustle. By this means I was fortunate in keeping together the better part of the company to a late hour ; and a rubber of whist (the Admiral's favourite game) with some rare times since. I do not know a visiting place where every guest is so perfectly at his ease ; nowhere, where harmony is so strangely the result of confusion. Everybody is at cross purposes, yet the effect is so much better than uniformity. Contradictory orders ; servants pulling one way ; master and mis- tress driving some other, yet both diverse ; visitors huddled up in corners ; chairs unsymmetrised ; candles disposed by chance ; meals at odd hours, tea and supper at once, or the latter preceding the former ; the host and the guest conferring, yet each upon a different topic, each understanding himself, neither trying to understand or hear the other; draughts and politics, chess and political economy, cards and conversation on nautical matters, going on at once, without the hope, or indeed the wish, of distin- guishing them, make it altogether the most perfect concordid discors you shall meet with. Yet somehow the old house is not quite what it should be. The Admiral still enjoys his pipe, but he has no Miss Emily to fill it for him. The instrument stands where it stood, but she is gone, whose delicate touch could sometimes for a short minute appease the warring elements. He has learnt, as Marvel expresses it, to "make his. destiny his choice." He bears bravely up, but he does not come out with his flashes of wild vv'it so thick as formerly. His sea-songs seldomer escape him. His wife, too, looks as if she wanted some younger body to scold and set to rights. We all miss a junior presence. It is wonderful how one young maiden freshens up, and keeps green, the paternal roof. Old and young seem to have an interest in her, so long as she is not absolutely disposed of. The youthfulness of the house is flown. Emily is married. 478 REJOICINGS UPON THE NEW YEAR'S COMING OP AGE. KEJOICmaS UPON the new year's COMINa OP AGE. The Old Year being dead, and the Neio Tear coming of age, which he does, by Calendar Law, as soon as the breath is out of the old gentleman's body, nothing would serve the young spark but he must give a dinner upon the occasion, to which all the Days in the year were invited. The Festivals, whom he deputed as his stewards, were mightily taken with the notion. They had been engaged time out of mind, they said, in providing mirth and good cheer for mortals below ; and it was time they should have a taste of their own bounty. It was stiffly debated among them whether the Fasis should be admitted. Some said the appear- ance of such lean, starved guests, with their mortified faces, would pervert the ends of the meeting. But the objection was over- ruled by Christmas Day, who had a design upon Ash Wednesday (as you shall hear), and a mighty desire to see how the old Dominie would behave himself in his cups. Only the Vigils were requested to come with their lanterns, to light the gentlefolks home at night. All the Days came to their day. Covers were provided for three hundred and sixty- five guests at the principal table ; with an occasional knife and fork at the side-board for the Twenty-Ninth of February. 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 es- cpption 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, 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 fd^r wear. Fay Day came late, as he always does ; and Doomsday sent word — he might be expected. Ajyril Fool (as my young lord's jester) took upon himself to marshal the guests, and wild work he made with it. It would have posed old Erra Pater to have found out any given Day in the year, to erect a scheme upon — good Days, bad Days, were so shuffled together, to the confounding of all sober horoscopy. He had stuck the Twenty -First of June next to the Twenty- Second of December, and the former looked like a Maypole siding a marrow- bone. Ash Wednesday got wedged in (as was concerted) betwixt Christmas and Lord Mayor's Days. Lord ! how he laid about him ! Nothing but barons of beef and turkeys would go down with him — to the great greasing and detriment of his new sackcloth bib and tucker. And still Christmas Day was at his elbow, plying him with the wassail bowl, till he roared, and hiccupp'd, and protested there was no faith in dried ling, but commended it to the devil for a sour, windy, acrimonious, censorious, hy-po- crit-crit- critical mess, and no dish for a gentleman. Then he dipt his fist into the middle of the great custard that stood before his left hand neighbour, and dauV^ed his hungry beard all over with it, till you would have taken him for the ias^ Day in December, it so hung in icicles. At another part of the table, Shrove Tuesday was helping the Second of September to some cock broth, — which courtesy the latter returned with the delicate thigh of a hen pheasant — so there was no love lost for that matter. The Last of Lent was spunging upon ■ Shrovetide's pancakes ; which April REJOICINGS UPON THE NEW YEAR'S COMING OF AGE. 479 Fool perceiving, told him he did well, for pancakes were proper to a good fry-day. In another part, a hubbub arose about the Thirtielh of January, who, it seems, being a sour, pui-itanic character, that thought nobody's meat good or sanctified enough for him, had smuggled into the room a calf's head, which he had had cooked at home for that purpose, thinking to feast thereon incontinently; but as it lay in the dish, March Manyiveaihers, who is a very fine lady, and subject to the meagrims, screamed out there was a " human head in the platter," and raved about Herodias' daughter to that degree, that the obnoxious viand was obliged to be removed ; nor did she recover her stomach till she had gulped down a Restora- tive, confected of Qah Apple, which the merry Twenty -Niixtli of May always carries about with him for that purpose. The king's health* being called for after this, a notable dispute arose between the Twelfth of August (a zealous old Whig gentlewoman) and the Tioenty-Third of April (a new-fangled lady of the Tory stamp), as to which of them should have the honour to propose it. August grew hot upon the matter, affirming time out of mind the prescriptive right to have lain with her, till her rival had basely supplanted her ; whom she represented as little better than a kept mistress, who went about m fine clothes, while she (the legitimate Birthday) had scarcely a rag, &c. April Fool, being made mediator, eon- iirmed the right, in the strongest form of words, to the appellant, but decided for peace' sake that the exercise of it should remain with the present possessor. At the same time, he slyly rounded the first lady in the ear, that an action might lie against the Crown for hy-geny. It beginning to grow a little duskish. Candlemas lustily bawled out for lights, which was opposed by all the Days, who protested against burning daylight. Then fair water -was handed round in silver ewers, and the same lady was observed to take an unusual time in Washing herself. Maij Day, with that sweetness which is ptculiar to her, in a neat speech proposing the health of the founder, crowned her * King ffeorge IV. goblet (and by her example the rest of the company) with garlands. This being done, the lordly New Tear, from the upper end of the table, in a cordial but somewhat lofty tone, returned thanks. He felt proud on aa occasion of meeting so many of his worthy father's late tenants, promised to improve their farms, and at the same time to abate (if anything was found unreasonable) in their rents. At the mention of this, the four Quarter Days involuntarily looked at each other, and smiled ; April Fool whistled to an old tune of " New Brooms ; " and a surly old rebel at the further end of the table (who was discovered to be no other than the Fifth of November) muttered out, distinctly enough to be heard by the whole company, words to this effect, that " when the old one is gone, he is a fool that looks for a better." Which rudeness of his, the guests resenting, unani- mously voted his expulsion; and the male- content was thrust out neck and heels into the cellar, as the properest place for such a houtefeu and firebrand as he had shown himself to be. Order being restored — the young lord (who, to say truth, had been a little ruffled, and put beside his oratory) in as few, and yet as obliging words as possible, assured them of entire welcome; and, with a graceful turn, singling out poor Twenty-Ninth of February, that had sate all this while mum- chance at the side-board, begged to couple his health with that of the good company before him — which he drank accordingly ; observing that he had not seen his honest face any time these four years — with a number of endearing expressions besides. At the same time, removing the solitary Day from the forlorn seat which had been assigned him, he stationed him at his own board, somewhere between the Greek Calends and Latter Lammas. Ash Wednesday, being now called upon for a song, with his eyes fast stuck in his head, and as well as the Canary he -had swallowed would give him leave, struck up a Carol, which Christmas Day had taught him for the nonce ; and was followed by the latter, who gave " Miserere," in fine style, hitting off the mumping notes and lengthened drawl of Old Mortification with infinite humour. April Fool swore they had exchanged conditions. 480 OLD CHINA. but Good Friday was observed to look extremely grave; and Sunday held her fan before her face that she might not be seen to smile. Shrove-tide, Lord Mayor's Day, and April .Fool, next joined in a glee — VFhich is the properest day to drink ? in vphich all the Bays chiming in, made a merry burden. They next fell to quibbles and conundrums. The question being proposed, who had the greatest number of followers — the Quarter Days said, there could be no question as to ' that ; for they had all the creditors in the world dogging their heels. But April Fool gave it in favour of the Forty Days before Faster; because the debtors in all cases out- numbered the creditors, and they kept lent all the year. All this while Valentine's Day kept courting pretty May, who sate next him, slipping amorous hillets'doux under the table, till the Dog Days (who are naturally of a warm constitution) began to be jealous, and to bark and rage exceedingly. April Fool, who likes a bit of sport above measure, and had some pretensions to the lady besides, as being but a cousin once removed, — clapped and halloo'd them on ; and as fast as their indignation cooled, those mad wags, the Ember Days, were at it with their bellows, to blow it into a flame ; and all was in a ferment ; till old Madam Septuagesima (who boasts herself the Mother of the Days) wisely diverted the conversation with a tedious tale of the lovers which she could reckon when she was young; and of one Master Bogation Day in particular, who was for ever putting the question to her ; but she kept him at a distance, as the chronicle would tell — by which I apprehend she meant the Almanack. Then she rambled on to the Days that v:ere gone, the good old Days, and so to the Days before the Flood — which plainly showed her old head to be little better than crazed a-nd doited. Day being ended, the Days called for their cloaks and great-coats, and took their leaves. Lord Mayor's Day went off in a Mist, as usual ; Shortest Day in a deep black Fog, that wrapt the little gentleman all round like a hedge-hog. Two Vigils — so watchmen are called in heaven — saw Christinas Day safe home — they had been used to the business before. Another Vigil — a stout, sturdy, patrole, called the Eve of St. Christopher — seeing Ash Wednesday in a condition little better than he should be — e'en whipt him over his shoulders, pick-a-back fashion, and Old Mortification went floating home singing — On the bat's back do I fly, and a number of old snatches besides, between drunk and sober; but very few Aves or Penitentiaries (you may believe me) were among them. Longest Day set off westward in beautiful crimson and gold — the rest, some in one fashion, some in another ; but Valentine and pretty May took their de- parture together in one of the prettiest silvery twilights a Lover's Day could wish to set in. OLD CHINA. I HAVE an almost feminine partiality for old china. When I go to see any great house, I inquire for the china-closet, and next for the picture gallery. I cannot defend the order of preference, but by saying, that we have all some taste or other, of too ancient a date to admit of our remembering distinctly that it was an acquired one. I can call to mind the first play, and the first exhibition, that I was taken to ; but I am not conscious of a time when china jars and saucers were introduced into my imagination. I had no repugnance then — why should I now have? — to those little, lawless, azure- tinctured grotesques, that under the notion of men and women, float about, uncircum.- scribed by any element, in that world before perspective — a china tea-cup. I like to see my old friends — whom distance cannot diminish — figuring up in the air (so OLD CHINA. 481 they appear to oyr optics), yet on terra firma still — for so we must in courtesy interpret that speck of deeper blue, — which the decorous artist, to- prevent absurdity, had made to spring up beneath their sandals. I love the men with women's faces, and the women, if possible, with still more womanish expressions. Here is a young and courtly Mandarin, handing tea to a lady from a salver — two miles off. See how distance seems to set off respect ! And here the same lady, or an- other — for likeness is identity on tea-cups — is stepping into a little fairy boat, moored on the hither side of this calm garden river, with a dainty mincing foot, which in a right angle of incidence (as angles go in our world) must infallibly land her in the midst of a flowery mead — a furlong off on the other side of the same strange stream 1 Farther on — if far or near can be predicated of their world — see horses, trees, pagodas, dancing the hays. Hero — a cow and rabbit couchant, and co- extensive — so objects show, seen through the lucid atmosphere of fine Cathay. I was pointing out to my cousin last evening, over our Hyson, (which we are old- fashioned enough to drink unmixed still of an afternoon) some of these speciosa miracula upon a set of extraordinary old blue china (a recent purchase) which we were now for the first time using ; and could not help remarking, how favorable 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 brows of my com- panion. 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 ti-iumph. When we coveted a cheap luxury (and, ! 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 31 saving we could hit upon, that should be an equivalent. A thing was worth buying then, when we felt the money that vre 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 thread-bare — 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 bed- wards) 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 overworn suit — your old corbeau — for four or five weeks longer than you should have done, to pacify your con- science 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 Blanche ;' 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 482 OLD CHINA. walks to Enfield, and Potter's bar, and Waltham, when we had a holyday — holydays, 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 noon-tide for some decent house, where we might go in and produce our store — only paying for the ale that you must call for — and speculate 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 some- times 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 j the best of dinners, never debating the I expense — which after all, never has half the J 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 any- where 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. Bhmd 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, M'hich 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 accom- modation than I have done since in more expensive situations in the house ? The getting in indeed, and the crowding up those inconvenient staircases, was bad enough, — but there was still a law of civility to woman recognised 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 straw- berries, 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 them- selves 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 THE CHILD ANGEL; A DREAM. ' 488 talk of curtailing this charge, and doing with- out that for the future — and the hope that youth brings, and laughing spirits (in which you wei-e never poor till now), we pocketed up our loss, and in conclusion, with ' lusty brimmers' (as you used' to quote it out of hearty cheey^f id Mr. Cotton, as you called him), we used to welcome in 'the coming guest.' Now we have no reckoning 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 rhetori- cal vein, I am careful how I interrupt it. I could not help, however, smiling at the phantom of wealth which her dear imagina- tion 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 wiih the excess, for if we were to shake the superflux into the sea, w^e should not much mend ourselves. That we had much to struggle with, as we grew up together, we have reason tb be most thankful. It strengthened and knit our com- pact closer. We could never have been what we have been to each other, if we had always had the sufBcienoy which you now complain of. The resisting power — those natural dila- tions of the youthful spirit, which circum- stances cannot straiten — with us are long since passed away. Competence to age is supplementary youth, a sorry supplement in- deed, but I fear the best that is to be had. We must ride where we formerly walked: live better and lie softer — and 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 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 staircases, 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 E, is supposed to have, to purchase it. And now do just look at that merry little Chinese waiter holding an umbrella, big enough for a bed-tester, over the head of that pretty, insipid, half Madona- ish chit of a lady ^n that very blue summer- house." THE CHILD ANGEL; A DEEAM. I CHANCED upon the prettiest, oddest, fan- tastical thing of a dream the other night, that you shall hear of. I had been reading the •'Loves of the Angels," and went to bed with my head full of speculations, suggested by that extraordinary legend. It had given birth to innumerable conjectures ; and, I remember the last waking thought, which I gave expres- sion to on my pillow, was a sort of wonder, " what could come of it." I was suddenly transported, how or whither I could scarcely make out — but to some celestial region. It was not the real heavens neither — not the downright Bible heaven — but a kind of fairy-land heaven, about which a poor human fancy may have leave to sport and air itself, I will hope, without presumption. Methought — what wild things di^eams are ! — I was present — at what would you ima- gine? — at an angel's gossiping. Whence it came, or how it came, or who bid it come, or whether it came purely of its own head, neither you nor I know — but there lay, sure enough, wrapt in its little cloudy swaddling-bands — a Child Angel. Sun-threads — filmy beams — ran through the celestial napery of what seemed its d84 THE CHILD ANGEL; A DEEAM. princely cradle. All the winged orders hovered round, watching when the new-born should open its yet closed eyes ; which, when it did, first one, and then the other — with a solicitude and apprehension, yet not such as, stained with fear, dim the expanding eyelids of mortal infants, but as if to explore its path in those its unhereditary palaces — what an inextinguishable titter that time spared not celestial visages ! Nor wanted there to my seeming — 0, the inexplicable simpleness of dreams ! — bowls of that cheering nectar, — -which mortals caudle call below; Nor were wanting faces of female minis- trants, — stricken in years, as it might seem, — so dexterous were those heavenly attend- ants to counterfeit kindly similitudes of earth, to greet with terrestrial child-rites the young 'present which earth had made to heaven. Then were celestial harpings heard, not in full symphony, as those by which the spheres are tutored ; but, as loudest instruments on earth speak oftentimes, muffled ; so to accom- modate their sound the better to the weak ears of the imperfect-born. And, with the noise of those subdued soundings, the Angelet sprang forth, fluttering its rudiments of pinions — but forthwith flagged and was re- covered into the arms of those full-winged angels. And a wonder it was to see how, as years went round in heaven — a year in dreams is as a day — continually its white shoulders put forth buds of wings, but want- ing the perfect angelic nutriment, anon was shorn of its aspiring, and fell fluttering — still caught by angel hands, for ever to put forth shoots, and to fall fluttering, because its birth was not of the unmixed vigour of heaven. And a name was given to the Babe Angel, and it was to be called Ge-Urania, because its production was of earth and heaven. And it could not taste of death, by reason of its adoption into immortal palaces : but it was to know weakness, and reliance, and the shadow of humcn imbecility; and it went with a lame gait ; but in its goings it ex- ceeded all mortal children in grace and swift- ness. Then pity first sprang up in angelic bosoms; and yearnings (like the human) touched them at the sight of the immortal lame one. And with pain did then first those In- tuitive Essences, with pain and strife to their natures (not grief), put back their bright intelligences, and reduce their ethereal minds, schooling them to degrees and slower processes, so to adapt their lessons to the gradual illumination (as must needs be) of the half-earth-born ; and what intuitive no- tices they could not repel (by reason that their nature is, to know all things at once) the half-heavenly novice, by the better part of its nature, aspired to receive into its understand- ing ; so that Humility and Aspiration went on even-paced in the instruction of the glo- , rious Amphibium. But, by reason that Mature Humanity is too gross to breathe the air of that super-sub- tile region, its portion was, and is, to be a child for ever. And because the human part of it might not press into the heart and inwards of the palace of its adoption, those fuU-natured angels tended it by turns in the purlieus of the palace, where were shady groves and rivulets, like this green earth from which it came ; so Love, with Voluntary Humility, waited upon the entertainment of the new-adopted. And myriads of years rolled round (in dreams Time is nothing), and still it kept, and is to keep, perpetual childhood, and is the Tutelar Genius of Childhood upon earth, and still goes lame and lovely. By the banks of the river Pison is seen, lone sitting by the grave of the terrestrial Adah, whom the angel Nadir loved, a Child ; but not the same which I saw in heaven. A mournful hue overcasts its lineaments ; nevertheless, a correspondency is between the child by the grave, and that celestial orphan, . whom I saw above : and the dimness of the grief upon the heavenly is a shadow or em- blem of that which stains the beauty of the terrestrial. And this correspondency is not to be understood but by dreams. And in the archives of heaven I had grace to read, how that once the angel Nadir, being exiled from his place for mortal pas- » sion, upspringiag on the wings of parental B love (such power had parental love for a moment to suspend the else-irrevocable law) appeared for a brief instant in his station, and, depositing a wondrous Birth, straight- way disappeared, and the palaces knew him no more. And this charge was the self-same Babe, who goeth lame and lovely — but Adah sleepeth by the river Pison. CONFESSIONS OF A DRUNKARD. 485 CONFESSIONS OF A DRUNKARD. DEnoRTATioNS fi'om the use of strong liquors have been the favourite topic of sober declaimers in all ages, and have been received with abundance of applause by water-drink- ing critics. But with the patient himself, the man that is to be cured, unfortunately their sound has seldom prevailed. Yet the evil is acknowledged, the remedy simple. Abstain. No force can oblige a man to raise the glass to his head against his will. 'Tis as easy as not to steal, not to tell lies. Alas ! the hand to pilfer, and the tongue to bear false witness, have no constitutional tendency. These are actions indifferent to them. At the first instance of the reformed will, they can be brought off without a murmur. The itching finger is but a figure ill speech, and the tongue of the liar ciin with the same natural delight give forth useful truths with which it has been accustomed to scatter their pernicious contraries. But when a man has commenced sot pause, thou sturdy moralist, thou person of stout nerves and a strong head, whose liver is happily untouched, and ere thy gorge riseth at the name which I have written, first learn what the thing is ; how much of com- passion, how much of human allowance, thou mayest virtuously mingle with thy disappro- bation. Trample not on the ruins of a man. Exact not, under so terrible a penalty as infamy, a resuscitation from a state of death almost as real as that from which Lazarus rose not but by a miracle. Begin a reformation, and custom will make it easy. But what if the beginning be dread- ful, the first steps not like climbing a moun- tain but going through fire ? what if the whole system must undergo a change violent as that which we conceive of the mutation of form in some insects? what if a process comparable to flaying alive be to be gone through ? is the weakness that sinks under 6uch struggles to be confounded with the pertinacity which clings to other vices, which have induced no constitutional necessity, no engagement of the whole victim, body and soul? I have known one in that state, when he has tried to abstain but for one evening, — though the poisonous potion had long ceased to bring back its first enchantments, though he was sure it would rather deepen his gloom than brighten it, — in the violence of the struggle, and the necessity he has felt of getting rid of the present sensation at any rate, I have known him to scream out, to cry aloud, for the anguish and pain of the strife within him. Why should I hesitate to declare, that the man of whom I speak is myself? I have no puling apology to make to mankind. I see them all in one way or another deviating from the pure reason. It is to my own na- ture alone I am accountable for the woe that I have brought upon it. I believe that there are constitutions, robust heads and iron insides, whom scarce any excesses can hurt ; whom brandy (I have seen them drink it like wine), at all events whom wine, taken in ever so plentiful a measure, can do no worse injury to than just to muddle their faculties, perhaps never very pellucid. On them this discourse is wasted. They would but laugh at a weak brother, who, trying his strength with them, and coming off foiled from the contest, would fain persuade them that such agonistic exer- cises are dangerous. It is to a very different description of persons I speak. It is to the weak, the nervous; to those who feel the want of some artificial aid to raise their spirits in society to what is no more than the ordinary pitch of all around them without it. This is the secret of our drinking. Such must fly the convivial board in the first in- stance, if they do not mean to sell themselves for term of life. Twelve years ago I had completed my six- and-twentieth year. I had lived from the period of leaving school to that time pretty much in solitude. My companions were chiefly books, or at most one or two living ones of my own book-loving and sober stamp. I rose early, went to bed betimes, and the 486 CONFESSIONS OF A DKUNKARD. faculties which God had given me, I have reason to think, did not rust in me unused. About that time I fell in vrith some com- panions of a different order. They were men of boisterous spirits, sitters up a-nights, disputants, drunken ; yet seemed to have something noble about them. We dealt about the wit, or what passes for it after midnight, jovially. Of the quality called fancy I certainly possessed a larger share than my companions. Encouraged by their applause, I set up for a professed joker! I, Avho of all men am least fitted for such an occupation, having, in addition to the greatest difiSculty which I experience at all times of finding words to express my meaning, a na- tural nervous impediment in my speech ! Reader, if you are gifted with nerves like mine, aspire to any character but that of a wit. When you find a tickling relish upon your tongue disposing you to that sort of conversation, especially if you find a preter- natural flow of ideas setting in upon you at the sight of a bottle and fresh glasses, avoid giving way to it as you would fly your greatest destruction. If you cannot crush the power of fancy, or that within you which you mistake for such, divert it, give it some other play. Write an essay, pen a character or description, — but not as I do now, with tears trickling down your cheeks. To be an object of compassion to friends, of derision to foes ; to be suspected by strangers, stared at by fools ; to be esteemed dull when you cannot be witty, to be ap- plauded for witty when you know that you have been dull ; to be called upon for the extemporaneous exercise of that faculty • which no premeditation can give ; to be spurred on to efforts which end in contempt ; to be set on to provoke mirth which procures the procurer hatred ; to give pleasure and be paid with squinting malice ; to swallow draughts of life-destroying wine which are to be distilled into airy breath to tickle vain auditors ; to mortgage miserable morrows for nights of madness ; to waste whole seas of time upon those who pay it back in little inconsiderable drops of grudging applause, ^- are the wages of buffoonery and death. Time, which has a sure stroke at dissolving all connexions which have no solider fasten- ing than this liquid cement, more kind to me than my own taste or penetration, at length opened my eyes to the supposed qualities of my first friends. No trace of them is left but in the vices which they in- troduced, and the habits they infixed. In them my fi-iends survive still, and exe-icise ample retribution for any supposed infidelity that I may have been guilty of towards them. My next more immediate companions were and are persons of such intrinsic and felt worth, that though accidentally their ac- quaintance has proved pernicious to me, I do not know that if the thing were to do over againj I should have the courage to eschew the mischief at the price of forfeiting i\ the benefit. I came to them reeking from il the steams of my late over-heated notions of companionship ; and the slightest fuel which they unconsciously afforded, was sufiicient to feed my old fires into a propensity. They were no drinkers, but, one from pro- fessional habits, and another from a custom derived from his father, smoked tobacco. The devil could not have devised a more subtle trap to re-take a backsliding penitent. The transition, from gulping down draughts of liquid fire to pufiing out innocuous blasts of dry smoke, was so like cheating him. But he is too hard for us when we hope to com- mute. He beats us at barter; and when we think to set off a new failing against an old infirmity, 'tis odds but he puts the trick upon us of two for one. That (comparatively) white devil of tobacco brought with him in the end seven worse than himself. It were impertinent to carry the reader, through all the processes by which, from smoking at first with malt liquor, I took my degrees through thin wines, through stronger wine and water, through small punch, to those juggling compositions, which, under the name of mixed liquors, slur a great deal of brandy or other poison under less and loss water continually, until they come next to none, and so to none at all. But it is hateful to disclose the secrets of my Tartarus. I should repel my readers, from a mere incapacity of believing me, were I to tell them what tobacco has been to me, the drudging service which I have paid, the slavery which I have vowed to it. How, when I have resolved to quit it, a feeling as of ingratitude has started up ; how it has put on personal claims and made the demands CONFESSIONS OF A DRUNKAED. 487 of a friend upon me. How the reading of it casually in a book, as where Adams takes his whiff in the chimney-corner of some inn in Joseph Andrews, or Piscator in the Complete Angler breaks his fast upon a morning pipe in that delicate room Piscator- ■ibus Sacrum, has in a moment broken down the resistance of weeks. How a pipe was ever in my midnight path before me, till the vision forced me to realise it, — how then its ascending vapours curled, its fragrance lulled, and the thousand delicious minister- jngs conversant about it, employing every faculty, extracted the sense of pain. How from illuminating it came to darken, from a quick solace it tnrned to a negative relief, thence to a restlessness and dissatisfaction, thence to a positive misery. How, even now, when the whole secret stands confessed in all its dreadful truth before me, T feel myself linked to it beyond the power of revocation. Bone of my bone — Persons not accustomed to examine the motives of their actions, to reckon up the countless nails that rivet the chains of habit, or perhaps being bound by none so obdurate as those I have confessed to, may recoil from this as from an overcharged picture. But what short of such a bondage is it, which in spite of protesting friends, a weeping wife, and a reprobating world, chains down many a poor fellow, of no original indisposition to goodness, to his pipe and his pot ? I have seen a print after Correggio, in which three female figures are ministering to a man who sits fast bound at the root of a tree. Sensuality is soothing him. Evil Habit is nailing him to a branch, and Repug- nance at the same instant of time is applying a snake to his side. In his face is feeble delight, the recollection of past rather than perception of present pleasures, languid enjoyment of evil with utter imbecility to good, a Sybaritic effeminacy, a submission to bondage, the springs of the will gone down like a broken clock, the sin and the suffering co-instantaneous, or the latter forerunning the former, remorse, preceding action — all this represented in one point of time. — When I saw this, I admired the wonderful skill of the painter. But when I went away, I wept, because I thought of my own condition. Of that there is no hope that it should ever change. The waters have gone over me. But out of the black depths, could I be heard, I would cry out to all those who have but set a foot in the perilous flood. Could the youth, to whom the flavour of his firs? wine is delicious as the opening scenes of life or the entering upon some newly dis- covered paradise, look into my desolation, and be made to understand what a dreary thing it is when a man shall feel himself going down a precipice with open eyes and a passive will, — to see his destruction and have no power to stop it, and yet to feel it all the way emanating from himself; to perceive all goodness emptied out of him, and yet not to be able to forget a time when it was otherwise ; to bear about the piteous spectacle of his own self-ruins:. — could he see my fevered eye, feverish with last night's drinking, and feyerishly looking for this night's repetition of the folly ; could he feel the body of the death out of which I cry hourly with feebler and feebler outcry to be delivered, — it were enough to make him dash the sparkling beverage to the earth in all the pride of its mantling temptation ; to make him clasp his teeth, and not undo 'em To suffer WET damnation to run thro' 'em. Yea, but (methinks I hear somebody object) if sobriety be that fine thing you would have us to understand, if the comforts of a cool brain are to be preferred to that state of heated excitement which you descril^e and deplore, what hinders in your instance that you do not return to those habits from which you would induce others never to swerve ? if the blessing be worth preserving, is it not worth recovering ? Recovering ! — if a wish could transport me back to those days of youth, when a draught from the next clear spring could slake any heats which summer suns and youthful exercise had power to stir up in the blood, how gladly would I retiarn to thee, pure element, the drink of children, and of child-like holy hermit! In my dreams I can sometimes fancy thy cool refreshment purling over my burning tongue. But my waking stomach rejects it. That which refreshes innocence only makes me sick and faint. But is there no middle way betwixt total abstinence and the excess which kills you ? — For your sake, reader, and that you may 488 CONFESSIONS OF A DKUNKARD. never attain to my experience, with pain I must utter the dreadful truth, that there is none, none that I can find. In my stage of habit (I speak not of habits less confirmed — for some of them I believe the advice to be most prudential) in the stage which I have reached, to stop short of that measure which is sufiicient to draw on torpor and sleep, the benumbing apoplectic sleep of the drunkard, is to have taken none at all. The pain of the self-denial is all one. And what that is, I had rather the reader should believe on my credit, than know from his own trial. He will come to know it, whenever he shall arrive in that state, in which, paradoxical as it may appear, reason shall only visit Mm through intoxication : for it is a fearful truth, that the intellectual faculties by repeated acts of intemperance may be driven from their orderly sphere of action, their clear daylight ministeries, until they shall be brought at last to depend, for the faint manifestation of their departing energies, upon the returning periods of the fatal madness to which they owe their devasta- tion. The drinking man is never less himself than during his sober intervals. Evil is so far his good.* Behold me then, in the robust period of life, reduced to imbecility and decay. Hear me count my gains, and the profits which I have derived from the midnight cup. Twelve years ago I was possessed of a healthy frame of mind and body. I was never strong, but I think my c(mstitution (for a weak one) was as happily exempt from the tendency to any malady as it was possible to be. I scarce knew what it was to ail anything. Now, except when I am losing myself in a sea of drink, I am never free from those uneasy sensations in head and stomach, which are so much worse to bear than any definite pains or aches. At that time I was seldom in bed after BIX in the morning, summer and winter. I awoke refreshed, and seldom without some merry thoughts in my head, or some piece of * VFhen poor M painted his last picture, with a pencil in one tremhling hand, and a glass of brandy and water in the other, his fingers owed the comparative steadiness with which they were enabled to go through their task in an imperfect manner, to a temporary firm- ness derived from a repetition of practices, the general effect of which had shaken both them and him so terribly. a song to welcome the new-born day. Now, the first feeling which besets me, after stretching out the hours of recumbence to their last possible extent, is a forecast of the wearisome day that lies before me, with a secret wish that I could have lain on still, or never awaked. Life itself, my waking life, has much of the confusion, the trouble, and obscure per- plexity, of an ill dream. In the day time I stumble upon dark mountains. Business, which, though never very par- ticularly adapted to my nature, yet as some- thing of necessity to be gone through, and therefore best undertaken with cheerfulness, I used to enter upon with some degree of alacrity, now wearies, affrights, perplexes me. I fancy all sorts of discouragements, and am ready to give up an occupation which gives me bread, from a harassing conceit of incapacity. The slightest commission given me by a friend, or any small duty which I have to perform for myself, as giving orders to a tradesman, &c. haunts me as a labour impossible to be got through. So much the springs of action are broken. The same cowardice attends me in all my intercourse with mankind. I dare not pro- mise that a friend's honour, or his cause, would be safe in my keeping, if I were put to the expense of any manly resolution in defending it. So much the springs of moral action are deadened within me. My favourite occupations in times past now cease to entertain. I can do nothing readily. Application for ever so short a time kills me. This poor abstract of my condition was penned at long intervals, with scarcely any attempt at connexion of thought, which is now difficult to me. The noble passages which formerly de- lighted me in history or poetic fiction, now only draw a few weak tears, allied to dotage. My broken and dispirited nature seems to sink before anything great and admirable. I perpetually catch myself in tears, for any cause, or none. It is inexpressible how much this infirmity adds to a sense of shame, and a general feeling of deterioration. These are some of the instances, concerning which I can say with truth, that it was not always so with me. Shall I lift up the veil of my weakness any further? — or is this disclosure sufficii.nt? POPULAR FALLACIES. 489 I am a poor nameless egotist, who have no vanity to consult by these Confessions. I knovf not whether I shall be laughed at or heard seriously. Such as they are, I com- mend them to the reader's attention, if he find his own case any way touched. I have told him what I am come to. Let him stop in time. POPULAR FALLACIES. — THAT A BULLY IS ALWAYS A COWARD. This axiom contains a principle of com- pensation, which disposes us to admit the truth of it. But there is no safe trusting to dictionaries and definitions. We should more willingly fall in with this popular language, if we did not find brutality some- times awkwardly coupled with valour in the same vocabulary. The comic writers, with their poetical justice, have contributed not a little to mislead us upon this point. To see a hectoring fellow exposed and beaten upon the stage, has something in it wonderfully diverting. Some people's share of animal spirits is notoriously low and defective. It has not strength to raise a vapoui-, or furnish out the wind of a tolerable bluster. These love to be told that huffing is no part of valour. The truest courage with them is that which is the least noisy and obtrusive. But confront one of these silent heroes with the swaggerer of real life, and his confidence in the theory quickly vanishes. Pretensions do not uniformly bespeak non-performance. A modest, inofi"ensive deportment does not necessarily imply valour ; neither does the absence of it justify us in denying that quality. Hickman wanted modesty — we do not mean hiTn of Clarissa — but who ever doubted his courage ? Even the poets — upon whom this equitable distribution of qualities should be most binding — have thought it agreeable to nature to depart from the rule upon occasion. Harapha, in the " Agonistes," is indeed a bully upon the received notions. Milton has made him at once a blusterer, a giant, and a dastard. But Almanzor, in Dryden, talks of driving armies singly before him — and does it. Tom Brown had a shrewder insight into this kind of character than either of his predecessors. He divides the palm more equably, and allows his hero a sort of dimidiate pre- eminence : — "Bully Dawson kicked by half the town, and half the town kicked by Bully Dawson." This was true distributive justice. ■ ^ II. THAT ILL-GOTTEN GAIN NEVER PROSPERS. The weakest part of mankind have this saying commonest in their mouth. It is the trite consolation administered to the easy dupe, when he has been tricked out of his money or estate, that the acquisition of it will do the owner no good. But the rogues of this world — the prudenter part of them, at least, — know better; and if the obser- vation had been as true as it is old, would not have failed by this time to have discovered it. They have pretty sharp distinctions of the fluctuating and the permanent. " Lightly come, lightly go," is a proverb, which they can very well afibrd to leave, when they leave little else, to the losers. The}' do not always find manors, got by rapine or chicanery, insensibly to riielt away, as the poets will have it; or that all gold glides, like thawing snow, from the thief's hand that grasps it. Church land, alienated to lay uses, was formerly denounced to have this slippery quality. But some portions of it somehow always stuck so fast, that the denunciators have been fain to post- pone the prophecy of refundment to a late posterity. III. THAT A MAN MUST NOT LAUGH AT HIS OWN JEST. The severest exaction surely ever invented upon the self-denial of poor human nature ! This is to expect a gentleman to give a treat without partaking of it ; to sit esurient at his own table, and commend the flavour of his venison upon the absurd strength of his never touching it himself. On the contrary. 490 POPULAR FALLACIES. vre love to see a wag taste his own joke to h-is party ; to watch a quirk or a merry conceit flickering upon the lips some seconds before the tongue is delivered of it. If it be good, fresh, and racj^ — begotten of the occasion ; if he that utters it never thought it before, he is naturally the first to be tickled vi'ith it; and any suppression of such complacence we hold to be churlish and in- sulting. What does it seem to imply but that your company is weak or foolish enough to be moved by an image or a fancy, that shall stir you not at all, or but faintly ? This is exactly the humour of the fine gentleman in Mandeville, who, while he dazzles his guests with the display of some costly toy, afi'ects himself to " see nothing considerable in it." IT. — THAT SUCH A ONE SHOWS HIS BREEDING. THAT IT IS EASY TO PERCEIVE HE IS NO GENTLEMAN. A SPEECH from the poorest sort of people, which always indicates that the party vitu- perated is a gentleman. The very fact which they deny is that which galls and exasperates them to use this language. The forbearance with which it is usually received is a proof what interpretation the by-stander sets upon it. Of a kin to this, and still less politic, are the phrases with which, in their street rhetoric, they ply one another more grossly ; — "He is a poor creature. — He has not a rag to cover (i:'c.; though this last, we confess, is more frequently applied by females to females. They do not perceive that the %atire glances upon themselves. A poor man, of all things in the world, should not upbraid an antagonist with poverty. Are there no other topics — as, to tell him his father was hanged — his sister, &c. , without exposing a secret which should be kept snug between them: and doing an afi'ront to the order to which they have the honour equally to belong ? All this while they do not see how the wealthier man stands by and laughs in his sleeve at both. V. — THAT THE POOR COPY THE VICES OF THE RICH. A SMOOTH text to the letter ; and, preached from the pulpit is sure of a docile audience I from the pews lined with satin. It is twice sitting upon velvet to a foolish squire to be told, that 7ie — and not perverse nature, as the homilies would make us imagine, is the true cause of all the irregularities in his parish. This is striking at the root of free-will indeed, and denying the originality of sin in any sense. But men are not such implicit sheep as this comes to. If the abstinence from evil on the part of the upper classes is to derive itself from no higher principle than the apprehension of setting ill patterns to the lower, we beg leave to discharge them from all squeamishness on that score ; they may even take their fill of pleasures, ^A'here they can find them. The Genius of Poverty, hampered and straitened as it is, is not so barren of invention, but it can trade upon the staple of its own vice, without drawing upon their capital. The poor are not quite such servile imitators as they take them for. Some of them are very clever artists in their way. Here and there we find an original. Who taught the poor to steal, to pilfer ? They did not go to the great for schoolmas- ters in these faculties surely. It is well if in some vices they allow us to be — no copyists. In no other sense is it true that the poor copy them, than as servants may be said to take after their masters and mistresses, when they succeed to their reversionary cold meats. If the master, from indisposition or some other cause, neglect his food, the servant dines notwithstanding. " 0, but (some will say) the force of example is great." We knew a lady who was so scrupulous on this head, that she would put up with the calls of the most impertinent visitor, rather than let her ser- vant say she was not at home, for fear of teaching her maid to tell an untruth ; and this in the very face of the fact, which she knew well enough, that the wench was one of the greatest liars upon the earth without teaching; so much so, that her mistress possibly never heard two words of consecu- tive truth from her in her lii'e. But nature must go for nothing: example'must be every- thing. This liar in grain, who never opened her mouth without a lie, must be guarded against a remote inference, which she (pretty casuist!) might possibly draw from a form of words — literally false, but essentiiiUy deceiving no one — that under some circum- , POPULAR FALLACIES. 491 stances a fib might not be so exceedingly sinful — a fiction, too, not at all in hei" own way, or one that she could be suspected of adopting, for few servant-wenches care to be denied to visitors. This word example reminds us of another fine word which is in use upon these occasions — encowagement. "People in our sphere must not be thought to give encouragement to such proceedings." To such a frantic height is this principle capable of being carried, that we have known individuals who have thought it within the scope of their influence to sanc- tion despair, and give eclat to — suicide. A domestic in the family of a county member lately deceased, from love, or some unknown cause, cut his throat, but not successfully. The poor fellow was otherwise much loved and respected ; and great interest was used in his behalf, upon his recovery, -that he might be permitted to retain his place ; his word being first pledged, not without some substan- tial sponsors to promise for him, that the like should never happen again. His master was inclinable to keep him, but his mistress thought otherwise ; and John in the end was dismissed, her ladyship declaring that she *' could not think of encouraging any such doings in the county." yi. — THAT ENOUGH IS AS GOOD AS A FEAST. Not a man, woman, or child, in ten miles round Guildhall, who really believes this saying. The inventor of it did not believe it himself. It was made in revenge by some- body, who was disappointed of a regale. It is a vile cold-scrag-of-miitton sophism ; a lie palmed upon the palate, which knows better things. If nothing else could be said for a feast, this is sufficient, that from the super- flux there is usually something left for the next day. Morally interpreted, it belongs to a class of proverbs which have a tendency to make us undervalue money. Of this cast are those notable observations, that money is not health ; riches cannot purchase every- thing: the mStaphor which makes gold to be mere muck, with the morality which traces fine clothing to the sheep's back, and denounces pearl as the unhandsome excre- tion of an oyster. Hence, too, the phrase which imputes dirt to acres — a sophistry so barefaced, that even the literal sense of it is true only in a wet season. This, and abund- ance of similar sage saws assuming to incul- cate content, we verily believe to have been the invention of some cunning borrower, who had designs upon the purse of his wealthier neighbour, which he could only hope to carry by force of these verbal jugglings. Translate any one of these sayings out of the artful metonymy which envelopes it, and the trick is apparent. Goodly legs and shoulders of mutton, exhilarating cordials, books, pictures, the opportunities of seeing foreign countries, independence, heai-t's ease, a man'-s own time to himself, ai-e not muck — however we may be pleased to scandalize with that appella- tion the faithful metal that provides them for us. VII. OF TWO DISPUTANTS THE WARMEST IS GENERALLY IN THE WRONG. Our experience would lead us to quite an opposite conclusion. Temper, indeed, is no test of truth ; but warmth and earnestness are a proof at least of a man's own conviction of the rectitude of that which he maintains. Coolness is as often the result of an unprin- cipled indifference to truth or falsehood, as of a sober confidence in a man's own side in a dispute. Nothing is more insulting some- times than the appearance of this philoso- phic temper. There is little Titubus, the stammering law-stationer in Lincoln's-inn — we have seldom known this shrewd little fellow engaged in an argument where we were not convinced he had the best of it, if his tongue would but fairly have seconded him. When he has been spluttering excel- lent broken ' sense for an hour together, writhing and labouring to be delivered of the point of dispute — the very gist of the controversy knocking at his teeth, which like some obstinate iron-grating still obstructed its deliverance — his puny frame convulsed, and face reddening all over at an unfiiirness in the logic which he wanted articulation to expose, it has moved our gall to see a smooth portly fellow of an adversary, that cared not a button for the merits of the question, by merely laying his hand upon the head of the stationer, and desiring him to be calm (your tall disputants have always thfi advan- tage), with a provoking sneer carry the argument clean from him in the opinion of 492 POPULAE FALLACIES. all the by-standers, who have gone away clearly convinced that Titubus must have been in the wrong, because he was in a pas- sion ; and that Mr. , meaning his oppo- nent, is one of the fairest and at the same time one of the most dispassionate arguers breathing. VIII. — THAT VERBAL ALLUSIONS ARE NOT WIT, BECAUSE THET WILL NOT BEAR A TRANS- LATION. The same might be said of the wittiest local allusions. A custom is sometimes as difficult to explain to a foreigner as a pun. What would become of a great part of the wit of the last age, if it were tried by this test? How would certain topics," as alder- manity, cuekoldry, have sounded to a Teren- tian auditory, though Terence himself had been alive to translate them ? Senator urbanus with Curruca to boot for a synonyme, would but faintly have done the business. Words, involving notions, are hard enough to render; it is too much to expect us to translate a sound, and give an elegant version to a jingle. The Virgilian harmony is not translatable, but by substituting harmoniou-s sounds in another language for it. To Latin- ise a pun, we must seek a pun in Latin, that will answer to it ; as, to give an idea of the double endings in Hudibras, we must have recourse to a similar practice in the old monkish doggrel. Dennis, the fiercest op- pugner of puns in ancient or modern times, professes himself highly tickled with jthe " a stick," chiming to " ecclesiastic." Yet what is this but a species of pun, a verbal consonance. IX. THAT THE WORST PUNS ARE THE BEST. If by worst be only meant the most fai'- fetched and startling, we agree to it. A pun is not bound by the laws which limit nicer wit. It is a pistol let off at the ear ; not a feather to tickle the intellect. It is an antic which does not stand upon manners, but comes bounding into the presence, and does not show the less comic for being dragged in sometimes by the head and shoulders. What though it limp a little, or prove de- fective .in one leg? — all the better. A pun may easily be too curious and artificial. Who has not at one time or other been at a party of professors (himself perhaps an old offender in that line), where, after ringing a round of the most ingenious conceits, every man contributing his shot, and some there the most expert shooters of the day; after making a poor word run the gauntlet till it is ready to drop ; after hunting and winding it through all the possible ambages of similar sounds ; after squeezing, and hauling, and tugging at it, till the very milk of it will not yield a drop further, — suddenly some obscure, unthought-of fellow in a corner, who was never 'prentice to the trade, whom the com- pany for very pity passed over, as we do by a knoM'n poor man when a money-subscription is going round, no one calling upon him fiT his quota — has all at once come out with something so whimsical, yet so pertinent; so brazen in its pretensions, yet so impossible to be denied ; so exquisitely good, and so deplorably bad, at the same time, — that it has proved a Robin Hood's shot; anything ulterior to that is despaired of; and the party breaks up, unanimously voting it to be the very worst (that is, best) pun of the evening. This species of wit is the better for not being perfect in all its parts. What it gains in completeness, it loses in natural- ness. The more exactly it satisfies the critical, the less hold it has upon some other faculties. The puns which are most enter- taining are those which will least bear an analysis. Of this kind is the following, re- corded with a sort of stigma, in one of Swift's Miscellanies. An Oxford scholar, meeting a porter who was carrying a hare through the streets, accosts him with this extraordinary question ; " Prithee, friend, is that thy own hare, or a wig?" There is no excusing this, and no resisting it. A man might blur ten sides of paper in attempting a defence of it against a critic who should be laughter-proof. The quibble in itself is not considerable. It is only a new turn given by a little false pronunciation, to a very common, though not very courteous inquiry. Put by one gentleman to another at a dinner-party, it would have been vapid ; to the mistress of the house it would have shown much less wit than rudeness. We must take in the totality of time, place, and person ; the pert look of the inquiring POPULAR FALLACIES. 493 scholar, the desponding looks of the puzzled porter : the one stopping at leisure, the other hurrying on with his burden ; the innocent though rather abrupt tendency of the first member of the question, with the utter and inextricable irrelevancy of the second ; the place — a public street, not favourable to frivo- lous investigations; the affrontive quality of the primitive inquiry (the common question) invidiously transferred to the derivative (the new turn given to it) in the implied satire ; namely, that few of that tribe are expected to eat of the good things which they carry, they being in most countries considered rather as the temporary trustees than owners of such dainties, — which the fellow was beginning to understand ; but then the ivig again comes in, and he can make nothing of it ; ail put together constitute a picture : Hogarth could have made it intelligible on canvass. Yet nine out of ten critics. will pronounce this a very bad pun, because of the defective- ness in the concluding member, which is its very beauty, and constitutes the surprise. The same person shall cry up for admirable the cold quibble from Virgil about the broken Cremona ;* because it is made out in all its parts, and leaves nothing to the imagination. We venture to call it cold ; because, of thousands who have admired it, it would be difficult to find one who has heartily chuckled at it. As appealing to the judgment merely (setting the risible faculty aside), we must pronounce it a monument of curious felicity. But as some stories are said to be too good to be true, it may with equal truth be asserted of this biverbal allusion, that it is too good to be natural. One can- not help suspecting that the incident was in- vented to fit the line. It would have been better had it been less perfect. Like some Virgilian hemistichs, it has suffered by filling up. The nimium Vicina was enough in conscience ; the Cremonce afterwards loads it. It is, in fact, a double pun ; and we have always observed that a superfoetation in this sort of wit is dangerous. When a man has said a good thing, it is seldom politic to follow it up. We do not care to be cheated a second time ; or, perhaps the mind of man (with reverence be it spoken) is not capacious enough to lodge two puns at a time. The * Swift. impressions, to be forcible, must be simulta- neous and undivided. X. THAT HANDSOME IS THAT HANDSOME DOES. Those who use this proverb can never have seen Mrs. Conrady. The soul, if we may believe Plotinus, is a ray from the celestial beauty. As she par- takes more or less of this heavenly light, she informs, with corresponding characters, the fleshly tenement which she chooses, and frames to herself a suitable mansion. All which only proves that the soul of Mrs. Conrady, in her pre-existent state, was no great judge of architecture. To the same efi"ect, in a Hymn in honour of Beauty, divine Spenser platonising, sings : — Every spirit as it is more pure, And hath in it the more of heavenly light, So it the fairer body doth procure To habit in, and it more fairly dight With cheerful grace and amiable. sight. For of the soul the body form doth take : For soul is form and doth the body make. But Spenser, it is clear, never saw Mrs Conrady. These poets, we find, are no safe guides in philosophy ; for here, in his very next stanza but one, is a saving clause, which throws us all out again, and leaves us as much to seek as ever : — Yet oft it falls, that many a gentle mind Dwells in deformed tabernacle drown'd, Either by chance, against the course of kind. Or through unaptness in the substance found, Which it assumed of some stubborn ground. That will not yield unto her form's direction. But is performed with some foul imperfection. From which it would follow, that Spenser had seen somebody like Mrs Conrady. The spirit of this good lady — her previous anima — must have stumbled upon one of these untoward tabernacles which he speaks of. A more rebellious commodity of clay for a ground, as the poet calls it, no gentle mind — and sure hers is one of the gentlest — ever had to deal with. Pondering upon her inexplicable visage — inexplicable, we mean, but by this modifica- tion of the theory — we have come to a con- clusion that, if one must be plain, it is better to be plain all over, than amidst a tolerable residue of features to hang out one that shall 494 POPULAK FALLACIES. be exceptionable. No one can say of Mrs. Conrady's countenance that it ^YOuld be bettei" if she had but a nose. It is impossible to pull her to pieces in this manner. We have seen the most malicious beauties of her own sex baffled in" the attempt at a selection. The ioiit-ensemble defies particularising. It is too complete — too consistent, as we may say — to admit of these invidious reservations. It is not as if some Apelles had picked out here a lip — and there a chin — out of the collected ugliness of Greece, to frame a model by. It is a symmetrical whole. We challenge the minutest connoisseur to cavil at any part or parcel of the countenance in question ; to say that this, or that, is improperly placed. We are convinced that true ugliness, no less than is affirmed of true beauty, is the result of harmony. Like that, too, it reigns without a competitor. No one ever saw Mrs. Con- rady, without pronouncing her to be the plainest woman that he ever met with in the course of his life. The first time that you are indulged with a sight of her face, is an era in your existence ever after. You are glad to have seen it — like Stonehenge. No one can pretend to forget it. No one ever apologised to her for meeting her in the street on such a day and not knowing her: the pretext would be too bare. Nobody can mistake her for another. Nobody can say of her, " I think I have seen that face some- where, but I cannot call to mind where." You must remember that in such a parlour it first struck you — like a bust. You won- dered where the owner of the house had pickled it up. You wondered more when it began to move its lips — so mildly too ! No one ever thought of asking her to sit for her picture. Lockets are for remembrance ; and it would be clearly superfluous to hang an image at your heart, which, once seen, can never be out of it. It is not a mean face either ; its entire originality precludes that. Neither is it of that order of plain faces which improve upon acquaintance. Some very good but ordinary people, by an un- wearied perseverance in good offices, put a cheat upon our eyes ; juggle our senses out of their natural impressions ; and set us upon discovering good indications in a coun- tenance, which at first sight promised nothing less. We detect gentleness, which had escaped us, lurking about an under lip. But when Mrs. Conrady has done you a service, her face remains the same ; when she has done you a thousand, and you know that she ia ready to double the number, still it is that individual face. Neither can you say of it, that it would be a good face if it were not marked by the small -pox — a compliment which- is always more admissive than excusa- tory — for either Mrs. Conrady never had the small-pox : or, as we say, took it kindly. No, it stands upon its own merits fairly. There it is. It is her mark, her token ; that which she is known by. XI. — THAT WE MUST NOT LOOK A GIFT HORSE IN THE MOUTH. Nor a lady's age in the parish register. We hope we have more delicacy than to do either; but some faces spare us the trouble of these dental inquiries. And what if the beast, which my friend would force upon my acceptance, prove, upon the face of it, a sorry Rosinante, a lean, ill-favoured jade, whom no gentleman could think of setting up in his stables? Must I, rather than not be obliged to my friend, make her a com- panion to Eclipse or Lightfoot ! A horse- giver, no more than a horse-seller, has a right to palm his spavined article upon us for good ware. An equivalent is expected in either case ; and, with my own good will, I would no more be cheated out of my thanks than out of my money. Some people have a knack of putting upon you gifts of no real value, to engage you to substantial gratitude. We thank them for nothing. Our friend Mitis carries this humour of never refusing a present, to the very point of absurdity — if it were possible to couple the ridiculous with so much mistaken deli- cacy, and real good-nature. Not an apart- ment in his fine house (and he has a true taste in household decorations), but is stuffed up with some preposterous print or mirror — the worst adapted to his panels that may be — the presents of his friends that know his weakness ; while his noble Vandykes are displaced, to make room for a set of daubs, the work of some wretched artist of his acquaintance, who, having had them re- turned upon his hands for bad likenesses, finds his account in bestowing them here gratis. The good creature has not the heart POPULAR FALLACIES. 495 to mortify the painter at the expense of an honest refusal. It is pleasant (if it did not vex one at the same time) to see him sitting in his dining parlour, surrounded with ob- scure aunts and cousins to God knows whom, while the true Lady Marys and Lady Bettys (if his own honourable family, in favour to these adopted frights, are consigned to the stair-case and the lumber-room. In like manner his goodly shelves are one by one stripped of his favourite old authors, to give place to a collection of presentation copies — the flour and bran of modern poetry. A presentation copy, reader — if haply you are yet innocent of such favours — is a copy of a book which does not sell, sent you by the author, with his foolish autograph at the beginning of it; for which, if a stranger, he only demands your friendship ; if a brother author, he expects from you a book of yours, which does sell, in return. We can speak to experience, having by us a tolerable assortment of these gift-horses. Not to ride a metaphor to death — we ai"e willing to ac- knowledge, that in some gifts there is sense. A duplicate out of a friend's library (where he has more than one copy of a rai-e author) is intelligible. There are favours, short of the pecuniary — a thing not fit to be hinted at among gentlemen — which confer as much gi'ace upon the acceptor as the offerer ; the kind, we confess, which is most to our palate, is of those little conciliatory missives, which for their vehicle generally choose a hamper — little odd presents of game, fruit, perhaps wine — though it is essential to the delicacy of the latter, that it be home-made. We love to have our friend in the country sitting thus at our table by proxy ; to apprehend his presence (though a hundred miles may be between us) by a turkey, whose goodly aspect reflects to us his "plump corpuscu- lum ;" to taste him in grouse or woodcock ; to feel him gliding down in the toast pecu- liar to the latter; to concorporate him in a slice of Canterbury brawn. This is indeed to have him within ourselves ; to know him intimately: such participation is methinks unitive, as the old theologians phrase it. For these considerations we should be sorry if certain restrictive regulations, which are thought to bear hard upon the peasantry of this country, were entirely done away with. A hare, as the law now stands, makes many friends. Caius conciliates Titius (knowing his gout) with a leash of partridges. Titius (suspecting his partiality for them) passes them to Lucius ; who, in his turn, preferring his friend's relish .to his own, makes them over to Marcius ; till in their ever-widening progress, and round of unconscious circummi- gration, they distribute the seeds of harmony over half a parish. We are well-disposed to this kind of sensible remembrances ; and are the less apt to be taken by those little airy tokens — impalpable to the palate — which, under the names of rings, lockets, keep-sakes, amuse some people's fancy mightily. We could never away with these indigestible trifles. They are the very kickshaws and foppery of friendship. XII. — THAT HOME IS HOME THOUGH IT IS NEVER 60 HOMELY. Homes there are, we are sure, that are no homes; the home of the very poor man, and another which we shall speak to presently. Crowded places of cheap entertainment, and the benches of alehouses, if they could speak, might bear mournful testimony to the first. To them the very poor man resorts for an image of the home, which he cannot find at home. For a starved grate, and a scanty fii'ing, that is not enough to keep alive the natural heat in the fingers of so many shiver- ing children M'ith their mother, he finds in the depths of winter always a blazing hearth, and a hob to warm his pittance of beer by. Instead of the clamours of a wife, made gaunt by famishing, he meets with a cheer- ful attendance beyond the merits of the trifle which he can afford to spend. He has companions which his home denies him, for the very poor man has no visitors. He can look ihto the goings on of the world, and speak a little to politics. At home thei'e are no politics stirring, but the domestic. All interests, real or imaginary, all topics that should expand the mind of man, and con- nect him to a sympathy with general exist- ence, are crushed in the absorbing consider- ation of food to be obtained for the family. Beyond the price of bread, news is senseless and impertinent. At home there is no lar- der. Here there is at least a show of plenty; and while he cooks his lean scrap of butcher's meat before the common bars, or munches 496 POPULAR FALLACIES. his huinbler cold viands, his relishiog bread and cheese with an onion, in a corner, where no one reflects upon his poverty, he has a sight of the substantial joint providing for the landlord and his family. He takes an interest in the dressing of it; and while he assists in removing the trivet from the fire, he feels that there is such a thing as beef and cabbage, which he was beginning to for- get at home. All this while he deserts his wife and children. But what wife, and what children ? Prosperous men, who object to this desertion, image to themselves some clean contented family like that which they go home to. But look at the countenance of the poor wives who follow and persecute their good-man to the door of the public- house, which he is about to enter, when something like shame would restrain him, if stronger misery did not induce him to pass the threshold. That face, ground by want, in which every cheerful, every con- versable lineament has been long effaced by misery, — is that a face to stay at home with? is it more a woman, or a wild cat? alas ! it is the face of the' wife of his youth, that once smiled upon him. It can smile no longer. "What comforts can it share? what burthens can it lighten? Oh, 'tis a fine thing to talk of the humble meal shared to- gether ! But what if there be no bread in the cupboard? The innocent prattle of his children takes out the sting of a man's poverty. But the children of the very poor do not prattle. It is none of the least fright- ful features in that condition, that there is no childishness in its dwellings. Poor people, said a sensible old nurse to us once, do not bring up their children ; they. drag them up. The little careless darling of the wealthier nursery, in their hovel is transformed be- times into a premature reflecting person. No one has time to dandle it, no one thinks it worth while to coax it, to soothe it, to toss it up and down, to humour it. There is none to kiss away its tears. If it cries, it can only be beaten. It has been prettily said, that "a babe is fed with milk and praise." But the aliment of this poor babe was thin, unnourishing ; the return to its little baby-tricks, and efforts to engage at- tention, bitter ceaseless objurgation. It never had a toy, or knew what a coral meant. It grew up without the lullaby of nurses, it was a stranger to the patient fondle, the hushing caress, the attracting novelty, the costlier plaything, or the cheaper off-hand contrivance to divert the child ; the prattled nonsense (best sense to it), the wise impertinences, the wholesome lies, the apt story interposed, that puts a stop to present sufferings, and awakens the passions of young wonder. It was never sung to — no one ever told to it a tale of the nursery. It was dragged up, to live or to die as it happened. It had no young dreams. It broke at once into the iron realities of life. A child exists not for the very poor as any object of dalli- ance ; it is only another mouth to be fed, a pair of little hands to be betimes inured to labour. It is the rival, till it can be the co-operator, for food with the parent. It is never his mirth, his diversion, his solace: it never makes him young again, Avith recall- ing his young times. The children of the very poor have no young times. It makes the very heart to bleed to overhear the casual street-talk between a poor woman and her little girl, a woman of the better sort of poor, in a condition rather above the squalid beings which we have been contem- plating. It is not of toys, of nursery books, of summer holidays (fitting that age) ; of the promised sight, or play; of praised suffi- ciency at school. It is of mangling and clear-starching, of the price of coals, or of potatoes. The questions of the child, that should be the very outpourings of curiosity in idleness, are marked with forecast and melancholy providence. It has come to be a woman, — before it was a child. It has learned to go to market ; it chaffers, it haggles, it envies, it murmurs ; it is know- ing, acute, sharpened ; it never prattles. Had we not reason to say that the home of the very poor is no home ? There is yet another home, which we are constrained to deny to be one. It has a larder, which the home of the poor man wants; its fireside conveniences, of which the poor dream not. But with all this, it is no home. It is — the house of a man that is infested with many visitors. May we be branded for the veriest churl, if we deny our heart to the many noble-hearted friends that at times exchange their dwelling for our poor roof! It is not of guests that we complain, but of endless, purposeless POPULAR FALLACIES. 497 visitants ; droppers in, as they are called. We sometimes wonder from what sky they fall. It is the very error of the position of our lodging ; its horoscopy was ill calcu- lated, being just situate in a medium — a plaguy suburban mid-space — fitted to catch idlers from town or country. We are older than we were, and age is easily put out of its way. We have fewer sands in our glass to reckon upon, and we cannot brook to see them drop in endlessly succeeding imperti- nences. At our time of life, to be alone sometimes is as needful as sleep. It is the refreshing sleep of the day. 'i he growing infirmities of age manifest themselves in no- thing more strongly, than in an inveterate dislike of interruption. The thing which we are doing, we wish to be permitted to do. We have neither much knowledge nor de- vices; but there are fewer in the place to which we hasten. We are not willingly put out of our way, even at a game of nine-pins. While youth was, we had vast reversions in time future ; we are reduced to a present pittance, and obliged to economise in that article. We bleed away our moments now as hardly as our ducats. We cannot bear to have our thin wardrobe eaten and fretted into by moths. We are willing to barter our good time with a friend, who gives us in exchange his own. Herein is the distinction between the genuine guest and the visitant. This latter takes your good time, and gives you his bad in exchange. The guest is do- mestic to you as your good cat, or household bird ; the visitant is your fly, that flaps in at your window, and out again, leaving no- thing but a sense of disturbance, and victuals spoiled. The inferior functions of life begin to move heavily. We cannot concoct our food with interruptions. Our chief meal, to be nutritive, must be solitary. With difii- culty we can eat before a guest ; and never understood what the relish of public feasting meant. Meats have no sapor, nor digestion fair play, in a crowd. The unexpected coming in of a visitant stops the machine. There is a punctual generation who time their calls to the precise commencement of your dining-hour — not to eat — but to see you eat. Our knife and fork drop in- stinctively, and we feel that we have swal- lowed our latest morsel. Others again show their genius, as we have said, in knocking 32 the moment you have just sat down to a book. They have a peculiar compassionate sneer, with which they " hope that they do not interrupt your studies." Though they flutter off the next moment, to carry their impertinences to the neai-est student that they can call their friend, the tone of the book is spoiled ; we shut the leaves, and with Dante's lovers, i-ead no more that day. It were well if the effect of intrusion were simply co-extensive with its presence, but it mars all the good hours afterwards. These scratches in appearance leave an orifice that closes not hastily. " It is a prostitution of the bravery of friendship," says worthy Bishop Taylor, "to spend it upon im-pertinent people, who are, it may be, loads to their families, but can never ease my loads." This is the secret of their gaddings, their visits, and morning calls. They too have homes, which are — no homes. XIII. — THAT YOU MUST LOVE ME AND LOVE MY DOG. " Good sir, or madam — as it may be — we most willingly embrace the offer of your friendship. We have long known your ex- cellent qualities. We have wished to have you nearer to us ; to hold you within the very innermost fold of our heart. We can have no reserve towards a person of your open and noble nature. The frankness of your humour suits us exactly. We have been long looking for such a friend. Quick — let us disburthen our troubles into each other's bosom — let us make our single joys shine by reduplication — But yap, yap, yap! what is this confounded cur? he has fastened his tooth, which is none of the bluntest, just in the fleshy part of my leg." "It is my dog, sir. You must love him for my sake. Here, Test — Test — Test ! " " But he has bitten me." " Ay, that he is apt to do, till you are better acquainted with him, I have .had him three years. He never bites me." Yap, yap, yap! — " He is at it again." " Oh, sir, you must not kick him. He does not like to be kicked. I expect my dog to be treated with all the respect due to myself." " But do you always take him out with you, when you go a friendship-hunting V" 498 POPULAR FALLACIES. " Invariabiy. 'Tis the sweetest, prettiest, best-conditioned animal. I cull him my test — the touchstone by which to try a friend. No one can properly be said to love me, who does not love him." "Excuse us, dear sir — or madam, afore- said — if upon further consideration we are obliged to decline the otherwise invaluable offer of your friendship. We do not like dogs." "Mighty well, sir, — you know the con- ditions — you may have worse offers. Come along, Test." The above dialogue is not so imaginary, but that, in the intercourse of life, we have had frequent occasions of breaking off an agreeable intimacy by reason of these canine appendages. They do not always come in the shape of dogs ; they sometimes wear the more plausible and human character of kins- folk, near acquaintances, my friend's friend, his partner, his wife, or his children. We could never yot form a friendship — not to speak of more delicate correspondence — how- ever much to our taste, without the inter- vention of some third anomaly, some imper- tinent clog aiExed to the relation — the understood dog in the proverb. The good things of life are not to be had singly, but come to us with a mixture ; like a school- boy's holiday, with a task affixed to the tail of it. What a delightful companion is * * * *, if he did not always bring his tall cousin with him ! He seems to grow with him ; like some of those double births which we remember to have read of with such Avonder and delight in the old "Athenian Oracle," whei-e Swift commenced author by writing Pindaric Odes (what a beginning for him !) upon Sir William Temple. There is the picture of the brother, with the little brother peeping out at his shoulder: a species of fraternity which we have no name of kin close enough to comprehend. When * * * -^- comes, poking in his head and shoulder into your room, as if to feel his entry, you think, surely you have now got him to yourself — what a three hours' chat we shall have ! — but ever in the haunch of him, and before his diffident body is well disclosed in your apartment, appears the haunting shadow of the cousin, overpeering his modest kinsman, and sure to overlay the expected good talk with his insufferable procerity of stature, and uncorresponding dwarflshness of observation. Misfortunes seldom come alone. 'Tis hard when a blessing comes accompanied. Cannot we like Sempronia, without sitting down to chess with her eternal brother ; or know Sulpicia, without knowing all the round of her card-playing relations? — must my friend's brethren of necessity be mine also ? must we be hand and glove with Dick Selby the parson, or Jack Selby the calico-printer, because W. S., who is neither, but a ripe wit and a critic, has the misfortune to claim a common parentage with them ? Let him lay down his brothers ; and 'tis odds but we will cast him in a pair of ours (we have a superflux) to balance the concession. Let F. H. lay down his garrulous uncle ; and Ilonorius dismiss his vapid wife, and super- fluous establishment of six boys: things be- tween boy and manhood — too ripe for play, too raw for conversation — that come in, im- pudently staring their father's old friend out of countenance ; and will neither aid nor let alone the conference ; that we may once more meet upon equal terms, as we were wont to do in the disengaged state of bachelorhood. It is well if your friend, or mistress, be content with these canicular probations. Few young ladies but in this sense keep a dog. But when Kutllia hounds at you her tiger aunt ; or Ruspina expects you to cherish and fondle her viper sister, whom she has preposterously taken into her bosom, to try stinging conclusions upon your constancy ; they must not complain if the house be rather thin of suitors. Scylla must have broken off many excellent matches in her time, if she insisted upon all, that loved her, loving her dogs also. An excellent story to this moral is told of Merry, of Delia Cruscan memory. In tender youth he loved and courted a modest ap- panage to the Opera — in truth a dancer, — who had won him by the artless contrast between her manners and situation. She seemed to him a native violet, that had been transplanted by some rude accident into that exotic and artificial hotbed. Nor, in truth, was she less genuine and sincere than she appeared to him. He wooed and won this flower. Only for appearance' sake, and for due honour to the bride's relations, she craved that she might have the attendance POPULvVK FALLACIES. 499 of her friends and kindred at the approaching solemnity. The request was too amiable not to be conceded: and in this solicitude for conciliating the good-will of mere rela- tions, he found a presage of her superior attentions to himself, when the golden shaft should have " killed the flock of all affections else." The morning came : and at the Star and Garter, Richmond — the place appointed for the breakfasting — accompanied with one English friend, he impatiently awaited what reinforcements the bride should bring to grace the ceremony. A rich muster she had made. They came in six coaches — the whole corps du ballet — French, Italian, men and women. Monsieur de B., the famous pirouetter of the day, led his fair spouse, but craggy, from the banks of the Seine. The Prima Donna had sent her excuse. But the first and second Buffa were there ; and Signor Sc — , and Signora Ch — , and Madame V — , with a countless cavalcade besides of chorusers, figurantes ! at the sight of whom Merry afterwards declared, that " then for the first time it struck him seriously, that he was about to marry a — dancer." But there was no help for it. Besides, it was her day ; these were, in fact, her friends and kinsfolk. The assemblage, though whimsical, was all very natural. But when the bride — handing out of the last coach a still more extraordi- nary figure than the rest — presented him as her failier — the gentleman that was to give her aioay — no less a person than Signor Delphini himself — with a sort of pride, as much as to say, See what I have brought to do us honour! — the thought of so extraor- dinary a paternity quite overcame him ; and slipping away under some pretence from the bride and her motley adhe'rents, poor Merry took horse from the back yard to the nearest sea-coast, from which, shipping himself to America, he shortly after consoled himself with a more congenial match in the person of Miss Brunton ; relieved from his intended clown father, and a bevy of painted buffas for bridemaids. XIV. — THAT TVE SHOULD RISE WITH THE LARK. At what precise minute that little airy musician doffs his night gear, and prepares to tune up his unseasonable matins, we are not naturalists enough to determine. But for a mere human gentleman — that has no orchestra business to call him from his warm bed to such preposterous exercises — we take ten, or half after ten (eleven, of course, during this Christmas solstice), to be the very earliest hour at which he can begin to think of abandoning his pillow. To think of it, we say ; for to do it in earnest requires another half hour's good consideration. Not but there are pretty sun-risings, as we are told, and such like gawds, abroad in the world, in summer-time especially, some hours before what we have assigned ; which* a gentleman may see, as they say, only for getting up. But having been tempted once or twice, in earlier life, to assist at those ceremonies, we confess our curiosity abated. We are no longer ambitious of being the sun's courtiers, to attend at his morning levees. We hold the good hours of the dawn too sacred to waste them upon such obser- vances ; which have in them, besides, some- thing Pagan and Persic. To say truth, we never anticipated our usual hour, or got up with the sun (as 'tis called), to go a journey, or upon a foolish whole day's pleasuring, but we suffered for it all the' long hours after in listlessness and headaches ; Nature her- self sufficiently declaring her sense of our presumption in aspiring to regulate our frail waking courses by the measures of that celestial and sleepless traveller. We deny not that there is something sprightly and vigorous, at the outset especially, in these break-of-day excursions. It is flattering to get the start of a lazy world ; to conquer death by proxy in his image. But the seeds of sleep and mortality are in us ; and we pay usually, in strange qualms before night falls, the penalty of the unnatural inversion. Therefore, while the busy part of mankind are fast huddling on their clothes, are already up and about their occupations, content to have swallowed their sleep by wholesale ; we choose to linger a-bed, and digest our dreams. It is the very time to recombine the wandering images, which night in a confused mass presented ; to snatch them from forgetfulness ; to shape, and mould them. Some people have no good of their dream.s. Like fast feeders, they gulp them too grossly, to taste them curiously. We love to chew the cud of a foregone vision : to collect the scattered rays of a brighter 500 POPULAR FALLACIES. phantasm, or act over again, with firmer nerves, the sadder nocturnal tragedies ; to drag into day-light a struggling and half- vanishing night-mare ; to handle and examine the terrors, or the airy solaces. We have too much respect for these spiritual com- munications, to let them go so lightly. We are not so stupid, or so careless as that Imperial forgetter of his dreams, that vre should need a seer to remind us of the form of them. They seem to us to have as much significance as our waking concerns: or rather to import us more readily, as more nearly we approach by years to the shadowy world, whither we are hastening. We have shaken hands with the world's business ; we have done with it; we have discharged ourself of it. Why should we get up ? we have neither suit to solicit, nor affairs to manage. The drama has shut in upon us at the fourth act. We have nothing here to expect, but in a short time a sick bed, and a dismissal. We delight to anticipate death by such shadows as night affords. We are already half acquainted with ghosts. We were never much in the world. Disappoint- ment early struck a dark veil between us and its dazzling illusions. "Our spirits showed grey before our hairs. The mighty changes of the world already appear as but the vain stuff out of which dramas are composed. We have asked no more of life than what the mimic images in play-houses present us with. Even those types have waxed fainter. Our clock appears to have struck. We are SUPERANNUATED. In this dearth of mundane satisfaction, we contract politic alliances with shadows. It is good to have friends at court. The abstracted media of dreams seem no ill introduction to that spiritual presence, upon which, in no long time, we expect to be thrown. We are trying to know a little of the usages of that colony ; to learn the language, and the faces we shall meet with there, that we may be the less awkward at our first coming among them. We willingly call a phantom our fellow, as knowing we shall soon be of their dark com- oanionship. Therefore, we cherish dreams. We try to spell in them the alphabet of the invisible world ; and think we know already, how it shall be with us. Those uncouth shapes, which, while we clung to flesh and blood, affrighted us, have become familiar. We feel attenuated into their meagre essences, and have given the hand of half- way approach to incorporeal being. Wo once thought life to be something ; but it has unaccountably fallen from us before its time. Therefore we choose to dally with visions. The sun has no purposes of ours to light us to. Why should we get up? XV. — THAT WE SHOULD LIE DOWN WITH THE LAMB. We could never quite understand the philosophy of this arrangement, or the ^ wisdom of our ancestors in sending us for instruction to these woolly bedfellows. A sheep, when it is dark, has nothing to- do but to shut his silly eyes, and sleep if he can. Man found out long sixes, — Hail, candle- light! without disparagement to sun or moon, the kindliest luminary of the three — if we may not rather style thee their radiant deputy, mild viceroy of the moon ! — We love to read, talk, sit silent, eat, drink, sleep, by candle-light. They are everybody's sun and moon. This is our peculiar and household planet. AVanting it, what savage unsocial nights must our ancestors have spent, wintering in caves and unillumined fast- nesses ! They must have lain about and grumbled at one another in the dark. What repartees could have passed, when you must have felt about for a smile, and handled a neighbour's cheek to be sure that he under- stood it ! This accounts for the seriousness of the elder poetry. It has a sombre cast (try Hesiod or Ossian), derived from the tradition of those unlantern'd nights. Jokes came in with candles. We wonder how they saw to pick up a pin, if they had any. How did they sup? what a melange of chance carving they must have made of it I — here one had got a leg of a goat, when he wanted a horse's shoulder — there another had dipped his scooped palm in a kid-skin of wild honey, when he meditated right mare's milk. There is neither good eating nor drinking in fresco. Who, even in these civilised times, has never experienced this, when at some economic table he has commenced dining after dusk, and waited for the flavour till the lights came ? The senses absolutely give and take reciprocally. Can you tell pork from veal in the dark ? or distinguish Sherris from POPCILAR FALLACIES. 501 pure Malaga ? Take away the candle from the smoking man ; by the glimmering of the left ashes, he knows that he is still smoking, but he knows it only by an inference ; till the restored light, coming in aid of the olfactories, reveals to both senses the full aroma. Then how he redoubles his puffs ! how he burnishes! — there is absolutely no such thing as reading but by a candle. We have tried the affectation of a book at noon -day in gardens, and in sultry arbours ; but it was labour thrown away. Those gay motes in the beam come about you, hovering and teasing, like so many coquettes, that will have you all to their self, and are jealous of your abstractions. By the midnight taper, the writer digests his meditations. By the same light we must approach to their perusal, if we would catch the flame, the odour. It is a mockery, all that is reported of the influential Phoebus. No true poem ever owed its birth to the sun's light. They are abstracted works — I'hings that were born, whei none but the still night, And his dumb candle, saw bis pinching throes. Marry, daylight — daylight might furnish the images, the crude material; but for the fine shapings, the true turning and filing (as mine author hath it), they must be content to hold their inspiration of the candle. The mild internal light, that reveals them, like fires on the domestic hearth, goes out in the sun-shine. Night and silence call out the starry fancies. Milton's Morning Hymn in Paradise, we would hold a good wager, was penned at midnight; and Taylor's rich description of a sun-rise smells decidedly of the taper. Even ourself, in these our humbler lucubrations, tune our best- measured cadences (Prose has her cadences) not unfrequently to the charm of the drowsier watchman, " blessing the doors ;" or the wild sweep of winds at midnight. Even now a loftier speculation than we have yet attempted, courts our endeavours. We would indite something about the Solar System. — Betty, bring the candles. XTI. — THAT A SULKY TEMPER IS A MISFORTUNE. We grant that it is, and a very serious one — to a man's friends, and to all that have to do with him ; but whether the condition of the man himself is so much to be deplored may admit of a question. We can speak a little to it, being ourselves but lately recovered — we whisper it in confidence, reader, — out of a long and desperate fit of the suUens. Was the cure a blessing? Tho conviction which wrought it, came too clearly to leave a scruple of the fanciful injuries — for they were mere fancies — which had provoked the humour. But the humour itself was too self-pleasing, while it lasted — we know how bare we lay ourself in the confession — to be abandoned all at once with the grounds of it. We still brood over wrongs which we know to have been imaginary ; and for our old acquaintance N , whom we find to have been a truer friend than we took him for, we substitute some phantom — a Caius or a Titius — as like him as we dare to form it, to wreak our yet unsatisfied resentments on. It is mortifying to fall at once from the pinnacle of neglect ; to forego the idea of having been ill-used and contumaciously treated by an old friend. The first thing to aggrandise a man in his own conceit, is to cojiceive of himself as neglected. There let him fix if he can. ^ To undeceive him is to deprive him of the most tickling morsel within the range of self- complacency. No flattery can come near it. ) Happy is he who suspects his friend of an injustice ; but supremely blest, who thinks all his friends in a conspiracy to depress and undervalue him. There is a pleasure (we sing not to the profane) far beyond the reach of all that the world calls joy — a deep, enduring satisfaction in the depths, where the superficial seek it not, of discontent. Were we to recite one half of this mystery, — which we were let into by our late dis- satisfaction, all the world would be in love with disrespect ; we should wear a slight for a bracelet, and neglects and contumacies would be the only matter for courtship. Unlike to that mysterious book in the Apocalypse, the study of this mystery is unpalatable only in the commencement. The first sting of a suspicion is grievous ; but wait — out of that wound, which to flesh and blood seemed so difficult, there is balm and honey to be extracted. Your friend passed you on such or such a day, — having in his company one that you conceived worse than ambiguously disposed towards 502 POPULAR FALLACIES. you — passed you in the street without notice. To be sure, he is something short- sighted ; and it was in your power to have accosted Zw'm. But foots and sane inferences are trifles to a true adept in the science of, dissatisfaction. He must have seen you ; and S , who was with him, must have been the cause of the contempt. It galls you, and well it may. But have patience. Go home, and make the worst of it, and you are a made man from this time. Shut yourself up, and — rejecting, as an enemy to your peace, every whispering suggestion that but insinuates there may be a mistake — reflect seriously upon the many lesser instances which you had begun to perceive, in proof of your friend's disaffection towards you. None of them singly was much to the purpose, but the aggregate weight is positive ; and you have this last affront to clench them. Thus far the process is anything but agreeable. But now to your relief comes in the comparative faculty. You conjure up all the kind feelings you have had for your friend ; what you have been to him, and what you would have been to him, if he would have suffered you ; how you defended him in this or that place ; and his good name — his literary reputation, and so forth, was always dearer to you than your own ! Your heart, spite of itself, yearns towards him. You could weep tears of blood but for a restraining pride. How say you ! do you not yet begin to apprehend a comfort ? — some allay of sweetness in the bitter waters? Stop not here, nor penuriously cheat yourself of your reversions. You are on vantage ground. Enlarge your speculations, and take in the rest of your friends, as a spark kindles more sparks. Was there one among them who has not to you proved hollow, false, slippery as vrater? Begin to think that the relation itself is inconsistent with mortality. . That the very idea of friendship, with its component parts, as honour, fidelity, steadiness, exists but in your single bosom. Image yourself to yourself, as* the only possible friend in a world incapable of that communion. Now the gloom thickens. The little star of self-love twinkles, that is to encourage you through deeper glooms than this. You are not yet at the half point of your elevation. You are not yet, believe me, half sulky enough. Adverting to the world in general (as these circles in the mind will spread to infinity), reflect with what strange injustice you have been treated in quarters where (setting gratitude and the expectation of friendly returns aside as chimeras) you pretended no claim beyond justice, the naked due of all men. Think the very idea of right and fit fled from the earth, or your breast the solitary receptacle of it, till you have swelled yourself jnto at least one hemisphere ; the other being the vast Arabia Stony of your friends and the world aforesaid. To grow bigger every moment in your own conceit, and the world to lessen ; to deify yourself at the expense of your species ; to judge the world — this is the acme and supreme point of your mystery — these the true Pleasures of Sulkiness. We profess no more of this grand secret than what ourself experimented on one rainy afternoon in the last week, sulking in our study. We had proceeded to the penul- timate point, at which the true adept seldom stops, where the consideration of benefit forgot is about to merge in the meditation of general injustice — when a knock at the door was followed by the entrance of the very friend whose not seeing of us in the morning (for we will now confess the case our own), an accidental oversight, had given rise to so much agreeable generalisation ! To mortify us still more, and take down the whole flattering superstructure which pride had piled upon neglect, he had brought in his hand the identical S , in whose favour we had suspected him of the contu- macy. Asseverations were needless, where the frank manner of them both was con- victive of the injurious nature of the suspicion. We fancied that they perceived our embarrassment ; but were too proud, or something else, to confess to the secret of it. We had been but too lately in the condition of the noble patient in Argos: — Qui se credebat miros audire tragoedos, In vacuo leetus sessor plausorq\ e theatre — and could have exclaimed with equal reasoa against the friendly hands that cured us — Pol, me occidistis, amici, Non servastis, ait; cui sic extorta voluptas, Et demptus per yim mentis gratissimus error. EOSAMXJND GRAY, ESSAYS, ETC. 503 TO 1 MAETIN CHAELES BUENEY, Esq. Forgive me, Bxjrney, if to thee these late And hasty products of a critic pen, Thyself no common judge of books and men, In feeling of thy worth I dedicate. My veise was offered to an older friend; The humbler prose has fallen to thy share: Nor could I miss the occasion to declare, What spoken in thy presence must offend — That, set aside some few caprices wild, Those humorous clouds that flit o'er brightest days, In all my threadings of this worldly maze, (And I have watched thee almost from a child,) Free from self-seeking, envy, low design, I have not found a whiter soul than tliine. 504 ROSAMUND GRAY. CHAPTER I. It was noontide. The sun was very hot. An old gentlewoman sat spinning in a little arbour at the door of her cottage. She was blind ; and her grand-daughter was reading the Bible to her. The old lady had just left her work, to attend to the story of Ruth. " Orpha kissed her mother-in-law; but Ruth clave unto her." It was a passage she could not let pass without a comment. The moral she drew from it was not very new, to be sure. The girl had heard it a hundred times before — and a hundred times more she could have heard it, without suspecting it to be tedious. Rosamund loved her grand- mother. The old lady loved Rosamund too ; and she had reason for so doing. Rosamund was to her at once a child and a servant. She had only her left in the world. They two lived together. They had once known better days. The story of Rosamund's parents, their failure, their folly, and distresses, may be told another time. Our tale hath grief enough in it. It was now about a year and a half since old Margaret Gray had sold off all her effects, to pay the debts of Rosamund's father — just after the mother had died of a broken heart ; for her husband had fled his country to hide his shame in a foreign land. At that period the old lady retired to a small cottage in the village of Widford in Hert- fordshire. Rosamund, in her thirteenth year, was left destitute,, without fortune or friends: she went with her grandmother. In all this time she had served her faithfully and lovingly. Old Margaret Gray, when she first came into these parts, had eyes, and could see. The neighboui's said, they had been dimmed by weeping: be that as it may, she was latterly grown quite blind. "God is very good to us, child ; I can feel you yet." This she would sometimes say ; and we need not wonder to hear, that Rosamund clave unto her grandmother. Margaret retained a spirit unbroken by calamity. There was a principle loithin, which it seemed as if no outward circum- stances could reach. It was a religious principle, and she had taught it to Rosamund ; for the girl had mostly resided with her grandmother from her earliest years. Indeed she had taught her all that she knew herself; and the old lady's knowledge did not extend a vast way. Margaret had drawn her maxims from observation ; and a pretty long experience in life had contributed to make her, at times, a little 'positive : but Rosamund never argued with her grandmother. Their library consisted chiefly in a large family Bible, with notes and expositions by various learned expositors, fi-om Bishop Jewell downwards. This might never be suffered to lie abouc like other books, but was kept constantly wrapt up in a handsome case of green velvet, with gold tassels — the only relic of departed 505 506 KOSAMUND GRAY. grandeur they had brought with them to the I cottage — everything else of value had been I sold off for the purpose above mentioned. This Bible Rosamund, when a child, had never dared to open without permission ; and even yet, from habit, continued the custom. Margaret had parted with none of her authority; indeed it was never exerted with much harshness ; and happy was Rosamund, though a girl grown, when she could obtain leave to read her Bible. It was a treasure too valuable for an indiscriminate use ; and Margaret still pointed out to her grand-daughter where to read. Besides this, they had the " Complete Angler, or Contemplative Man's Recreation," with cuts — "Pilgrim's Progress," the first part — a Cookery Book, with a few dry sprigs of rosemary and lavender stuck here and there between the leaves, (I suppose to point to some of the old lady's most favourite receipts,) and there was " Wither's Emblems," an old book, and quaint. The old-fashioned pictures in this last book were among the first exciters of the infant Rosamund's curiosity. Her contemplation had fed upon them in rather older years. Rosamund had not read many books besides these ; or if any, they had been only occasional companions : these were to Rosamund as old friends, that she had long known. I know not whether the peculiar cast of her mind might not be traced, in part, to a tincture she had received, early in life, from Walton and Wither, from John Banyan and her Bible. Rosamund's mind was pensive and re- flective, rather than what passes usually for clever or acute. From a child she was remarkably shy and thoughtful — this was taken for stupidity and want of feeling ; and the child has been sometimes whipt for being a stubborn thing, when her little heart was almost bursting with affection. Even now her grandmother would often reprove her, when she found her too grave or melancholy ; give her sprightly lectures about good- humour and rational mirth; and not unfrequently fall a-crying herself, to the great discredit of her lecture. Those tears endeared her the more to Rosamund. Margaret would say, " Child, I love you to cry, when I think you are only remembering your poor dear father and mother; — I would have you think about them sometimes — it would be strange if you did not ; but I fear, Rosamund — I fear, girl, you sometimes think too deeply about your own situation and poor prospects in life. When you do so, you do wrong — remember the naughty rich man in the parable. He never had any good thoughts above God, and his religion : and that might have been your case." Rosamund, at these times, could not reply to her ; she was not in the habit of arguing with her grandmother; so she was quite silent on these occasions — or else the girl knew well enough herself, that she had only been sad to think of the desolate condition of her best friend, to see her, in her old age, so infirm and blind. But she had never been used to make excuses, when the old lady said she was doing wrong. The neighbours were all very kind to them. The veriest rustics never passed them without a bow, or a pulling off of the hat — some show of courtesy, awkward indeed, but affectionate — with a "Good- morrow, madam," or "young madam," as it might happen. Rude and savage natures, who seem born with a propensity to express contempt for anything that looks like prosperity, yet felt respect for its declining lustre. The farmers, and better sort of people, (as they are called,) all promised to provide for Rosamund when her grandmother should die. Margaret trusted in God and believed them. She used to say, " I have lived many years in the world, and have never known people, good people, to be left without some friend ; a relation, a benefactor, a something. God knows our wants — that it is not good for man or woman to be alone; and he always sends us a helpmate, a leaning place, a somewhat." Upon this sure ground of experience, did Margaret build her trust in Providence. CHAPTER II. Rosamund had just made an end of her story, (as I was about to relate,) and was listening to the application of the moral, (which said application she was old enough ROSAMUND GEAY. 507 to have made herself, but her grandmother still continued to treat her, in many respects, as a child, and Rosamund was in no haste to lay claim to the title of womanhood,) when a young gentleman made his' appearance and interrupted them. It was young Allan Clare, who had brought a present of peaches, and some roses, for Rosamund. He laid his little basket down on a seat of the arbour ; and in a respectful tone of voice, as though he were addressing a parent, inquired of Margaret " how she did." The old lady seemed pleased with his attentions — answered his inquiries by say- ing, that " her cough was less troublesome a-nights, but she had not yet got rid of it, and probably she never might; but she did not like to tease young people with an account of her infirmities." A few kind words passed on either side, when young Clare, glancing a tender look at the girl, who had all this time been silent, took leave of them with saying, " I shall bring Elinor to see you in the evening." When he was gone, the old lady began to prattle. " That is a sweet-dispositioned youth, and I do love him dearly, I must say it — there is such a modesty in all he says or does — he should not come here so often, to be sure, but I don't know how to help it ; there is so much goodness in him, I can't find it in my heart to forbid him. But, Rosamund, girl, I must tell you beforehand ; when you grow older, Mr. Clare must be no companion for you : while you were both so young it was all very well — but the time is coming, when folks will think harm of it, if" a rich young gentleman, like Mr. Clare, comes so often to our poor cottage. — Dost hear, girl ? Why don't you answer? Come, I did not mean to say anything to hurt you — speak to me, Rosamund — nay, I must not have you be sullen — I don't love people that are sullen." And in this manner was this poor soul running on, unheard and unheeded, when it occurred to her, that possibly the girl might not be within hearing. And true it was, that Rosamund had slunk away at the first mention of Mr. Clare's good qualities : and when she returned, which was not till a few minutes after Margaret had made an end of her fine harangue, it is certain her cheeks did look very tost/. That might have been from the heat of the day or from exercise, for she had been walking in the garden. Margaret, we know, was blind ; and, in this case, it was lucky fur Rosamund that she was so, or she might have made some not unlikely surmises. I must not have my reader infer from this, that I at all think it likely, a young maid of fourteen would fall in love without asking her grandmother's leave — the thing itself is not to be conceived. To obviate all suspicions, I am disposed to communicate a little anecdote of Rosamund. A month or two back her grandmother had been giving her the strictest prohibi- tions, in her walks, not to go near a certain spot, which was dangerous from the cir- cumstance of a huge overgrown oak-tree spreading its prodigious arms across a deep chalk-pit, which they partly concealed. To this fatal place Rosamund came one day — female curiosity, we know, is older than the flood — let us not think hardly of the girl, if she partook of the sexual failing. Rosamund ventured further and further — climbed along one of the branches — ap- proached the fo/bidden chasm — her foot slipped — she was not killed — but it was by a mercy she escaped — other branches inter- cepted her fall — and with a palpitating heart she made her way back to the cottage. It happened that evening, that her grand- mother was in one of her best humours, caressed Rosamund, talked of old times, and what a blessing it was they two found a shelter in their little cottage, and in con- clusion told Rosamund, " she was a good girl, and God M-ould one day reward her for her kindness to her old blind grandmother." This was more than Rosamund could bear. Her morning's disobedience came fresh into her mind; she felt she did not deserve all this from Margaret, and at last burst into a fit of crj'ing, and made confession of her fault. The old gentlewoman kissed and forgave her. Rosamund never went near that naughty chasm again. Margaret would never have heard of this, if Rosamund had not told of it herself. But this young maid had a delicate moral sense, which would not suffer her to take advantage 508 ROSAMUND GUAY. of her p;randmother, to deceive her, or conceal anything from her, though Margaret was old, and blind, and easy to be imposed upon. Another virtuous trait I recollect of Rosa- mund, and now I am in the vein will tell it. Some, I know, will think these things trifles — and they are so — but if these minutiae make my reader better acquainted with Rosamund, I am content to abide the imputation. These promises of character, hints, and early indications of a sweet nature, are to me more dear, and choice in the selection, than any of those pretty wild flowers, which this young maid, this virtuous Rosamund, has ever gathered in a fine May morning, to make a posy to place in the bosom of her old blind friend. Rosamund had a very just notion of draw- ing, and would often employ her talent in making sketches of the surrounding scenery. On a landscape, a largelr piece than she had ever yet attempted, she had now been •working for three or four months. She had taken great pains with it, given much time to it, and it was nearly finished. For whone particular inspection it was designed, I will not venture to conjecture. We know it could not have been for her grandmother's. One day she went out on a short errand, and left her landscape on the table. "When she returned, she found it gone. Rosamund from the first suspected some mischief, but held her tongue. At length she made the fatal discovery. Margaret, in her absence, had laid violent hands on it; not knowing what it was, but taking it for some waste-paper, had torn it in half, and with one half of this elaborate composition had twisted herself up — a thread-paper! Rosamund spread out her hands at sight of the disaster, gave her grandmother a roguish smile, but said not a word. She knew the poor soul would only fret, if she told her of it, — and when once Margaret was set a fretting for other people's misfor- tunes, the fit held her pretty long. So Rosamund that very afternoon began another piece of the same size and subject; and Margaret, to her dying day, never dreamed of tho mischief she had uncan- scicusly done. CHAPTER III. Rosamund Gray was the most beautiful young creature that eyes ever beheld. Her face had the sweetest expression in it — a gentleness — a modesty — a timidity — a certain charm — a grace without a name. There was a sort of melancholy mingled in her smile. It was not the thoughtless levity of a girl — it was not the restrained simper of premature womanhood — it was something which the poet Young might have remembered, when he composed that perfect line, " Soft, modest, melancholy, female, fair." She was a mild-eyed maid, and everybody loved her. Young Allan Clare, when but a boy, sighed for her. Her yellow hair fell in bright and curling clusters, like "Those hanging locks Of young Apollo." Her voice was trembling and musical. A graceful diffidence pleaded for her whenever she spake — and, if she said but little, that little found its way to the heart. Young, and artless, and innocent, meaning no harm, and thinking none ; aff'ectionate as a smiling infant — playful, yot inobtrusive, as a weaned lamb — everybody loved her. Young Allan Clare, when but a boy, sighed for her. The moon is shining in so brightly at my window, where I write, that I feel it a crime not to suspend my employment awhile to gaze at her.' - See how she glideth, in maiden honour, through the clouds, who divide on either side to do her homage. Beautiful vision! — as I contemplate thee, an internal harmony is communicated to my mind, a moral brightness, a tacit analogy of mental purity ; a calm like that we ascribe in fancy to the favoured inhabitants of thy fairy regions, " argent fields." I marvel not, moon, that heathen people, in the " olden times," did worship thy deity — Cynthia, Diana, Hecate. Christian Europe invokes thee not by these names now — her idolatry is of a blacker stain : Belial is her God — she worships Mammon. ROSAMUND GRAY. 609 False things are told concerning thee, fair planet^ — for I -will ne'er believe that thou canst take a perverse pleasure in distorting the brains of us,, poor mortals. Lunatics ! moonstruck ! Calumny invented, and folly took up, these names. I would hope better things from thy mild aspect and benign influences. Lady of Heaven, thou lendest thy pure lamp to light the way to the virgin mourner, when she goes to seek the tomb where her warrior lover lies. Friend of the distressed, thou speakest only peace to the lonely sufferer, who walks forth in the placid evening, beneath thjf gentle light, to chide at fortune, or to com- plain of changed friends, or unhappy loves. Do I dream, or doth not even now a heavenly cahii descend from thee into my bosom, as I meditate on the chaste loves of Rosamund and her Clare ! CHAPTER IV. Allan Clare was just two years older than Rosamund. He was a hoy of fourteen, Avhen he first became acquainted with her — it was soon after she had come to reside with her grandmother at Widford. He met her by chance one day, carry- ing a pitcher in her hand, which she had been filling from a neighbouring well — the pitcher was heavy, and she seemed to bo bending with its weight. Allan insisted on carrying it for her — for he thought it a sin that a delicate young maid, like her, should be so employed, and he stand idle by. Allan had a propensity to do little kind offices for everybody — but at the sight of Rosamund Gray, his first fire was kindled — his young mind seemed to have found an object, and his enthusiasm was from that time forth awakened. His visits, from that day, were pretty frequent at the cottage. He was never happier than when he could get Rosamund to walk out with him. He ■would make her admire the scenes he ad- mired — fancy the wild flowers he fancied — watch the clouds he was watching — and not unfrequently repeat to her poetry which he loved, and make her love it. On their return, the old lady, who con- sidered them yet as but children, would bid Rosamund fetch Mr. Clare a glass of her currant-wine, a bowl of new milk, or some cheap dainty which was more welcome to Allan than the costliest delicacies of a prince's court. The boy and girl, for they were no more at that age, grew- fond of each other — more fond than either of them suspected. " They would sit, and sigh. And look upon each other, and conceive Not what they ail'd ; yet something they did ail, And yet were well — and yet they were not well; And what was their disease, they could not tell." And thus, " In this first garden of their simpleness They spent their childhood." A circumstance had lately happened, which in some sort altered the nature of their attachment. Rosamund was one day reading the tale of "Julia de Roubign6" — a book which young Clare had lent her. Allan was standing by, looking over her, with one hand thrown round her neck, and a finger of the other pointing to a passage in Julia's third letter. " Maria ! in my hours of visionary in- dulgence, I have sometimes painted to myself a liushand — no matter whom-- comfortir.g me amidst the distresses which fortune had laid upon us. I have smiled upon him through my tears; tears, not of anguish, but of ten- derness ! — our children were playing around us, unconscious of, misfortune ; we had taught them to be humble, and to be happy ; our little shed was reserved to us, and their smiles to cheer it. — I have imagined the luxury of such a scene, and afifliction became a part of my dreams of happiness." The girl blushed as she read, and trembled — she had a sort of confused sensation, that Allan was noticing her — yet she durst not lift her eyes from the book, but continued reading, scarce knowing what she read. Allan guessed the cause of her confusion, Allan trembled too — his colour came and went — his feelings became impetuous — and flinging both arms round her neck, he kissed his young favourite. Rosamund was vexed and pleased, soothed and frightened, all in a moment — a fit of tears came to her relief. 610 ROSAMUND GRAY. Allan had indulged before in these little freedoms, and Rosamund had thought no harm of them ; but from this time the girl grew timid and reserved — distant in her manner, and careful of her behaviour in Allan's presence — not seeking his society as before, but rather shunning- it — delighting more to feed upon his idea in absence. Allan too, from this day, seemed changed: his manner became, though not less tender, yet more respectful and diffident — his bosom felt a throb it had till now not known in the society of Rosamund — and, if he was less familiar with her than in former times, that charm of delicacy had superadded a grace to Rosamund, which, while he feared, he loved. There is a mysfer'ioits character, heightened, indeed, by fancy and passion, but not with- out foundation in reality and observation, which true lovers have ever imputed to the object of their affections. This character Rosamund had now acquired with Allan — something angelic, perfect, exceeding nature. Young Clare dwelt very near to the cot- tage. He had lost his parents, who were rather wealthy, early in life ; and was left to the care of a sister some ten years older _than himself. Elinor Clare was an excellent young lady — discreet, intelligent, and affectionate. Allan revered her as a parent, while he loved her as his own familiar friend. He told all the little secrets of his heart to her — but there was one, vvhich he had hitherto unac- countably concealed from her — namely, the extent of his regard for Rosamund. Elinor knew, of his visits to the cottage, and was no stranger to the persons of Mar- garet and her grand-daughter. She had several times met them, when she had been walking with her brother — a civility usually passed on either side — but Elinor avoided troubling her brother with any unseasonable questions. Allan's heart often beat, and he has been going to tell his sister all — but something like shame (false or true, I shall not stay to inquire) had hitherto kept him back ; — still the secret, unrevealed, hung upon his con- science like a crime — for his temper had a sweet and noble frankness in it, which bespake him yet a virgin from the world. There was a fine openness in his counte- nance. — the character of it somewhat resem- bled Rosamund's — except that more fire and enthusiasm were discernible in Allan's ; his eyes were of a darker blue than Rosamund's — his hair was of a chestnut colour — his cheeks ruddy, and tinged with brown. There was a cordial sweetness in Allan's smile, the like to which I never saw in any other face. Elinor had hitherto connived at hei brother's attachment to Rosamund. Elinor, I believe, was something of a physiognomist, and thought she could trace in the counte- nance and manner of Rosamund, qualities which no brother of hers need be ashamed to love. The time was now come when Elinor was desirous of knowing her brother's fixvourite more intimately — an opportunity offered of breaking the matter to Allan. The morning of the day in which he carried his present of fruit and flowers to Rosamund, his sister had observed him more than usually busy in the garden, culling fruit with a nicety of choice not common to him. She came up to him, unobserved, and, taking him by the arm, inquired, with a questioning smile — "What are you doing, Allan? and who are those peaches designed for?" "For Rosamund Gray" — he replied — and his heart seemed relieved of a burden which had long oppressed it. " I have a mind to become acquainted with your handsome friend — will you intro- duce me, Allan ? I think I should like to go and see her this afternoon." "Do go, do go, Elinor — you don't know what a good creature she is ; and old blind Margaret, you will like her very much." His sister promised to accompany him after dinner ; and they parted. Allan gathered no more peaches, but hastily cropping a few roses to fling into his basket, went away with it halfr filled, being impatient to announce to Rosamund the coming of her promised visitor. CHAPTER V. "When Allan returned home, he found an invitation had been left for him, in his absence, to spend that evening with a young \ ROSAMUND GRAY. 511 friepd, -who had just quitted a public school in London, and was come to pass one night in his father's house at Widford, previous to his departure the nest morning for Edinburgh University. It was Allan's bosom friend — they had not met for some months — and it was probable a much longer time must intervene before they should meet again. Yet Allan could not help looking a little blank when he first heard of the invitation. This was to have been an important evening. But Elinor soon relieved her brother by ex- pressing her readiness to go alone to the cottage. "I will not lose the pleasure I promised myself, whatever you may determine upon, Allan ; I will go by myself rather than be disappointed." "Will you, will you, Elinor?" Elinor promised to go — and I believe, Allan, on a second thought, was not very sorry to be spared the awkwardness of intro- ducing two persons to each other, both so dear to him, but either of whom might happen n(5t much to fancy the other. At times, indeed, he was confident that Elinor must love Rosamund, and Bosampnd must love Elinor ; but there were also times in which he felt misgivings — it was an event he could scarce hope for very joy ! Allan's real presence that evening was more at the cottage than at the house, where his bodily semblance was visiting — his friend could not help complaining of a certain absence of mind, a coldness he called it. It might have been expected, and in the course of things predicted, that Allan would have asked his friend some questions of what had happened since their last meeting, what his feelings were on leaving school, the pro- bable time when they should meet again, and a hundred natural questions which friendship is most lavish of at such times ; but nothing of all this ever occurred to Allan — they did not even settle the method of their future correspondence. The consequence was, as might have been expected, Allan's friend thought him much altered, and, after his departure, sat down to compose a doleful sonnet about a " faithless friend." — I do not find that he ever finished it — indignation, or a dearth of rhymes, causing him to break off in the middle. CHAPTER VT. In my catalogue of the little library at the cottage, I forgot to mention a book of Common Prayer. My reader's fancy might easily have supplied the omission— old ladies of Margaret's stamp (God bless them!) may as well be without their spectacles, or their elbow chair, as their prayer-book — I love them for it. Margaret's was a handsome octavo, printed by Baskerville, the binding red, and fortified with silver at the edges. Out of this book it was their custom every afternoon to read the proper psalms appointed for the day. The way they managed was this : they took verse by verse — Rosamund read her little portion, and Margaret repeated hers in turn, from memory — for Margaret could say all the Psalter by heart, and a good part of the Bible besides. She would not unfre- quently put the girl right when she stumbled or skipped. This Margaret imputed to giddiness — a quality which Rosamund was by no means remarkable for — but old ladies, like Margaret, are not in all instances alike discriminative. They had been employed in this manner just before Miss Clare arrived at the cottage. The psalm they had been reading was the hundred and fourth— Margaret was naturally led by it into a discussion of the works of creation. There had been thunder in the course of the day — an occasion of instruction which the old lady never let pass — she began — " Thunder has .a very awful sound — some say God Almighty is angry whenever it thunders— that it is the voice of God speaking'to us ; for my part, I am not afraid of it" And in this manner the old lady was going on to particularise, as usual, its beneficial effects, in clearing the air, destroying of ver- iDin, &c., when the entrance of Miss Clare put an end to her discourse. Rosamund received her with respectful tenderness — and, taking her grandmother by the hand, said, with great sweetness, — " Miss Clare is come to see you, grand- mother." "I beg pardon, lady — I cannot see you — but you are heartily welcome. Is youc 512. ROSAMUND GRAY. brother with you, Miss Clare ? — I don't hear him." " He could not come, madam, but he sends his love by me." " You have an excellent brother, Miss Clare — but pray do us the honour to take some refreshment — Kosamund" And the old lady was going to give direc- tions for a bottle of her currant wine — when Elinor, smiling, said " she was come to take a cup of tea with her, and expected to find no ceremony." " After tea, I promise myself a walk with you, Rosamund, if your gi-andmother can spare you." Eosamund looked at her grand- mother. " Oh, for that matter, I should be sorry to debar the girl from any pleasure — I am sure it 's lonesome enough for her to be with me always — and if Miss Clare will take you out, child, I shall do very well by myself till you return — it will not be the first time, you know, that I have been left here alone — some of the neighbours will be dropping in bye and bye — or, if not, I shall take no harm." Rosamund had all the simple manners of a child ; she kissed her grandmother, arid looked happy. All tea-time the old lady's discourse was little more than a panegyric on young Clare's good qualities. Elinor looked at her young friend, and smiled. Rosamund was beginning to look grave — but there was a cordial sun- shine in the face of Elinor, before which any clouds of reserve that had been gathering on Rosamund's soon brake away. " Does your grandmother ever go out, Rosamund?" Margaret prevented the girl's reply, by saying — "My dear young lady, I am an old woman, and very infirm — Rosamund takes me a few paces beyond the door sometimes — but I walk very badly — I love best to sit in our little arbour when the sun shines — I can yet feel it warm and cheerful — and, if I lose the beauties of the season, I shall be very happy if you and Rosaniund can take delight in this fine summer evening." " I shall want to rob you of Rosamund's company now and then, \£ we like one another. I had hoped to have seen you, madam, at our house. I don't know whether we could not make room for you to come say you to it? tend you, I am I should be nice and live with us — what Allan would be proud to sure ; and Rosamund and company." Margaret was all unused to such kindnesses, and wept — Margaret had a great spirit — yet she was not above accepting an obligation from a worthy person — there was a delicacy in Miss Clare's manner — -she could have no interest but pure goodness, to induce her to make the offer — at length the old lady spake from a full heart. " Miss Clare, this little cottage received us in our distress — it gave us shelter when we had no home — we have praised God in it — and while life remains, I think I shall never part from it — Rosamund does every- thing for me" — "And will do, grandmother, as long as I live;" — and then Rosamund fell a-crying. " You are a good girl, Rosamund ; and if you do but find friends when I am dead and gone, I shall want no better accommodation while I live — but God bless you, lady, a thousand times for your kind offer." Elinor was moved' to tears, and affecting a sprightliness, bade Rosamund prepare for her walk. The girl put on her white silk bonnet; and Elinor thought she never beheld so lovely a creature. They took leave of Margaret, and walked out together ; they rambled over all Rosa- mund's favourite haunts — through many a sunny field — by secret glade or wood-walk, where the girl had wandered so often with her beloved Clare. Who now so happy as Rosamund? She- had oft-times heard Allan speak with great tenderness of his sister — she was now ramb- ling, arm in arm, with that very sister, the "vaunted sister" of her friend, her beloved Clare. Not a tree, not a bush, scarce a wild-flower in their path, but revived in Rosamund some tender recollection, a conversation perhaps, or some chaste endearment. Life, and a new scene of things, were now opening before her — she was got into a fairy land of uncertain existence. Rosamund was too happy to talk mueh-r— but Elinor was delighted with her when she did talk: — the girl's remarks were suggested most of them by the passing scene — and they betrayed, all of them, the liveliness of present ROSAMUND GRAY. 51R impulse; — her conversatiou did not consist in a compai-ison of vapid feeling, an inter- change of sentiment lip-deep — it had all the freshness of young sensation in it. Sometimes they talked of Allan. "Allan is very good," said Rosamund, "very good indeed to my grandmother — he •will sit with her, and hear her stories, and read to her, and try to divert' her a hundred ways. I wonder sometimes he is not tired. She talks him to death !" " Then you confess, Rosamund, that the old lady does tire you sometimes !" "Oh no, I did not mean that — it's very different — I am used to all her ways, and I can humour her, and please her, and I ought to do it, for she is the only friend I ever had in the world." The new friends did not conclude their walk till it was late, and Rosamund began to be apprehensive about the old lady, who had been all this time alone, ■On their return to the cottage, they found that Margaret had been somewhat impatient — old ladies, good old ladies, will be so at times — age is timorous and suspicious of danger, where no danger is. Besides, it was Margaret's bed -time, for she kept very good hours — indeed, in the distribution of her meals, and sundry other particulars, she resembled the livers in the antique world, more than might well beseem a creature of this. So the new friends parted for that night — Elinor having made Margaret promise to give Rosamund leave to come and see her the next day. CHAPTER VII. Miss Clare, we may be sure, made ber brother very happy, when she told him of the engagement she had made for the morrow, and how delighted she had been with his handsome friend. Allan, I believe, got little sleep that night. I know not, whether joy be not a more troublesome bed-fellow than grief — hope kr-ops a body very wakeful, I know. Elinor Clare was the best good creature — the least selfish human being I ever knew — always at work for other people's good, 33 planning other people's happiness — con- tinually forgetful to consult for her own personal gratifications, except indirectly, in the welfare of another; — while her parents lived, the most attentive of daughters — since they died, the kindest of sisters — I never knew but one like her. It happens that I have some of this young lady's letters in my possession — I shall present my reader with one of them. It was written a short time after the death of her mother, and addressed to a cousin, a dear friend of Elinor's, who was then on the point of being married to Mr. Beaumont, of Staffordshire, and had invited Elinor to assist at her nuptials. I will transcribe it with minute fidelity. ELINOR CLARE TO MARIA LESLIE. Widford, July the — , 17—. Health, Innocence, and Beauty, shall be thy bridemaids, my sweet cousin. I have no heart to undertake the ofiBce. Alas ! what have I to do in the house of feasting? .Maria ! I fear lest my griefs should prove obtrusive. Yet bear with me a little — I have recovered already a share of my former spirits. I fear more for Allan than myself. The loss of two such parents, within so short an interval, bears very heavy on him. The boy hangs about me from morning till night. He is perpetually forcing a smile into his pocr pale cheeks — you know the sweetness of his smile, Maria. To-day, after dinner, when he took his glass of wine in his hand, he burst into tears, and would not, or could not then, tell me the reason — afterwards he told me — "he had been used to drink Mamma's health after dinner and that came into his head and made him cry." I feel the claims the boy has upon me — I perceive that I am living to some end — and the thought sup> ports me. Already I have attained to a state of com- placent feelings — my mother's lessons were not thrown away upon her Elinor. In the visions' of last night her spirit seemed to stand at my bed-side — a light, as of noonday, shone upon the room — she opened ray curtains — she smiled upon me with the same placid smile as in her life- time, i felt no fear. " Elinor," she said LU UOSAMTJND GKAY. ■•for my sake take care of young Allan," — and I awoke with calm feelings. Maria ! shall not the meeting of blessed spirits, think you, be something like this? — I think, I could even now behold my mother without dread — I would ask pardon of her for all my past omissions of duty, for all the little asperities in my temper, which have so often grieved her gentle spirit when living. Maria! I think she would not turn away from me. Oftentimes a feeling, more vivid than memorj', brings her before me — I see her sit in her old elbow chair — her arms folded upon her lap — a tear upon her cheek, that seems to upbraid her unkind daughter for some inattention — I wipe it away and kiss her honoured lips. Maria! when I have been fancying all this, Allan will come in, with his poor eyes red with weeping, and taking me by the hand, destroy the vision in a moment. I am prating to you, my sweet cousin, but it is the prattle of the heart, which Maria loves. Besides, whom have I to talk to of these things but you ? — you have been my counsellor in times past, my companion, and sweet familiar friend. Bear with me a little — I moui-n the " cherishers of my infancy." I sometimes count it a blessing that my father did not prove the survivor. You know something of his story. You know there was a foul tale current — it- was the busy malice of that bad man, S , •which helped to spread it abroad — you will recollect the active good -nature of our friends W and T ; what pains they took to undeceive people — with the better sort their kind labours prevailed ; but there was still a party who shut their ears. You know the issue of it. My father's great spirit bore up against it for some time — my father never was a bad man — but that spirit was broken at the last — a.nd the greatly- injured man was forced to leave his old paternal dwelling in Staffordshire — for the neighbours had begun to point at him. Maria ! I have seen them point at him, and have been ready to drop. In this part of the country, Avhere the slander had not reached, he sought a retreat — and he found a still more grateful asylum in the daily solicitudes of the best of wives. " An enemy hath done this," I have heard him say — and at such times my mother would speak to him so soothingly of forgive- ness, and long-suffering, and the bearing of injuries with patience; would heal all his wounds with so gentle a touch; — I have seen the old man weep like a child. The gloom that beset his mind, at times betrayed him into scepticism — he has doubted if there be a Providence ! I have heard him say, "God has built a brave world, but me- thinks he has left his creatures to bustle in it Jioio they may." At such times he could not endure to hear my mother talk in a religious strain. He would say, "Woman, have done — you con found, you perplex me, when you talk of these matters, and for one day at least unlit me for the business of life." I have seen her look at him — God, Maria! such a look! it plainly spake that she was willing to have shared her precious hope with the partner of her earthly cares — but she found a repulse — Deprived of such a wife, think you, the old man could long have endured his existence ? or what consolation would his wretch fd daughter have had "to offer him, but silent and imbecile tears ? My sweet cousin, j^ou will think me tedious — and I am so — but it does me good to talk these matters over. And do not you be alarmed for me — my sorrows are snbsidiug into a deep and sweet resignation. I shall soon be sufficiently composed, I know it, to participate in my friend's happiness. Let me call her, while yet I may, my o'^^'b Maria Leslie ! Methinks, I shall not like you by any other name. Beaumont ! Maria Beaumont ! it hath a strange sound with it — I shall never be reconciled to this name — but do not you fear — Maria Leslie shall plead with me for Maria Beaumont. And now, my sv/eet Friend, God love you, and your Elinor Clare. I find in my collection several letters, written soon after the date of the preceding, and addressed all of them to Maria Beaumont. — I am tempted to make some short extracts from these — my tale will suffer interruption by them — but I was willing to preserve whatever memorials I could of Elinor Clare. ROSAMUND GRAY. 515 FROM ELINOR CLARE TO MARIA BEAUMONT. (AN EXTRACT.) " 1 HAVE been stroUitig out for half an hour in the fields ; and my mind has been occupied by thoughts which Maria has a right to participate. I have been bringing my mother to my recollection. My heart ached with the remembrance of infirmities, that made her closing years of life so sore a trial to her. I 'was concerned to think tha,t our family differences have been one source of disquiet to her. I am sensible that this last we are apt to exaggerate after a person's death — and purely, in the main, there was considerable harmony among the members of onr little family — still I was concerned to think that we ever gave her gentle spirit disquiet. I thought on years back — on all my ^parents' friends — the H s, the F s, on D S , and on many a merry even- ing, in the fireside circle, in that comfortable back parlour — it is never used now. — ye Matravtses* of the age, ye know not what ye lose in despising these petty topics of endeared remembrance, associated circum- stances of past times; — ye know not the throbbings of the heart, tender, yet affection- ately familiar, which accompany the dear and honoured names oi father or of mother. Maria ! I thought on all these things ; my heart ached at the review of them — it yet aches, while I write this — but I am never so satisfied with my train of thoughts, as when they run upon these subjects — the tears they draw from us, meliorate and soften the heart, and keep fresh within us that memory of dear friends dead, which alone c.in fit us for a readmission to their society hereafter.'' PR.OM ANOTHER LETTER. " 1 HAD a bad dream this morning — that Allan was dead— and who, of all persona in the world do you think, put on mourning for him ? Why — Matravis. This alone might cure me of superstitious thoughts, if I were inclined to them ; for why should Matravis mourn for us, or our family? — Still it was pleasant to awake, and find it but a dream. — * This name will be explained presently. Methinks something like an awaking from an ill dream shall the Resurrection from the Dead be. — Materially different from'our accus- tomed scenes, and ways of life, the World to come may possibly not be — still it is repre- sented to us under the notion of a Rest, a Sabbath, a state of bliss." FROM ANOTHER LETTER. " Methinks, you and I should have been born under the same roof, sucked the same milk, conned the same horn-book, thumbed the same Testament together: — for we have been more than sisters, Maria! Something will still be whispering to me, that I shall one day be inmate of the same dwelling with my cousin, partaker with her in all the delights which spring from mutual good offices, kind words, attentions in sick- ness and in health, — conversation, sometimes innocently trivial, and at others profitably serious; — books read and commented on, together ; meals ate, and walks taken, toge- ther, — and conferences, how we may best do good to this poor person or that, and wean our spirits from the world's cares, without divesting ourselves of its charities. What a picture I have drawn, Maria! and none of all these things may ever come to pass." FROM ANOTHER LETTER. " Continue to write to me, my sweet cousin. Many good thoughts, resolutions, and proper views of things, pass thx-ough the mind in the course of the day, but are lost for want of committing them to paper- Seize them, Maria, as they pass, these Birds of Paradise, that show themselves and are gone, — and make a grateful present of the precious fugitives to your friend. To use a homely illustration, just rising in my fancy, — shall the good housewife take such pains in pickling and preserving her worthless fruits, her walnuts, her apricots, and quinces — and is there not much spiritual housetoifery in treasuring up our mind's best fruits — our heart's ineditations in its most favoured moments? This sad simile is much in the fashion ot the old Moralisers, such as I conceive honest Baxter to have been, such as Quarles and Wither were with their curious, serio-comic, ROSAMUND GRAY. quaint emblems. But they sometimes reach the heart, when a more elegant simile rests in the fancy. Not low and mean, like these, but beauti- fully femiliarized to our conceptions, and condescending to human thoughts and notions, are all the discourses of our Lord — conveyed 4n parable, or similitude, what easy access do they win to the heart, through the medium of the delighted imagination! speaking of heavenly things in fable, or in simile, drawn from earth, from objects com- mon, accustomed. Life's business, with such delicious little interruptions as our correspondence affords, how pleasant it is ! — why can we not paint on the dull paper our whole feelings, exquisite as they rise up?" rROM ANOTHER LETTER. " I HAD meant to have left off at this place ; but looking back, I am sorry to find too gloomy a cast tincturing my last page-^a representation of life false and unthankful. Life is not all vanity and disappointment — it hath much of evil in it, no doubt; but to those who do not misuse it, it affords comfort, temporary comfort, much — much that endears us to it, and dignifies it — many true and good feelings, I trust, of which we need not be ashamed — hours of tranquillity and hope. But the morning was dull and overcast, and my spirits were under a cloud. I feel my error. Is it no blessing that we two love one another so dearly — that Allan is left me — that you are settled in life — that worldly affairs go smooth with us both — above all that our lot hath fallen to us in a Christian country ? Maria ! these things are not little, I will consider life as a long feast, and not forget to say grace." FROM ANOTHER LETTER. «« Allan has written to me — you know, he is on a visit at his old tutor's in Gloucestershire — he is to return home on Thursday — Allan is a dear boy — he con- cludes his letter, which is very affectionate throughout, in this manner — Elinor, I charge you to learn the following Stanza bv heart — The monarch may forget his crown, That on his head an hour hath heen; The bridegroom may forget his bride Was made his wedded wife yestreen; The mother may forget her child, That smiles so sweetly on her knee : But I '11 remember thee, Glencairn, And all that thou hast done for me. The lines are in Burns — you know, we read him for the first time together at Margate — and I have been used to refer them to you, and to call you, in my mind, Glencairn, — for you were always very good to me. I had a thousand failings, but you would love me in spite of them all. I am going to drink your health. I shall detain my reader no longer from the narrative. CHAPTER VIIL They had but fo"ur rooms in the cottage. Margaret slept in the biggest room up-stairs, and her grand-daughter in a kind of closet adjoining, where she could be within hearing, if her granduT^ther should call her in the night. The girl was often disturbed in that man- ner — two or three times in a night she has been forced to leave her bed, to fetch her grandmother's cordials, or do some little ser- vice for her — but she knew that Margaret's ailings were real and pressing, and Rosamund never complained — never suspected that her grandmothers requisitions had anything un- reasonable in them. The night she parted with Miss Clare, she had helped Margaret to bed, as usual — and, after saying her prayers, as the custom was, kneeling by the old lady's bed-side,'kissed her grandmother, and wished her a good-night — Margaret blessed her, and charged her to go to bed directly. It was her customary injunc- tion, and Rosamund had never dreamed of disobeying. So she retired to her little room. The night was warm and clear — the moon very bright — her window commanded a view of scenes she had been tracing in the day-time with Miss Clare. All the events of the day past, the occur- rences of their walk arose in her mind. She ROSAMUND GRAY. 517 fancied she should like to retrace those scenes— but it was now nine o'clock, a late hour in the village. Still she fancied it would be very charming — and then her grandmother's injunction came powerfully to her recollection — she sighed, and turned from the window — and walked np and down her little room. Ever, when she looked at the window, the wish returned. It was not so very late. The neighbours were yet about, passing under the window to their homes — she thought, and thought again, till her sensations became vivid, even to painfulness — her bosom was aching to give them vent. The village clock struck ten ! — the neigh- bours ceased to pass under the window. Kosamund, stealing down stairs, fastened the latch behind her, and left the cottage. One, that knew her, met her, and observed her with some surprise. Another recollects having wished her a good-night. Kosamund never returned to the cottage. An old man, that lay sick in a small house adjoining to Margaret's, testified the next morning, that he had plainly heard the old creature calling for her grand-daughter. All the night long she made her moan, and ceased not to call upon the name of Kosa- mund. But no Kosamund was there — the voice died away, but not till near day-break. When the neighbours came to search in the morning, Margaret was missing! She had straggled out of bed, and made her way into Kosamund's room. — worn out with fatigue and fright, when she found the girl not there, she had laid herself down to die — and, it is thought, she died praying — for she was discovered in" a kneeling posture, her arms and face extended on the pillow, where Rosamund had slept the night before — a smile was on her face in death. CHAPTER IX. Fain would I draw a veil over the transactions of that night — but I cannot — grief, and burning shame, forbid me to be silent — black deeds are about to be made public, which reflect a stain upon our com- mon nature. Rosamund, enthusiastic and improvident, wandered unprotected to a distance from her guardian doors — through lonely glens,' and wood walks, where she had rambled m&nj&day'm safety — till she arrived at a shady copse, out of the hearing of any human habitation. Matravis met her. " Flown with inso- lence and wine," returning home late at night, he passed that way ! Matravis was a very ugly man. Sallow complexioned ! and if hearts carf wear that colour, his heart was sallow -complexioned also. A young man with gray deliberation ! cold and systematic in o,ll his plans ; and all his plans were evil. His very lust was systematic. He would brood over his bad purposes for such a dreary length of time that, it might have been expected, some solitary check of conscience must have intervened to save him from commission. But thar Light from Heaven was extinct in his dark bosom. Nothing that is great, nothing that is amiable, existed for this unhappy man. He feared, he envied, he suspected ; but he never loved. ■ The sublime and beautiful in nature, the excellent and becoming in morals, were things placed beyond the capacity of his sensations. He loved not poetry — nor ever took a lonely walk to meditate — never beheld virtue, which he did not try to disbelieve, or female beauty and innocence, which he did not lust to contaminate. A sneer was perpetually upon his face, and malice grinning at his heart. He would say the most ill-natured things, with the least remorse, of any man I ever knew. This gained him the reputation of a wit — other traits got him the reputation of a villain. And this man formerly paid his court to Elinor Clare! — with what success I leave my readers to determine. It was not in Elinor's nature to despise any living thing — but in the estimation of this man, to be rejected was to be despised — and Matravis never forgave. He had long turned his eyes upon Rosamund Gray. To steal from the bosom of her friends the jewel they prized so much, the little ewe lamb they held so dear, was a scheme of delicate revenge, and Matravis 518 EOSAMUND GRAY. had a two-fold motive for accomplishiDg this young maid's ruin. Often had he met her in her favourite solitudes, but found her ever cold and inaccessible. Of late the girl had avoided straying far from her own home, in the fear of meeting him — but she had never told her fears to Allan. Matravis had, till now, been content to be a villain within the limits of the law — but, on the present occasion, hot fumes of wine, co-operating with his deep desire for revenge, and the insolence of an unhoped-for meeting, overcame his customary prudence, and Matravis rose, at once, to an audacity of glorious mischief. Late at night he met her, a lonely, un- protected virgin — no friend at hand — no place near of refuge. Kosamund Gray, my soul is exceeding sorrowful for thee — I loathe to tell the hateful circumstances of thy wrongs. Night and silence were the only witnesses of this young maid's disgrace — Matravis fled. Rosamund, polluted and disgraced, wan- dered, an abandoned thing, about the fields and meadows till day-break. Not caring to return to the cottage, she sat herself down before the gate of Miss Clare's house — in a stupor of grief. Elinor was just rising, and had opened the windows of her chamber, when she perceived her desolate young friend. She ran to embrace her — she brought her into the house — she took her to her bosom — she kissed her — she spake to her ; but Rosamund could not speak. '■ Tidings name from the cottage. Margaret's death was an event which could not be kept concealed from Rosamund. When the sweet maid heard of it, she languished, and fell sick — she never held up her head after that time. If Rosamund had been a sister, she could not have been kindlier treated than by her two friends. Allan had prospects in life — might, in time, have married into any of the first families in Hertfordshire — but Rosamund Gray, humbled though she was, and put to shame, had yet a charm for Mm — and he would have been content to share his fortunes • with her yet, if Rosamund would have lived to be his companion. But this was not to be — and the girl soon after died. She expired in the arms of Elinor — quiet, gentle, as she lived — thankful that she died not among strangers — and expressing, by signs rather -than words, a gratitude for the most trifling services, the common ofBces of humanity. She died uncomplaining ; and this young maid, this untaught Rosamund, might have given a lesson to the grave philosopher in death. CHAPTER X. I WAS but a boy when these events took place. All the village remember the story, and tell of Rosamund Gray, and old blind Margaret. I parted from Allan Clare on that disas- trous night, and set out for Edinburgh the next morning, before the facts were com- monly known — I heard not of them — and it was four months before I received a letter frQm Allan. " His heart," he told me, " was gone from him — for his sister had died of a frenzy fever!" — not a word of Rosamund in tiie letter — I was left to collect her story from sources which may one day be explained. I soon after quitted Scotland, on the death of my father, and returned to my native village. Allan had left the place, and I could gain no information, whether he were dead or living. I passed the cottage. I did not dare to look that way, or to inquire who lived there. A little dog, that had been Rosamund's, was yelping in my path. I laughed aloud like one mad, whose mind had suddenly gone from him — I stared vacantly around me, like one alienated from common perceptions. But I was young at that time, and the impression became gradually weakened as I mingled in the business of life. It is now ten years since these events took place, and I sometimes think of them as unreal. Allan Clare was a dear friend to me — but there are times when Allan and his sister, Mar- garet and her grand-daughter, appear like personages of a dream — an idle dream. ROSAMUND GRAY. 519 CHAPTER XI. Strange things have happened unto me — I seem scarce awake — but I will recollect my thoughts, and try to give an account of what has befallen me in the few last weeks. Since my father's death our family have resided in London. I am in practice as a surgeon there. My mother died two years after we left Widford. A month or two ago, I had been busying myself in drawing up the above narrative, intending to make it public. The employ- ment had forced my mind to dwell upon fads, which had begun to fade from it — the memory of old times became vivid, and more vivid — I felt a strong, desire to revisit the scenes of my native village — of the young loves of Rosamund and her Clare. A kind cf dread had hitherto kept me hack ; but I was restless now, till I had accomplished my wish. I set out one morn- ing to walk — I reached Widford about eleven in the forenoon — after a slight breakfast at my inn — where I was mortified to perceive the old landlord did not know me again — (Old Thomas Billet — he has often made angle- rods for me when a child) — I rambled over all my accustomed haunts. Our old house was vacant, and to be sold. I entered, unmolested, into the room that had been my bedchamber. I kneeled down on the spot where my little bed had stood — I felt like a child — I prayed like one — it seemed as though old times were to return again — I looked round involuntarily, expect- ing to see some face I knew — but all was naked and mute. The bed was gone. My little pane of painted window, through which I loved to look at the sun when I awoke in a fine summer's morning, was taken out, and had been replaced by one of common glass. I visited, by turns, every chamber — they were all desolate and unfurnished, one ex- c;^pted, in which the owner had left a harp- sichord, probably to be sold — I touched the keys — I played some old Scottish tunes, which had delighted me when a child. Past associations revived with the music — ^^ blended with a sense of unreality, which at last be- came too powerful — I rushed out of the room to give vent to my feelings. I wandered, scarce knowing where, into an old wood, that stands at the back of the house— we called it the Wilderness. A well- known form was missing, that used to meet me in this place — it was thine — Ben Moxam — the kindest, gentlest, politest of human beings, yet was he nothing higher than a gardener in the family. Honest creature! thou didst never pass me in my childish rambles, without a soft speech, and a smile. I remember thy good-natured face. But there is one thing, for which I can never for- give thee, Ben Moxam — that thou didst join with an old maiden aunt of mine in a cruel plot, to lop away the hanging branches of the old fir-trees — I remember them sweeping to the ground. I have often left my childish sports to ramble in this place — its glooms and its soli- tude had a mysterious charm for my young mind, nurturing within me that love of quiet- ness and lonely thinking, which has accom- panied me to maturer years. In this Wilderness I found myself, after a ten years' absence. Its stately fir-trees were yet standing, with all their luxuriant com- pany of underwood — the squirrel was there, ■ and the melancholy cooings of the wood- pigeon— all was as I had left it — my heart softened at the sight — it seemed as though my character had been suflfering a change since I forsook these shades. My parents were both dead — I had no counsellor left, no experience of age to direct me, no sweet voice of reproof. The Lord had taken away mj friends, and I knew not where he had laid them. I paced round the wilderness, seeking a comforter. I prayed that I might be restored to that state of in- nocence, in which I had wandered in those shades. Methought my request was heard, for it seemed as though the stains of manhood were passing from me, and I were relapsing into the purity and simplicity of childhood. I was content to have been moulded into a perfect child. I stood still, as in a trance. I dreamed that I was enjoying a personal intercourse with my heavenly Father — and, extravagantly, put off the shoes from my feet — for the place where I stood, I thought, was holy ground. This state of mind could not last long, and I returned with languid feelings to my inu. KOSAMUND GRAY. I ordered my dinner — green peas and a sweetbread — it had been a favourite dish with me in my childhood — I was allowed to have it on my birth-days. I was impatient to see it come upon table — but, when it came, I could scarce eat a mouthful — my tears choked me. I called for wine — I drank a pint and a half of red wine — and not till then had I dared to visit the church-yard, where my parents were interred. The cottage lay in my way — Margaret had chosen it for that very reason, to be near the church — for the old lady was regular in her attendance on public worship — I passed on — and in a moment found myself among the tombs. I had been present at my father's burial, and knew the spot again — my mother's funeral I was prevented by illness from at- tending — a plain stone was placed over, the grave, with their initials carved upon it — for they both occupied one grave. I prostrated myself before the spot — I kissed the earth that covered them — I con- templated, with gloomy delight, the time •when I should mingle ray dust with theirs . — and kneeled, with my arms incumbent on the grave-stone, in a kind of mental prayer — for I could not spgak. Having performed these duties, I arose wtth quieter feelings, and felt leisure to attend to indifferent objects. — Still I con- tinued in the church -yard, reading the various inscriptions, and moralising on them with that kind of levity, which will not un- frequently spring up in the mind, in the midst of deep melancholy. I read of nothing but careful parents, loving husbands, and dutiful children. I said jestingly, where be all the bad people buried? Bad parents, bad husbands, bad children — what cemeteries are appointed for these? — do they not sleep in consecrated ground? or is it but a pious fiction, /a generous oversight, in the survivors, which thus tricks out men's epitaphs when dead, who, in their life-time, discharged the offices of life, perhaps, but lamely ? Their failings, with their reproaches, now sleep with them in the grave. Man wars not with the dead. It is a trait of human nature, for which I love it. I had not observed, till now, a little group assembled at the other end of the chui-ch- yard; it was a company of children, who were gathered round a young man, dressed in black, sitting on a grave-stone. He seemed to be asking them questions — probably, about their learning — and on«> little dirty ragged- headed fellow was clam- boring up his knees to kiss him. Tho ■ children had been eating black cherries — foi some of the stones were scattered about, and their mouths were smeared with them. As I drew near them, I thought I dis- cerned in the stranger a mild benignity of countenance, which I had somewhere seen before — I gazed at him more attentively. It was Allan Clare ! sitting on the grave of his sister. I threw my arms about his neck. I ex- claimed "Allan" — he turned his eyes upon me — he knew me — we both wept aloud— it seemed as though the interval since we parted had been as nothing — I cried out, "Come, and tell me about these things." I drew him away from his little friends — he parted with a show of reluctance from the church-yard — Margaret and her grand- .daughter lay buried there, as well as his sister — I took him to my inn — secured a room, where we might be private — ordered fresh wine — scarce knowing what I did, I danced for joy. Allan was quite overcome, and taking me by the hand, he said, " This repays me for all." It was a proud day for me-- 1 had found the friend I thought dead — earth seemed to me no longer valuable, than as it contained him; and existence a blessing no longer than while I should live to be his comforter. I began, at leisure, to survey him with more attention. Time and grief had left few traces of that fine enthusiasm, which once burned in his countenance — his eyes had lost their original fire, but they retained an un- common sweetness, and whenever they were' turned upon me, their smile pierced to my heart. "Allan, I fear you have been a sufferer ?" He replied not, and I could not press him further. I could not call the dead to life again. So we drank and told old stories — and repeated old poetry — and sang old songs — as if nothing had happened. We sat till very late. I forgot that I had purposed returning to town that evening — to Allan all places were ROSAMUND GRAY. 521 alike — I grew noisy, he grew cheerful — Allan's old manners, old enthusiasm, were re- turning upon him — we laughed, we wept, we mingled our tears, and talked extravagantly. Allan was my chamber-fellow that night — and lay awake planning schemes of living together under the same roof, entering upon similar pursuits, — and praising God, that we had met. I was obliged to return to town the next morning, and Allan proposed to accompany me. " Since the death of his sister," he told me, " he had been a wanderer." In the course of our walk he unbosomed himself without reserve — told me many par- ticulars of his way of life for the last nine or ten years, which I do not feel myself at liberty to divulge. Once, on my attempting to cheer him, when I perceived him over thoughtful, he replied to me in these words : " Do not regard me as unhappy when you catch me in these moods. I am never more happy than at times when, by the cast of my countenance, men judge me most miserable. " My friend, the events which have left this sadness behind them are of no recent date. The melancholy which comes over me with the recollection of them is not hurtful, but only tends to soften and tranquillise my mind, to detach me from the restlessness of human pursuits. " The stronger I feel this detachment, the more I find myself drawn heavenward to the contemplation of spiritual objects. " I love to keep old friendships alive and warm within me, because I expect a renewal of the_m in the World of Spirits. " I am a wandering and unconnected thing on the earth. I have made no new friend- ships, that can compensate me- for the loss of the old — and the more I know mankind, the more does it become necessary for me to supply their loss by little images, recollec- tions, arid circumstances of past pleasures. " I am sensible that I am surrounded by a multitude of very worthy people, plain- hearted souls, sincere and kind. But they have hitherto eluded my pursuit, and will continue to bless the little circle of their families and friends, while I must remain a stranger to them. " Kept at a distance by mankind, I have not ceased to love them — and could I find the cruel persecutor, the malignant instru- ment of God's judgments on me and mine, I think I would forgive, and try to love him too. "I have been a quiet sufferer. From the beginning of my calamities it was given to me, not to see the hand of man in them. I perceived a mighty arm, which none but myself could see, extended over me. I gave my heart to the Purifier, and my will to the Sovereign Will of the Universe. The irre- sistible wheels of destiny passed on in their everlasting rotation, — and I suffered myself to be carried along with them without com- plaining." CHAPTER XII. Allan told me that for some years past, feeling himself disengaged from every per- sonal tie, but not alienated from human sympathies, it had been his taste, his Jmmour he called it, to spend a great portion of his time in hospitals and lazar-Tiouses. He had found a wayward pleasvre, he re- fused to name it a virtue, in tending a description of people, who had long ceased to expect kindness or friendliness from man- kind, but were content to accept the reluct- ant services, which the oftentimes unfeeling instruments and servants of these well-meant institutions deal out to the poor sick people under their care^ It is not medicine, it is not broths and coarse meats, served up at a stated hour with all the hard formalities of a prison — it is not the scanty dole of a bed to die on — which dying man requires from his species. Looks, attentions, consolations, — in a word, sympathies, are what a man most needs in this awful close of mortal sufferings. A kind look, a smile, a drop of cold water to the parched lip — for these things a man shall bless you in death. And these better things than cordials did Allan love to administer — to stay by a bed- side the whole day, when something disgust- ing in a patient's distemper has kept the very nurses at a distance — to sit by, while the poor wretch got a little sleep -^ and be there to smile upon him when he awoke — to 522 ROSAMUND GEAY. slip a guinea, now and then, into the hands ] The uncommonness of the name, which of a nurse or attendant — these things have j was Matravis, suggested to me, that this been to Allan as privileges, for which he was i might possibly be no other than Allan's old content to live ; choice marks, and circum- stances, of his Maker's goodness to him. And I do not know whether occupations of this kind be not a spring of purer and nobler delight (certainly instances of a more disinterested virtue) than arises from what are called Friendships of Sentiment. Between two persons- of liberal education, like opinions, and common feelings, often- times subsists a Variety of Sentiment, which disposes each to look upon the other as the only being in the universe worthy of friend- ship, or capable of understanding it, — them- selves they consider as the solitary receptacles of all that is delicate in feeling, or stable in attachment : when the odds are, that under every green hill, and in every crowded street, people of equal worth are to be found, who do more good in their generation, and make less noise in the doing of it. It was in consequence of these benevolent propensities, I have been describing, that Allan oftentimes discovered considerable in- clinations in favour of my way of life, which I have before mentioned as being that of a surgeon. He would frequently attend me on my visits to patients ; and I began to think that he had serious intentions of making my profession his study. He was present with me at a scene — a death-heel scene — I shudder when I do but think of it. CHAPTER Xni. I WAS sent for the other morning to the assistance of a gentleman, who had been wounded in a duel, — and his wounds by un- skilful treatment had been brought to a dangerous crisis. enemy, what I Under this apprehension, I did could to dissuade Allan from ac- companying me — but he seemed bent upon going, and even pleased himself with the notion, that it might lie within his ability to do the unhappy man some service. So he went with me. When we came to the house, which was in Soho-Square, we discovered that it was indeed the man — the identical Matravis, who had done all that mischief in times past — but not in a condition to excite any other sensa- tion than pity in a heart more hard than Allan's. Intense pain had brought on a delirium — we perceived this on first entering the room — for the wretched man was raving to him- self — talking idly in mad unconnected sen- tences — that yet seemed, at times, to have a reference to past facts. One while he told us his dream. " lie had lost his way on a great heath, to which there seemed no end — it was cold, cold, cold, — and dark, very dark — an old woman in leading-strings, blind, was groping about for a guide" — and then he frightened me, — for he seemed disposed to be jocular, and sang a song about " an old woman clothed in grey," and said " he did not believe in a devil." Presently he bid us " not tell Allan Clare." — Allan was hanging over him at that very moment, sobbing. — I could not resist the impulse, but cried out, " This is Allan Clare — Allan Clare is come to see you, my dear Sir." — '■ The wretched man did not hear me, I believe, for he turned his head away, and began talking of charnel-houses, and dead men, and " whether they knew anything that passed in their coffins." Matravis died that night. ESSAYS. EEOOLLECTIONS OF CHBIST'S HOSPITAL. To comfort the desponding parent with the thought that, without diminishing the stock which is imperiously demanded to fur- nish the more pressing and homely wants of our nature, he has disposed of one or more perhaps out uf a numerous offspring, under the shelter of a care scarce less tender than the paternal, where not only their bodily cravings shall be supplied, but that mental pabulum is also dispensed, which He hath declared to be no less necessary to our sus- tenance, who said, that, " not by bread alone man can live:" for this Christ's Hospital unfolds her bounty. Here neither, on the one hand, are the youth lifted up above their family, which we must suppose liberal, though reduced ; nor on the other hand, are they liable to be depressed below its level by the mean habits and sentiments which a common charity-school generates. It is, in a word, an Institution to keep those who have yet held up their heads in the world from sinking ; to keep alive the spirit of a decent household, when poverty was in dan- ger of crushing it ; to assist those who are the most willing, but not always the most able, to assist themselves ; to separate a child from his family for a season, in order to render him back hereafter, with feelings and habits more congenial to it, than he could even have attained by remaining at home in the bosom of it. It is a preserving and renovating principle, an antidote for the res angusta domi, when it presses, as it always does, most heavily upon the most ingenuous natures. This is Christ's Hospital ; and whether its character would be improved by con- fining its advantages to the very lowest of the people, let those judge who have wit- nessed the looks, the gestures, the behaviour, the manner of their play with one another, their deportment towards strangers, the whole aspect and physiognomy of that vast assemblage of boys on the London founda- tion, who freshen and make alive again with their sports the else mouldering cloisters of the old Grey Friars — which strangii-s who have never witnessed, if they pass through Newgate-street, or by Smithfield, would do well to go a little out of their way to see. For the Christ's Hospital boy feels that he is no charity-boy : he feels it in the anti- quity and regality of the foundation to which he belongs ; in the usage which he meets with at school, and the treatment he is accus- tomed to out of its bounds ; in the respect and even kindness, which his well- known garb never fails to procure him in the streets of the metropolis ; he feels it in his education, in that measure of classical attainments, which every individual at that school, though not destined to a learned pro- fession, has it in his power to procure, at- tainments which it would be worse than folly to put it in the reach of the labouring classes to acquire : he feels it in the number- less comforts, and even magnificences, which surround him; in his old and awful cloisters, with their traditions ; in his spacious school- rooms, and in the well-ordered, airy, and lofty rooms where he sleeps ; in his stately dining-hall, hung round with pictures, by Verrio, Lely, and others, one of them sur- passing in size and grandeur almost any 623 524 RECOLLECTIONS OF CHRIST'S HOSPITAL. other in the kingdom ; * above all, in the very extent and magnitude of the body to which he belongs, and the consequent spirit, the intelligence, and public conscience, which is the result of so many various yet wonder- fully combining members. Compared, with this last-named advantage, what is the stock of information, (I do not here speak of book- learning, but of- that knowledge which boy receives from boy,) the mass of collected opinions, the intelligence in common, among the few and narrow members of an ordinary boarding-school ? 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 dis- gusting forwardness of a lad brought up at some other of the public schools. There is pride in it, accumulated from the circum- stances which I have described, as differ- encing him from the former ; and there is a restraining modesty from a sense of obligation and dependence, which must ever keep his deportment from assimilating to tlmt of the latter. His very garb, as it is antique and venerable, feeds his self-respect ; as it is a badge of dependence, it restrains the natural petulance of that age from breaking out into overt acts of insolence. This produces silence and a reserve before strangers, yet not that cowardly shyness which boys mewed up at home will feel ; he will speak up when spoken to, but. the stranger must begin the conversation with him. Within his bounds he is all fire and play ; but in the streets he steals along with all the self-concentration of a young monk. He is never known to mix with other boys, they are a sort of laity to him. All this proceeds, I have no doubt, from the continual consciousness which he carries about him of the difference of his dress from that of the rest of the world ; with a modest jealousy over himself, lest, by over-hastily mixing with common and secular playfellows, he should commit the dignity of his cloth. Nor let any one laugh at this; for, considering the propensity of the * By Verrio, representing James the Second on his throne, surrounded by his courtiers, (all curious por- traits,) receiving the mathematical pupils at their annual presentation: a custom still kept up on New-year's-day at ConrL multitude, and especially of the small multitude, to ridicule anything unusual in dress — above all, where such peculiarity may be construed by malice into a mark of disparagement — this reserve will appear to be nothing more than a wise instinct in the Blue-coat boy. That it is neither pride nor rusticity, at least that it has none of the offensive qualities of either, a stranger may soon satisfy himself by putting a question to any of these boys : he may be sure of an answer couched in terms of plain civility, neither loquacious nor embarrassed. Let him put the same question to a parish-boy, or to one of the trencher-caps in the cloisters, and the impudent reply of the one shall not fail to exasperate any more than the certain servility, and mercenary eye to reward, ■ which he will meet with in the other, can fail to depress and sadden him. The Christ's Hospital boy is a religious chai-acter. His school is eminently a religious foundation ; it has its peculiar prayers, its services at set times, its graces, hymns, and anthems, following each other in an almost monastic closeness of succession. This religious character in him is not always untinged with superstition. That is not wonderful, when we consider the thousand tales and traditions which must circulate, with undisturbed credulity, amongst so many boys, that have so few checks to their belief from any intercourse with the world at large: upon whom their equals in age must work so much, their elders so little. With this leaning towards an over-belief in matters of religion, which will soon correct itself when he comes out into society, may be classed a turn for romance above most other boys. This is to be traced in the same manner to their excess of society with each other, and defect of mingling with the worlds Hence the peculiar avidity with which such books as the Arabian Nights' Entertainments, and others of a still wilder cast, are, or at least were in my time, sought for by the boys. I remember when some half-dozen of them set off from school, without map, card, or com- pass, on a serious expedition to find out Philip QuarlVs Island. The Christ's Hospital boy's sense of right and wrong is peculiarly tender and appre- hensive. It is even apt to run out into ceremonial observances, and to impose a V. RECOLLECTIONS OF CHRIST'S HOSPITAL. 525 yoke upon itself beyond the strict obligations of the moral law. Those who were con- temporaries with me at that school thirty years ago, will remember with what more than Judaic rigour the eating of the fot of certain boiled meats* was interdicted. A b(iy would have blushed as at the exposure of some heinous immorality, to have been detected eating that forbidden portion of his allowance of animal food, the whole of which, while he was in health, was little more than sufficient to allay his hunger. The same, or even greater, refinement was shown in the rejection of certain kinds of sweet-cake. What' gave rise to these supererogatory penances, these self-denying ordinances, I - could never learn ;t they certainly argue no defect of the conscientious principle. A little excess in that article is not undesirable in youth, to make allowance for the inevitable waste which comes in maturer years. But in the less ambiguous line of duty, in those directions of the moral feelings which cannot be mistaken or depreciated, I will relate what took place in the year 1785, when Mr. Perry, the steward, died. I must be pardoned for taking my instances from my own times. Indeed, the vividness of my recollections, while I am upon this subject, almost bring back those times; they are present to me still. But I believe that in the years which have elapsed since the period which I speak of, the character of the Christ's Hospital boy is very little changed. Their situation in point of many comforts is improved; but that which I ventured before to term the 'public conscience of the school, the pervading moral sense, of which every mind partakes and to which, so many individual minds contribute, remains, I believe, pretty much the same as when T left it. I have seen, within this twelvemonth almost, the change which has been produced upon a boy of eight or nine years of age, upon being admitted into that school ; how, from a pert young coxcomb, who thought * Under the denomination of gags. f I am told that the late steward [Mr. Hathaway] who evinced on mapy occasions a most praiseworthy anxiety t(0 promote the comfort of the boys, had occasion for all his address and perseverance to eradicate the first of thiise unfortunate prejudices, in which he at length happily succeeded, and thereby restored to one-half of the animal nutrition of the school those honours which painful superstition and blind zeal had so long conspired to with- hold from it. that all knowledge was comprehended within his shallow brains, because a smattering of two or three languages and one or two sciences was stuffed into him by injudicious treatment at home, by a mixture with the wholesome society of so many schoolfellows, in less time than I have spoken of, he has sunk to his own level, and is contented to be carried on in the quiet orbit of modest self-knowledge in which the common mass of that unpresumptuous assemblage of boys seem to move: from being a little unfeeling mortal, he has got to feel and reflect. Nor would it be a difficult matter to show how, at a school like this, ^here the boy is neither entirely separated from home, nor yet exclusively under its influence, the best feelings, the filial for instance, are brought to a maturity which they could not have attained under a completely domestic edu- cation ; how the relation of a parent is rendered less tender by unremitted associa- tion, and the very awfulness of age is best apprehended, by some sojourning amidst the comparative levity of youth ; how absence, not drawn out by too great exten- sion into alienation or forgetfulness, puts an edge upon the relish of occasional intercourse, and the boy is made the better child by that which keeps the force of that relation from being felt as perpetually pressing on him ; how the substituted paternity, into the care of which he is adopted, while in everything substantial it makes up for the natural, in the necessary omission of individual fond- nesses and partialities, directs the , mind only the more strongly to appreciate that natural and first tie, in which such weak- nesses are the bond of strength, and the appetite which craves after them betrays uo perverse palate. But these speculations rather belong to the question of the com- parative advantage of a public over a private education in general. I must get back .to my favourite school; and to that which took place when our old and good steward died. And I will say, that when I think of the frequent instances which I have met with in children, of a hard-heartedness, a callousness, and insensibility to the loos of relations, even of those who have begot and nourished them, I cannot but consider it as a proof of some- thing in the peculiar confcrmatiou of that 526 RECOLLECTIONS OF CHRIST'S HOSPITAL. school, favourable to the expansion of the best feelings of our nature, that, at the period which I am noticing, out of five hundred boys there was not a dry eye to be found aniong them, nor a heart that did not heat with genuine emotion. Every impulse to play, until the funeral day was past, seemed suspended throughout the school ; and the boys, lately so mirthful and sprightly, were seen pacing their cloisters alone, or in sad groups standing about, few of them without some token, such as their slender means could provide, a black riband or something, to denote respect and a sense of their loss. The time itself was a time of anarchy, a time in which all authority (out of school hours) was abandoned. The ordi- nary restraints were for those days super- seded ; and the gates, which at other times kept us in, were left without watchers. Yet, ■with the exception of one or two graceless boys at most, who took advantage of that suspension of authorities to skulk out, as it was called, the whole body of that great school kept rigorously within their bounds, by a voluntary self-imprisonment ; and they who broke bounds, though they escaped punishment from any master, fell into a general disrepute among us, and, for that which at any other time would have been applauded and admired as a mark of spirit, were consigned to infamy and reprobation ; so much natural government have gratitude and the principles of reverence and love, and 80 much did a respect to their dead friend prevailed with these Christ's Hospital boys, above any fear which his presence among them when living could ever produce. And if the impressions which were made on my mind so long ago are to be trusted, very richly did their steward deserve this tribute. It is a pleasure to me even now to call to mind his portly form, the regal awe which he always contrived to inspire, in spite of a tenderness and even weakness of nature that would have enfeebled the reins of discipline in any other master ; a yearning of tender- ness towards those under his protection, which could make five hundred boys at once feel towards him each as to their individual father. He had faults, with which we had nothing to do ; but, with all his faults, in- deed, Mr. Perry was a most extraordinary creature. Contemporary with him and still living, though he has long since resigned his occupation, will it be impertinent to mention the name of our excellent upper grammar- master the Rev. James Eoyer? He was a disciplinarian, indeed, of a different stamp from him whom I have just described ; but, now the terrors of the rod, and of a temper a little too hasty to leave the more nervous of us quite at our ease to do justice to his merits in those days, are long since over, ungrateful were we if we should refuse our testimony to that unwearied assiduity with which he attended to the particular improvement of each of us. Had we been the oifspring of the first gentry in the land, ho could not have been instigated by the strongest views of recompense and reward to have made himself a greater slave to the most laborious of all occupations than he did for us sons of charity, from whom, or from our parents, he could expect nothing, He has had his reward in the satisfaction of having discharged his duty, in the pleasurable consciousness of having advanced the respect- ability of that institution to which, both man and boy, he was attached ; in the honours to which so many of his pupils have success- fully aspired at both our Universities; and in the staff with which the Governors of the Hospital, at the close of his hard labours, with the highest expressions . of the obliga- tions the school lay under to him, unani- mously voted to present him. I have often considered it among the felicities of the constitution of this school, that the oflices of steward and schoolmaster are kept distinct ; the strict business of education alone devolving upon the latter, while the former has the charge of all things out of school, the control of the pro- visions, the regulation of meals, of dress, of play, and the ordinary intercourse of the boys. By this division of management, a superior respectability must attach to the teacher while his office is unmixed with any of these lower concerns. A still greater advantage over the construction of common boarding-schools is to be found in the settled salaries of the masters, rendering them totally free of obligation to any individual pupil or his parents. This never fails to have its effect at schools where each boy can reckon up to a hair what profit the master derives from him, where he views him every RECOLLECTIONS OF CHRIST'S HOSPITAL. 527 day in the light of a caterer, a provider for the family, who is to get so much by him in each of his meals. Boys will see and con- sider these things ; and how much must the sacred character of preceptor suffer in their minds by these degrading associations ! The very bill which the pupil carries home with him at Christmas, eked out, perhaps, with elaborate though necessary minuteness, in- structs him that his teachers have other ends than the mere love to learning, in the lessons which they give' him; and though they put into his hands the fine sayings of Seneca or Epictetus, yet they themselves are none of those disinterested pedagogues to teach philosophy gratis. The master, too, is sensible that he is seen in this light ; and how much this must lessen that affectionate regard to the learners which alone can sweeten the bitter labour of instruction, and convert the whole business into unwelcome and uninteresting task-work, many precep- tors that I have conversed with on the sub- ject are ready, with a sad heart, to acknow- ledge. From this inconvenience the settled salaries of the masters of this school in great measure exempt them ; while the happy custom of choosing masters (indeed every officer of the establishment) from those who have received their education there, gives them an interest in advancing the character of the school, and binds them to observe a tenderness and a respect to the children, in which a stranger, feeling that independence vrhich I have spoken of, might well be ex- pected to fail. In affectionate recollections of the place where he was bred up, in hearty recognitiyns of old schoolfellows met with again after the lapse of years, or in foreign countries, the Christ's Hospital boy yields to none ; I might almost say, he goes beyond most other boys. The very compass and magnitude of the school, its thousand bearings, the space it takes up in the imagination beyond the ordinary schools, impresses a remembrance, accompanied with an elevation of mind, that attends him through life. It is too big, too aflecting an object, to pass away quickly from his mind. The Christ's Hospital boy's friends at school are commonly his intimates through life. For me, I do not know whether a constitutional imbecility does not incline me too obstinately to cling to the remem- brances of childhood ; in an inverted ratio to the usual sentiments of mankind, nothing that I have been engaged in since seems of any value or importance, compared to the colours which imagination gave to everything then. I belong to no body corporate such as I then made a part of. — And here, before I close, taking leave of the general reader, and addressing myself solely to my old school-fellows,^ that were contemporaries with me from the year 1782 to 1789, let me have leave to remember some of those circum- stances of our school, which they will not be unwilling to have brought back to their minds. And first, let us remember, as first in importance in our childish eyes, the young men (as they almost were) who, under the denomination of Grecians, were waiting the expiration of the period when they should be sent, at the charges of the Hospital, to one or other of our universities, but more frequently to Cambridge. These youths, from their superior acquirements, their superior age and stature, and the fewness of their numbers, (for seldom above two or three at a time were inaugurated into that high order,) drew the eyes of all, and espe- cially of the younger boys, into a reverent observance and admiraticm. How tall they used to seem to us ! how stately would they pace along the cloisters ! while the play of the lesser boys was absolutely suspended, or its boisterousness at least allayed, at their presence! Not that they ever beat or struck the boys — that would have been to have demeaned themselves — the dignity of their persons alone insured them all respect. The task of blows, of corporal chastisement, they left to the common monitors, or heads of wards, who, it must be confessed, in our time had rather too much license allowed them to oppress and misuse their inferiors ; and the interference of the Grecian, who may be considered as the spiritual power, was not unfrequently called for, to mitigate by its mediation the heavy unrelenting arm of this temporal power, or monitor. In fine, the Grecians were the solemn Muftis of the school, ^ras were computed from their time; — it used to be said, such or such a thing was done when S or T was Grecian. As I ventured to call the Grecians, the 528 SECOLLECTIONS OF CHRIST'S HOSPITAL. Muftis of the school, the King's boys,* as their character then was, may well pass for the Janissaries. They were the terror of all the other boys ; bred up under that hardy sailor, as well as excellent mathematician, and co-navigator with Captain Cook, William Wales. All his systems were adapted to fit them for the rough element which they were destined to encounter. Frequent and severe punishments, which were expected to be borne with more than Spartan fortitude, came to be considei-ed less as inflictions of disgrace than as trials of obstinate endurance. To make his boys hardy, and to give them early sailor-habits, seemed to be his only aim ; to this every thing was subordinate. Moral obli- quities, indeed, were sure of receiving their full recompense, for no occasion of laying on the lash was ever let slip ; but the effects ex- pected to be produced from it were something very different from contrition or mortification. There was in William Wales a perpetual fund of humour, a constant glee about him, which heightened by an inveterate provincialism of north-country dialect, absolutely took away the sting from his severities. His punish- ments were a game at patience, in which the master was not always worst contented when he found himself at times overcome by his pupil. What success this discipline had, or how the effects of it operated upon the after- lives of these King's boys, I cannot say : but I am sure that, for the time, they were abso- lute nuisances to the rest of the school. Hardy, brutal, -and often wicked, they were the most graceless lump in the whole mass ; older and bigger than the other boys, (for, by the system of their education, they were kept longer at school by two or three years than any of the rest, except the Grecians,) they were a constant terror to the younger part of the school ; and some who may read this, I doubt not, will remember the conster- nation into which the juvenile fry of us were thrown, when the cry was raised in the cloisters, that the First Order was coming — for so they termed the first form or class of those boys. Still these sea-boys answered some good purposes, in the school. They were the military class among the buys, foremost in athletic exercises, who extended * The mathematical pupils, bred up to the sea, on the foundation of Charles the Second. the fame of the prowess of the school far and near, and the apprentices in the vicinage, and sometimes the butchers' boys in the neigh- bouring market, had sad occasion to attest their valour. The time would fail me if I were to attempt to enumerate all those circum- stances, some pleasant, some attended with some pain, which, seen through the mist of distance, come sweetly softened to the memory. But .1 must crave leave to re- member our transcending superiority in those invigorating sports, leap-frog, and basting the bear ; our delightful excursions in the summer holidays to the New River, near Newington, where, like otters, we would live the long day in the water, never caring for dressing ourselves, when we had once stripped ; our savoury meals afterwards, when we came home almost famished with staying out all day without our dinners ; our visits at other times to the Tower, where, by ancient privilege, we had free access to all the curiosities ; our solemn pi-ocessions through the City at Easter, with the Lord Mayor s largess of buns, wine, and a shilling, with the festive questions and civic plea- santries of the dispensing Alderman, which were more to us than all the rest of the banquet; our stately suppings in public, where the well-lighted hall, and the conflu- ence of well-dressed company who came to see us, made the whole look more like a concert or assembly, than a scene of a plain bread and cheese collation; the annual orations upon St. Matthew's day, in which the senior scholar, before he had done, s»ldom failed to reckon up, among those who had done honour to our school by being educated in it, the names of those accom- plished critics and Greek scholars, Joshua Barnes and Jeremiah Markland (I marvel they left out Camden while they were about it.) Let me have leave to remember our hymns and anthems, and well-toned organ ; the doleful tune of the burial anthem chanted in the solemn cloisters, upon the seldom-occurring funeral of some school- fellow ; the festivities at Christmas, wheti the richest of us would club our stock to have a gaudy day, sitting round the fire,' replenished to the height with logs, and the pennyless, and he that could contribute nothing, partook in all the mirth, and in ON THE TRAGEDIES OF SHAKSPEARE. 529 some of the substantialities of the feasting ; the carol sung by night at that time of the year, which, when a young boy, I have so often lain awake to hear from seven (the hour of going to bed) till ten, when it was sung by the older boys and monitors, and have listened to it, in their rude chaunting, till I have been transported in fancy to the fields of Eethlehem, and the song which was sung at that season, by angels' voices to the shepherds. Nor would I willingly forget any of these things which administered to our vanity. The hem-stitched bands and town -made shirts, which some of the most fashionable among us wore; the town-girdles, with buckles of silver, or shining stone ; the badges of the sea-boys ; the cots, or superior shoe-strings, of the monitors; the medals of the markers ; (those who were appointed to hear the Bible read in the wards on Sunday morning and evening,) which bore on their obverse in silver, as certain parts of our garments carried, in meaner metal, the coun- tenance of our Founder, that godly and royal child. King Edward the Sixth, the flower of the Tudor name — the young flower that was untimely cropt, as it- began to fill our land with its early odours — the boy-patron of boys — the serious and holy child who walked with Cranmer and Ridley — fit associate, in those tender years, for the bishops, and future martyrs of our Church, to receive, or, (as occasion sometimes proved,) to give in- struction. "But, all! what means the silent tear? Why, e'en 'mid joy, my bosom heave? Ye long-lost scenes, enchantments dear I Lo! now I linger o'er your grave. " — Fly, then, ye hours of rosy hue, And hear away the hloom of years I And quick succeed, ye sickly crew Of doubts and sorrows, pains and fears I " Still will I ponder Fate's unaltered plan. Nor, tracing back the child, forget that I am man."* * Lines meditated in the cloisters of Christ's Hospital, In the " Poetics" of Mr. George Dyer. ON THE TRAGEDIES OF SHAKSPEARE. CONSIDEREB WITH REFERENCE TO THEIR FITNESS FOR STAGE REPRESENTATION. Taking a turn the other day in the Abbey, I was struck with the afi"ected attitude of a figure, which I do not remember to have seen before, and which upon examination proved to be a whole-length of the celebrated Mr. Garrick. Though I would not go so far with some good Catholics abroad as to shut players altogether out of consecrated ground, yet I own I was not a little scandalised at he introduction of theatrical airs and ges- tures into a place set apart to remind us of the saddest realities. Going nearer, I found inscribed under this harlequin figure the following lines : — "To paint fair Nature, by divine command, Her magic pencil in his glowing hand, A Shakspeare rose; then, to expand his fame Wide o'er this breathing world, a Garrick came. Though sunk in death the forms the Poet drew. The Actor's genius bade them breathe anew ; Though, like the bard himself, in night they.lay. Immortal Garrick called them back to day : And till Eternity with power sublime Shall mark the mortal hour of hoary Time, Shakspeare and Garrick like twin-stars shall shine And earth irradiate with a beam divine." 34 It would be an insult to my readers' understandings to attempt anything like a criticism on this farrago of false thoughts and nonsense. But the reflection it led me into, was a kind of wonder, how, from the days of the actor here celebrated to our own, it should have been the fashion to compli- ment every performer in his turn, that has had the luck to please the Town in any of the great characters of Shakspeare, with the notion of possessing a mind congenial with the poet's : how people should come thus un- accountably to confound the power of origi- nating poetical images and conceptions with the faculty of being able to read or recite the same when put into words ;* or what * It is observable that we fall into this confusion only in dramatic recitations. We never dream that the gen- tleman who reads Lucretius in public with great applause, is therefore a great poet and philosopher ; nor do we find that Tom Davis, the bookseller, who is recorded to have recited the Paradise Lost better than any man in England in his day (though I cannot help thinking there must he some mistake in this tradition) was therefore, by his intimate friends, set upon a level with Milton. 580 ON THE TKAGEDIES OF SHAKSPEARE. connection that absolute mastery over the heart and soul of man, which a great dra- matic poet pt)ssesses, has with those low trick's upon the eye and ear, which a player by observing a few general effects, which some common passion, as grief, anger, &c., usually has upon the gestures and exterior, can so easily compass. To know the internal workings and movements of a great mind, of an Othello or a Hamlet for instance, the when and the lohy and the how far they should be moved ; to what pitch a passion is becoming ; to give the reins and to pull in the curb exactly at the moment when the drawing in or the slackening is most grace- ful ; seems to demand a reach of intellect of a vastly different extent from that which is employed upon the bare imitation of the signs of these passions in the countenance or gesture, which signs are usually observed to be most lively and emphatic in the weaker sort of minds, and which signs can after all but indicate some passion, as I said before, anger, or grief, generally ; but of the motives and grounds of the passion, wherein it differs from the same passion in low and vulgar natures, of these the actor can give no more idea by his face or gesture than the eye (without a metaphor) can speak, or the muscles utter intelligible sounds. But such is the instantaneous nature of the impressions which we take in at the eye and ear at a play-house, compared with the slow appre- hension oftentimes of the understanding in reading, that we are apt not only to sink the play-writer in the consideration which we pay to the actor, but even to identify in our minds, in a perverse manner, the actor with the character which he represents. It is difficult for a frequent play-goer to disem- barrass the idea of Hamlet from the person and voice of Mr. K. We speak of Lady Macbeth, while we are in reality thinking of Mrs. S. Nor is this confusion incidental alone to unlettered persons, who, not possess- ing the advantage of reading, are necessarily dependent upon the stage-player for all the . pleasure which they can receive from the drama, and to whom the very idea of what an author is cannot be made comprehensible without some pain and perplexity of mind : the error is one from which persons other- wise not meanly lettered, find it almost im- possible to extricate themselves. Never let me be so ungrateful as to forget the very high degree of satisfaction which I received some years^back from seeing for the first time a tragedy of Shakspeare performed, in which those two great performers sus- tained the principal parts. It seemed to embody and realize conceptions which had hitherto assumed no distinct shape. But dearly do we pay all our life after for this juvenile pleasui-e, this sense of distinctness. When the novelty is past, we find to our cost that instead of realising an idea, we have only materialised and brought down a fine vision to the standard of flesh and blood. We have let go a dream, in quest of an unattainable substance. How cruelly this operates upon the mind, to have its free conceptions thus cramped and pressed down to the measure of a strait- lacing actuality, may be judged from that delightful sensation of freshness, with which we turn to those plays of Shakspeare which have escaped being performed, and to those passages in the acting plays of the same writer which have happily been left out in the performance. How far the very custom of hearing anything spouted, withers and blows upon a fine passage, may be seen in those speeches from Henry the Fifth, &c. which are current in the mouths of school- boys, from their being to be found in Enfield's Speaker, and such kind of books ! I confess myself utterly unable to appreciate that celebrated soliloquy in Hamlet, beginning " To be or not to be," or to tell whether it be good, bad or indifferent, it has been so handled and pawed about by declamatory boys and men, and torn so inhumanly from its living place and principle of continuity in the play, till it is become to me a perfect dead member. It may seem a paradox, but I cannot help being of opinion that the plays of Shakspeare are less calculated for performance on a stage, than those of almost any other dramatist whatever. Their distinguishing excellence is a reason that they should be so. There is so much in them, which comes not under the province of acting, with which eye, and tone, and gesture, have nothing to do. The glory of the scenic art is to personate passion, and the turns of passion ; and the more coarse and palpable the passion is, the more hold upon the eyes and ears of the ON THE TRAGEDIES OF SHAKSPEARE. 531 spectators the performer obviously possesses. For this reason, scolding scenes, scenes where two persons talk themselves into a fit of fury, and then in a surprising manner talk them- selves out of it again, have always been the most popular upon our stage. And the reason is plain, because the spectators are here most palpably appealed to, they are the proper judges in this war of words, they are the legitimate ring that should be formed round such " intellectual prize-fighters." Talking is the direct object of the imitation here. But in all the best dramas, and in Shakspeare above all, how obvious it is, that the form of speaking, whether it be ir. soliloquy or dialogue, is only a medium, and often a highly artificial one, for putting the reader or spectator into possession of that knowledge of the inner structure and work- ings of mind in a character, which he could otherwise never have arrived at in that form of composition by any gift short of intuition. We do here as ,we do with novels written in the epistolary form. How many improprieties, perfect solecisms in letter-writing, do we put up with in Clarissa and other books, for the sake of the delight which that form upon the ■whole gives us ! But the practice of .stage representation reduces everything to a controversy of elocution. Every character, from the bois- terous blasphemings of Bajazet to the shrink- ing timidity of womanhood, must play the orator. The love dialogues of Eomeo and Juliet, those silver-sweet sounds of lovers' tongues by night ! the more intimate and sacred sweetness of nuptial colloquy between an Othello or a Posthumus with their married wives, all those delicacies which are so delightful in the reading, as when we read of those youthful dalliances in Paradise — " As 'beseem'd . Fair couple link'd in happy nuptial league, Alone ;" by the inherent fault of ctage representation, how are these things sullied and turned from their very nature by being exposed to a large assembly ; when such speeches as Imogen addresses to her lord, come drawling out of the mouth of a hired actress, \7hose court- ship, though nominally addressed to the personated Posthumus, is manifestly aimed at the spectators, who are to judge of her endearments and her returns of love ! The character of Hamlet is perhaps that by which, since the days of Betterton, a succession of popular performers have had the greatest ambition to distinguish them- selves. The length of the part may be one of their reasons. But for the character itself, we find it in a play, and therefore we judge it a fit subject of dramatic representation. The play itself abounds in maxims and reflections beyond any other, and therefore we consider it as a proper vehicle for con- veying moral instructidn. But Hamlet him- self — what does he suffer meanwhlie by being dragged forth as the public school-master, to give lectures to the crowd ! Why, nine parts in ten of what Hamlet does, are transactions between himself and his moral sense ; they are the effusions of his solitary musings, which he retires to holes and corners and the most sequestered parts of the palace to pour forth ; or rather, they are the silent medita- tions with which his bosom is bursting, reduced to icords for the sake of the reader, who must ,else remain ignorant of what is passing there. Those profound sorrows, these light-and-noise-abhorring ruminations, which the tongue scarce dares utter to deaf walls and chambers, how can they be represented by a gesticulating actor, who comes and mouths them out before an audience, making four hundred people his confidants at once! I say not that it is the fault of the actor so to do; he must pronounce them ore rotiindo ; he niust accompany them with his eye ; he must insinuate them into his auditory by some trick of eye, tone or gesture, or he fails. He must he thinJcing all the while of his appear- ance, because he knows that all the while the spectators are judging of it. And this is the way to represent the shy, negligent, retiring Hamlet ! It is true that there is no other mode of conveying a vast quantity of thought and feeling to a gi-eat portion of the audience, who otherwise would never earn it for them- selves by reading, and the intellectual acqui- sition gained this way may, for aught I know, be inestimable ; but I am not arguing that Hamlet should not be acted, but how much Hamlet is made another thing by being acted. I have heard much of the wonders which Garrick performed in this part ; but as I never saw him, I must have leave to doubt whether the representation of such a 632 ON THE TRAGEDIES OF SHAKSPEARE. character came within the province of his art. Those who tell me of him, speak of his eye, of the magic of his eye, and of his commanding voice : physical properties, vastly desirable in an actor, and without which he can never insinuate meaning into an auditory, — but what have they to do with Hamlet; what have they to do with intellect? In fact, the things aimed at in theatrical representation, are to arrest the spectator's eye upon the form and the gesture, and so to gain a more favorable hearing to what is spoken ; it is not what the character io, but how he looks ; not what he says, but how he speaks it. I see no reason to think that if the play of Hamlet were written over again by some such writer as Banks or Lillo, retaining the process of the story, but totally omitting- all the poetry of it, all the divine features of Shakspeare, his stupendous intel- lect ; and only taking care to give us enough of passionate dialogue, which Banks or Lillo were never at a loss to furnish ; I see not how the effect could be much different upon an audience, nor how the actor has it in his power to represent Shakspeare to us differently from his representation of Banks or Lillo. Hamlet would Gtill be a youthful accomplished prince, and must be gracefully personated ; he might be puzzled in his mind, wavering in his conduct, seemingly cruel to Ophelia ; he might see a ghost, and start at it, and address it kindly when he found it to be his father ; all this in the poorest and most homely language of the servilest creeper after nature that ever con- sulted the palate of an audience ; without troubling Shakspeare for the matter : and I see not but there would be room for all the power which an actor has, to display itself. All the passions and changes of passion might remain : for those are much less difficult to write or act than is thought; it is a trick easy to be attained, it is but rising or falling a note or two in the voice, a whisper with a significant foreboding look to announce its approach, and so contagious the counterfeit appearance of any emotion is, that let the words be what they will, the look and tone' shall carry it off and make it pass for deep skill in the passions. It is commcm for people to talk of Shakspeare's plays being so natural; that everybody can understand him. They are natural indeed, they are grounded deep in nature, so deep that the depth of them lies out of the reach of most of us. You shall hear the same persons say that' George Barnwell is very natural, and Othello is very natural, that they are both vei-y deep ; and to them they are the same kind of thing. At the one they sit and shed tears, because a good sort of young man is tempted by a naughty woman to commit a trifling pecca- dillo, the murder of an uncle or so,* that is all, and so comes to an untimely end, which is so moving ; and at the other, because .a blackamoor in a fit of jealousy kills his innocent white wife ; and the odds are that ninety-nine out of a hundred would willingly behold the same catastrophe happen to both the heroes, and have thought the rope more due to Othello than to BarnM^ell. For of the texture of Othello's mind, the inward construction marvellously laid "open with all its strengths and weaknesses, its heroic confidences and its human misgivings, its agonies of hate springing from the depths of love, they see no more than the spectators at a cheaper rate, who pay their pennies a-piece to look through the man's telescope in Leicester-fields, see into the inward plot and topography of the moon. Some dim thing or other they see ; they see an actor personating a passion, of grief, or anger, for instance, and they recognise it as a copy of the usual external effects of such passions ; or at least as being true to that sijmhol of the emotion which passes current at the theatre for it, for it is often no more than that : but of the grounds of the passion, its correspondence to a great or heroic nature, which is the only worthy object of tragedy, — that common auditors know anything of this, or can have * If this note could hope to meet the eye of any of the Managers, I would entreat and beg of them, in the name of both the Galleries, that this insult upon the morality of the common people of London should cease to be eternally repeated in the holiday weeks. Why are the 'Prentices of this famous and well-governed city, instead of an amusement, to be treated over and over again with a nauseous sermon of George Barnwell? Why at the end of their vistas are we to place the gallows? Were I an uncle, I should not much like a nephew of mine to have such an example placed before his eyes. It is really making unole-murder too trivial to exhibit it as done upon such slight motives ; — it is attributing too much to such charactoro as Millwood: — it is putting things into the heads of good young men, which they would never otlierwioe have dreamed of. Uncles that think anything of their lives, should fairly petition the Chamberlain against it. ON THE TRAGEDIES OF SHAKSPEARE. 533 any such notions dinned into them by the mere strength of an actor's lungs — that apprehen- sions foreign to them should be thus infused into them by storm, I can neither believe, nor understand how it can be possible. We talk of Shakspeare's admirable ob- servation of life, when we should feel, that not from a petty inquisition into those cheap and every-day characters which surrounded him, as they surround us, but from his own mind, which was, to borrow a phrase of Ben Jonson's, the very " sphere of hu- manity," he fetched those images of virtue and of knowledge, of which every one of us recognising a part, think we comprehend in our natures the whole ; and oftentimes mistake the powers which he positively creates in us, for nothing more than indi- genous faculties of our own minds, which only waited the application of corresponding virtues in him to return a full and clear echo of the same. To return to Hamlet. — Among the dis- tinguishing features of that wonderful cha- racter, one of the most interesting (yet painful) is that soreness of mind which makes him treat the intrusions of Polonius vrith harshness, and that asperity which he puts on in his interviews with Ophelia. These tokens of an unhinged mind (if they be not mixed in the latter case with a profound artifice of love, to alienate Ophelia by affected discourtesies, so to prepare her mind for the breaking off of that loving intercourse, which can no longer find a place amidst business so serious as that which he has to do) are parts of his character, which to reconcile with our admiration of Hamlet, the most patient consideration of his situation is no more than necessary ; they are what •we forgive afterwards, and explain by the •whole of his character, but at the time they are harsh and unpleasant. Yet such is the actor's necessity of giving strong blows to the audience, that I have never seen a player in this character, who did not exaggerate and strain to the utmost these ambiguous features, — these temporary deformities in the character. They make him express a vulgar scorn at Polonius which utterly de- grades his gentility, and which no explana- tion can render palatable ; they make him show contempt, and curl up the nose at Ophe- lia's father, — contempt in its very grossest and most hateful form ; but they get applause by it : it is natural, people say ; that ip, the words are scornful, and the actor expresses scorn, and that they can judge of: but why so much scorn, and of that sort, they never think of asking. • So to Ophelia. — All the Hamlets that I have ever seen, rant and rave at her as if she had committed some great crime, and the audience are highly pleased, because the words of the part are satirical, and they are enforced by the strongest expression of satirical indignation of which the face and voice are capable. But then, whether Hamlet \a likely to have put on such brutal appearances to a lady whom he loved so dearly, is never thought on. The truth is, that in all such deep affections as had subsisted between Hamlet and Ophelia, there is a stock of supererogatory loos, (if I may venture to use the expression,) which in any great grief of heart, especially where that which preys upon the niind cannot be communicated, confers a kind of indulgence upon the grieved party to express itself, even to its heart's dearest object, in the language of a temporary alienation ; but it is not alienation, it is a distraction purely, and so it always makes itself to be felt by that object: it is not anger, but grief assuming the appearance of anger, — love awkwardly counterfeiting hate, as s'S'eet countenances when they try to frown : but Qi:ch sternness and fierce disgust as Hamlet is made to show, is no counterfeit, but the real face of absolute aversion, — rof irreconcile- able alienation. It may be said he puts on the madman ; but then he should only so far put on this counterfeit lunacy as hia own real distraction will give him leave ; that is, incom- pletely, imperfectly ; not in that confirmed, practised way, like a master of his art, or as Dame Quickly would say, "like one of those harlotry players." I mean no disrespect to any actor, but the sort of pleasure which Shakspeare's plays give in the acting seems to me not at all to differ from that which the audience receive from those of other writers ; and ihei/ being in themselves essentially so diffei'ent from all others, I must conclude that there is some- thing in the nature of acting which levels all distinctions. And, in fact, w^ho does not speak indifferently of the Gamester and of 534 ON THE TRAGEDIES OP SHAKSPEAEE. Macbeth as fine stage performances, and praise the Mrs. Beverley in the same way as the Lady Macbeth of Mrs. S. ? Belvidera, and Calista, and Isabella, and Euphrasia, are they less liked than Imogen, or than Juliet, or than Desdemona? Are they not spoken of and remembered in the same way? Is not the female performer as great (as they call it) in one as in the other? Did not Garrick shine, and was he not ambitious of shining, in every drawling tragedy that his wretched day produced, — the productions of the Hills, and the Murphys, and the Browns, — and shall he have that honour to dwell in our minds for ever as an insepr.rcible con- comitant with Shakspeare? A kindred mind ! who can read that affecting sonnet of Shakspeare which alludes to his profession as a player : — " Oh for my sake do you with Fortune chide, Tlie guilty goddess of my harmless deeds, ' That did not belter for my life provide Than public means wliich public custom breeds — Thence comes it that my name receives a brand ; And almost thence my nature is subdued To what it works in, like the dyei's hand." — Or that other confession : — " Alas! 'lis true, I have gone here and there, Aud made myself a motley to thy view, Gored mine own thoughts, sold cheap what is most dear — " Who can read these instances of jealous self-watchfulness in our sweet Shakspeare, and dream of any congeniality between him and one that, by every tradition of hira, appears to have been as mere a player as ever existed ; to have had his mind tainted with the lowest players' vices, — envy and jealousy, and miserable crayings after ap- plause ; one who in the exercise of his profes- sion was jealous even of the women-performers that stood in his way ; a manager full of managei'ial tricks and stratagems and finesse; that any resemblance should be dreamed of between him and Shakspeare, — Shakspeare who, in the plenitude and consciousness of his own powers, could with that noble modesty, whiuh v.'0 can neither imitate nor appreciate, express himself thus of his own sense of his own defects : — " Wishing me like to one more rich in hope. Featured like him, like him with friends possest; Desiring this man's art, and that man's scope" r am almost disposed to deny to Garrick the merit of being an admirer of Shakspeara? A true lover of his excellences he certainly was not ; for would any true lover of them have admitted into his matchless scenes such ribald trash as Tate and Gibber, and the rest of them, that " With their darkness durst affront his light, have foisted into the acting plays of Shakspeare? I believe it impossible that he could have had a proper reverence for Shakspeare, and have condescended to go through that interpolated scene in Richard the Third, in which Richard tries to break his wife's heart by telling her he loves another woman, and siiys, "if she survives this she is immortal." Yet I doubt not he delivered this vulgra* stuff with as much anxiety of emphasis as any of the genuine parts I and for acting, it is as well calculated as any. But we have seen the part of Richard lately produce great fame to an actor by his manner of playing it, and it lets us into the secret of acting, and of popular judgments of Shakspeare derived from acting. Not one of the spectators who have witnessed Mr. C.'s exertions in that part, but has come away with a proper conviction that Richard is a very wicked man, and kills little children in their beds, with something like the pleasure which the giants and ogres in children's books are represented to have taken in that practice; moreover, that he is vei-y close and shrewd, and devilish cunning, for you could see that by his eye. But is, in fact, this the impression we have in reading the Richard of Shakspeare? Do we feel anything like disgust, as we do at that butcher-like representation of him that passes for him on the stage ? A horror at his crimes blends with the effect which we feel, but how is it qualified, how is it carried off, by the rich intellect which he displays, his I'esources, his wit, his buoyant spirits, his vast knowledge and insight into cha- racters, the poetry of his part, — not an atom of all which is made perceivable in Mr. C.'s way of acting it. Nothing but his crimes, his actions, is visible ; they are prominent and staring ; the murderer stands out, but where is the lofty genius, the man of vast capacity, — the profound, the witty, accom- plished Richcird ? The truth is, the characters of Shakspeare ON THE TRAGEDIES OF SHAKSPEARE. 535 are so much the objects of meditation rather than of interest or curiosity as to their actions, that while we are reading any of his great criminal characters, — Macbeth, Richard, even lago, — we think not so much of the crimes which they commit, as of the ambition, the aspiring spirit, the intellectual activity, which prompts them to overleap these moral fences. Barnwell is a wretched murderer ; there is a certain fitness between his neck and the rope; he is the legitimate heir to the gallows ; nobody who thinks at all can think of any alleviating circum- stances in his case to make him a fit object of mercy. Or to take an instance from the higher tragedy, what else but a mere assassin is Glenalvon ? Do we think of anything but of the crime which he commits, and the rack which he deserves? That is all which we really think about him. Whereas in corre- sponding characters in Shakspeare, so little do the actions comparatively affect us, that while the impulses, the inner mind in all its perverted greatness, solely seems real and ie exclusively attended to, the crime is compa- ratively nothing. But when we see these things represented, the acts which they do are comparatively everything, their impulses nothing. The state of sublime emotion into which we are elevated by those images of night arid horror which Macbeth is made to utter, that solemn prelude with which he entertains the time till the bell shall strike which is to call him to murder Duncan, — when we no longer read it in a book, when we have given up that vantage ground of abstraction which reading possesses over seeing, and come to see a man in his bodily shape before our eyes actually preparing to commit a murder, if the acting be true and impressive, as I have witnessed it in Mr. K.'s performance of that part, the painful anxiety about the act, the natural longing to prevent it while it yet seems unperpetrated, the too close pressing semblance of reality, give a pain and an uneasiness which totally destroy all the delight which the words in the book convey, where the deed doing never presses upon us with the painful sense of presence : it rather seems to belong to history, — to some- thing past and inevitable, if it has anything to do with time at all. The sublime images, the poetry alone, is that which is present to our minds in the reading. 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 in 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 in me. But the Lear of Shakspeare cannot be acted. The contemptible machi- nery 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 great- ness of Lear is not in corporal dimension, but in intellectual : the explosions of his passion 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 insig- nificant 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, immethodised from the ordinary purposes of life, but exerting its powers, as the wind blows 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 tliemselves, when, in his reproaches to them for conniving at the injustice of his children, he reminds them that " they them- selves are old ?" What gesture shall we appropriate to this ? What has the voice or the eye to do with such things ? But the play is beyond all art, as the tamperings with it show: it is too hard and stony; it must have love-scenes, and a happy ending. It is not enough that Cordelia is a daughter, she must shine as a lover too. Tate has put his hook in the nostrils of this Leviathan, for Garrick and his followers, the show-men of the scene, to draw the mighty beast about more easily. A happy ending! — as if the living martyrdom that Lear had gone 536 ON THE TRAGEDIES OF SHAKSPEARE. through, — the flaying of his feelings alive, did not make a fair dismissal from the stage of life the only decorous thing for him. If he ig to live and be happy after, if he could sustain this world's burden after, why all this pudder and preparation, — why torment us with all this unnecessary sympathy ? As if the childish pleasure of getting his gilt robes and sceptre again could tempt him to act over again his misused station — as ifij at his years and with his experience, anything ■was left but to die. Le.ar is essentially impossible to be repre- sented on a stage. But how many dramatic personages are there in Shakspeare, which though more tractable and feasible (if I may so speak) than Lear, yet from some circum- stance, some adjunct to their character, are improper to be shown to our bodily eye ! Othello for instance. Nothing can be more soothing, more flattering to the nobler parts of our natures, than to read of a young Venetian lady of the highest extraction, through the force of love and from a sense of merit in him whom she loved, laying aside every consideration of kindred, and country, and colour, and wedding with a coal-black Moor — (for such he is represented, in the imperfect state of knowledge respecting foreign countries in those days, compared with our own, or in compliance with popular notions, though the Moors are now well enough known to be by many shades less unworthy of a white woman's fancy) — it is the perfect triumph of virtue over accidents, of the imagination over the senses. She sees Othello's colour in his mind. But upon the stage, when the imagination is no longer the ruling faculty, but we are left to our poor unassisted senses, I appeal to every one that has seen Othello played, whether he did not, on the contrary, sink Othello's mind in his colour ; whether he did not find something extremely revolting in the courtship and wedded caresses of Othello and Desdemona ; aud whether the actual sight of the thing did not over-weigh all that beautiful compromise which we make in reading ; — and the reason it should do so is obvious, because there is just so much reality presented to our senses as to give a perception of disagreement, with not enough of belief in the internal motives, — all that which is unseen, — to overpower and reconcile the first and obvious preju- dices.* What we see upon a stage is body and bodily action ; what we are conscious of in reading is almost exclusively the mind, and its movements ; and this I think may sufficiently account for the very different sort of delight with which the same play so often affects us in the reading and the seeing. It requires little reflection to perceive, that if those characters in Shakspeare which are within the precincts of nature, have yet something in them which appeals too exclu- sively to the imagination, to admit of their being made objects to the senses without suffering a change and a diminution, — that still stronger the objection must lie against representing another line of characters, M'hich Shakspeare has introduced to give a wildness and a supernatural elevation to his scenes, as if to remove them still farther from that assimilation to common life in which their excellence is vulgarly supposed to consist. When we read the incantations of those terrible beings the witches in Macbeth, though some of the ingredients of their hellish composition savour of the grotesque, yet is the effect upon us other than the most serious and appalling that can be imagined ? Do we not feel spell-bound as Macbeth was ? Can any mirth accompany a sense of their presence ? We might as well laugh under a consciousness of the Principle of Evil himself being truly and really present with us. But attempt to bring these things on to a stage, and you turn them instantly into so many old women, that men and children are to laugh a,t. Contrary to the old saying, that " seeing is believing," the sight, actually destroys the faith ; and the mirth in which we indulge at their expense, when we see these creatures upon a stage, seems to be a sort of indemnification which we make to ourselves for the terror which they put us in when reading made them an object of belief, * The error of supposing that heoause Othello's colour does not offend us in the reading, it should also not offend us in the seeing, is just such a fallacy as sup- posing that an Adam and Eve in a picture shall affect us just aS they do in the poem. But in the poem we for a while have Paradisaical senses given us, which vanish when we see a man and his wife without clothes in the picture. The painters themselves feel this, as is appa- rent by the awkward shifts they have repour.se to, to make them look not quite naked ; by a sort of prophetic anachronism, antedating the invention of fig-leaves. So in the reading of the play, we see with Dosdemona's eyes : in the seeing of it, we are forced to look with our own. &{j^7 vGEDIES feelings aVivr, ' 'V m the etn - misused stati within the see upon a stage i ; uhat we are conscioas - : sKist cxclufjively the min-i, oinents ; and this I think nifi ^ ocount for the very different soi •- ;h ■vvbich the same, play so often tho reading and the seeing. little reflection to perceive, th"; aracters in Shakspeare which are precincts of nature, have yet 'in which appeals too excla- gination, to admit of their objects to the senses without ■hfinirc nrif! a diminution, — that must lie agaiis: iif fthn.i'actei;s, gTvo a iii^rediCAits of liioir :rour of the grotesque. (i is the buMct ujioa as other than the mo-t "fi'ous and appalling that can be imagined 'i I- BiicU he iM represented, la th.e i Do \re not feel spell^bound as Macbeth was ? ctatt oi !>;i;"V, ! ■';.!£<: ;v-s!--f^i 'u.i: i T , • ji;V ;ii5vtb :i,ccj;!i' .;u.v i; £>ynst; of their •igh the Moors are now well j ) •■'''■ to- be by many shades less i u». i>.:i ■ should ast so ns'. ; to give ; ot enough oil tb;.^ bite woman's fanc}') — it 15 " virtue over accidents, ■• the senses. She sees mind. But upon the >nt!on is no longer the • left to our poor to every one that V he did r mind in u someth> a stage, ani iu the rcnOii; we feee tx) be a vo make to iiiey put us in n object of belief, ' : cause OthelIo"s colour .ig, it should also not - : Mth tv ialiacy as sup- .ve in a picture shall afletn us i. But in the poein wo lor ;i :! senses giren us, whleh vanish nil his wife without clothes in the •s themselves ft'cl this, as is appit- o. shifts they have refoursie to, to jaite naked; by a sort of prophetic iting the invention of fig-loaves. So the play, we see with Dcsdeaiona'u ?-5J'^<.'<;^»<>' >^0 MxJlUcA^ Q^j'je^y^'^^ JS7!^?&IiiUisAU tySBMUkSons.J/y ON THE TRAGEDIES OF SHAKSPEARE. 537 — when we surrendered up our reason to the poet, as children to their nurses and their elders ; and we laugh at our fears as children, who thought they saw something in the dark, triumph when the bringing in of a candle discovers the vanity of their fears. For this exposure of supernatural agents upon a stage is truly bringing in a candle to expose their own delusiveness. It is the solitary taper and the book that generates a faith in these terrors : a ghost by chandelier light, and in good company, deceives no spectators, — a ghost that can be measured by the eye, and his human dimensions made out at leisure. The sight of a well-lighted house, and a well- dressed audience, shall arm the most nervous child against any .apprehensions : as Tom Brown says of the impenetrable skin of Achilles with his impenetrable armour over it, " Bully Dawson would have fought the devil with such advantages." Much has been said, and deservedly, in reprobation of the vile mixture which Dryden Laa thrown into the Tempest: doubtless without some such vicious alloy, the impure ears of that age would never have sate out to hear so much innocence of love as is contained in the sweet courtship of Ferdinand and Miranda. But is the Tempest of Shakspearo at all a subject for stage repre- sentation ? It is one thing to read of an enchanter, and to believe the \Tcndrous talc while we are reading it ; but to have a conjuror brought before us in his conjuring- gown, with his spirits about him, which none but himself and some hundred of favoured spectators before the curtain are supposed to see, involves such a quantity of the liateful incredible, that all our reverence for the author cannot hinder us from perceiving such gross attempts upon the senses to be in the highest degree childish and inefficient. Spirits and fairies cannot be represented, they cannot even be painted, — they can only be believed. But the elaborate and anxious provision of scenery, which the luxury of the age demands, in these cases works a quite contrary effect to what is intended. That which in comedy, or plays of familiar life, adds so much to the life of the imitation, in plays which appeal to the higher faculties positively destroys the illusion which it is introduced to aid. A parlour or a drawing- room, — a- library opening into a garden — a garden with an alcove in it, — a street, or the piazza of Covent-garden, does well enough in a scene ; we are content to give as much credit to it as it demands ; or rather, we think little about it, — it is little more than reading at the top of a page, " Scene, a garden ;" we do not imagine ourselves there, but we readily admit the imitation of familiar objects. But to think by the help of painted trees and caverns, which we know to be painted, to transport our minds to Prospero, and his island and his lonely cell ;* or by the aid of a fiddle dexterously thrown in, in an interval of speaking, to make us believe that we hear those supernatural noises of which the isle was full : the Orrery Lecturer at the Ilaymarket might as well hope, by his musical glasses cleverly stationed out of sight behind his apparatus, to make us believe that we do indeed hear the crystal spheres, ring out that chime, which if it were to enwrap our fancy long, Milton thinks, " Time would run back and fetch the age of gold. And speckled Vanity- Would sicken soon and die, And leprous Sin would melt from earthly mould; Yea, Hell itself would pass away. And leave its dolorous mansions to the peering day." The garden of Eden, with our first parents in it, is not more impossible to be shown on a stage, than the Enchanted Isle, with its no less interesting and innocent first settlers. The subject of Scenery is closely con- nected with that of the Dresses, which are so anxiously attended to on our stage. I remember the last time I saw Macbeth played, the discrepancy I felt at the changes of garment which he varied, the shiftings and re-shiftings, like a Romish priest at mass. The luxury of stage-improvements, and the importunity of the public eye, require this. The coronation robe of the Scottish monarch, was fairly a counterpart to that which our King wears when he goes to the Parliament- house, just so full and cumbersome, and set out with ermine and pearls. And if things must be represented, I see not what to find fault with in this. But in reading, what * It will be said these things are done in pictures. But pictures and scenes are very different things. Painting is a world of itself, but in scene-painting there is the attempt to deceive : and there is the discordancy; never to be got over, between painted scenes and real people. 638 CHARACTERS OF DRAMATIC WRITERS. robe are we conscious of? Some dim images of royalty — a crown and sceptre may float before our eyes, but who shall describe the fashion of it? Do we see in our mind's eye ■what Webb or any other robe-maker could pattern ? This is the inevitable consequence of imitating everything, to make all things natural. Whereas the reading of a tragedy is a fine abstraction. It presents to the fancy just so much of external appearances as to ' make us feel that we are among flesh and blood, while by far the greater and better part of our imagination is employed upon the thoughts and internal machinery of the character. But in act- ing, scenery, dress, the most contemptible things, call upon us to judge of their naturalness. Perhaps it would be no bad similitude, to liken the pleasure which we take in seeing one of these fine plays acted, compared with that quiet delight which we find in the read- ing of it, to the different feelings with which a reviewer, and a man that is not a reviewer, reads a fine poem. The accursed critical habit — the being called upon to judge and pronounce, must make it quite a different thing to the former. In seeing these plays acted, we are affected just as judges. When Hamlet compares the two pictures of Gertrude's first and second husband, who wants to see the pictures? But in the acting, a miniature must be lugged out; which we know not to be the picture, but only to show how finely a miniature may be represented. This showing of everything levels all things: it makes tricks, bows, and curtseys, of im- portance. Mrs, S. never got more fame by anything than by the manner in which she dismisses the guests in the banquet-scene in Macbeth : it is as much remembered as any of her thrilling tones or impressive looks. But does such a trifle as this enter into the imaginations of the readers of that wild and wonderful scene? Does not the mind dis- miss the feasters as rapidly as it can ? Does it care about the gracefulness of the doing it? But by acting, and judging of acting, all these non-essentials are raised into an importance, injurious to the main interest of the play. I have confined my observations to the tragic parts of Shakspeare. It would be no very difficult task to extend the inquiry to his comedies ; and to show why Falstaff, Shallow, Sir Hugh Evans, and the rest, are equally incompatible with stage representa- tion. The length to which this Essay has run will make it, I am afraid, sufficiently distasteful to the Amateurs of the Theatre, without going any deeper into the subject at present. CHARACTERS OF DRAMATIC WRITERS, CONTEMPORARY 'WITH SHAKSPEARE. When I selected for publication, in 1808, Specimens of English Dramatic Poets who lived about the time of Shakspeare, the kind of extracts which I was anxious to give were not so much passages of wit and humour, though the old plays are rich in such, as scenes of passion, sometimes of the deepest quality, interesting situations, seri- ous descriptions, that which is more nearly allied to poetry than to wit, and to tragic rather than to comic poetry. The plays which I made choice of were, with few exceptions, such as treat of human life and manners, rather than masques and Arcadian pastorals, with their train of abstractions, unimpassioned deities, passionate mortals — Claius, and Medorus, and Amintas, and Amaryllis. My leading design was to illus- trate what may be called the moral sense of our ancestors. To show in what manner they felt, when they placed themselves by the power of imagination in trying circum- stances, in the conflicts of duty and passion, or the strife of contending duties ; what sort of loves and enmities theirs were ; how their griefs were tempered, and their full- swoln joys abated: how much of Shakspeare shines in the great men his contemporaries, and how far in his divine mind and manners he surpassed them and all mankind. I was CHARACTERS OF DRAMATIC WRITERS. 539 also desirous to bring together some of the most admired scenes of Fletcher and Massinger, in the estimation of the world the only dramatic poets of that age entitled to be considered after Shakspeare, and, by exhibiting them in the same volume vrith the more impressive scenes of old Marlowe, Hey wood, Tourneur, Webster, Ford, and others, to show what we had slighted, while beyond all proportion we had been crying up one or two favourite names. From the desultory criticisms which accompanied that publication, I have selected a few which I thought would best stand by themselves, as requiring least immediate reference to the play or passage by which they were suggested. CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE. Lust's Dominion, or the Lascivious Queen. — This tragedy is in King Cambyses' vein ; rape, and murder, and superlatives ; " huffing braggart puft lines," such as the play-writers anterior to Shakspeare are full of, and Pistol but coldly imitates. Tamhurlaine the -Great, or the Csythian Shepherd. — The lunes of Tamhurlaine are perfect midsummer madness. Nebuchad- nezzar's are mere modest pretensions com- pared with the thundering vaunts of this Scythian Shepherd. He comes in drawn by conquered kings, and reproaches these pam- pered jades of Asia that they can draw hid twenty miles a day. Till I saw this passage with my own eyes, I never believed that it was anything more than a pleasant burlesque of mine Ancient's. But I can assure my readers that it is soberly set down in a play, which their ancestors tobk to be serious. Edward the Second. — In a very different style from mighty Tumburlaine is the Tragedy of Edward the Second. The reluctant pangs of abdicating royalty in Edward furnished hints, which Shakspeare scarcely improved in his Richard the Second ; and the death - scene of Marlowe's king moves pity and terror beyond any scene ancient or modern with which I am acquainted. The Rich Jew of Malta. — Marlowe's Jew does not approach so near to Shakspeare's, as his Edward the Second does to Richard the Second. Barabas is a mere monster brought in with a large painted nose to please the rabble. He kills in sport, poisons whole nunneries, invents infernal machines. He is just such an exhibition as a century or two earlier might have been played before the Londoners " by the royal command," when a general pillage and massacre of the Hebrews had been previously resolved on in the cabinet. It is curious to see a super- stition wearing out. The idea of a Jew, which our pious ancestors contemplated with so much horror, has nothing in it now revolt- ing. "VVe have tamed the claws of the beast, and pared its nails, and now we take it to our arms, fondle it, write plays to flatter it ; it is visited by princes, affects a taste, patron- ises the arts, and is the only liberal and gentlemanlike thing in Christendom. Doctor Faustus. — The growing horrors of Faustus's last scene are awfully marked by the hours and half hours as they expire, and bring him nearer and nearer to the exact- ment of his dire compact. It is indeed an agony and a fearful colluctation. Marlowe is said to have been tainted with atheistical positions, to have denied God and the Trinity. To such a genius the history of Faustus must have been delectable food : to wander in fields where curiosity is forbidden to go, to approach the dark gulf, near enough to look in, to be busied in speculations which are the rottenest part of the core of the fruit that fell from the tree of knowledge.* Barabas the Jew, and Faustus the conjuror, are off- springs of a mind which at least delighted to dally with interdicted subjects. They both talk a language which a believer would have been tender of putting into the mouth of a character though but in fiction. But the holiest minds have sometimes not thought it reprehensible to counterfeit impiety in the person of another, to bring Vice upon tho stage speaking her own dialect ; and, them- selves being armed with an unction of self- confident impunity, have not scrupled to handle and touch that familiarly which would be death to others. Milton, in tho person of Satan, has started speculations hardier than any which the feeble armoury of the atheist ever furnished ; and the precise, strait-laced Richardson has strengthened Vice, from the mouth of Lovelace, with * Error, entering into the world with Sin among us poor Adamites, may be said to spring from the tren of knowledge itself, and from the rotten keru«ils of thsit fatal apple. — Howell's Letters. 540 CHARACTERS OF DRAMATIC WRITERS. entangling sophistries and abstruse pleas against her adversary Virtue, which Sedley, Villiers, and Rochester wanted depth of libertinism enough to have invented. THOMAS DECKER. Old Fortunatus. — The humourof a frantic lover in the scene where Orleans to his friend Galloway defends the passion with which himself, being a prisoner in the English king's court, is enamoured to frenzy of the king's daughter Agripyna, is done to the life. Orleans is as passionate an innamorato as any which Shakspeare ever drew. lie is just such another adept in Love's reasons. The sober people of the world are with him, " A swarm of fools Crcwding together to be counted wise." He talks " pure Biron and Romeo ;" he is almost as poetical as they, quite as philoso- phical, only a little madder. After all, Love's sectaries are a reason unto them- selves. We have gone retrograde to the noble heresy, since, the days when Sidney proselyted our nation to this mixed health and disease ; the kindliest symptom, yet the most alarming crisis, in the ticklish state of yputh ; the nourisher and the destroyer of hopeful wits ; the mother of twin births, wisdom and folly, valour and weakness ; the servitude above freedom ; the gentle minds's religion ; the liberal superstition. The Honest Whore. — There is in the second part of this play, where Bellafront, a re- claimed harlot, recounts some of the miseries of her profession, a simple picture of honour and shame, contrasted without violence, and expressed without immodesty;, which is worth all the strong lines against the harlot's profession, with which both parts of this play are offensively crowded. A satirist is always to be suspected, who, to make vice odious, dwells upon all its acts and minutest circumstances with a sort of relish and re- trospective fondness. But so near are the boundaries of panegyric and invective, that a worn-out sinner is sometimes found to make the best declaimer against sin. The same high-seasoned descriptions, which in his unregenerate state served but to inflame his appetites, in his new province of a noralist will serve him, a little turned, to expose the enormity of those appetites in other men. When Cervantes, with such proficiency of fondness, dwells upon the Don's library, who sees not that he has been a great reader of books of knight-errantry — perhaps was at some time of his life in danger of falling into those very extravagances which he ridiculed so happily in his hero I JOHN MARSTON. Antonio and Mellida. — The situation of Andrugio and Lucio, in the first part of this tragedy, — where Andrugio, Duke of Genoa, banished his country, with the loss of a son supposed drowned, is cast upon the territory of his mortal enemy the Duke of Venice, with no attendants but Lucio an old noble- man, and a page — resembles that of Lear and Kent, in that king's distresses. An- drugio, like Lear, manifests a king- like impatience, a turbulent greatness, an affected resignation. The enemies which he enters lists to combat, " Despair and mighty Grief and sharp Impatience," and the forces which he brings to vanquish them, " cornets of horse," &c., are in the boldest style of allegory. They are such a " race of mourners" as the " infection of sorrows loud" in the intellect night beget on some " pregnant cloud" in the imagination. The prologue to the second part, for its passionate earnestness, and for the tragic note of preparation which it sounds, might have preceded one of those old tales of Thebes or Pelop's line, which Milton has so highly commended, as free from the common error of the poets in his day, of " interiBiring comic stuff with tragic sadness and gravitj', brought in without discretion corruptly to gratify the people." It is as solemn a preparative as the " warning voice which he who saw the Apocalypse heard cry." What Ymi Will. — 1 shall ne'er Jorget how he went cloatli'd. Act I. Scene I. — To judge of the liberality of these notions of dress, we must advert to the days of Gresham, and the consternation which a p'ncnomenon habited like the merchant hero described would have excited among the flat round caps and cloth stockings upon 'Change, when those " original arguments or tokens of a citizen's vocation were in fashion, not more for thrift and usefulness than for distinction CHARACTERS OF DRAMATIC WRITERS. 541 and grace." The blank uniformity to which all professional distinctions in apparel have been long hastening, is one instance of the decay of symbols among us, which whether it has contributed or not to make us a more intellectual, has certainly made us a less imaginative people. Shakspeare knew the force of signs : a " malignant and a turbaned Turk." This " meal-cap miller," says the author of God's Revenge against Murder, to express his indignation at an atrocious outrage committed by the miller Pierot upon the person of the fair Marieta. AUTHOR UNKNOWN. The Merry Devil of Edmonton. — The scene in this delightful comedy,, in which Jern- ingham, "with the true feeling of a zealous friend," touches the griefs of Mounchensey, seems written to make the reader happy. Few of our dramatists or novelists have attended enough to this. They torture and wound us abundantly. They are economists only in delight. Nothing can be finer, more gentlemanlike, and nobler, than the conver- sation and compliments of these young men. How delicious is Raymond Mounchensey's forgetting, in his fears, that Jerningham has a " Saint in Essex ;" and how sweetly his friend reminds him ! I wish it could be ascertained, which there is some grounds for believing, that Michael Drayton was the author of this piece. It would add a worthy appendage to the renown of that Panegyrist of my native Earth ; who has gone over her soil, in his Polyolbion, with the fidelity of a herald, and the painful love of a son ; who has not left a rivulet, so narrow that it may be stepped over, without honourable men- tion ; and has animated hills and streams with life and passion beyond the dreams of old mythology. THOMAS HETWOOD. A Woman Killed with Kindness. — Hey wood is a sort oi 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, in this play, for instance, his country gentlemen, &c. 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 difi'orence. The English Traveller. — Heywood's preface to this play is interesting, as it shows the heroic indifference about the opinion of pos- terity, which some of these great writers sceai to have felt. There is a magnanimity ia authorship, as in everything else. His ambi- tion seems to have been confined to the pleasure of hearing the players speak hia lines while he lived. It does not appear that he ever contemplated the possibility of being read by after ages. What a slender pittance of fame was motive sufficient to the production of such plays as the English Traveller, the Challenge for Beauty, and the Woman Killed with Kindness ! Posterity is bound to take care that a writer loses nothing by such a noble modesty. THOMAS MIDDLETON AND WILLIAM ROWLEY. A Fair Quarrel— 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 dif- ferences, the quarrels, the animosities of men, a beauty and truth of moral feeling, no less than in the everlastingly inculcated duties of forgiveness and atonement. With us, all is hypocritical meekness. A recon- ciliation scene, be the occasion never so absurd, never fails 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 sympathy of disposition between them. We have a comhion stock of dramatic morality, out of which a writer may be sup- plied without the trouble of copying it 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 642 CHARACTERS OF DRAMATIC -^YRITERS. youth, to esteem life as nothing when the sacred reputation of a parent is to be de- fended, 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 disgrage 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, some- what a greater delicacy of perception in quostions of right and wrong, than goes to tlie writing of two or three hacknied 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 now-a-days in far better stead than Captain Agar and his conscientious honour ; and he would be considered as a far better teacher of morality than old Eowley or Middleton, if they were living. WILLIAM ROWLEY. A New Wonder; A Woman never Vexi. — The old play-writers are distinguished by an honest boldness of exhibition, — they show everything without being ashamed. If a reverse in fortune is to be exhibited, they fairly bring us to the prison -gate and the alms-basket. A poor man on our stage is i'.lways a gentleman ; he may be known by a peculiar neatness of apparel, and by wearing black. Our delicacy, in fact, forbids the dramatising of distress at all. It is never shown in its essential properties ; it appears but as the adjunct of some virtue, as some- thing, which is to be relieved, from the appro- bation of which relief the spectators are to derive a certain soothing of self- referred satisfaction. We turn away from the real essences of things to hunt after their relative shadows, moral duties ; whereas, if the truth of things were fairly represented, the relative duties might be safely trusted to themselves, and moral philosophy lose the name of a pcience. THOMAS MIDDLETON, The Witch. — Though some rcccmblance r.uiy be traced between the charms in Mac- beth and the incantations in this play, which is supposed to have preceded it, this coinci- dence will not detract much from the origi- nality of Shakspeare. Plis witches are dis- tinguished from the witches of Middleton by essential differences. These are creatures to whom man or woman, plotting some dire mis- chief, might resort for occasional consulta- tion. Those originate deeds of blood, and begin bad impulses to men. From the moment that their eyes first meet with Macbeth's, he is spell -bound. That meeting sways his destiny. He can never break the fascina- tion. 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. The names, and some of the properties which the other author 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, strifes, "like a thick scurf" over life. WILLIAM ROWLET,— THOMAS DECKER, JOHN FORD, ETC. The Witch of Edmonton. — Mother Sawyer, in this wild play, differs from the hags of both Middleton and Shakspeare. She is the plain, traditional, old-woman witch of our ancestors; poor, deformed, and ignorant; the terror of villages, herself amenable to a justice. That should be a hardy sheriff, with the power of the county at his heels, that would lay hands on the Weird Sisters, They are of another jurisdiction. But upon the common and received opinion, the author (or authors) have engrafted strong fancy. There is something frightfully earnest in her invocations to the Familiar CHARACTERS OF DRAMATIC WRITERS. 543 CYRIL TOTJRNEVR. The Revenger's Tragedy. — The reality and life of the dialogue, in which Vindici and Hippolito first tempt their mother, and then threaten her with death for consenting to the dishonour of their sister, passes any scenical illusion I ever felt. I never read it but my ears tingle, and I feel a hot blush overspread my cheeks, as if I were presently about to proclaim such malefactions of myself, as the brothers here rebuke in their un- natural parent, in words more keen and dagger-like than those which Hamlet speaks to his mother. Such power has the passion of shame truly personated, not only to strike guilty creatures unto the soul, but to " appal" even those that are " free." JOHN WEBSTER. The Duchess of Malfy. — All the several parts of the dreadful apparatus with which the death of the Duchess is ushered in, the waxen images which counterfeit death, the wild masque of madmen, the tomb-maker, the bellman, the living person's dirge, the mortification by degrees, — are not more remote from the conceptions of ordinary vengeance, than the strange character of suffering which they seem to bring upon their victim is out of the imagination of ordi- nary poets. As they are not like inflictions of this life, so her language seems not of this world. She has lived among horrors till she is become " native and endowed unto that element." She speaks the dialect of despair ; her tongue has a smatch of Tartarus and the souls in bale. To move a horror skilfully, to touch a soul to the quick, to lay upon fear as much as it can bear, to wean and weary a life till it is ready to drop, and then step in with mortal instruments to take its last for- feit : this only a AVebster can do. Inferior geniuses may "upon horror's head horrors accumulate," but they cannot do this. They mistake quantity for quality ; they " terrify babes with painted devils;" but they know not how a soul is to be moved. Their terrors want dignity, their afi"rightments are without decorum. The White Devil, or Vittoria Corombona. — This White Devil of Italy sets ofi" a bad cause so speciously, and pleads with such an innocence-resembling boldness, that we seem to see that matchless beauty of her face which inspires such gay confidence into her, and are ready to espect, when she has done her pleadings, that her very judges, her accusers, the grave ambassadors who sit as spectators, and all the court, will rise and make proffer to defend her, in spite of the utmost conviction of her guilt ; as the Shep- herds in Don Quixote make proffer to follow the beautiful Shepherdess Marcela, " without making any profit of her manifest resolution made there in their hearing." " So sweet and lovely does she make the shame, Which, like a canker in the fragrant rose, Does spot the heauty of her budding name ! " I never saw anything like the funeral dirge in this play for the death of Marccllo, except the ditty which reminds Ferdinand of his drowned father in the Tempest. As that is of the water, watery ; so this is of the earth, earthy. Both have that intensencss of feel- ing, which seems to resolve itself into the element which it contemplates. In a note on the Spanish Tragedy in the Specimens, I have said that there is nothing in the undoubted plays of Jonson which would authorise us to suppose that he could have supplied the additions to Hicronymo. I suspected the agency of some ^more potent spirit. I thought that Webster might have furnished them. They seemed full of that wild, solemn, preternatural cast of grief which bewilders us in the Duchess of Malfy. On second consideration, I think this a hasty criticism. They are more like the overflow- ing griefs and talking distraction of Titus Andronicus. The sorrows of the Duchess set inward ; if she talks, it is little more than soliloquy imitating conversation in a kind of bravery. JOHN FO^D. The ''iroTcen Heart. — I do not know where to find, in any play, a catastrophe so grand, so solemn, and so surprising, as in this. This is indeed, according to Milton, to describe high passions and high actions. The forti- tude of the Spartan boy, who let a beast gnaw out his bowels till he died, without expressing a groan, is a faint bodily image of this dilaceration of the spirit, and exentera- tion of the inmost mind, which Calanthii, 544 CHARACTERS OF DRAMATIC WRITERS. with a holy violence against her nature, keeps closely covered, till the last duties of a wife and queen are fulfilled. Stories of Martydom are but of chains and the stake ; a little bodily suffering. These torments " On the purest spirits prey, As on entrails, joints, and limbs, With answerable pains, hut more intense." What a noble thing is the soul, in its strengths and in its weaknesses! Who would be less weak than Calantha? Who can be so strong? The expression of this transcendent scene almost bears us in imagi- nation to Calvary and the Cross; and we seem to perceive some analogy between the scenical sufferings which we are here con- templating and the real agonies of that final completion to which we dare no more than hint a reference. Ford was of the first order of poets. He sought for sublimity, not by parcels, in metaphors or visible images, but directly where she has her full residence, in the. heart of man ; in the actions and suffer- ings of the greatest minds. There is a gran- deur of the soul, above mountains, seas, and the elements. Even in the poor perverted reason of Giovanni and Annabella, in the play* which stands at the head of the modern collection of the works of this author, wc discern traces of that fiery particle, which, in the irregular starting from out the road of beaten action, discovers something of a right line even in obliquity, and shows hints of an improvable greatness in the lowest descents and degradations of our nature. . FULKE GREVILLE, LORD BROOKE. Alaham, Mustaplia. — The two tragedies of Lord Brooke, printed among his poems, might with more propriety have been termed political treatises than plays. Their author has strangely contrived to make passion, character, and interest, of the highest order, subservient to the expression of state dog- mas and mysteries. He is nine parts Machiavel and Tacitus, for one part Sophe- cles or Seneca. In this writer's estimate of the powers of the mind, the understanding must have held a most tyrannical pre- eminence. Whether we look into his plays * 'Tis Pity she's a Whore. or his most passionate love-poems, we shall find all frozen and made rigid with intellect. The finest movements of the human heart, the utmost grandeur of which the soul is capable, are essentially comprised in the actions and speeches of Cselica and Camena. Shakspeare, who seems to have had a peculiar delight in contemplating womanly perfec- tion, whom for his many sweet images of female excellence all women are in an especial manner bound to love, has not raised the ideal of the female character higher than Lord Brooke, in these two women, has done. But it requires a study equivalent to the learning of a new language to understand their meaning when they speak. It is indeed hard to hit : " Much like thy riddle, Samson, in one day Or seven though one should musing sit." It is as if a being of pure intellect should take upon him to express the emotions of our sensitive natures. There would be all know- ledge, but sympathetic expressions would be wanting. BEN JONSON. The Case is Altered. — The passion for wealth has worn out much of its grossness in tract of time. Our ancestors certainly conceived of money as able to confer a distinct gratifi- cation in itself, not considered simply as a symbol of wealth. The old poets, when they introduce a miser, make him address his gold as his mistress; as something to be seen, felt and hugged; as capable of satisfying two of the senses at least. The substitution of a thin, unsatisfying medium in the place of the good old tangible metal, has made avarice quite a Platonic affection in compa- rison with the seeing, touching, and handling pleasures of the old Chrysophilites. - A bank- note can no more satisfy the touch of a true sensualist in this passion, than Creusa could return her husband's embrace in the shades. See the Cave of Mammon in Spenser ; Bara- bas's contemplation of his wealth, in the Rich Jew of Malta ; Luke's raptures in the City Madam ; the idolatry and absolute gold- worship of the miser Jaques in this early comic production of Ben Jonson's. Above- all, hear Guzman, in that excellent old trans- lation of the Spanish Rogue, expatiate on the "ruddy cheeks of your golden ruddocks, CHARACTERS OF DRAMATIC WRITERS. 545 your Spanish pistolets, your plump and full- faced Portuguese, and your clear -skinned pieces-of-eight of Castile," which he and his fellows the beggars kept secret to themselves, and did privately enjoy in a plentiful manner. " For to have them to pay them away is not to enjoy them ; to enjoy them is to have them lying by us ; having no other need of them than to use them for the clearing of the eye- sight, and the comforting of our senses. These we did carry about with us, sewing them in some patches of our doublets near unto the heart, and as close to the skin as we could handsomely quilt them in, holding them to be restorative." Poetaster. — This Roman play seems written to confute those enemies of Ben in his own days and ours, who have said that he made a pedantical use of his learning. He has here revived the whole Court of Augustus, by a learned spell. We are admitted to the society of the illustrious dead. Virgil, Horace, Ovid, Tibullus, converse in our own tongue more finely and poetically than they M'ere ust^d to express themselves in their native Latin. Nothing can be imagined more elegant, refined, and court-like, than the scenes between this Louis th^ Fourteenth of antiquity and his literati. The whole essence and secret of that kind of inter- course is contained therein. The economical liberality by which greatness, seeming to waive some pArt of its prerogative, takes care to lose none of the essentials ; the prudential liberties of an inferior, which flatter by commanded boldness and soothe with complimentary sincerity; — ^ those, and a thousand beautiful passages from his New Inn, his Cynthia's Revels, and from those numerous court-masques and entertainments, which he was in the daily habit of furnishing, might be adduced to show the poetical fancy and elegance of mind of the supposed rugged old bard. Alchemist. — The judgment is perfectly over- whelmed by the torrent of images, words, and book -knowledge, with which Epicure Mammon (Act ii.. Scene 2) confounds and stuns his incredulous hearer. They come pouring out like the successive falls of Nilus. They " doubly redouble strokes upon the foe." Description outstrides proof. We are made to believe eifects before we have testimony for their causes. If there is no 35 one image which attains the height of the sublime, yet the confluence and assemblage of them all produces a result equal to the grandest poetry. The huge Xersean army countervails against single Achilles. Epicure Mammon is the most determined offspring of its author., It has the whole "matter and copy of the father — eye, nose, lip, the trick of his frown." It is just such a swaggerer as contemporaries have described old Ben to be. Meercraft, Bobadil, the Host of the New Inn, have all his image and superscription. But Mammon is arrogant pretension personified. Sir Samson Legend, in Love for Love, is such another lying, overbearing character, but he does not come up to Epicure Mammon. What a " towering bravery " there is in his sensuality ! he affects no pleasure under a Sultan. It is as if "Egypt with Assyria strove in luxury." GEORGE CHAPMAN. Bussy D'Amhois, Byron's Conspiracy, Byron's Tragedy, c&c. &c. — Webster has hap- pily characterised the " full and heightened style" of Chapman, who, of all the English play-writers, perhaps approaches nearest to Shakspearo in the descriptive and didactic, in passages which are less purely dramatic. He could not go out of himself, as Shakspeare could shift at pleasure, to inform and ani- mate other existences, but in himself he had an eye to perceive and a soul to embrace all forms and modes of being. He would have made a great epic poet, if indeed he has not abundantly shown himself to be one ; for his Homer is not so properly a translation as the stories of Achilles and Ulysses rewritten. The earnestness and passion which he has put into every part of these poems would be incredible to a reader of mere modern trans- lations. His almost Greek zeal for the glory of his heroes can only be paralleled by that fierce spirit of Hebrew bigotry, with which Milton, as if personating one of the zealots of the old law, clothed himself when he sat down to paint the acts of Samson against the uncircumcised. The great obstacle to Chap- man's translations being read, is their un- conquerable quaintness. He pours out in the same breath the most just and natural, and the most violent and crude expressions. He. seems to grasp at whatever words come 546 CHARACTERS OF DRAMATIC WRITERS. first to hand vrhile the enthusiasm is upon him, as if all other must be inadequate to the divine meaning. But passion (the all in all in poetry) is everywhere present, raising the lowr, dignifying the mean, and putting sense into the absurd. He makes his readers glow, weep, tremble, take any affection which does not so absolutely predominate over her situation but she suffers some diminution, some abatement of the full lustre of the female character, which Helena never does. Her character has many degrees of sweet- ness, some of delicacy ; but it has weakness, which, if we do not despise, we are sorry for. he pleases, be moved by words, or in spite After all, Beaumont and Fletcher were but of them, be disgusted, disgust. and overcome their FRANCIS BEAUMONT. — JOHN FLETCHER. Maid's Tragedy.— One characteristic of the excellent old poets is, their being able to bestow grace upon subjects which naturally do not seem susceptible of any. I will mention two instances. Zelmane in the Arcadia of Sidney, and Helena in the All's Well that Ends Well of Shakspeare. What can be more unpromising, at first sight, than the idea of a young man disguising himself in woman's attire, and passing himself off for a woman .among women ; and that for a long space of time? Yet Sir Philip has preserved so matchless a decorum, that neither does Pyrocles' manhood suffer any stain for the effeminacy of Zelmane, nor is the respect due to the princesses at all diminished when the deception comes to be known. In the sweetly-constituted mind of Sir Philip Sidney, it seems as if no ugly thought or unhandsome meditation could find a harbour. He turned all that he touched into images of honour and virtue. Helena in Shakspeare is a young woman seeking a man in marriage. The ordinary rules of courtship are reversed, the habitual feelings are crossed. Yet with such exquisite address this dangerous subject is handled, that Helena's forwardness loses her no honour ; delicacy dispenses with its laws in her favour, and nature, in her single case, seems content to suffer a sweet violation. Aspatia, in the Maid's Tragedy, is a character equally difficult with Helena, of being managed with grace. She too is a slighted woman, refused by the man who had once engaged to marry her. Yet it is artfully contrived, that while we pity we respect her, and she descends without degradation. Such wonders true poetry and passion can do, to confer dignity upon subjects which do not seem capable of it. But Aspatia must not be compared at all points with Helena; she an inferior sort of Shakspeares and Sydneys. Philaster. — The character of Bellario must have been extremely popular in its day. For many years after the date of Philaster's first exhibition on the stage, scarce a play can be found without one of these women- pages in it, following in the train of some pre-engaged lover, calling on the gods to bless her happy rival (his mistress), whom no doubt she secretly curses in her heart, giving rise to many pretty eqiiivoques by the way on the confusion of sex, and either made happy at last by some surprising turn of fate, or dismissed with the joint pity of\.the lovers and the audience. Donne has a copy of verses to his mistress, dissuading her from a resolution, which she seems to have taken up from some of these scenical representations, of following him abroad as a page. It is so earnest, so weighty, so rich in poetry, in sense, in wit, and pathos, that it deserves to be read as a solemn close in future to all such sickly fancies as he there deprecates. JOHN FLETCHES. Thierry and Theodoret. — The scene where Ordella offers her life a sacrifice, that the king of France may not be childless, I have always considered as the finest in all Fletcher, and Ordella to be the most perfect notion of the female heroic character, next to Calantha in the Broken Heart. She is a piece of sainted nature. Yet, noble as the whole passage is, it must be confessed that the manner of it, compared with Shakspeare's finest scenes, is faint -and languid. Its motion is circular, not progressive. Each line revolves on itself in a sort of separate orbit. They do not join into one another like a running-hand. Fletcher's ideas moved slow ; his versification, though sweet, is tedious, it stops at every turn ; he lays line upon line, making up one after the other, adding image to image so deliberately, that we see their junctures. Shakspeare mingles SPECIMENS FROM THE WRITINGS OF FULLER. 647 everything, runs line into line, embarrasses sentences and metaphors ; before one idea lias burst its shell, another is hatched and clamorous for disclosure. Another striking difference between Fletcher and Shakspeare IS the fondness of the former for unnatural and violent situations. He seems to have thought that nothing great could be pro- duced in an ordinary way. The chief inci- dents in some of his most admired tragedies show this.* Shakspeare had nothing of this contortion in his mind, none of that craving after violent situations, and flights of strained and improbable virtue, which I think always betrays an imperfect moral sensibility. The wit of Fletcher is excellent,f like his serious scenes, but there is something strained and far-fetched in both. He is too mistrustful of Nature, he always goes a little on one side of her. — Shakspeare chose her without a reserve : and had riches, power, understand- ing, and length of days, with her for a dowry. Faithful Shepherdess. — If all the parts of this delightful pastoral had been in unison with its many innocent scenes and sweet lyric intermixtures, it had been a poem fit to vie with Comus or the Arcadia, to have been put into the hands of boys and virgins, to have made matter for young dreams, like the loves of Hermia and Lysander. But a spot is on the face of this Diana. Nothing short of infiituation could have driven Fletcher upon mixing with this " blessedness" such an ugly deformity as Chloe, the wanton shepherdess ! If Chloe was meant to set off Clorin by contrast, Fletcher should have known that such weeds by juxtaposition do not set off, but kill sweet flowers. &c. ■ Wife for a Month, Cupid's Revenge, Double Marriage, t Wit without Money, and his comedies generally. PHILIP MASSINGER. THOMAS BECKER. TJie Virgin Martyr. — This play has some beauties of so very high an order, that with all my respect for Massinger, I do not think he had poetical enthusiasm capable of rising up to them. His associate Decker, who wrote Old Fortunatus, had poetry enough for anything. The vei-y impurities which obtrude themselves among the sweet pieties of this play, like Satan among the Sons of Heaven, have a strength of contrast, a raci- ness, and a glow, in them, which are beyond Massinger. They are to the religion of the rest what Caliban is to Miranda. PHILIP MASSINGER. THOMAS MIDDLETON.— WILLIAM teOWLEY. Old Law. — There is an exquisiteness of moral sensibility, making one's eyes to gush out tears of delight, and a poetical strange- ness in the circumstances of this sweet tragi- comedy, which are unlike anything in the dramas which Massinger wrote alone. The pathos is of a subtler edge. Middleton and Rowley, who assisted in it, had both of them finer geniuses than their associate. JAMES SHIRLEY Claims a place amongst the worthies of this period, not so much for any transcendent talent in himself, as that he was the last of a great race, all of whom spoke nearly the same language, and had a set of moral feelings and notions in common. A new language, and quite a new turn of tragic and comic interest, came in with the Restoration. SPECIMENS FROM THE WRITINaS OF FULLER, THE CHURCH HISTORIAlSr. The writings of Fuller are usually de- signated by the title of quaint, and with sufiBcient reason ; for such was his natural bias to conceits, that I doubt not upon most occasions it would have been going out of his way to have expressed himself out of them. But his wit is not always a lumen siccum, a dry faculty of surprising ; on the contrary, his conceits are oftentimes deeply steeped in human feeling and passion. Above all, his 548 SPECIMENS FROM THE WRITINGS OF FULLER. way of telling a story, for its eager liveliness, and the perpetual running commentary of the narrator happily blended with the nar- ration, is perhaps unequalled. As his works are now scarcely perused but by antiquaries, I thought it might not be unacceptable to my readers to present them with some specimens of his manner, in single thoughts and phrases; and in some few passages of greater length, chiefly of a narrative description. I shall arrange them as I casually find them in my book of extracts, without being solicitous to specify the particular work from which they are taken. Pyramids. — " The Pyramids themselves, doting with age, have forgotten the names of their founders." Virtue in a sliort person. — " His soul had but a short diocese to visit, and therefore might the better attend the effectual in- forming thereof." Intellect in a very tall one. — "Ofttimes such who are built four stories high, are observed to have little in their cock-loft." Naturals. — "Their heads sometimes so little, that there is no room for wit ; some- times so long, that there is no wit for so much room." Negroes, — "The image of God cut in ebony." School-divinity. — "At the first it will be as welcome to thee as a pi-ison, and their very solutions will seem knots unto thee." Mr. Perlcins the Divine. — "lie had a capacious head, with angles winding and roomy enough to lodge all controversial in- tricacies." The same. — "He would pronounce the word Damn with such an emphasis as left a doleful echo in his auditors' ears a good while after." Judges in capital cases. — "0 let him take heed how he strikes that hath a dead hand." Memory. — " Philosophers place it in the rear of the head, and it seems the mine of memory lies there, because there men naturally dig for it, scratching it when they are at a loss." Fancy. — "It is the most boundless and restless faculty of the soul ; for while the Understanding and the Will are kept, as it were, in libera custodia to their objects of verum et honiim, the Fancy is free from all engagements: it digs without spade, sails without ship, flies without wings, builds without charges, fights without bloodshed: in a moment striding from the centre to the circumference of the world; by a kind of omnipotency creating and annihilating things in an instant ; and things divorced in Nature are married in Fancy as in a law- less place." Infants. — " Some, admiring what motives to mirth infants meet with in their silent and solitary smiles, have resolved, how truly I know not, that then they converse with angels ; as indeed such cannot among mortals find any fitter companions." Music. — " Such is the sociableness of music, it conforms itself to all companies both in mirth and mourning ; complying to improve that passion with which it finds the auditors most affected. In a word, it is an invention which might have beseemed a son of Seth to have been the father thereof: though better it was that Cain's great-grandchild should haVe the credit first to find it, than the world the unhappiness longer to have wanted it." St. Monica. — "Drawing near her death, she sent most pious thoughts as harbingers to heaven, and her soul saw a glimpse of happiness through the chinks of her sickness- broken body."* Mortality. — "To smell to .a tnrf of fresh earth is wholesome for the body, no less are thoughts of mortality cordial to the soul." Virgin. — " No lordling husband shall at the same time command her presence and distance ; to be always near in constant attendance, and always to stand aloof in awful observance." Elder Br oth-er. — "Is one who made haste to come into the world to bring the parents the first news of male posterity, and is well rewarded for his tidings." Bishop Fletcher. — " His pride was rather on him than in him, as only gait and gesture deep, not sinking to his heart, though cause- lessly condemned for a proud man, as who was a good hypocrite, and far more humble than he appeared." Masters of Colleges. — " A little allay of *"The soul's dark cottage, batter'd and decay'd, Lets in new li,!;hts through ehjnks which time has made." — Waller. SPECIMENS FROM. THE WRITINGS OF FULLER. 549 dulness in a Master of a College makes him fitter to mannge secular affairs." The Good Yeoman. — " Is a gentleman in ore, whom the next age may Fee refined." Good Parent. — "For his love, therein like a well-drawn picture, he eves all his children alike." ' . Deformity in Children. — " This partiality is tyranny, when parents despise those that are deformed ; enough to break those whom God had hoioed before." Good Master. — "In correcting his servant he becomes not a slave to his own passion. Not cruelly making new indentures of the flesh of his apprentice. He is tender of his servant in sickness and age. If crippled in his service, his house is his hospital. Yet how many throw away those dry bones, out of the which themselves have sucked the marrow !" Good Widow. — " If she can speak but little good of him [her dead husband] she speaks but little of him. So handsomely folding up her discourse, that his virtues are shown outwards, and his vices wrapt up in silence ; as counting it barbarism to throw dirt on his memory, who hath mould cast on his body." Horses. — " These are men's wings, where- with they make such speed. A generous creature a horse is, sensible in some sort of honour ; and made most handsome by .that which deforms men most — pride." Martyrdom. — " Heart of oak hath some- times warped a little in the scorching heat of persecution. Their want of true courage herein cannot be excused. Yet many cen- sure them for surrendering up their forts after a long siege, who would have yielded up their own at the first summons. — Oh ! there is more required to make one valiant, than to call Cranmer or Jewel coward ; as if the fire in Sraithfield had been no hotter than what is painted in the Book of Martyrs." Text of St: Paul— " St. Paul saith. Let not the sun go down on your wrath, to carry news to the antipodes in another world of thy revengeful nature. Yet let us take the Apostle's meaning rather than his words, with all possible speed to depose our passion ; not understanding him so literally, that we may take leave to be angry till sunset: then might our wrath lengthen with the days ; and men in Greenland, where the day lasts above a quarter of a year, have plentiful scope for revenge."* Bishop Brownrig. — " He carried learning enough in mimerato about him in his pockets for any discourse, and had much more at home in his chests for any serious dispute." Modest Want. — " Those that with diligence fight against poverty, though neither conquer till death makes it a drawn battle, expect not but prevent their cravipg of thee: for God forbid the heavens should never rain, till the earth first opens her mouth ; seeing some grounds ivill sooner burn than chap." Death-bed Temptations. — " The devil is most busy on the last day of his term ; and a tenant to be outed cares not what mischief he doth." Conversation. — " Seeing we are civilised Englishmen, let us not be naked savages in our talk." Wounded Soldier. — " Halting is the state- liest march of a soldier ; and 'tis a brave sight to see the flesh of an ancient as torn as his colours." Wat Tyler. — " A misogrammatist ; if a good Greek word may be given to so barbarous a rebel." Heralds. — " Heralds new mould men's names — taking from them, adding to them, melting out all the liquid letters, torturing mutes to make them speak, and making vowels dumb, — to bring it to a fallacious homonomy at the last, that their names may be the same with those noble houses they pre- tend to." Antiquarian Diligence. — " It is most worthy observation, with what diligence he [Camden] inquired after ancient places, making hue and cry after many a city which was run away, and by certain marks and tokens pur- suing to find it; as by the situation on the Roman highways, by just distance from other ancient cities, by some affinity of name, by tradition of the inhabitants, by Roman coins digged up, and by some appearance of ruins. A broken urn is a whole evidence ; or an * This whimsical prevention of a consequence which no one would have thought of deducing, — setting up an absurdum on purpose to hunt it down, — placing guards as it were at the very outposts of possibility,' — gravely giving out laws to insanity and prescribing moral fences to distempered intellects, could never have entered into a head less entertainingly constructed than that of Fuller, or Sir Thomas Browne, the very air of whose style the conclusion of this passage most aptly imitates. 550 SPECIMENS FROM THE WRITINGS OF FULLER. old gate still surviving, out of which the city is run out. Besides, commonly some new spruce town not far off is grown out of the ashes thereof, which yet hath so much natural affection as dutifully to own those reverend ruins for her mother." Henry de Essex. — " He is too well known in our English Chronicles, being Baron of Rnleigb, in Essex, and Hereditary Standard Bearer of England. It happened in the reign of this king [Henry II.] there was a fierce battle fought in Flintshire, at Coleshall, be- tween the English and Welsh, wherein this Henry de Essex animiim et sigjium simul abjecit, betwixt traitor and coward, cast away both his courage and banner together, occa- sioning a great overthrow of English. But he that had the baseness to do, had the bold- ness to deny the doing, of so foul a fact; until he was challenged in combat by Robert de Momford, a knight, eye-witness thereof, and by him overcome in a duel. Whereupon his large inheritance was confiscated to the king, and he himself, 'partly thrust, partly going, into a convent, hid his head in a coivl, under which, betwixt shame and sanctify, he blushed out the remainder of his life."* — Worthies, article Bedfordshire. Sir Edward Harwood, Knt. — "I have read of a bird, which hath a face like, and yet will prey upon, a man : who coming to the water to drink, and finding there by reflec- tion, that he had killed one like himself, pineth away by degrees, and never after- wards enjoyeth itself.f Such is in some sort * The fine imagination of Fuller has done what might have heen pronounced impossible: it has given an inte- rest and a holy character to coward infamy. Nothing can he more beautiful than the concluding account of the last days, and expiatory retirement, of poor Henry de Essex. The address with which the whole of this little Btory is told is most consummate : the charm of it seems to consist in a perpetual balance of antitheses not too violently opposed, and the consequent activity of mind in which the reader -is kept : — " Betwixt traitor and coward" — "baseness to do, boldness to deny" — "partly thrust, partly going, into a convent" — "betwixt shame and sanctity." The reader by this artifice is taken into a kind of partnership with the writer, — his judgment is exercised in settling the preponderance, — he feels as if he were consulted as to the issue. But the modern his- torian flings at once the dead weight of his own judg- ment into the scale, and settles the matter. f I do not know where Fuller read ^f this bird; but a more awful and affecting story, and moralising of a story, in Natural History, or rather in that Fabulous Natural History where poets and mythologists found the Phoenix and the Unicorn, and " other strange fowl," is nowhere extant. It is a fable which Sir Thomas Browne, if he had heard of it, would have exploded among his Vulgar the condition of Sir Edward. This accident, that he had killed one in a private quarrel, put a period to his carnal mirth, and was a covering to his eyes all the days of his life. No possible provocations could afterwards tempt him to a duel ; and no wonder that one's conscience loathed that whereof he had surfeited. He refused all challenges with more honour than others accepted them ; it being well known, that he would set his foot as far in the face of his enemy as any man alive." — Worthies, article Lincolnshire. Decayed Gentry. — " It happened in the reign of King James, when Henry Earl of Huntingdon was Lieutenant of Leicestershire, that a labourer's son in that country was pressed into the wars ; as I take it, to go over with Count Mansfield. The old- man at Leicester requested his son might be dis- charged, as being the only staff of his age, who by his industry maintained him and his mother. The Earl demanded his name, which the man for a long time was loath to tell (as suspecting it a fault for so poor a man to confess the truth), at last he told his name was Hastings. ' Cousin Hastings,' said the Earl, ' we cannot all be top branches of the tree, though we all spring from the same root; your son, my kinsman, shall not be pressed.' So good was the meeting of modesty in a poor, with courtesy in an hon- ourable person, and gentry I believe in both. And I have reason to believe, that some who justly own the surnames and blood of Bohuna, Mortimers, and Plantagenets (though igno- rant of their own -extractions,) are hid in the heap of common people, where they find that under a thatched cottage which some of their ancestors could not enjoy in a leaded castle, — contentment, with quiet and security." — ■ Worthies, article Of Shire-Beeves or Shiriffes, Tenderness of Conscience in a Tradesman. — " Thomas Curson, born in Allhallows, Lom- bard-street, armourer, dwelt without Bishops- Errors; but the delight which he would have taken ia the discussing of its probabilities, would have shown that the truth of the fact, though the avowed object of his search was not so much the motive which put him upon the investigation, as those hidden affinities and poetical analogies, — those essential verities in the appli- cation of strange fable, which made him linger with such- reluctant delay among the last fading lights of popular tradition; and not seldom to conjure up a superstition, that had been long extinct, from its dusty grave, to inter it himself with greater ceremonies and solemnities of burial. SPECIMENS FROM THE WRITINGS OF FULLER. 551 gate. • It happened that a stage-player bor- rowed a rusty musquet, which had lain long leger in his shop: now though his part were comical, he therewith acted an unexpected tragedy, killing one of the standers by, the gun casually going off on the stage, which he suspected not to be charged. Oh the difference of divers men in the tenderness of their consciences ! some are scarce touched with a wound, whilst others are wounded with a touch therein. This poor armourer was highly afflicted therewith, though done against his will, yea, without his know- ledge, in his absence, by another, out of mere chance. Hereupon he resolved to give all his estate to pious uses : no sooner had he gotten a round sum, but presently he posted with it in his apron to the Court of Alder- men, and was in pain till by their direction he had settled it for the relief of poor in his own and other parishes, and disposed of some hundreds of pounds accordingly, as I am credibly informed by the then churchwardens of the said parish. Thus as he conceived himself casually (though at a great distance) to have occasioned the death of one, he was the immediate and direct cause of giving a comfortable living to many." Burning of Wickliffe's Body hy Order of the Council of Constance. — " Hitherto [a.d. 1428] the corpse of John Wickliffe had quietly slept in his grave about forty-one years after his death, till his body was reduced to bones, and his bones almost to dust. For though the earth in the chancel of Lutterworth, in Lei- cestershire, where he was interred, hath not so quick a. digestion with the earth of Acel- dama, to consume flesh in twenty-four hours, yet such the appetite thereof, and all other English graves, to leave small reversions of a body after so many years. But now such the spleen of the Council of Constance, as they not only cursed his memory as dying an obstinate heretic, but ordered that his bones (with this charitable caution. — if it may be discerned from the bodies of other faithful people) be taken out of the ground, and thrown far off from any Christian burial. In obedience hereunto, Richard Fleming, Bishop of Lincoln, Diocesan of Lutterworth, sent his officers (vultures with a quick sight, scent, at a dead carcass) to ungrave him. Ac- cordingly to Lutterworth they come, Sumner, Commissary, Official, Chancellor, Proctors, Doctors, and their servants, (so that the remnant of the body would not hold out a bone amongst so many hands,) take what was left out of the grave, and burnt them to ashes, and cast them into Swift, a neighbour- ing brook, running hard by. Thus this brook has conveyed his ashes into Avon, Avon into Severn, Sevepi into the narrow seas, they into the main ocean ; and thus the ashes of Wick- liffe are the emblem of his doctrine, which now is dispersed all the loorld over." ^ — Church' History. * The concluding period of this most lively narrative I will not call a conceit; it is one of the grandest con- ceptions I ever met \yith. One feels the ashes of 'Wick- liffe gliding away out of the reach of the Sumners, Com- missaries, OfScials, Proctors, Doctors, and all the puddering rout of executioners of the impotent rage of the baflJed Council ; from Swift into Avon, from Avon into Severn, fi'om Severn into the narrow seas, from the narrow seas into the main ocean, where they hecome the emhlem of his doctrine " dispersed all the world over." Hamlet's tracing the hody of Cresar to the clay that stops a beer barrel is a no less curious pursuit of " ruined mortality ;" but it is in an inverse ratio to this ; it degrades and saddens us, for one part of our nature at least ; but this expands the whole of our nature, and gives to the body a sort of ubiquity, — a diffusion as far as the actions of its partner can have reach or influence. I have seen this passage smiled at, and set down as a quaint conceit of old Fuller. But what is not a conceit to those who read it in a temper different from that in which the writer composed it ? The most pathetic parts of poetry to cold tempers seem and are nonsense, as divinity was to the Greeks foolishness. When Kiohard II., meditating on his own utter annihilation as to royalty, cries out, " that I were a mockery king of snow, To melt before the sun of Bolingbroke," if we had been going on pace for pace with the passion be- fore, this sudden conversion of a strong-felt metaphor into something to be actually realised in nature, like that of Jeremiah, "Oh ! that my head were waters, and mine eyes a fountain of tears," is strictly and strikingly natural; but come unprepared upon it, and it is a conceit : and so is a "head" turned into "waters." 552 ON THE GENIUS AND CHARACTER OF HOGARTH. ON THE GENIUS AND CHAKACTEK OP HOGARTH; ■WITH SOME EEMAUKS ON A PASSAGE IN THE -WEITINGS OP THE LATE MR. EARET. OxVE of the earliest and noblest enjoy- ments I had when a boy, was in the contem- plation of those capital prints by Hogarth, the Harlot's and BaMs Progresses, which, along with some others, hung upon the walls of a great hall in an old-fashioned house in shire, and seemed the solitary tenants (with myself) of that antiquated and life- deserted apartment. Recollection of the manner in which those prints used to affect me has often made me wonder, when I have heard Hogarth de- scribed as a mere comic painter, as one of those whose chief ambition was to raise a laugh. To deny that there are throughout the prints which I have mentioned circum- stances introduced of a laughable tendency, would be to run counter to the common notions of mankind: but to suppose that in their ruling character they appeal chiefly to the risible faculty, and not first and foremost to the very heart of man, its best and most serious feelings, would be to mistake no less grossly their aim and purpose. A set of severer Satires (for they are not so much Comedies, which they have been likened to, as they are strong and masculine Satires) less mingled with anything of mere fun, were never written upon paper, or graven upon copper. They resemble Juvenal, or the satiric touches in Timon of Athens. I was pleased with the reply of a gentleman, who being asked which book he esteemed most in his library, answered, — " Shak- speare ; " being asked which he esteemed next best, replied, " Hogarth." His graphic representations are indeed books : they have the teeming, fruitful, suggestive meaning of words. Other pictures we look at,- — his prints we read. In pursuance of this parallel, T have some- times entertained myself with comparing the Timon of Athens of Shakspeare (which I have just mentioned) and Hogarth's Rake's Pro- gress together. The story, the moral, in both is nearly the same. The wild course of riot and extravagance, ending in the one with driving the Prodigal from the society of men into the solitude of the deserts, and in the other with conducting the Rake through his several stages of dissipation into the still more complete desolations of the mad-house, in the play and in the picture, are described with almost equal force and nature. The levee of the Rake, which forms the subject of the second plate in the series, is almost a tran- script of Timon's levee in the opening scene of that play. We find a dedicating poet, and other similar characters, in both. The concluding scene in the Rake's Progress is perhaps superior to the last scenes of Timon. If we seek for something of kindred excellence in poetry, it must be in the scenes of Lear's beginning madness, where the King and the Fool, and the Tom-o'Bedlam conspire to produce such a medley of mirth checked by misery, and misery rebuked by mirth ; where the society of those " strange bed- fellows" which misfortunes have brought Lear acquainted with, so finely sets forth the destitute state of the monarch; while the lunatic bans of the one, and the disjointed sayings and wild but pregnant allusions of the other, so wonderfully sympathise with that confusion, which they seem to assist in the production of, in the senses of that " child-changed father." In the scene in Bedlam, which terminates the Rake's Progress, we find the same assort- ment, of the ludicrous with the terrible. Here is desperate madness, the overturning of originally strong thinking faculties, at which we shudder, as we contemplate the duration and pressure of aflliction which it must have asked to destroy such a building ; — and here is the gradual hurtless lapse into idiocy, of faculties, which at their best of times never having been strong, we look upon the consummation of their decay with no more of pity than is consistent with a smile. The mad tailor, the poor driveller I that has gone out of his wits (and truly he ON THE GENIUS AND CHARACTER OF HOGARTH. 553 appears to have had no -great journey to go to get past their confines) for the love of Charming Betty Careless, — these half laugh- able, scarce-pitiable objects, take off from the horrors which the principal figure would of itself raise, at the same time that they assist the feeling of the scene by contributing to the general notion of its subject: — " Madness, thou chaos of the brain, What art, that pleasure giv'st and pain? Tyranny of Fancy's reign ! Mechanic Fancy, that can build Vast labyrinths and mazes wild, With rule disjointed, shapeless measure, Fill'd with horror, fill'd with pleasure ! Shapes of horror, that would even Cast doubts of mercy upon heaven ; Shapes of pleasure, that but seen,. Would split the shaking sides of Spleen." * Is it carrying the spirit of comparison to excess to remark, that in the poor kneeling weeping female who accompanies her seducer in his sad decay, there is something analogous to Kent, or Caius, as he delights rather to be called, in Lear, — the noblest pattern of virtue which even Shakspcare has conceived, — who follows his royal master in banishment, that had pronounced liis banit^hment, and, forgetful at once of his wrongs and dignities, taking on himself the disguise of a menial, retains his fidelity to the figure, his loyalty to the carcass, the shadow, the shell and empty husk of Lear? In the perusal of a book, or of a picture, much of the impression which we receive depends upon the habit of mind which we bring with us to such perusal. The same circumstance may make one person laugh, which shall render another very serious ; or in the same person the first impression may be corrected by after-thought. The mis- employed incongruous characters at the Harlofs Funeral, on a superficial inspection, provoke to laughter ; but when we have sacrificed the first emotion to levity, a very different frame of mind succeeds, or the painter has lost half his purpose. I never look at that wonderful assemblage of depraved beings, who, without a grain of reverence or pity in their perverted minds, are performing the sacred exteriors of duty to the relics of their departed partner in folly, but I am as much moved to sympathy from the very want of it in them, as I should be by the * Lines inscribed under the plate. finest representation of a virtuous death-bed surrounded by real mourners, pious children., weeping friends, — perhaps more by the very contrast. What reflections does it not awake, of the dreadful heartless state in which the creature (a female too) must have lived, who in death wants the accompaniment of one genuine tear. That wretch who is removing the lid of the cofiBn to gaze upon the corpse with a face which indicates a perfect negation of all goodness or womanhood — the hypocrite parson and his demure partner — all the fiendish group — to a thoughtful mind present a moral emblem more affecting than if the poor friendless carcass had been depicted as thrown out to the woods, where wolves had assisted at its obsequies, itself furnishing forth its own funeral banquet. It is easy to laugh at such incongruities as are met together in this picture, — incongruous objects being of the very essence of laughter, — but surely the laugh is far different in its kind from that thoughtless species to which we are moved by mere farce and grotesque. We laugh when Ferdinand Count Fathom, at the first sight of the white cliffs of Britain, feels his heart yearn with filial fondness towards the land of his progenitors, which he is coming to fleece and plunder, ---we smile at the exquisite irony of the passage, — but if we are not led on by such passages to some more salutary feeling than laughter, we are very negligent perusers of them in book or picture. It is the fashion with those who cry up the great Historical School in this country, at the head of which Sir Joshua Reynolds is placed, to exclude Hogarth from that school, as an artist of an inferior and vulgar class. Those persons seem to me to confound the painting of subjects in common or vulgar life with the being a vulgar artist. The quantity of thought which Hogarth crowds into every picture would alone unvulgarise every subject which he might choose. Let us take the lowest of his subjects, the print called Gin Lane. Here is plenty of poverty and low stuff to disgust upon a superficial view ; and accordingly a cold spectator feels himself immediately disgusted and repelled. I have seen many turn away from it, not being able to bear it. The same persons would perhaps have looked with great com- placency upon Poussin's celebrated picture 554 ON THE GENIUS AND CHARACTER OF HOGARTH. of the Plague at Athens * Disease and Death I subject could only have been conceived by a and bewildering Terror, in Athenian garments, are endurable, and come, as the delicate critics express it, vrithin the "limits of pleasurable sensation." But the scenes of their own St. Giles's, delineated by their own countryman, are too shocking to think of. Yet if we could abstract our minds from the fascinating colours of the picture, and forget the coarse execution (in some respects) of the print, intended as it was to be a cheap plate, accessible to the poorer sort of people, for ^hose instruction it was done, I think we could have no hesitation in conferring the palm of superior genius upon Hogarth, comparing this work of his with Poussin's picture. There is more of imagination in it — that power which draws all things to one, — which makes things animate and inani- mate, beings with their attributes, subjects, and their accessories, take one colour and serve to one effect. Everything in the print, to use a vulgar expression, tells. Every part is full of " strange images of death." It is perfectly amazing and astounding to look at. Not only the two prominent figures, the woman and the half-dead man, which are as terrible as anything which Michael Angelo ever drew, but everything else in the print, contributes to bewilder and stupefy, — the very bouses, as I heard a friend of mine express it, tumbling all about in various directions, seem drunk — seem absolutely reel- ing from the effect of that diabolical spirit of frenzy which goes forth over the whole composition. To show the poetical and almost prophetical conception in the artist, one little circumstance may serve. Not content with the dying and dead figures, which he has strewed in profusion over the proper scene of the action, he shows you what (of a kindred nature) is passing beyond it. Close by the shell, in which, by direction of the parish beadle, a man is depositing his wife, is an old wall, which, partaking of the univei'sal decay around it, is tumbling to pieces. Through a gap in this wall are ceen three figures, which appear to make a part in some funeral procession which is passing by on the other side of the wall, out of the sphere of the composition. This extending of the interest beyond the bounds of the * At the late Mr. Hope's, in Cavendish-scLuare. great genius. Shakspeare, in his description of the painting of the Trojan War, in his Tarqiiin and Jjucrece, has introduced a similar device, where the painter made a part stand for the whole : — "For much imaginary worfe was there, Conceit deceitful, so compact, so liind, That for Achilles' image stood his spear, Grip'd in an armed hand ; himself hehind Was left unseen, save to the eye of mind : A hand, a foot, a face, a leg, a head. Stood for the whole to he imagined.'' This he well calls imaginary work, where the spectator^ must meet the artist in his conceptions half way ; and it is peculiar to the confidence of high genius alone to trust so much to spectators or readers. Lesser artists show everything distinct and full, as they require an object to be made out to themselves before they can comprehend it. When I think of the power displayed in this (I will not hesitate to say) sublime print, it seems to me the extreme narrowness of system alone, and of that rage for classifi- cation, by which, in matters of taste at least, we are perpetually perplexing, instead of arranging, our ideas, that would make us concede to the work of Poussin above mentioned, and deny to this of Hogarth, the name of a grand serious composition. We are forever deceiving ourselves with names and theories. We call one man a great historical painter, because he has taken for his subjects -kings or great men, or transactions over which time has thrown a grandeur. We term another the painter of common life, and set him down in our minds for an artist of an inferior class, without reflecting whether the quantity of thought shown by the latter may not much more than level the distinction which their mere choice of subjects may seem to place between them ; or whether, in fact, from that very cimimon life a great artist may not extract as deep an interest as another man from that which we are pleased to call history. I entertain the highest respect for the talents and virtues of Reynolds, but I do not like that his reputation should overshadow and stifle the merits of such a man a$ Hogarth, nor that to mere names and classifications we should be conten' to sacrifice one of the greatest ornaments of England. ON THE GENIUS AND CHAEACTER OF HOGARTH. 555 I would ask the most enthusiastic admirer of Reynolds, whether in the countenance of his Staring and Ghinning Despair, which he has given us for the faces of Ugolino and dying Beaufort, there be anything com- parable to the expression which Hogarth has put into the face of his broken-down rake in the last plate but one of the Rake's Progress* where a letter from the manager is brought to him to say that his play " will not do?" Here all is easy, natural, undis- lorted, but withal what a mass of woe is here accumulated! — the long history of a mis-spent life is compressed into the coun- tenance as plainly as the series of plates before had told it; here is no attempt at Gorgonian looks, which are to freeze the beholder — no grinning at the antique bed- posts — no face-making, or consciousness of the presence of spectators in or out of the picture, but grief kept to a man's self, a face retiring from notice with the shame which great anguish sometimes brings with it, — a final leave taken of hope, — the coming on of vacancy and stupefaction, — a beginning alienation of mind looking like tranquillity. Here, is matter for the mind of the beholder to feed on for the hour together, — matter to feed and fertilise the mind. It is too real to admit one thought about the power of the artist who did it. When we compare the expression in subjects which so fairly admit of comparison, and find the superiority so clearly to remain with Hogarth, shall the mere contemptible difference of the scene of it being laid, in the one case, in our Fleet or King's Bench Prison, and, in the other, in the State Prison of Pisa, or the bed-room of a cardinal, — or that the subject of the one has never been authenticated, and the other is matter of history, i — so weigh down the real points of the comparison, as to induce us to rank the artist who has chosen the one scene or subject (though confessedly inferior in that which constitutes the soul of his art) in a class from which we exclude the better genius (who has happened to make choice of the other) with something like disgrace?! * The first perhaps in all Hogarth for serious expres. sion. That which comes next to it, I think, is the jaded mornin; countenance of the debauchee in the second plate of the MarHage Jilamnde, which lectures on the vanity of pleasure as audibly as anything in Ecclesiastes. f Sir Joshua Reynolds, somewhere in his lectures speaks of the presumption of Hogarth in attempting the I7ie Boys under Demoniacal Possession of Raphael and Domenichino, by what law of classification are we bound to assign them to belong to the great style in painting, and to degrade into an inferior class the Rake of Hogarth when he is the Madman in the Bedlam scene? I am sure he is far more impressive than either. It is a face which no one that has seen can easily forget. There is the stretch of human suffering to the utmost endurance, severe bodily pain brought on by strong mental agony, the . frightful obstinate laugh of madness, — yet all so unforced and natural, that those who never were witness to madness in real life, think they see nothing but what is familiar to them in this face. Here are no tricks of distortion, nothing but the natural face of agony. This is high tragic painting, and we might as well deny to Shakspeare the honours of a great tragedian, because he has interwoven scenes of mirth with the serious business of his plays, as refuse to Hogarth the same praise for the two concluding scenes of the Pake's Progress, because of the Comic Lunatics* which he has thrown into the one, or the Alchymist that he has introduced in the other, who is paddling in the coals of his furnace, keeping alive the grand style in painting, by which he means his choice of certain Scripture subjects. Hogarth's excursions into Holy Land were not very numerous, but what he has left us in this kind have at least this merit, that they have expression of sotiLe sort or other in them, — the Child Moses before Pharaoli's Daughter, for instance: which is more than can be said of Sir Joshua Reynolds's Repose in Egypt, painted for Macklin's Bible, where for a Madonna he has substituted a sleepy, insensible, un- motherly girl, one so little worthy to have been selected as the Mother of the Saviour, that she seems to have neither heart nor feeling to entitle her to become a mother at all. But indeed the race of Virgin Mary painters seems to have been cut up, root and branch, at the Reformation. Our artists are too good Protestants to give life to that admirable commixture of maternal tenderness with reverential awe 'and wonder approaching to worship, with which the Virgin Mothers of L. da Vinoi and Raphael (themselves by their divine counte- nance inviting men to worship) contemplate the union of the two natures in the person of their Heaven-bcrn Infant. * " There are of madmen, as there are of tame. All humour'd not alike. We have here some So apish and fantastic, play with a feather; And though 'twould grieve a soul to see God's image So blemish'd and defac'd, yet do they act Such antick and such pretty lunacies, That, spite of sorrow, they will make you smile. Others again we have, like angry lions, Fierce as wild bulls, untameable as flies." Honest Whore. 556 ON THE GENIUS AND CHARACTER OF HOGARTH. flames of vain hope within the very walls of the prison to which the vanity has conducted him, which "nave taught the darker lesson of extinguished hope to the desponding figure who is the principal person of the scene. It is the force of these kindly admixtures which assimilates the scenes of Hogarth and of Shakspeare to the drama of real life, where no such thing as pure tragedy is to be found ; but merriment and infelicity, ponderous crime and feather -light vanity, like twi- formed births, disagreeing com- plexions of one intertexture, perpetually unite to show forth motley spectacles to the world. Then it is that the poet or painter shows his art, when in the selection of these comic adjuncts he chooses such circum- stances as shall relieve, contrast with, or fall into, Avithout forming a violent opposition to • his principal object. Who sees not that the Grave-digger in Hamlet, the Fool in Lear, have a kind of correspondency to, and fall in with, the subjects which they seem to interrupt: while the comic stuff in Venice Preserved, and the doggerel nonsense of the Cook and his poisoning associates in the Bollo of Beaumont and Fletcher, are pure, irrelevant, impertinent discords, — as bad as. the quarrelling dog and cat under the table of the Lord and the Disciples at Enimaus of Titian ? Not to tire the reader with perpetual reference to prints which he may not be fortunate enough to possess, it may be suffi- cient to remark, that the same tragic cast of expression and incident, blended in some instances with a greater alloy of comedy, characterises his other great work, the Marriage Alamode, as well as those less elaborate exertions of his genius, the prints called hidustry and Idleness, the Distrest Poet, &c. forming, with the Harlot's and Pake's Progresses, the most considerable if not the largest class of his productions, — enough surely to rescue Hogarth from the imputation of being a mere buffoon, or one whose general aim was only to shake the sides. There remains a very numerous class of his performances, the object of which must be confessed to be principally comic. But in all of them will be found something to dis- tinguish them from the droll productions of Bun bury and others. They have this differ- ence, that we do not merely laugh at, we are led into long trains of reflection by them. In this respect they resemble the characters of Chaucer's Pilgrims, which have strokes of humour in them enough to designate them for the most part as comic, but our . strongest feeling still is wonder at the com- prehensiveness of genius which could crowd, as poet and painter have done, into one small canvas so many diverse yet co-operating materials. The faces of Hogarth have not a mere momentary interest, as in caricatures, or those grotesque physiognomies which we sometimes catch a glance of in the street, and, struck with their whimsicality, wish for a pencil and the power to sketch them down ; and forget them again as rapidlj^ — but they are permanent abiding ideas. Not the sports of nature, but her necessary eternal classes. We feel that we cannot part with any of them, lest a link should be broken. It is worthy of observation, that he has seldom drawn a mean or insignificant coun- tenance.* Hogarth's mind was eminently reflective ; and, as it has been well observed of Shakspeare, that he has transfused his own poetical character into the persons of his drama (they are all more or less poets) Hogarth has impressed a thinking character upon the persons of his canvas. This remark must not be taken universally. The ex- quisite idiotism of the little gentleman in the bag and sword beating: his drum in the print of the Enraged Musician, would of itself rise up against so sweeping an asser- tion. But I think it will be found to be true of the generality of his countenances.. The knife-grinder and Jew flute-player in the plate just mentioned, may serve as instances instead of a thousand. They have intense thinking faces, though the purpose to which they are subservient by no means required it ; but indeed it seems as if it was painful to Hogarth to contemplate mere vacancy or insignificance. * If there are any of that description, they are in his Strolling Players, a print which has been cried up by Lord Orford as the richest of his productions, and it may. be, for what I know, in the mere lumber, the properties, and dead furniture of the scene, bnt in living character and expression it is (for Hogarth) lamentably poor and wanting ; it is perhaps the only one of his performances at which we have a right to feel disgusted. ON THE GENIUS AND CHARACTER OF HOGARTH. 557 This reflection of the artist's own intellect from the faces of his characters, is one reason why the works of Hogarth, so much more than those of any other artist, are ohjects of meditation. Our intellectual natures love the mirror which gives them back their own likenesses. The mental eye will not bend long with delight upon vacancy. Another line of eternal separation between Hogarth and the common painters of droll or burlesque subjects, with whom he is often confounded, is the sense of beauty, which in the most unpromising subjects seems never wholly to have deserted him. " Hogarth himself," says Mr. Coleridge,* from whom I have borrowed this observation, speaking of a scene which took place at Ratzeburg, " never drew a more ludicrous distortion, both of attitude and physiognomy, than this effect occasioned : nor was there wanting beside it one of those beautiful female faces which the same Hogarth, in wJiom the satirist never extinguished that love of beauty tohich belonged to him as a poet, so often and so gladly introduces as the central figure in a crowd of humorous deformities, which figure (such is the power of true genius) neither acts nor is 'meant to act as a contrast ; but diffuses through all and over each of the group a spirit of reconciliation and human kindness ; and even when the attention is no longer consciously directed to the cause of this feeling, still blends its tenderness with our laughter : and thus prevents the instructive merriment at the whims of nature, or the ■ foibles or humours of our fellow - men, from degenerating into the heart-poison of contempt or hatred." To the beautiful females in Hogarth, which Mr. C. has pointed out, might be added, the frequent introduction of children (which Hogarth seems to have taken a particular delight in) into his pieces. - They have a singular effect in giving tran- quillity and a poi-tion of their own innocence to the subject. The baby riding in its mother's lap in the March to Finchley, (its careless innocent face placed directly behind the intriguing tim-e-furrowed countenance of the treason-plotting French priest,) perfectly sobers the whole of that tumultuous scene. The boy mourner winding up his top with so much unpretending insensibility in the plate of the Harlot's Funeml, (the only thing in that assembly that is not a hypocrite,) quiets and soothes the mind that has been disturbed at the sight of so much depraved man and woman kind. I had written thus far, when I met with a passage in the writings of the late Mr. Barry, which,' as it falls in with the vulgar notion respecting Hogarth, which this Essay has been employed in combating, I shall take the liberty to transcribe, with such remarks as may suggest themselves to me in the tran- scription ; referring the reader for a full answer to that which has gone before. The. Friend, No. XVI. " Notwithstanding Hogarth's merit does undouhtedlj entitle him to an honorable place among the artists, and that his little compositions, considered as so many dramatic representations, abounding with humour, char racter, and extensive observations on the various inci- dents of low, faulty, and vicious life, are very in- geniously brought together, and frequently tell their own story with more facility than is often found in many of the elevated and more noble inventions of Raphael and other great men ; yet it must be honestly confessed, that in what is called knowledge of the figure, foreigners have justly observed, that Hogarth is often so raw knd unformed, as hardly to deserve the name of an artist. But this capital defect is not often perceivable, as examples of the naked and of elevated nature but rarely occur in his subjects, which are for the most part tilled with characters that in their nature tend to deformity; besides his figures are small, and the jonctures, and other difficulties of drawing that might occur in their limbs, are artfully concealed with their clothes, rags, &c. But what would atone for all his defects, even if they were twice told, is his admirable fund of invention, evei inex- haustible in 'its resources; and his satyr, which is always sharp and pertinent, and often highly mor&l, was (except in a few instances, where he weakly and meanly sulTered his integrity to give way to his envy) seldom or never employed in a dishonest or unmanly way. Hogarth has often been imitated in his satirical vein, sometimes in his humorous: but very few have attempted to rival him in his moral walk. The line of art pursued by my very ingenious predecessor and brother Academician, Mr. Penny, is guite distinct from that of Hogarth, and is of a much more delicate and superior relish ; he attempts the heart, and reaches it, whilst Hogarth's general aim is only to shake the sides ; in other respects no comparison can be thought of, as Mr. Penny has all that knowledge of the figure and academical skill which the other wanted. As to Mr. Bunbury, who had so happily succeeded in the vein of hiimour and caricatura, he has for some time past altogether relinquished it, for the more amiable pursuit of beautiful nature : this, indeed, is not to be wondered at, when we recollect that he has, in Mrs. Bunbury, so admirable an exemplar of the most finished grace and beauty continually at his elbow. But (to say all that occurs to me on this subject) perhaps it may be reasonably doubted, whether the being much conversant with Hogarth's method of exposing meanness, deformity, and vice, in many of his works. Is not rather a dangerous, or, at least, a worthless pursuit; which, if it does not find a false relish and a love of and search after satyr and buffoonery in the spectator, is al least not unlikely to give him one. Life is short; and the little leisure of it is much better laid out upon that species of art which is employed about the amiable and the admirable, as it is more likely to be attended with 558 ON THE GENIUS AND CHARACTER OF HOGARTH. bettei and nobler consequences to ourselves. These two pursuits in art may be compared with two sets of people with -ft-hom we might associate ; if we give ourselves up to thy Footes, the Kenricks, &g. we shall be continually busied and paddling in whatever is ridiculous, faulty, and vicious in life; whereas there are those to be found with whom we should be in the constant pursuit and study of all that gives a value and a dignity to human nature." [Account of a Series of Pictures in the Great Koom of the Society of Arts, Manufactures, and Com- merce, at the Adelphi, by James Barry, R. A., Professor of Painting to the Eoyal Academy ; reprinted in the last quarto edition of his works.] 1. It must be honestly confessed, that in what is called knowledge of the figure, foreigners have justly observed, &c. It is a secret well known to the professors of the art and mystery of criticism, to insist upon what they do not find in a man's works, and to pass OTer in silence what they do. That Hogarth did not draw the naked figure so well as Michael Angelo might be allowed, especially as " examples of the naked," as Mr. Barry acknowledges, '' rarely (he might almost have said never) occur in his sub- jects;" and that his figures under their draperies do not discover all the fine graces of an Antinolis or an Apollo, maybe con- ceded likewise ; perhaps it was more suitable to his purpose to represent the average forms of mankind in the mediocrity (as Mr. Burke expresses it) of the age in which he lived ; but that his figures in general, and in his best subjects, are so glaringly incorrect as is here insinuated, I dare trust my owh eye so far as positively to deny the fact. And there is one part of the figure in which Hogarth is allowed to have excelled, which these foreigners seem to have overlooked, or perhaps calculating from its proportion to the whole (a sevenrti or an eighth, I forget which,) deemed it of tritiing importance ; I mean the human face ; a small part, reckon- ing by geographical inches, in the .map of man's body, but here it is that the painterr of expression must condense the wonders of his skill, even at the expense of neglecting the "jonctures and other difiiculties of drawing in the limbs," which it must be a cold eye that, in the interest so strongly demanded by Hogarth's countenances, has leisure to survey and censure. " The line of art pursued by my very ingenious prede- pessor and brother Academician, Mr. Penny." The first impression caused in me by reading this passage was an eager desire to know who this Mr. Penny was. This great surpasser of Hogarth in the " delicacy of his relish," and the " line which he pursued," where is he, what are his works, what has he to show ? In vain I tried to recollect, till by happily putting the question to a friend who is more conversant in the works of the illustrious obscure than myself, I learnt that he was the painter of a Death of Wolfe which missed the prize the year that the celebrated picture of West on the same subject obtained it ; that he also made a picture of the Marquis of Granby relieving a Si^k Soldier ; moreover, that he was the inventor of two pictures of Suspended and Restored Animation, which I now remember to have seen in the Exhibition some years since, and the prints from which are still extant in good men's houses. This then, I suppose, is the line of subjects in which Mr. Penny was so much superior to Hogarth. I confess I am not of that opinion. The relieving of poverty by the purse, and the restoring a young man to his parents by using the methods prescribed by the Humane Society, are doubtless vei-y amiable subjects, pretty things to teach the first rudiments of humanity ; they amount to about as much instruction as the stories of good boys that give away their custards to poor beggar-boys in children's books. But, good God ! is this milh for babes to be set up in opposition to Hogarth's moral scenes, his strong meat for men ? As well might we prefer the fulsome verses upon their own goodness to which the gentlemen of the Literary Fund annually sit still with such shameless patience to listen, to the satires of Juvenal and Persius : because the former are full of tender images of Worth relieved by Charity, and Charity stretching out her hand to rescue sinking Genius, and the theme of the latter is men's crimes and follies with their black con- sequences — forgetful meanwhile of those strains of moral pathos, those sublime heart- touches, which these poets (in them chiefly showing themselves poets) are perpetually darting across the otherwise appalling gloom of their subject — consolatory remembrancers, when their pictures of guilty mankind have made us even to despair for our species, that there is such a thing as virtue and moral dignity in the world, that her un- quenchable- spark is not utterly out — ON THE GENIUS AND CHARACTER OF HOGARTH. 559 refreshing admonitions, to which we turn for shelter from the. too great heat and asperity of the general satire. And is there nothing analogous to this m Hogarth? nothing which "attempts and reaches the heart?"— no aim beyond that of "shaking the sides?"- If the kneeling ministering female in the last scene of the Make's Progress, the Bedlam scene, of which I have spoken before, and have dared almost to parallel it with the most absolute idea of Virtue which Shakspeare has left us, be not enough to disprove the assertion ; if the sad endings of the Harlot and the Rake, the passionate heart- bleeding entreaties for for- giveness which the adulterous wife is pouring forth to her assassinated and dying lord in the last scene but one of the Marriage Alamode, — if these be not things to touch the heart, and dispose the mind to a medi- tative tenderness: is there nothing sweetly conciliatory in the mild patient face and gesture with which the wife seems to allay and ventilate the feverish irritated feelings of her poor poverty-distracted mate (the true copy of the genus irritabile) in the print of the Distrest Poetf or if an image of maternal love be required, where shall we fi,nd a sublimer view of it than in that aged woman in Indvstrrj and Idleness (plate V.) who is clinging with the fondness of hope not quite extinguished to her brutal vice- hardened child, whom she is accompanying to the ship which is to bear him away from his native soil, of which he has been adjudged unworthy: in whose shocking face every trace of the human countenance seems obliterated, and a brute beast's to be left instead, shocking and repulsive to all but her who watched over it in its cradle before it was so sadly altered, and feels it must belong to her while a pulse by the vindictive laws of his country shall be suffered to con- tinue to beat in it. Compared with such things, what is Mr. Penny's " knowledge of ■ the figure and academical skill which Hogarth wanted?" With respect to what follows, concerning another gentleman, with the congratulations to him on his escape out of the regions of "humour and carlcatura," in which it appears he was in danger of travelling side by side with Hogarth, I can only congratulate my country, that Mrs. Hogarth knew her pro- vince better than, by disturbing her husband at his palette, to divert him from that univer- sality of subject, which has stamped him per- haps, next to Shakspeare, the most inventive genius which this island has produced, into the "amiable pursuit of beautiful nature," i.e. copying ad infinitum the individual charms and graces of Mrs. H. "Hogarth's method of exposing meanness, deformity, and vice, paddling in whatever is ridiculous, faulty, and vicious." A person unacquainted with the works thus stigmatised would be apt to imagine that in Hogarth there was nothing else to be found but subjects of the coarsest and most repulsive nature. That his imagination was naturally unsweet, and that he delighted in raking into every species of moral filth. That he preyed upon sore places only, and took a pleasure in exposing the unsound and rotten parts of human nature: — whereas, with the exception of some of the plates of the Harlot's Progress, which are harder in their character than any of the rest of .his productions, (the Stages of Cruelty I omit as mere worthless caricaturas, foreign to his general habits, the offspring of his fancy In some wayward humour,) there is scarce one of his pieces where vice is most strongly satirised, in which some figure is not Intro- duced upon which the moral eye may rest satisfied ; a face that indicates goodness, or perhaps mere good-humouredness and care- lessness of mind (negation of evil) only, yet enough to give a relaxation to the frowning brow of satire, and keep the general air from tainting. Take the mild, supplicating posture of patient Poverty in the poor woman that is persuading the pawnbroker to accept her clothes in pledge, in the plate of Gin Lane, for an instance. A little does it, a little of the good nature overpowers a world of bad. One cordial honest laugh of a Tom Jones absolutely clears the atmosphere that was reeking with the black putrifying breathings of a hypocrite Blifil. One homely expostu- lating shrug from Strap warms the whole air which the suggestions of a gentlemanly ingratitude from his friend Random had begun to freeze. One " Lord bless us ! " of Parson Adams upon the wickedness of the times, exorcises and purges off the mass of iniquity which the world-knowledge of even 560 ON THE GENIUS AND CHARACTEE OF HOGARTH. a Fielding could cull out and rake together. But of the severer class of Hogarth's per- formances, enough, I trust, has been said to show that they do not merely shock and repulse ; that there is in them the " scorn of vice" and the "pity" too; something to touch the heart, and keep alive the sense of moral beauty; the "lacrymge rerum," and the sorrowing by which the heart is made better. If they be bad things, then is satire and tragedy a bad thing; let ue proclaim at once an age of gold, and sink the existence of vice and misery in our speculatioas : let us " wmk, and shut our apprehensions up From common sense of what men were and are :" let US make helieve with the children, that every body is good and happy ; and, with Dr. Swift, write panegyrics upon the world. But that larger half of Hogarth's works, ■which were painted more for entertainment than instruction (though such was the sug- gestiveness of his mind that there is always something to be learnt from them), his humorous scenes, — are they such as merely to disgust and set us against our species? The confident assertions of such a man as I consider the late Mr. Barry to have been, have that weight of authority in them which staggers at first hearing, even a long pre- conceived opinion. When I read his pathetic admonition concerning the shortness of life, and 'how much better the little leisure of it were laid out upon " that species of art which is employed about the amiable and the ad- mirable;" and Hogarth's "method," pro- scribed as a " dangerous or worthless pur- suit," I began to think there was something in it; that I might have been indulging all my life a passion for the works of this artist, to the utter prejudice of my taste and moral sense ; but my first convictions gradually returned, a world of good-natured English faces came up one by one to my recollec- tion, and a glance at the matchless Election Entertainment, which I have the happi- ness to have hanging up in my parlour, subverted Mr. Barry's whole theory in an instant. In that inimitable print, (which in my judgment as far exceeds the more known and celebrated March to Finchley, as the best comedy exceeds the best farce that ever was written,) let a person look till he be saturated, and when he has done wondering at the in- ventiveness of genius which" could bring so many characters (more than thirty distinct classes of face) into a room and set them down at table together, or otherwise dispose them about, in so natural a manner, engage them in so many easy sets and occupations, yet all partaking of the spirit of the occasion which brought them together, so that we feel that nothing but an election time could have assembled them ; having no central figure or principal group, (for the hero of the piece, the Candidate, is properly set aside in the levelling indistinction of the day, one must look for him to find him,) nothing to detain the eye fi-om passing from part to part, where every part is alike instinct with life, — for here are no furniture-faces, no figures brought in to fill up the scene like stage choruses, but all dramatis personge : when he shall have done wondering at all these faces so strongly charactered, yet finished with the accuracy of the finest miniature ; when he shall have done ad- miring the numberless appendages of the scene, those gratuitous doles which rich genius flings into the heap when it has already done enough, the over-measure which it delights in giving, as if it felt its stores were exhaustless ; the dumb rhetoric of the scenery — for tables, and chairs, and joint-stools in Hogarth are living and signi- ficant things ; the witticisms that are ex- pi-essed by words, (all artists but Hogarth have failed when they have endeavoured to combine two mediums of expression, and have introduced words into their pictures,) and the unwritten numberless little allusive pleasantries that are scattered about ; the work that is going on in the scene, and beyond it, as is made visible to the " eye of mind," by the mob which chokes up the doorway, and the sword that has forced an entrance before its master; when he shall have sufficiently admired this wealth of genius, let him fairly say what is the result left on his mind. Is it an impression of the vileness and worthlessness of his species ? or is it not the general feeling which remains, after the individual faces have ceased to act sensibly on his mind, a kindly one in favour of Ids species f was not the general air of the scene wholesome ? did it do the heart ON THE GENIUS AND CHARACTER OF HOGARTH. 561 hurt to be among it? Something of a riotous spirit to be sure is there, some worldly-mindedness in some of the faces, a Doddingtonian smoothness which does not promise any superfluous degree of sincerity in the fine gentleman who has been the occasion of calling so much good company together; but is not the general cast of expression in the faces of the good sort? do they not seem cut out of the good old rock, substantial English honesty ? would one fear treachery among characters of their expres- sion ? or shall we call their honest mirth and seldom -returning relaxation by the hai-d names of vice and profligacy? That poor country fellow, that is grasping his staff (which, from that diflSiculty of feeling them- selves at home which poor men experience at a feast, he has never parted with since he came into the room) and is enjoying with a relish that seems to fit all the capacities of his soul the slender joke, which that facetious wag his neighbour is practising upon the gouty gentleman, whose eyes the effort to suppress pain has made as round as rings — does it shock the " dignity of human nature" to look at that man, and to sympathise with him in the seldom -heard joke which has unbent his care-worn, hard-working visage, and drawn iron smiles from it ? or with that full-hearted cobbler, who is honouring with the grasp of an honest fist the unused palm of that annoyed patrician, whom the licence of the time has seated next him ? I can see nothing "dangerous" in the contemplation of such scenes as this, or the Enraged Musician, or the Sovthwark Fair, or twenty other pleasant prints which come crowding in upon my recollection, in which the restless activities, the diversified bents and humours, the blameless peculiarities of men, as they deserve to be called, rather than their " vices and follies," are held up in a laughable point of view. All laughter is not of a dangerous or soul-hardening ten- dency. There is the petrifying sneer of a demon which excludes and kills Love, and there is the cordial laughter of a man which implies and cherishes it. What heart was ever made the worse by joining in a hearty laugh at the simplicities of Sir Hugh Evans or Parson Adams, where a sense of the ridiculous mutually kindles and is kindled 36 by a perception of the amiable ? That tumultuous harmony of singers that are roaring out the words, " The world shall bow to the Assyrian throne," from the opera of Judith, in the third plate of the series called the Four Groups of Heads ; which the quick eye of Hogarth must have struck off in the very infancy of the rage for sacred oratorios in this country, while " Music yet was young;" when we have done smiling at the deafening distortions, which these tearers of devotion to rags and tatters, these takers of heaven by storm, in their boisterous mimicry of the occupation of angels, are making, what unkindly impression is left behind, or what more of harsh or con- temptuous feeling, than when we quietly leave Uncle Toby and Mr. Shandy riding their hobby-horses about the room ? The conceited, long- backed Sign-painter, that with all the self- applause of a Raphael or Correggio (the twist of body which his conceit has thrown him into has something of the Correggiesque in it) is contemplating the pic- ture of a bottle, which he is drawing from an actual bottle that hangs beside him, in the print of Beer Street, — while we smile at the enormity of the self-delusion, can we help loving the good-humour and self-complacency of the fellow ? would we willingly wake him from his dream ? I say not that all the ridiculous subjects of Hogarth have, necessarily, something in them to make us like them ; some are indifferent to us, some in their natures repulsive, and only made interesting by the wonderful skill and truth to nature in the painter; but I contend that there is in most of them that sprinkling of the better nature, which, like holy water, chases away and disperses the contagion of the bad. They have this in them, besides, that they bring us acquainted with the every-day human face, — they give us skill to detect thoso gradations of sense and virtue (which escape the careless or fastidious observer) in the countenances of the world about us ; and prevent that disgust at common life, that tcediiim quotidianamvi formarum, which an unrestricted passion for ideal forms and beauties is in danger of producing. In this, as in many other things, they are analogous to the best novels of Smollett or Fielding. 562 ON. THE POETICAL WORKS OF GEORGE WITHER, ON THE POETICAL WORKS OF GEORGE WITHER. The poems of G. Wither are distinguished liy a hearty homeliness of manner, and a plain moral speaking. He seems to have passed his life in one continued act of an innocent ■ self-pleasing. That which he calls his Motto is a continued self-eulogy of two thousand lines, yet we read it to the end without any feeling of distaste, almost without a consciousness that we have been listening all the while to a man praising himself. There are none of the cold particles in it, the hardness and self- ends, which render vanity and egotism hateful. He seems to be praising another person, under the mask of self; or rather, we feel that it was indifferent to him where he found the virtue which he celebrates ; whether another's bosom or his own were its chosen receptacle. His poems are full, and this in particular is one downright confession, of a generous self- seeking. But by self he sometimes means a great deal, — his friends, his principles, his country, the human race. Whoever expects to find in the satirical pieces of this writer any of those peculiarities which pleased him in the satires of Dryden or Pope, will be grievously disappointed. Here are no high-finished characters, no nice traits of individual nature, few or no personalities. The game run down is coarse general vice, or folly as it appears in classes. A liar, a drunkard, a coxcomb, is stript and wMp't; no Shaftesbury, no Villiers, or Wharton, is curiously anatomised, and read upon. But to a well-natured mind there is a charm of moral sensibility running through them, which amply compensates the want of those luxuries. Wither seems everywhere bursting with .a love of goodness, and a hatred of all low and base actions. At this day it is hard to discover what parts of the poem here particularly alluded to, Abuses Stript and Whipt, could have occasioned the imprisonment of the author. Was Vice in High Places more suspicious than now? had she more power ; or more leisure to listen after ill reports? That a man should be convicted of a libel when he named no names but Hate and Envy, and Lust, and Avarice, is like one of the indictments in the Pilgrim's Progress, where Faithful is arraigned for having " railed on our noble Prince Beelzebub, and spoken contemptibly of his honourable friends, the Lord Old Man, the Lord Carnal " Delight, and the Lord Luxurious." What unlucky jealousy could have tempted the great men of those days to appropriate such innocent abstractions to themselves? Wither seems to have contemplated to a degree of idolatry his own possible virtue. He is for ever anticipating persecution and martyrdom ; fingering, as it were, the flames, to try how he can bear them. Perhaps his premature defiance sometimes made him obnoxious to censures which he would othei'- wise have slipped by. The homely versification of these Satires is not likely to attract in the present day. It is certainly not such as we should expect from a poet " soaring in the high region of his fancies, with his garland and his singing robes about him;"* nor is it such as he has shown in his PMlarete, and in some parts of his Sheplierds Hurding. He seems to have adopted this dress with voluntary humility, as fittest for a moral teacher, as our divines choose sober grey or black ; but in their humility consists their sweetness. The deepest tone of moral feeling in them (though all throughout is weighty, earnest, and passionate) is in those pathetic injunc- tions against shedding of blood in quarrels, in the chapter entitled Revenge. The story of his own forbearance, which follows, is highly interesting. While the Christian sings his own victory over Anger, the Man of Courage cannot help peeping out to let you know, that it was some higher principle iha,T\ fear which counselled this forbearance. Whether encaged, or roaming at liberty, Wither never seems to have abated a jot of that free spirit which sets its mark upon his * Milton. ON THE POETICAL WORKS OF GEORGE WITHER. 563 writings, as much as a predominant feature of independence impresses every page of our late glorious Burns ; but the elder poet wraps his proof-armour closer about him, the other wears his too much outwards; he is thinking too much of annoying the foe to be quite easy within ; the spiritual defences of Wither are a perpetual source of inward sunshine, the magnanimity of the modern is not without its alloy of soreness, and a sense of injustice, which seems perpetually to gall and irritate. Wither was better skilled in the "sweet uses of adversity;" he knew how to extract the "precious jewel" from the head of the " toad," without drawing any of the " ugly ven(uii" along with it. The prison notes of- Wither are finer than the wood notes of most of his poetical brethren. The description in the Fourth Eclogue of his Shepherds Hunting (which was composed during his imprisonment in the Marshalsea) of the power of the Muse to extract pleasure from common objects, has been oftener quoted, and is more known, than any part of his writings. Indeed, the whole Eclogue is in a strain so much above not only what himself, but almost what any other poet has .written, that' he himself could not help noticing it ; he remarks that his spirits had been raised higher than they were wont, " through the love of poesy." The praises of Poetry have been often sung in ancient and in modern times ; strange powers have been ascribed to it of influence over animate and inanimate auditors ; its force over fascinated crowds has been acknowledged ; but, befoi'e Wither, no one ever celebrated its power at liome, the wealth and the strength which this divine gift confers upon its possessor. Fame, and that too after death, was all which hitherto the poets had promised themselves from their art. It seems to have been left to Wither to discover that poetry was a present possession, as well as a rich reversion, and that the Muse had promise of both lives, — of this, and of that which was to come. The Mistress of Philarete is in substance a panegyric protracted through several thou- sand lines in the mouth of a single speaker, but diversified, so as to produce an almost dramatic effect, by the artful introduction of some ladies, who are rather auditors than interlocutors in the scene; and of a boy, whose singing furnishes pretence for an occa- sional change of metre : though the seven- syllable line, in which the main part of it is written, is that in which Wither has shown himself so great a master, that I do not know that I am always thankful to him for the exchange. Wither has chosen to bestow upon the lady Avhom he commends the name of Arete, or Virtue ; and, assuming to himself the character of Philarete, or Lover of Virtue, there is a sort of propriety in that heaped measure of perfections which he attributes to this partly real, partly allegorical person- age. Drayton before him had shadowed his mistress under the name of Idea, or Perfect Pattern, and some of the old Italian love- strains are couched in such religious terras as to make it doubtful whether it be a mis- tress, or Divine Grace, which the poet is addressing. In this poem (full of beauties) there are two passages of pre-eminent merit. The first is where the lover, after a flight of rapturous commendation, expresses his won- der why all men that are about his mistress, even to her very servants, do not view her with the same eyes that he does. "Sometime I do admire All men burn not with desire: Nay, I muse her servants are not Pleading love; but 0! they dare not. And I therefoi-e wonder, why They do not grow sick and die. Sure they would do so, but that, By the ordinance of fate, There is some concealed thing, So each gazer limiting, He can see no more of merit, Than beseems his worth and spirit. For in her a grace there shines, That o'er-daring thoughts confines, Making worthless men despair To he loved of one so fair. Yea, the destinies agree, Some good judgments blind should be, And not gain the power of knowing Those rare beauties in her growing. Reason doth as much imply : For, if every judging eye. Which beholdeth her, should there Find what excellences are. All. o'ercome by those perfections. Would be captive to affections. So, in happiness unblest. She for lovers should not rest." The other is, where he has been comparing her beauties to gold, and stars, and the most excellent things in nature; find, fearing. to 564 ON THE POETICAL WORKS OF GEORGE WITHER. be accused of hyperbole, the common charge agiiinst poets, vindicates himself by boldly taking upon him, that these comparisons are no hyperboles ; but that the best things in nature do, in a lover's eye, fall short of those excellences vehich he adores in her. "What pearls, wliat rubies can Seem so lovely fair to man. As her lips whom he doth love, ■\Vhen in sweet discourse they move, Or her lovelier teeth, the while She doth bless him with a smile? Stars indeed fair creatures be ; Yet amongst us where is he Joys not more the whilst he lies Sunning in his mistress' eyes. Than in all the glimmering light Of a starrj' winter's night? Note the beauty of an eye — And if ought you praise it by Leave such passion in your mind, Lot my reason's eye be blind. ^Mark if ever red or white Any where gave such delight. As when they have taken place In a worthy woman's face.J ^ ^ ^ ^ T must praise her as I may. Which I do mine own rude way. Sometimes setting forth her glories By unheard of allegories" — &c. To the measure in which these lines are written the wits of Queen Anne's days contemptuously gave the name of Namby Pamby, in ridicule of Ambrose Philips, why has used it in some instances, as in the lines on Cuzzoni, to my feeling at least, very deli- ciously ; but Wither, whose darling measure it seems to have been, may show, that in skilful hands it is capable of expressing the subtilest movements of passion. So true it is, which Drayton seems to have felt, that it is the poet who modifies the metre, not the metre the poet; in his own words, that " It 's possible to climb ; To kindle, or to stake; Altho' in Skelton's rhime." * A long line is a line we are long repeating. In the Shepherd's Hunting, take the following — " If thy verse doth bravely tower, As she makes wing, she gets power; Yet the. higher she doth soar. She's affronted still the more, 'Till she to the high'st hath past, Then she rests with fame at last." What longer measure can go beyond the majesty of this! what Alexandrine is half so long in pronouncing or expressing labour sloioly bid strongly surmounting difficulty with the life with which it is done in the second of these lines 1 or what metre could go beyond these from Philarete — "Her true beauty leaves behind Apprehensions in my mind Of more sweetness, than all art Or inventions can impart. Thoughts too deep to be express'd, And too strong to be suppress'd." LETTERS, UNDER ASSUMED SIGNATURES, PUBLISHED IN " THE REFLECTOB." THE LONDONER. TO THE EDITOR OF "THE REFLECTOR.' Mr. Reflector, — I was born under the shadows of St. Dunstan's steeple, just where the conflux of the eastern and western in- habitants of this two-fold city meet and jostle in friendly opposition at T?niple-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 look- ing upon as a lively omen of the future great good-will which I vras 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 un- happily preclude me from the hope of ever arriving at the dignity of a gold chain and Spital Sermon, yet this much will I say of myself in truth, that Whittington with his Cat (just emblem of vigilance and a furred gown) never went beyond me in affection which I bear to the citizens. I was born, as you have heard, 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 in- terrupted or suspended, except for a few years in the younger part of my life, during a period in which I had set 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 familiarity enough with rural objects to understand tolerable 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 past, X 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 six, gives me ten thousand sincerer pleasures than I could ever receive from all the flocks of silly sheep that ever whitened the plains of Arcadia or Epsom Downs. This passion for crowds is nowhere 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 unutterable sympathies with the multitudinous moving pictures, which she never fails to present at all hours, like the scenes of a shifting pantomime. The very deformities of London, which give distaste to others, from habit do not displease me. Tlie endless succession of shops where Fancy miscalled Folly is sup- plied with perpetual gauds and toys, excite in me no puritanical aversion. I gladly be- hold every appetite supplied with its proper food. The obliging customer, and the obliged tradesman — things which live by bowing, and things which exist but for homage — do not affect me with disgust; from habit I 565 566 ON BURIAL SOCIETIES ; AND THE CHAEACTER OF AN UNDERTAKER. 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 vrork in the dirty ring which encompasses two com- batants with fists, and principles of no less eternal justice in the detection of a pick- pocket. The salutary astonishment with which an execution is surveyed, convinces me more forcibly than a 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 alchymy 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 everything." 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 ! I am, Sir, your faithful servant, A Londoner. ON BURIAL SOCIETIES; AND THE CHARACTER OF AN UNDERTKER. TO THE EDITOR OF " THE REFLECTOR." Mr. Eeflector, — I was amused the other day with having the following notice thrust into my hand by a man who gives out bills at the corner of Fleet-market. Whether he saw any prognostics about me, that made him judge such notice seasonable, I cannot say ; I might perhaps carry in a countenance (naturally not very florid) traces of a fever which had not long left me. Those fellows have a good instinctive way of guessing at the sort of people that are likeliest to pay attention to their papers. " BURIAL SOCIETY. " A favourable opportunity now offers to any person, of either sex, who would wish to be buried in a genteel manner, by paying one shilling entrance, and two-pence per week for the benefit of the stock. Members to be free in six months. The money to be paid at Mr. Middleton's, at the sign of the First and the Last, Stonecutter's-street, Fleet- market. The deceased to be furnished as follows: — A strong elm coffin, covered with superfine black, and furnished with two rows, all round, close drove, best japanned nails, and adorned with ornamental drops, a hand- some plate of inscription. Angel above, and Flower beneath, and four pair of handsome handles,^ with wrought gripes ; the coffin to be well pitched, lined, and ruflled with fine crape; a handsome crape shroud, cap, and pillow. For use, a handsome velvet pall, three gentlemen's cloaks, three crape hat- bands, three hoods and scarfs, and sis pair of gloves ; two porters equipped to attend the funeral, a man to attend the same with band and gloves ; also, the burial fees paid, if not exceeding one guinea." " Man," says Sir Thomas Browne, " is a noble animal, splendid in ashes, and pompous in the grave." Whoever drew up this little advertisement certainly understood this appetite in the species, and has made abun- dant provision for' it. It really almost in- duces a fcedium vitce upon one to read it. Methinks I could be willing to die, in death to be so attended. The two rows all round close-drove best black japanned nails, — how feelingly do they invite, and almost irre- sistibly persuade us to come and be fastened down ! what aching head can resist the temptation to repose, which the crape shroud, the cap, and the pillow present ; what sting is there in death, which the handles M'ith wrought gripes are not calculated to pluck away? what victoi-y in the grave, which the drops and the velvet pall do not render at least extremely disputable? but above all, ON BURIAL SOCIETIES; AND THE CHAEACTER OF AN UNDERTAKER. 567 the pretty emblematic plate with the Angel above and the Flower beneath, takes me mightily. . The notice goes on to inform us, that though the society has been established but a very few years, upwards of eleven hundred persons have put down their names. It is really an affecting consideration to think of so many poor people, of the indnstrious and hard-working class (for none but such would be possessed of such a generous forethought) clubbing their twopences to save the reproach of a parish funeral. Many a poor fellow, I dare swear, has that Angel and Flower kept from the Angel and Punchbowl, while, to provide himself a bier, he has curtailed him- self of heer. Many a savoury morsel has the living body been deprived of, that the lifeless one might be served up in a richer state to the worms. And sure, if the body could understand the actions of the soul, and entertain generous notions of things, it would thank its provident partner, that she had been more solicitous to defend it from dis- honours at its dissolution, than careful to pamper it with good things in the time of its union. If Ceesar were chiefly anxious at his death how he might die most decently, every Burial Society may be considered as a club of Cassars. Nothing tends to keep up, in the imagi- nations of the poorer sort of people, a generous horror of the workhouse more than the manner in which pauper funerals are con- ducted in this metropolis. The cofl&n nothing but a few naked planks coarsely put together, — the want of a pall (that decent and well- imagined veil, which, hiding the coffin that hides the body, keeps that which would shock us at two removes from us), the coloured coats of the men that are hired, at cheap rates, to carry the body, — altogether, give the notion of the deceased having been some person of an ill life and conversation, some one Avho may not claim the entire rites of Christian burial, — one by whom some parts of the sacred ceremony would be de- secrated if they should be bestowed upon him. I meet these meagi-e processions some- times in the street- They are sure to make me out of humour and melancholy all the day after. They have a harsh and ominous aspect. If there is anything in the prospectus issued from Mr. Middleton's, Stonecutter's- street, which pleases me less than the rest, it is to find that the sis pair of gloves are to be returned, that they are only lent, or, aa the bill expresses it, for use, on the occasion. The hood, scarfs, and hat-bands, may properly enough be given up after the solemnity ; the cloaks no gentlemen would think of keeping: but a pair of gloves, once fitted on, ought not in courtesy to be re-demanded. The wearer should certainly have the fee-simple of them. The cost would be but trifling, and they would be a proper memorial of the day. This' part of the Proposal wants recon- sidering. It is not conceived in the same liberal way of thinking as the rest. I am also a little doubtful whether the limit, within which th'e burial-fee is made payable, should not be extended to thirty shillings. Some provision too ought undoubtedly to be made in favour of those well-intentioned persons and well-wishers to the fund, who, having all along paid their subscriptions regularly, are so unfortunate as to die before the six months, which would entitle them to their freedom, are quite completed. One can hardly imagine a more distressing case thaa that of a poor fellow lingering on in a con- sumption till the period of his freedom is almost in sight, and then finding himself going with a velocity which makes it doubt- ful whether he shall be entitled to his funeral honours : his quota to which he nevertheless squeezes out, to the diminution of the com- forts which sickness demands. I think, in such cases, some of the contribution money ought to revert. With some such modifica- tions, which might easily be introduced, I see nothing in these Proposals of Mr. Mid- dleton which is not strictly fair and genteel ; and heartily recommend them to all persons of moderate incomes, in either sex, who are willing that this perishable part of them should quit the scene of its' mortal activities with as handsome circumstances as possible. Before I quit the subject, I must guard my readers against a scandal, which they may be apt to take at the place whence these Proposals purport to be issued. From the sign of the First and the Last, they may conclude that Mr. Middleton is some pub- lican, who, in assembling a club of this description at his house, may have a sinister end of his own, altogether foreign to the 568 ON BURIAL SOCIETIES : AND THE CHARACTER OF AN UNDERTAKER. solemn purpose for which the club is pre- tended to be instituted. I must set them right by informing them that the issuer of these Proposals is no publican, though he hangs out a sign, but an honest superinten- dant of funerals, who, by the device of a Cradle and a Coffin, connecting both ends of human existence together, has most ingeni- ously contrived to insinuate, that the framers of these Jiist and last receptacles of mankind divide this our life betwixt them, and that all that passes from the midwife to the under- taker may, in strict ^iropriet j, go fornothiiiff: an awful and instructive lesson to human vanity. Looking over some papers lately that fell into my hands by chance, and appear to have been written about the beginning of the last century, I stumbled, among the rest, upon the following short Essay, which the wi-iter calls, " The Character of an Undertaker." It is written with some stiffness and peculiari- ties of style, but some parts of it, I think, not unaptly characterise the profession to which Mr. Middleton has the honour to belong. The writer doubtless had in his mind the entertaining character of Sable, in Steele's excellent comedy of The Funeral. CHARACTER OP AN UNDERTAKER. " He is master of the ceremonies at burials and mourning assemblies, grand marshal at funeral processions, the only true yeoman of the body, over which he exercises a dicta- torial authority from the moment that the breath has taken leave to that of its final commitment to the earth. His ministry begins where the physician's, the lawyer's, and the divine's, end. Or if some part of the functions of the latter run parallel with his, it is only in ordine ad spiritualia. His temporalities remain unquestioned. He is arbitrator of alF questions of honour which may concern the defunct ; and upon slight inspection will pronounce how long he may remain in this upper world with credit to himself, and when it will be prudent for his reputation that he should retire. His deter- mination in these points is peremptory and without appeal. Yet, with a modesty pecu- liar to his profession, he meddles not out of his own sphere. With the good or bad actions of the deceased in his life-time he has nothing to do. He leaves the friends of the dead man to form their own conjectures aa to the place to which the departed spirit is gone. His cai-e is only about the exuviae. He concerns not himself even about the body as it is a structure of parts internal, and a wonderful microcosm. He leaves such curious speculations to the anatomy pro- fessor. Or, if anything, he is averse to such wanton inquiries, as delighting rather that the parts which he has care of should be returned to their kindred dust in as hand- some and unmutilated condition as possible ; that the grave should have its full and unimpaired tribute, — a complete and just carcass. Nor is he only careful to pi'ovide for the body's entireness, but for its accom- modation and ornament. He orders the fashion of its clothes, and designs the sym- metry of its dwelling. Its vanity has an innocent survival in him. He is bed-maker to the dead.- The pillows which he lays never rumple. The day of interment is the theatre in which he displays the mysteries of his art. It is hard to describe what he is, or rather to tell what he is not, on that day : for, being neither kinsman, servant, nor friend, he is all in turns ; a transcendant, running through all those relations. His office is to supply the place of self-agency in the family, who are presumed incapable of it through grief. He is eyes, and ears, and hands, to the whole household. A draught of wine cannot go round to the mourners, but he must minister it. A chair may hardly be restored to its place by a less solemn hand than his. He takes upon him- self all functions, and is a sort of ephemeral major-domo ! He distributes his attentions among the company assembled according to the degree of affliction, which he calculates from the degree of kin to the deceased ; and marshals them accordingly in the procession. He himself is of a sad and tristful counte- nance ; yet such as (if well examined) is not without some show of patience and resigna- tion at bottom ; prefiguring, as it were, to the friends of the deceased, what their grief shall be when the hand of Time shall have softened and taken down the bitterness of their first anguish ; so handsomely can he fore-shape and anticipate the work of Time. Lastly, with his wand, as with another divi- ning rod, he calculates the deptji of earth ON THE DANGER OF CONFOUNDING MORAL WITH PERSONAL DEFORMITY. 569 at which the bones of the dead man may rest, which he ordinarily contrives may be at such a distance from the surface of this earth, as may frustrate the profane attempts of such as would violate his repose, yet suffi- ciently on this side the centre to give his friends hopes of an easy and practicable resurrection. And here we leave him, casting in dust to dust, which is the .last friendly office that he undertakes to do." Begging your pardon for detaining you so long among "graves, and worms, and epitaphs," I am. Sir, Your humble serv-ant, MORITURUS. ON THE DANaEB, OF CONFOUNDING MOKAL WITH PERSONAL DEFORMITY. WITH A HINT TO THOSE WHO HAVE THE FRAMING OF ADVERTISEMENTS FOR APPREHENDING OFFENDERS. TO THE EDITOR OF THE REFLECTOR. Mr. Reflector, — There is no science in their pretensions to which mankind are more apt to commit grievous mistakes, than in the supposed very obvious one of physiognomy. I quarrel not with the principles of this science, as they 'are laid down by learned professors ; much less am I disposed, with some people, to deny its existence altogether as any inlet of knowledge that can be de- pended upon. I believe that there is, or may be, an art to "read the mind's construction in the face." But, then, in every species of reading, so much depends upon the eyes of the reader; if they are blear, or apt to dazzle, or inattentive, or strained with too much attention, the optic power will infal- libly bring home false reports of what it reads. How often do we say, upon a cursory glance at a stranger, " "What a fine open countenance he has!" who, upon second in- spection, proves to have the exact features of a knave? Nay, in much more intimate acquaintances, how a delusion of this kind shall continue for months, years, and then break up all at once! As the married man, who has been so but for a short space of time, if those blue eyes where, during so many years of anxious courtship, truth, sweetness,, serenity, seemed to be written in characters which could not be misunderstood — ask him if the characters which they now convey be exactly the same ? — if for truth he does not read a dull virtue (the mimic of constancy) which changes not, only because it wants the judgment to make a preference? — if for sweetness he does not read a stupid habit of looking pleased at everything? — if for serenity he does not read animal tranquillity, the dead pool of the heart, which no breeze of passion can stir into health ? Alas ! what is this book of the countenance good for, which when we have read so long, and thought that we un- derstood its contents, there comes a countless list of heart-breaking errata at the end ! But these are the pitiable mistakes to which love alone is subject. I have inad- vertently wandered from my purpose, which was to expose quite an opposite blunder, into which we are no less apt to fall, through hate. How ugly a person looks upon whose reputation some awkward aspersion hangs, and how suddenly his countenance clears up with his character ! I remember being per- suaded of a man whom I had conceived an ill opinion of, that he had a very bad set of teeth ; which, since I have had better oppor- tunities of being acquainted with his face and facts, I find to have been the very reverse of the truth. That crooked old woman, I once said, speaking of an ancient gentle- woman, whose actions did not square alto- gether with my notions of the rule of right. The unanimous surprise of the company be- fore whom I uttered these words soon con- vinced me that I had confounded mental with bodily obliquity, and that there was nothing tortuous about the old lady but her deeds. This humour of mankind to deny personal comelimess to those with whose moral attri- butes they are dissatisfied, is very strongly shown in those advertisements which stare us 570 ON THE DANGER OF CONFOUNDING MORAL WITH PERSONAL DEFORMITY. in the face from the walls of every street, and, with the tempting bait which they hang forth, stimulate at once cupidity and an abstract love of justice in the breast of every passing peruser : I mean, the advertisements offei-ing rewards for the apprehension of ab- sconded culprits, strayed apprentices, bank- rupts who have conveyed away their effects, debtors that have run away from their baiL I observe, that in exact proportion to the indignity with which the prosecutor, who is commonly the framer of the advertisement, conceives he has been treated, the personal pretensions of the fugitive are denied, and his defects exaggerated. A fellow whose misdeeds have been directed against the public in general, and in whose delinquency no individual shall feel himself particularly interested, generally meets with fair usage. A coiner or a smug- gler shall get off tolerably well. ■ His beauty, if he has any, is not much underrated, his deformities are not much magnified. A run- away apprentice, who excites perhaps the next least degree of spleen in his prosecutor, generally escapes with a pair of bandy legs ; if he has taken anything with him in his flight, a hitch in his gait is generally super- added. A bankrupt, who has been guilty of withdrawing his effects, if his case be not very atrocious, commonly meets with mild usage. But a debtor, who has left his bail in jeopardy, is sure to be described in cha- racters of unmingled deformity. Here the personal feelings of the bail, which may be allowed to be somewhat poignant, are ad- mitted to interfere ; and, as wrath and re- venge commonly strike in the dark, the colours are laid on with a grossness which I am convinced must often defeat its own purpose. The fish that casts an inky cloud about him that his enemies may not find him, cannot more obscure himself by that device than the blackening representa- tions of these angry advertisers must inevi- tably serve to cloak and screen the persons of those who have injured them from detec- tion. I have before me at this moment 'one of these bills, which runs thus : — "fifty pounds reward. " Run away from his bail, John Tomkins, formerly resident in Princes-street, Soho, but lately of Clerkenwell. Whoever shall ap prehend, or cause to be apprehended and lodged in one of his Majesty's jails, the said John Tomkins, shall receive the above re- ward. He is a thickset, sturdy man, about five foot six inches high, halts in his left leg, with a stoop in his gait, with coarse red hair, nose short and cocked up, with little grey eyes, (one of them bears the effect of a blow which he has lately received,) with a pot belly ; speaks with a thick and disagreeable voice ; goes shabbily drest ; had on when he went away a greasy shag great-coat with rusty yellow buttons." Now although it is not out of the compass of possibility that John Tomkins afoi-esaid may comprehend in his agreeable person all the above-mentioned aggregate of charms ; yet, from my observation of the manner in which these advertisements are usually drawn up, though I have not the pleasure of knowing the gentleman, yet would I lay a wager, that an advertisement to the following effect would have a much better chance of apprehending and laying by the heels this John Tomkins than the above description, although penned by one who, from the good services which he appears to have done for him, has not improbably been blessed with some years of previous intercourse with the said John. Taken, then, the above adver- tisement to be true, or nearly so, down to the words "left leg" inclusive, (though I have some doubt if the blemish there im- plied amount to a positive lameness, or be perceivable by any but the nearest friends of John,)'I would proceed thus: — ' — " Leans a little forward in his walk ; his hair thick and inclining to auburn; his nose of the middle size, a little turned up at the end ; lively hazel eyes, (the contusion, as its effects are probably gone off by this time, I judge better omitted;) inclines to be corpu- lent; his voice thick but pleasing, especially when he sings; had on a decent shag great- coat with yellow buttons." Now I would stake a considerable wager (though by no 'means a positive man) that some such mitigated description would lead the beagles of the law into a much surer track for finding this ungracious varlet, than to set them upon a false scent after fictitious ugliness and fictitious shabbiuess ; though, to do those gentlemen justice, I have no ON THE DANGER OF CONFOUNDING MORAL WITH PERSONAL DEFORMITY. 571 doubt their experience has taught them in all such cases to abate a great deal of the deformity which they are instructed to ex- pect, and has discovered to them that the Devil's agents upon this earth, like their master, are far less ugly in reality than they are painted. I am afraid, Mr. Reflector, that I shall be thought to have gone vride of my subject, which was to detect the practical errors of physiognomy, properly so called ; whereas I have introduced physical defects, such as lameness, the effects of accidents upon a man's person, his wearing apparel, &c., as circumstances on which the eye of dislike, looking askance, may report erroneous con- clusions to the understanding. But if we are liable, through a kind or an unkind passion, to mistake so grossly concerning things so exterior and palpable, how much more are we likely to err respecting those nicer and less perceptible hints of character in a face whose detection constitutes the triumph of the physiognomist ! To revert to those bestowers of unmerited deformity, the framers of advertisements for the apprehension of delinquents, a sincere desire of promoting the end of public justice induces me to address a word to them on the best means of attaining those ends. I will endeavour to lay down a few practical, or rather negative, rules for their use, for my ambition extends no further than to arm them with cautions against the self-defeating of their own purposes: — 1. Imprimis, then, Mr. Advertiser ! If the culprit whom you are willing to recover be one to whom in times past you have shown kindness, and been disposed to think kindly of him yourself, but he has deceived your trust, and has run away, and left you with a load of debt to answer for him, — sit down calmly, and endeavour to behold him through the spectacles of memory rather than of present conceit. Image to yourself, before you pen a tittle of his description, the same plausible, good-looking man who took you in ; and try to put away from your mind every intrusion of that deceitful spectre which perpetually obtrudes itself in the room of your former friend's known visage. It will do you more credit to have been deceived by such a one ; and depend upon it, the traitor will convey to the eyes of the world in general much more of that first idea which you formed (perhaps in part erroneous) of his physiognomy, than of thar frightful substitute which you have suffered to creep in upon your mind and usurp upon it ; a creature which has no archetype except in your own brain. 2. If you be a master that have to adver- tise a runaway apprentice, though the young dog's faults are known only to you, and no doubt his conduct has been aggj-avating enough, do not presently set him down as having crooked ankles. He may have a good pair of legs, and run away notwithstanding. Indeed, the latter does rather seem to imply the former. 3. If the unhappy person against whom your laudable vengeance is directed be a thief, think that a thief may have a good nose, good eyes, good ears. It is indis- pensable to his profession that he be pos- sessed of sagacity, foresight, vigilance ; it is more than probable, then, that he is endued with the bodily types or instruments of these qualities to some tolerable degree of perfectness. 4. If petty larceny be his offence, I exhort you, do not confound meanness of crime with diminutiveness of stature. These things have no connexion. I have known a tall man stoop to the basest action, a short man aspire to the height of crime, a fair man be guilty of the foulest actions, &c. 5. Perhaps the offender has been guilty of some atrocious and aggravated murder. Here is the most difficult case of all. It is above all requisite that such a daring violator of the peace and safety of society should meet with his reward, a violent and ignominious death. But how shall we get at him? Who is there among us that has known him before he committed the offence, that shall take upon him to say he can sit down coolly and pen a dispassionate descrip- tion of a murderer? The tales of our nursery, — the reading of our youth, — the ill-looking man that was hired by the Uncle to despatch the Children in the Wood, — the grim ruffians who smothered the babes in the Tower, — the black and beetle-browed assassin 6{ Mrs. Radcliffe, — the shag-haired villain of Mr. Monk Lewis,— the Tarquin tread, and mill -stone dropping eyes, of Murder in Shakspeare, — the exaggerations 572 ON THE INCONVENIENCES RESULTING FROM BEING HANGED. of picture and of poetry, — what we have read and what we have dreamed of, — rise up and crowd in upon us such eye-scaring portraits of the man of blood, that our pen is abso- lutely forestalled ; we commence poets when we should play the part of strictest historians, and the very blackness of horror M'hich the deed calls up, serves as a cloud to screen the doer. The fiction is blameless, it is accordant with those wise prejudices with which nature has guarded our innocence, as with impassable barriers, against the commission of such appalling crimes ; but, meantime, the criminal escapes; or, if, — owing to that wise abatement in their expectation of deformity, which, as I hinted at before, the of&cers of pursuit never fail to make, and no doubt in cases of this sort they make a more than ordinary allowance, — if, owing to this or any accident, the offender is caught and brought to his trial, who that has been led out of curiosity to witness such a scene has not with astonishment reflected on the difference between a real committer of a murder, and the idea of one which he has been collecting and heightening all his life out of books, dreams, &c. ? The fellow, perhaps, is a sleek, smug- looking man, with light hair and eyebrows, — the latter by no means jutting out or like a crag, — and with none of those marks which our fancy had pre -bestowed upon him. I find I am getting unawares too serious ; the best way on such occasions is to leave off, which I shall do by generally recom- mending to all persecuting advertisers not to confound crimes with ugliness ; or rather, to distinguish between that physiognomical deformity, which I am willing to grant always accompanies crime, and va^Te physical ugliness, — which signifies nothing, is the opponent of nothing, and may exist in a good or bad person indifferently. Crito. ON THE INCONVENIENCES KESULTINa FROM BEING HANGED. TO THE EDITOR OF Sir, — I am one of those unhappy persons whose misfortunes, it seems, do not entitle them to the benefit of pure pity. All that is bestowed upon me of that kindest alleviator of human miseries comes dashed with a double portion of contempt. My griefs have nothing in them that is felt as sacred by the bystanders. Yet is my affliction, in truth, of the deepest grain — the heaviest task that was ever given to mortal patience to sustain. Time, that wears out all other sorrows, can never modify or soften mine. Here they must continue to gnaw as long as that fatal mark Why was I ever born? Why was inno- cence in my person suffered to be branded with a stain which was appointed only for the blackest guilt? What had I done, or my parents, that a disgrace of mine should involve a whole posterity in infamy ? I am almost tempted to believe, that, in some pre- existent state, crimes to which this sublunary life of mine hath been as much a stranger as the babe that is newly born into it, have "thj: reflector." drawn down upon me this vengeance, so disproportionate to my actions on this globe. My brain sickens, and my bosom labours to be delivered of the weight that presses upon it, yet my conscious pen shrinks from the avowal. But out it must 0, Mr. Reflector ! . guess at the wretch's misery who now pyrites this to you, when, with tears and burning blushes, he is obliged to confess that he has been — hanged Methinks I hear an involuntary excla- mation burst from you, as your imagination presents to you fearful images of your correspondent unknown — hanged! Fear not, Mr. Editor. No disembodied spirit has the honour of addressing you. I am flesh and blood, an unfortunate system of bones, muscles, sinews, artei'ies, like yourself. Then, I presume, you mean to be pleasant. — - That expression of ijours, Mr. Correspondent, must be ta.ken somehow in a metaphorical sense ON THE INCONVENIENCES RESULTING FEOM BEING HANGED. 573 In the plainest sense, without trope or figure — Yes, Mr. Editor! this neck of mine has felt the fatal noose, — these hands have tremblingly held up the corroborative prayer- book, — these lips have sucked the moisture of the last consolatory orange, — this tongue has chanted the doleful cantata which no performer was ever called upon to repeat, — this face has had the veiling night-cap drawn over it — • But for no crime of mine. — Far be it from me to arraign the justice of my country, which, though tardy, did at length recognise my innocence. It is not for me to reflect upon judge or jury, now that eleven years have elapsed since the erroneous sentence was pronounced. Men will always be fallible, and perhaps circumstances did appear at the time a little strong — Sufi&ce it to say, that after hanging four minutes, (as the spectators were pleased to compute it, — a man that is being strangled, I know from experience, has altogether a different measure of time from his friends who are Breathing leisurely about him, — I suppose the minutes lengthen as time approaches eternity, in the same manner as the miles get longer as you travel north- ward,) — after hanging four minutes, accord- ing to the best calculation of the bystanders, a reprieve came, and I was cut down — Really I am ashamed of deforming your pages with these technical phrases — if I knew how to express my meaning shorter But to proceed. — My first care after I had been brought to myself by the usual methods, (those methods that are so interesting to the operator and his assistants, who are pretty numerous on such occasions, • — but which no patient was ever desirous of undergoing a second time for the benefit of science,) my first care was to provide myself with an enormous stock or cravat to hide the place — you understand me; — my next care was to procure a residence as distant as possible from that part of the country where I had suffered. For that reason I chose the metropolis, as the place where wounded honour (I had been told) could lurk with the least danger of exciting inquiry, and stigmatised innocence had the best chance of hiding her disgrace in a crowd. I sought out a new circle of acquaintance, and my circumstances happily enabling me to pursue my fancy in that respect, I endeavoured, bv mingling in all the pleasures which the town affords, to efface the memory of Avhat 1 had undergone. But, alas ! such is the portentous and all- pervading chain of connexion which links together the head and members of this great community, my scheme of lying perdu was defeated almost at the outset, A country- man of mine, whom a foolish law- suit had brought to town, by chance met me, and the secret vras soon blazoned about. In a short time, I found myself deserted by most of those who had been my intimate friends. Not that any guilt was supposed to attach to my character. My ofiicioua countryman, to do him justice, had been candid enough to explain my perfect inno- cence. But, somehow or other, there is a want of strong virtue in mankind. We have plenty of the softer instincts, but the heroic character is gone. IIow else can I account for it, that of all my numerous acquaintance, among whom I had the honour of ranking sundry persons of education, talents, and worth, scarcely here and there one or two could be found who had the courage to associate with a man that had been hanged. Those few who did not desert m.e altogether were persons of strong but coarse minds ; and from the absence of all delicacy in them I suffered almost as much as from the superabundance of a false species of it in the others. Those who stuck by me were the jokers, who thought themselves entitled by the fidelity which they had shown towards me to use me with what familiarity they pleased. Many and unfeeling are the jests that I have suffered from these rude (because faithful) Acha-teses. As they passed me in the streets, one would nod significantly to his companion and say, pointing to me, Smoke his cravat, and ask me if I had got a wen, that I was so solicitous to cover my neck. Another would inquire. What news from * * * Assizes ? (which you may guess, Mr. Editor, was the scene of my shame,) and whether the se&sions was like to prove a maiden one? A third would offer to insure me from drowning. A fourth would tease me with inquiries how I felt when I was swinging, whether I had not something like a blue flame dancing before my eyes ! A fifth took a fancy never to call me anything 574 ON THE INCONVENIENCES RESULTING FROM BEING HANGED. but Lazarus. And an eminent bookseller and publisher, ■ — who, in his zeal to present the public with new facts, had he lived in those days, I am confident, would not have scrupled waiting upon the person himself last mentioned, at the most critical period of his existence, to solicit &few facts relative to resuscitation, — had the modesty to offer me — guineas per sheet, if I would write, in his Magazine, a physiological account of my feelings upon coming to myself. But these were evils which a moderate fortitude might have enabled me to struggle with. Alas ! Mr. Editor, the women, — whose good graces I had always most assiduously cultivated, from whose softer minds I had hoped a more delicate and generous sympathy than I found in the men, — the women began to shun me — this was the unkindest blow of all. But is it to be wondered at? How couldst thou imagine, wretchedest of beings, that that tender creature Seraphina would fling her pretty , arms about that neck which previous circumstances had rendered in- famous? That she would put up with the refuse of the rope, the leavings of the cord? Or that any analogy could subsist between the knot which binds true lovers, and the knot which ties malefactors ? I can forgive that pert baggage Flirtilla, who, when I complimented her one day on the execution which her eyes had done, replied, that, to be sure, Mr, * * was ajudge of those things. But from thy more exalted mind, Celestina, I expected a more unpre- judiced decision. The person whose true name I conceal under this appellation, of all the women that I was ever acquainted with had the most manly turn of minfl, which she had improved by reading and the best con- versation. Her understanding was not more masculine than her manners and whole disposition were delicately and truly feminine. She was the daughter of an officer who had fallen in the service of his country, leaving his widow, and Celestina, an only child, with a fortune sufficient to set them above want, but not to enable them to live in splendour. I. had the mother's permission to pay my addresses to the young lady, and Celestina seemed to approve of my suit. Often and often have I poured out my overcharged soul in the presence of Celestina, complaining of the hard and unfeeling prejudices of the world ; and the sweet maid has again and again declared, that no irrational prejudice should hinder her from esteeming every man according to his intrinsic worth. Often has she repeated the consolatory assurance, that she could never consider as essentially ignominious an acci- dent, which was indeed to be deprecated, but which might have happened to the most innocent of mankind. Then would she set forth some illustrious example, which her reading easily furnished, of a Phocion or a Socrates unjustly condemned; of a Raleigh or a Sir Thomas More, to whom late pos- terity had done justice ; and by soothing my fancy with some such agreeable parallel, she would make me almost to triumph in my disgrace, and convert my shame into glory. In such entertaining and instructive con- versations the time passed on, till I impor- tunately urged the mistress of my affections to name the day for our union. To this she obligingly consented, and I thought myself the happiest of mankind. But how was 1 surprised one morning on the receipt of the following billet from my charmer : — Sir, — You must not impute it to levity, or to a worse failing, ingratitude, if, with anguish of heart, I feel myself compelled by irresistible arguments to recall a vow which I fear I made with too little consideration. I never can be yours. The reasons of my decision, which is final, are in my own breast, and you must everlastingly remain a stranger to them. Assure yourself that I can never cease to esteem- you as I ought. Celestina. At the sight of this paper, I ran in frantic haste to Celestina's lodgings, where I learned, to my infinite mortification, that the mother and daughter Avere set off on a journey to a distant part of the country, to visit a rela- tion, and were not expected to return in less than four months. Stunned by this blow, which left me with- out the courage to solicit an explanation by letter, even if I had known where they were, (for the particular address was industriously concealed from me,) I waited with impatience the termination of the pHviod, in the vain (m THE INCONVENIENCES OF BEING HANGED. 575 hope that I might be permitted to have a chance of softening the harsh decision by a personal interview with Celestina after her return. But before three months were at an end, I learned from the newspapers that my beloved had — given her hand to another ! Heart-broken as I was, I was totally at a loss to account for the strange step which she had taken ; and it was not till some years after that I learned the true reason from a female relation of hers, to whom it seems Celestina had confessed in confidence, that it was no demerit of mine that had caused her to break off the match so abruptly, nor any preference which she might feel for any other person, for she preferred' me (she was pleased to say,) to all mankind ; but when she came to lay the matter closer to her heart, she found that she never should be able , to bear the sight — (I give you her very words as they were detailed to me by her relation) — the sight of a man in a night- cap", who had appeared on a public platform — it would lead to such a disagreeable asso- ciation of ideas ! And to this punctilio I was sacrificed. To pass over an infinite series of minor mortifications, to which this last and heaviest might well render me callous, behold me here, Mr. Editor 1 in the thirty-seventh year of my existence, (the twelfth, reckoning from my re-animation,) cut off from all respectable connexions ; rejected by the fairer half of the community, — -who in my case alone seem to have laid aside the characteristic pity of their sex ; punished because I was once punished unjustly; sufferi-ng for no other reason than because I once had the misfortune to suffer without any cause at all. In no other country, I think, but this, could a man have been subject to such a life-long persecution, when once his innocence had been clearly established. Had I crawled forth a rescued victim from the rack in the horrible dungeons of the In- quisition, ^- had I heaved myself up from a half bastinado in China, or been torn from the just -entering, ghastly impaling stake in Barbary, — had I dropt alive from the knout in Russia, or come off with a gashed neck from the half- mortal, scarce- in -time- retracted cimeter of an executioneering slave in Turkey, — I might have borne about the remnant of this frame (the mangled trophy of reprieved innocence) with credit to my- self, in any of those barbarous countries. No scorn, at least, would have mingled with the pity (small as it might be) with which what was left of me would have been surveyed. The singularity of my case has often led me to inquire into the reasons of the general levity with which the subject of hanging is treated as a topic in this country. I say, as a topic : for let the very persons who speak so lightly of the thing at a distance be brought to view the real scene, — let the platform be bon^ fide exhibited, and the trembling culprit brought forth, — the case is changed ; but as a topic of conversation, I appeal to the vulgar jokes which pass current in every street. But why mention them when the politest authors have agreed in making use of this subject as a source of the ridiculous ? Swift, and Pope, and Prior, are fond of recurring to it. Gay has built an entire drama upon this single foundation. The whole interest of the Beggar's Opera may be said to hang upon it. To such writers as Fielding and Smollett it is a perfect bonne-boucJie. — Hear the facetious Tom Brown, in his Comical View of- London and Westminster, describe the Order of the Show at one of the Ti/burn Executions in his time : — " Mr. Ordinary visits his melancholy flock in Newgate by eight. Doleful procession up Holborn-hiil about eleven. Men handsome and proper that were never thought so before, which is some comfort however. Arrive at the fatal place by twelve. Burnt brandy, women, and sab- bath-breaking, repented of. Some few peni- tential drops fall under the gallows. Sheriffs' men, parson, pickpockets, criminals, all very busy. The last concluding peremptory psalfh struck up. Show over by one." — In this sportive strain, does this misguided wit think proper to play with a subject so serious, which yet he would hardly have done if he had not known that there existed a predis- position in the habits of his unaccountable countrymen to consider the subject as a jest. But what shall we say to Shakspeare, who, (not to mention the solution which the Grave- digger in Hamlet gives of his fellow-work- man's problem,) in that scene in Measure for Measure, where the Clown calls upon Master Barnardine to get up and be hanged, which 576 ON THE INCONVENIENCES RESULTING FROM BEING HANGED. he declines on the score of being sleepy, has actually gone out of his way to gratify this amiable propensity in his countrymen ; for it is plain, from the use that was to be made of his head, and from AbJiorson's asking, " Is the axe upon the block, sirrah?" that be- heading, and not hanging, was the punish- ment to which 'Ba7'nardine was destined. But Shakspeare knew that the axe and block were pregnant with no ludicrous images, and therefore falsified the historic truth of his own drama (if I may so speak), rather than he would leave out such excellent matter for a jest as the suspending of a fellow-creature in mid-air has been ever esteemed to be by Englishmen. One reason why the ludicrous never fails to intrude itself into our contemplations upon this mode of death, I suppose to be, the ab- surd posture into which a man is thrown who is condemned to dance, as the vulgar delight to express it, upon nothing. To see him whisking and wavering in the air, " As the -wind you know will wave a man ; " * to behold the vacant carcase, from which the life is newly dislodged, shifting between earth and heaven, the sport of every gust; like a weathercock, serving to show from which point the wind blows ; like a maukin, fit only to scare away birds ; like a nest left to swing upon a bough when the bird is flown : these are uses to which we cannot without a mixture of spleen and contempt behold the human carcase reduced. We string up dogs, foxes, bats, moles, weasels. Man surely de- serves a steadier death. Another reason why the ludicrous asso- ciates more forcibly with this than with any other mode of punishment, I cannot help thinking to be, the senseless costume with which old prescription has thought fit to clothe the exit of malefactors in this country. Let a man do what he will to abstract from his imagination all idea of the whimsical, something of it will come across him when he contemplates the figure of a fellow-creature in the day-time (in however distressing a situation) in a night-cap. Whether it be that this nocturnal addition has something discordant with daylight, or that it is the dress which we are seen in at those times * Hieroninio in the Spanish Tragedy. when we are " seen," as the Angel in Milton expresses it, " least wise," — this, I am afraid, will always be the case; unless, indeed, as in my instance, some strong personal feeling overpower the ludicrous altogether. To me, when I reflect upon the train of misfortunes which have pursued men through life, owing to that accursed drapery, the cap presents as purely frightful an object as the sleeveless yellow coat and devil-painted mitre of the San Benitos. — An ancestor of mine, who suffered for his loyalty in the time of the civil wars, was so sensible of the truth of what I am hefre advancing, that on the morn- ing of execution, no entreaties could prevail upon him to submit to the odious dishabille, as he called it, but he insisted upon wear- ing, and actually suffered in, the identical, flowing periwig which he is painted in, in the gallery belonging to my uncle's seat in shire. Suffer me. Mi*. Editor, before I quit the subject, to say a word or two respecting the minister of justice in this country; in plain words, I mean the hangman. It has always appeai-ed to me that, in the mode of inflicting capital punishments with us, there is too much of the ministry of the human hand. The guillotine, as performing its functions more of itself and sparing human agency, though a cruel and disgusting exhibition, in my mind has many ways the advantage over our way. In beheading, indeed, as it was formerly prac- tised in England, and in whipping to death, as is sometimes practised now, the hand of man is no doubt sufliciently busy; but there is something less repugnant in these down- right blows than in the officious barber-like ministerings of the other. To have a fellow with his hangman's hands fumbling about your collar, adjusting the thing as your valet would regulate your cravat, valuing himself on his menial dexterity I never shall forget meeting my rascal, — I mean the fellow who efficiated for me, — ^in London last winter. I think I see him now, — in a waistcoat that had been mine, — smirking along as if he knew me In some parts of Germany, that fellow's office is by law declared infamous, and his posterity incapable of being ennobled. They have hereditary hangmen, or had at least, in the same manner as they had heredi- tary other great officers of state ; and the ON THE MELANCHOLY OF TAILOES. 577 hangmen's families of two adjoining parishes intermarried with each other, to keep the breed entire. I wish something of the same kind were established in England. But it is time to quit a subject which teems with disagreeable images Permit me to subscribe myself, Mr. Editor, Your unfortunate friend, Pensilis. ON THE MELANCHOLY OF TAILOKS. " Sedet, setermimque sedebit, Infelix Theseus." Virgil. That there is a professional melancholy, if I may so express myself, incident to the occupation of a tailor, is a fact which I think very few will venture to dispute. I may safely appeal to my readers, whether they ever knew one of that faculty that Avas not of a temperament, to say the least, far re- moved from mercurial or jovial. Observe the suspicious gravity of their gait. The peacock is not more tender, from a consciousness of his peculiar infirmity, than a gentleman of this profession is of being known by the same infiUible testi- monies of his occupation. " Walk, that I may know thee." Do you ever see him go whistling along the foot-path like a carman, or brush through a crowd like a baker, or go smiling to himself like a lover ? Is he forward to thrust into mobs, or to make one at the ballad-singer's audiences? Does he not rather slink by assemblies and meetings of the people, as one that wisely declines popular observation ? How extremely rare is a noisy tailor ! a mirthful and obstreperous tailor! " At my nativity," says Sir Thomas Browne, " my ascendant was the earthly sign of Scorpius ; I was born in the planetary hour of Saturn, and I think I have a piece of that leaden planet in me." One would think that he were anatomising a tailor ! save that to the latter's occupation, raethinks, a woollen planet would seem more consonant, and that he should be born when the sun was in Aries. — He goes on : "I am no way facetious, nor disposed for the mirth and galliardise of company." How true a type of the whole trade! Eminently eco- nomical of his words, you shall seldom hear a jest come from one of them. He sometimes furnishes subject for a repartee, but rarely (I think) contributes one ore propria. 37 Drink itself does not seem to elevate him, or at least to call out of him any of the ex- ternal indications of vanity. I cannot say that it never causes his pride to swell, but it never breaks out. I am even fearful that it may swell and rankle to an alarming degree inwardly. For pride is near of kin to me- lancholy ! — a hurtful obstruction from the ordinary outlets of vanity being shut. It is this stoppage which engenders proud humours. Therefore a tailor may be proud. I think he is never vain. The display of his gaudy patterns, in that book of his which emulates the rainbow, never raises any inflations of that emotion in him, corres- ponding to what the wig-maker (for instance) evinces, when he expatiates on a curl or a bit of hair. He spreads them forth with a sullen incapacity for pleasure, a real or affected indifference to grandeur. Cloth of gold neither seems to elate, nor cloth of frieze to depress him — according to the beautiful motto which formed the modest impress of the shield worn by Charles Brandon at his marriage with the king's sister. Nay, I doubt whether he would discover any vain-glorious complacence in his colours, though " Iris" herself "dipt the woof." In further corroboration of this argument — who ever saw the wedding of a tailor an- nounced in the newspapers, or the birth of his eldest son ? When was a tailor known to give a dance, or to be himself a good dancer, or to pei'form exquisitely on the tight-rope, or to shine in any such light and airy pastimes? to sing, or play on the violin ? Do they much care for public rejoicings, lightings up, ringing of bells, firing of can- nons, &c. ? Valiant I know they can be ; but I appeal to those who were witnesses to the exploits 578 ON THE MELANCHOLY OF TAILORS. of Eliot's famous troop, whether in their fiercest charges they betrayed anything of that thoughtless oblivion of death with which a Frenchman jigs into battle, or whether they did not show more of the melancholy valour of the Spaniard, upon M-hom they charged ; that deliberate courage which contemplation and 'sedentary habits breathe ? Are they often great newsmongers? — I have known some few among them arrive at the dignity of speculative politicians ; but that light and cheerful every-day interest in the affairs and goings on of the world, which makes the barber* such delightful company, I think is rarely observable in them. This characteristic pensiveness in them being so notorious, I wonder none of those writers, who have expressly treated of me- lancholy, should have mentioned it. Burton, whose book is an excellent abstract of all the y authors in that kind who preceded him, and who treats of every species of this malady, from the hypochondriacal or windy to the heroical or love melancholy, has strangely omitted it. Shakspeare himself has over- looked it. " I have neither the scholar's melancholy (saith Jaques), which is emula- tion : nor the courtier's, which is proud ; nor the soldier's, which is politic ; nor the lover's, which is all these:" and then, when you might expect him to have brought in, "nor the tailor's, which is" so and so, he comes to an end of his enumeration, and falls to a defining of his own melancholy. Milton likewise has omitted it, where he had so fair an opportunity of bringing it in, in his Penseroso. But the partial omissions of historians proving nothing against the existence of any * Having Incidentally mentioned the barber in a com- parison of professional temperaments, I hope no other trade will take offence, or look iupon it as an incivility done to them, if I say, that in courtesy, humanity, and all the conversational and social graces which " gladden life," I esteem no profession comparable to his. Indeed so great is the goodwill which I bear to this useful and agreeable body of men, that, residing in one of the Inns of Court -(where the best specimens of them are to be found, except perhaps at the universities), there are seven of them to whom I am personally known, and who never pass me without the compliment of the hat on either side. My truly polite and urbane friend, Mr. A 1 — m, of Flower-de-luce-court, in Fleet-street, will forgive my mention of him in particular. I can truly say, that I never spent a quarter of an hour under his hands without deriving some profit from the agreeable discussions which are always going on there. well-attested fact, I shall proceed and endea- vour to ascertain the causes why this pensive turn should be so predominant in people of this profession above all others. And first, may it not be, that the custom of wearing apparel being derived to us from the fell, and one of the most mortifying products of that unhappy event, a certain seriousness (to say no more of it) may in the order of things have been intended to be impressed upon the minds of that race of men to whom in all ages the care of con- triving the human apparel has been en-^ trusted, to keep up the memory of the first institution of clothes, and serve as a standing remonstra-nce against those vanities which the absurd conversion of a memorial of our shame into an ornament of our persons was destined to produce? Correspondent in some sort to this, it may be remarked, that the tailor sitting over a cave or hollow place, in the cabalistic language of his order is said to have certain melancholy regions always open under his feet. — But waiving further inquiry into final causes, where the best of us can only wander in the dark, let us try to discover the efficient causes of this melan- choly. I think, then, that they may be reduced to two, omitting some subordinate ones, viz. The sedentary habits of the tailor. — Something peculiar in his diet. — First, his sedentary habits. — In Doctor Norris's famous narrative of the frenzy of Mr. John Dennis, the patient, being ques- tioned as to the occasion of the swelling in his legs, replies that it came "by criticism ;" to which the learned doctor seeming to demur, as to a distemper which he had never read of, Dennis (who appears not to have been mad upon all subjects) rejoins, with some warmth, that it was no distemper, but a noble art: that he had sat fourteen hours a day at it ; and that the other was a pretty doctor not to know that there was a commu- nication between the brain and the legs ! When we consider that this sitting for fourteen hours continuously, which the critic probably practised only while he was writing his " remarks," is no more than what the tailor, in the ordinary pursuance of his art, submits to daily (Sundays excepted) through- out the year, shall we wonder to find the ON THE IMMODERATE INDULGENCE OF THE PALATE. 579 brain affected, and in a manner overclouded, from that indissoluble sympathy between the noble and less' noble parts of the body -■which Dennis hints at? The unnatural and painful manner of his sitting must also greatly aggravate the evil, insomuch that I have sometimes ventured to liken tailors at their boards to so many envious Junos, sitting cross-legged to Under the birth of their own felicity. The legs transversed thus X cross- wise, or decussated, was among the ancients the posture of malediction. The Turks, who practise it at this day, are noted to be a melancholy people. Secondly, his diet.— To which purpose I find a most remarkable passage in Burton, in his chapter entitled " Bad diet a cause of melancholy." "Amongst herbs to be eaten (he says) I find gourds, cucumbers, melons, disallowed ; but especially cabbage. It causeth troublesome dreams, and sends up black vapours to the brain. Galen, Loc Affect, lib. iii. cap. 6, of all herbs condemns CABBAGE, And Isaack, lib. ii. cap. 1, animce gravitatem facit, it brings heaviness to the soul." I could not omit so flattering a testi- mony from an author who, having no theory of his own to serve, has so unconciously contributed to the confirmation of mine. It is well known that this last-named vegetable has, from the earliest periods which we can discover, constituted almost the sole food of this extraordinary race of people. Burton, Junior. HOSPITA ON THE IMMODERATE INDULGENCE OE THE PLEASURES OF THE PALATE. TO THE EDITOR OF "THE REFLECTOR. Mr. Reflector, — My husband and I are fond of company, and being in easy circum- stances, we are seldom without a party to dinner two or three days in a week. The utmost cordiality has hitherto prevailed at our meetings ; but there is a young gentle- man, a near relation of my husband's, that has lately come among us, whose preposterous behaviour bids fair, if not timely cheeked, to disturb our tranquillity. He is too great a favourite with my husband in other respects, for me to remonstrate with him in any other than this distant way. A letter printed in your publication may catch his eye ; for he is a great reader, and makes a point of seeing all the new things that come out. Indeed, he is by no means deficient in understanding. My husband says that he has a good deal of ■wit ; but for my part I cannot- say I am any judge of that, having seldom observed him open his mouth except for purposes very foreign to conversation. In short, Sir, this young gentleman's failing is, an immoderate indulgence of his palate. The first time he dined with us, he thought it necessary to extenuate the length of time he kept the dinner on the table, by declaring that he had taken a very long walk in the morning, and came in fasting ; but as that excuse could not serve above once or twice at most, he has latterly dropped the mask altogether, and chosen to appear in his own proper colours without reserve or apology. You cannot imagine how unpleasant his conduct has become. His way of staring at the dishes as they are brought in, has abso- lutely something immodest in it: it is like the stare of an impudent man of fashion at a fine woman, when she first comes into a room. I am positively in pain for the dishes, and cannot help thinking they have con- sciousness, and will be put out of counte- nance, he treats them so like what they are not. Then again he makes no scruple of keeping a joint of meat on the table, after the cheese and fruit are brought in, till he has what he calls done with it. Now how awkward this looks, where there are ladies, you may judge, Mr. Reflector, — how it disturbs the order and comfort of a meal. And yet I always make a point of helping him first, contrary to all good manners, — before any of my female friends are helped, — that he may avoid this very error. I wish he would eat before he comes out. 580 ON THE IMMODERATE INDULaENCE OF THE PALATE. What makes his proceedings more particu- larly offensive at our house is, that my husband, though out of common politeness he is obliged to set dishes of animal food before his visitors, yet himself and his whole family, (myself included) feed entirely on vegetables. We have a theory, that animal food is neither M'holesome nor natural to man ; and even vegetables we refuse to eat until they have undergone the operation of fire, in consideration of those numberless little living creatures which the glass helps us to detect in every fibre of the plant or root before it be dressed. On the same theory we boil our water, which is our only drink, before we suffer it to come to table. Our children are perfect little Pythagoreans: it would do you good to see them in their nursery, stuffing their dried fruits, figs, raisins, and milk, which is the only approach to animal food which is allowed, They have no notion how the substance of a creature that ever had life can become food for an- other creature. A beef-steak is an absurdity to them; a mutton-chop, a solecism in terms ; a cutlet, a word absolutely without any meaning ; a butcher is nonsense, except so far as it is taken for a man who delights in blood, or a hero. In this happy state of innocence we have kept their minds, not allowing them to go into the kitchen, or to hear of any preparations for the dressing of animal food, or even to know that such things are practised. But as a state of ignorance is incompatible with a certain age, and as my eldest girl, who is ten years old nest Midsummer, must shortly be introduced into the world and sit at table with us, where she -will see some things which will shock all her received notions, I have been endeavour- ing by little and little to break her mind, and prepare it for the disagreeable impressions which must be forced upon it. The first hint I gave her upon the subject, I could see her recoil from it with the same horror with which we listen to a tale of Anthro- pophagism ; but she has gradually grown more reconciled to it, in some measure, from my telling her that it was the custom of the world, — to which, however senseless, we must submit, so far as we could do it with innocence, not to give offence ; and she has shown so much strength of mind on other occasions, which I have no doubt is owing to the calmness and serenity superinduced by her diet, that I am in good hopes when the proper season for her debut arrives, she may be brought to endure the sight of a roasted chicken or a dish of sweet-breads for the first time without fainting. Such being the nature of our little household, you may guess what inroads into the economy of it, — what revolutions and turnings of things upside down, the example of such a feeder as Mr. is calculated to produce. I wonder, at a time like the present, when the scarcity of every kind of food is so painfully acknowledged, that sliame has no effect upon him. Can he have read Mr. Malthus's Thoughts on the , Eatio of Food to Population ? Can he think it reasonable that one man should consume the sustenance of many ? The young gentleman has an agreeable air and person, such as are not unlikely to recommend him on the score of matrimony. But his fortune is not over large ; and what prudent young woman would think of em- barking hers with a man who would bring three or four mouths (or what is equivalent to them) into a family ? She might as reasonably choose a widower in the same circumstances, with three or four children. I. cannot think who he takes after. His father and mother, by fill accounts, were very moderate eaters ; only I have heard that the latter swallowed her victuals very fast, and the former had a tedious custom of sitting long at his meals. Perhaps he takes after both. I wish you would turn this in your thoughts, Mr. Reflector, and give us your ideas on the subject of excessive eating, and, particularly, of animal food. Hospita. EDAX ON APPETITE. 581 EDAX ON APPETITE. TO THE EDITOR OP " THE REFLECTOR." Mr. Reflector, — I am going to lay before you a case of the most iniquitous persecution that ever poor devil suffered. You must knovr, then, that I have been visited with a calamity ever since my birth. How shall I mention it without offending delicacy? Yet out it must. My sufferings, then, have all arisen from a most inordinate appetite Not for wealth) not for vast possessions, — then might I have hoped to find a cure in some of those precepts of philosophers or poets, — those verba et voces which Horace speaks of: — "quibus hunc lenire dolorem Possis, et magnam morbi deponere partem ;" not for glory, not for fame, not for applause, — for against this disease, too, he tells us there are certain piacula, or, as Pope has chosen to render it, " rhymes, which fresh and fresh applied. Will cure the arrant'st puppy of his pride ;" nor yet for pleasure, properly so called : the strict and virtuous lessons which I received in early life from the best of parents, — a pious clergyman of the Church of England, now no more, — I trust have rendered me sufficiently secure on that side : No, Sir, for none of these things ; but an appetite, in its coarsest and least metaphorical sense, — an appetite iov food. The exorbitancies of my arrow-root and pappish days I cannot go back far enough to remember; only I have been told that my mother's constitution not admitting of my being nursed at home, the woman who had the care of me for that purpose used to make most extravagant demands for my pretended excesses in that kind ; which my parents, rather- than believe anything unpleasant of me, chose to impute to the known covetous- ness and mercenary disposition of that sort of people. This blindness continued on their part after I was sent for home, up to the period when it was thought proper, on account of my advanced age, that I should mix\with other boys more unreservedly than I had hitherto done. I was accordingly sent to boarding-school. Here the melancholy truth became too apparent to be disguised. The prying republic of which a great school consists soon found me out ; there was no shifting the blame any longer upon other people's shoulders, — no good-natured maid to take upon herself the enormities of which I stood accused in the article of bread and butter, besides the crying sin of stolen ends of puddings, and cold pies strangely missing. The truth was but too manifest in my looks, — in the evident signs of inanition which I exhibited after the fullest meals, in spite of the double allowance which my master was privately instructed by my kind parents to give me. The sense of the ridiculous, which is but too much alive in grown persons, is tenfold more active and alert in boys. Once detected, I was the constant butt of their arrows, — the mark against which every puny leveller directed his little shaft of scorn. The very Graduses and Thesauruses were raked for phrases to pelt me with by the tiny pedants. Ventri natus — Ventri deditus, — Vesana gula, — Escarum gurges, — Dapibus indulgens, — Non dans fr^na gulae, — Sectana lautge fercula mensse, resounded wheresoever I passed. I led a weary life, suffering the penalties of guilt for that which was no crime, but only following the blameless dictates of nature. The remembrance of those childish reproaches haunts me yet oftentimes in my dreams. My school-days come again, and the horror I used to feel, when, in some silent corner, retired from the notice of my unfeeling playfellows, I have sat to mumble the solitary slice of ginger- bread allotted .me by the bounty of con- siderate friends, and have ached at heart because I could not spare a portion of it, as I saw other boys do, to some favourite boy ; 582 EDAX ON APPETITE. for if I know my own heart, I was never selfish, — never possessed a luxury which I did not hasten to communicate to others ; but my food, alas ! was none ; it was an indispensable necessary; I could as soon have spared the blood in my veins, as have parted that with my companions. Well, no one stage of suffering lasts for ever: we should grow reconciled to. it at length, I suppose, if it did. The miseries of my school-days had their end ; I was once more restored to the paternal dwelling. The affectionate solicitude of my parents was directed to the good-natured purpose of concealing, even from myself, the infirmity which haunted me. I was continually told that I was growing, and the appetite I dis- played was humanely represented as being nothing more than a symptom and an effect of that. I used even to be complimented upon it. But this temporary fiction could not endure above a year or two. I ceased tc grow, but, alas ! I did not cease my demands for alimentary sustenance. Those times are long since past, and with tiiem have ceased to exist the fond conceal- ment — the indulgent blindness — the delicate overlooking — the compassionate fiction. I and my infirmity are left exposed and bare to the broad, unwinking eye of the world, which nothing can elude. My meals are scanned, my mouthfuls weighed in a balance ; that which appetite demands is set down to the account of gluttony, — a sin which my whole soul abhors — nay, which Nature her- self has put it out of my power to commit. I am constitutionally disenabled from that vice ; for how can he be guilty of excess who never can get enough ? Let them cease, then, to watch my plate ; and leave off their ungracious comparisons of it to the seven baskets of fragments, and the supernaturally- replenished cup of old Baucis: and be thankful that their more phlegmatic stomachs, not their virtue, have saved them from the like reproaches. I do not see that any of them desist from eating till the holy rage of huno'er, as some one calls it, is supplied. Alas! I am doomed to stop short of that continence. What am I to do? I am by disposition inclined to conviviality and the social meal. I am no gourmand : I require no dainties : I should despise the board of Heliogabalus, except for its long sitting. Those vivacious long-continued meals of the latter Romans, indeed, I justly envy; but the kind of fare which the Curii and Dentati put up with, I could be content with. Dentatus I have been called, among other unsavoury jests. Doublemeal is another name which my acquaintance have palmed upon me, for an innocent piece of policy which I put in practice for some time without being found out; which was — going the round of my friends, beginning with the most primitive feeders among them, who take their dinner about one o'clock, and so successively drop- ping in upon the next and the next, till by the time I got among my more fashionable intimates, whose hour was six or seven, I have nearly made up the body of a just and complete meal (as I reckon it), without taking more than one dinner (as they account of dinners) at one person's house. Since I have been found out, I endeavour to make up by a damper, as I call it, at home, before I go out. But alas ! with me, increase of appetite truly grows by what it feeds on. What is peculiarly offensive to me at those dinner-parties is, the senseless custom of cheese, and the dessert afterwards. I have a rational antipathy to the former ; and for fruit, and those other vain vegetable substi- tutes for meat (meat, the only legitimate aliment for human creatures since the Flood, as I take it to be deduced from that per- mission, or ordinance rather, given to Noah and his descendants), I hold them in perfect contempt. Hay for horses. I remember a pretty apologue, which Mandeville tells, very much to this purpose, in his Fable of the Bees: — He brings in a Lion arguing with a Merchant, who had ventured to expostulate with this king of beasts upon his violent methods of feeding. The Lion thus retorts : — •' Savage I am ; but no creature can be called cruel but what either by malice or insensibility extinguishes his natural pity. The Lion was born without compassion ; we follow the instinct of our nature; the gods have appointed us to live upon the waste and spoil of other animals, and as long as we can meet with dead ones, we never hunt after the living; 'tis only man, mischievous man, that can make death a sport. Nature taught your stomach to crave nothing but vegetables. — (Under favour of the Lion, if he EDAX ON APPETITE. 583 meant to assert this universally of mankind, it is not true. However, what he says presently is very sensible.) — Your violent fondness to change, and greater eagerness after novelties, have prompted you to the destruction of animals without justice or necessity. The Lion has a ferment within him, that consumes the toughest skin and hardest bones, as well as the flesh of all animals, without exception. Your squeamish stomach, in which the digestive heat is weak and inconsiderable, won't so much as admit of the most tender parts of them, unless above half the concoction has been performed by artificial fire beforehand ; and yet what animal have you spared, to satisfy the caprices of a languid appetite? Languid, I say ; for what is man's hunger if compared with the Lion's? Yours, when it is at the worst, makes you faint ; mine makes me mad : oft have I tried with roots and herbs to allay the violence of it, but in vain ; nothing but large quantities of flesh can any ways appease it." — Allowing for the Lion not having a prophetic instinct to take in every lusus naturse that was possible of the human appetite, he was, generally speaking, in the right ; and the Merchant was so impressed with his argument that, we are told, he replied not, but fainted away. 0, Mr. Reflector, that I were not obliged to add, that the creature who thus argues was but a type of me ! Miserable man ! I am tliat Lionl "Oft have I tried with roots and herbs to allay that violence, but in vain ; nothing but " Those tales which are renewed as often as the editors of papers want to fill up a space in their unfeeling columns, of great eaters, — people that devour whole geese and legs of mutton ybr wagers, — are sometimes attempted to be drawn to a parallel with my case. This wilful confounding of motives and circumstances, which make all the diS'erence of moral or immoral in actions, just suits the sort of talent which some of my acquaintance pride themselves upon. Wagers! — I thank Heaven, I was never mercenary, nor could consent to prostitute a gift (though but a left-handed one) of nature, to the enlarging of my worldly substance ; prudent as the necessities, which that fatal gift have involved me in, might have made such a prostitution to appear in the eyes of an indelicate world. Rather let me say, that to the satisfaction of that talent which was given me, I have been content to sacrifice no common expect- ations ; for such I had from an old lady, a near relation of our family, in whose good graces I had the fortune to stand, till one fatal evening . You have seen, Mr. Reflector, if you have ever passed your time much in country towns, the kind of suppers which elderly ladies in those places have lying in petto in an adjoining parlour, next to that where they are entertaining their periodically-invited coevals with cards and muffins. The cloth is usually spread some half-hour before the final rubber is decided, whence they adjourn to sup upon what may emphatically be called nothing ; — a sliver of ham, purposely contrived to be transparent to show the china-dish through it, neigh- bouring a slip of invisible brawn, which abuts upon something they call a tartlet, as that is bravely supported by an atom of marmalade, flanked in its turn by a grain of potted beef, with a power of such dishlings, minims of hospitality, spread in defiance of human nature, or rather with an utter ignorance of what it demands. Being engaged ■at one of these card-parties, I was obliged to go a little before supper time (as they face- tiously called the point of time in which they are taking these shadowy refections), and the old lady, with a sort of fear shining through the smile of courteous hospitality that beamed in her countenance, begged me to step into the next room and take _some- thing before I went out into the cold, — a proposal which lay not in my nature to deny. Indignant at the airy prospect I saw before me, I set to, and in a trice despatched the whole meal intended for eleven persons, — fish, flesh, fowl pastry, — to the sprigs of garnishing parsley, and the last fearful custard that quaked upon the board. I need not describe the consternation, when in due time the dowagers adjourned from their cards. Where was the supper? — and the servants' answer, Mr. had eat it all. — That freak, however, jested me out of a good three hundred pounds a year, which I afterwards was informed for a certainty the old lady meant to leave me. I mention it not in illustration of the unhappy faculty which I am possessed of; for any unlucky wag of a schoolboy, Avith a tolerable appetite 584 EDAX ON APPETITE. could have done "as much without feeling any hurt after it, — only that you may judge whether I am a man likely to set my talent to sale, or to require the pitiful stimulus of a wager. I have read in Pliny, or in some author of that stamp, of a reptile in Africa, whose venom is of that hot, destructive quality, that wheresoever it fastens its tooth, the whole substance of the animal that has been bitten in a few seconds is reduced to dust, crumbles away, and absolutely disappears: it is called, from this quality, the Annihilator. Why am I forced to seek, in all the most prodigious and portentous facts of Natural History, for creatures typical' of myself? I am that snake, that Annihilator : " wherever I fasten, in a few seconds " happy sick men, that are groaning under the want of that very thing, the excess of which is my torment! fortunate, too fortunate, if you knew your happiness, invalids! What would I not give to exchange .this fierce concoctive and digestive heat, — this rabid fury which vexes me, which tears and torments me, — for your quiet, mortified, hermit-like, subdued, and sanctified stomachs, your cool, chastened inclinations, and coy desires for food ! To what unhappy figuration of the parts intestine I owe this unnatural craving, I must leave to the anatomists and the physicians to determine: they, like the rest of the world, have doubtless their eye upon me ; and as I have been cut up alive by the sarcasms of my friends, so I shudder when I contemplate the probability that this animal frame, when its restless appetites shall have ceased their importunity, may bo cut up also (horrible suggestion !) to deter- mine in what system of solids or fluids this original sin of my constitution lay lurking. What work will they make with their acids and alkalines, their serums and coagulums, efi"ervescences, viscous matter, bile, chyle, and acrimonious juices, to explain that cause which Nature, who willed the eflfect to punish me for my sins, may no less have determined to keep in the dark from them, to punish them for their presumption ! You may ask, Mr. Reflector, to what purpose is my appeal to you ; what can you do for me ? Alas ! I know too well that my case is out of the reach of advice, — out of the reach of consolation. But it is some relief to the wounded heart to impart its tale of misery ; and some of my acquaintance, who may read my case in your pages under a borrowed name, may be induced to give it a more humane consideration than I could ever yet obtain from them under my own. Make them, if possible, to i^eflect, that an original peculiarity of constitution is no crime ; that not that which goes into the mouth desecrates a man, but that which comes out of it, — such as sarcasm, bitter jests, mocks and taunts, and ill-natured observations ; and let them consider, if there be such things (which we have all heard of) as Pious Treachery, Innocent Adultery, &c., whether there may not be also such a thing as Innocent Gluttony. I shall only subscribe myself, Your afflicted servant, Edax. CURIOUS FEAGMENTS. EXTRACTED FROM A COMMON -PLACE BOOK, "WniCH BELONGED TO ROBERT BURTON, THE FAMOUS AUTHOR OF THE ANATOMY OP MELANCHOLY. EXTRACT I. I Democritus Junior, have put my finish- ing pen to a tractate De Melancholia, this day, December 5, 1620. First, I blesse the Trinity, which hath given me health to pro- secute my worthlesse studies thus far, and make supplication, vrith a Laus Deo, if in any case these my poor labours may be found in- strumental to weede out black melancholy, carking cares, harte-grief, from the mind of man. Sed lioc magis volo quam expecto. I turn now to my book, i nunc liber, goe forth, my hrave Anatomy, child of my brain- sweat, and yee candidi lectores, lo ! here I give him up to you, even do with him what you please, my masters. Some, I suppose, will applaud, commend, cry him up (these are my friends), hee is a flos varus, forsooth, a none-such, a Phoenix, (concerning whom see riinius and Mandeuille, though Fienus de Monstris doubteth at large of such a bird, whom Montaltus confuting argueth to have been a man malce scrupidositaiis, of a weak and cowardlie faith : Ghristopherus a Vega is with him in this). Others again will blame, hiss, reprehende in many things, cry down altogether my collections, for crude, inept, putid, post coenam scripta, Cory ate coidd write better upon a full meal, verbose, inerudite, and not sufficiently abounding in authorities, dogtnata, sentences of learneder writers which have been before me, when as that first- named sort clean otherwise judge of my labours to bee nothing else but a messe of opinions, a vortex attracting indiscriminate, gold, pearls, hay, straw, wood, excrement, an exchange, tavern, marte, for foreigners to congi'egrate, Danes, Swedes, Hollanders, Lom- bards, so many strange faces, dresses, saluta- tions, languages, all which Wblfiiis behelde with great content upon the Venetian Rialto, as he describes diffusedly in his book the World's Epitome, which Sannazar so be- praiseth, e contra our Polydore can see no- thing in it ; they call me singular, a pedant, fantastic, words of reproach in this age, which is all too neoterick and light for my humour. One Cometh to me sighing, complaining. He expected universal remedies in my Ana-' tomy; so many cures as there are distem- peratures among men, I have not put his affection in my cases. Hear you his case. My fine Sir is a lover, an inamorata, a Pyra- mus, a Romeo; he walks seven years dis- consolate, moping, because he cannot enjoy his miss, insanus amor is his melancholy, the man is mad ; delirat, he dotes ; all this while his Glycera is rude, spiteful, not to be entreated, churlish, spits at him, yet exceed- ing fair, gentle eyes (which is a beauty), hair lustrous and smiling, the trope is none of mine, jEneas Stjlvius hath crines ridentes — in conclusion she is wedded to his rival, a boore, a Corydon, a rustic, omnino ignarus, he can scarce construe Corderius, yet haughty, fantastic, opinidire. The lover travels, goes into foreign parts, peregrinates, amoris ergo, sees manners, customs, not English, converses with pilgrims, lying travellers, monks, her- mits, those cattle, pedlars, travelling gentry, Egyptians, natural wonders, unicorns (though Aldobrandus will have them to be figments), satyrs, semi-viri, apes, monkeys, baboons, curiosities artificial, pyramides, Virgilius his tombe, relicks, bones, which are nothing but ivory as Melancthon judges, though Cornu- tus leaneth to think them bones of dogs, cats, (why not men?) which subtill priests vouch to have been saints, martyrs, heu Pietasl By that time he has ended his course, fugit hora, seven other years aro 585 586 CURIOUS , FRAGMENTS. expired, gone by, time is he should return, he taketh ship for Britaine, much desired of his friends, favebant venti, Neptune is curieis, after some weekes at sea he landeth, rides post to town, greets his family, kinsmen compotores, those jokers his friends thai were wont to tipple loith him at alehouses; these wonder now to see the change, quantum mutatus, the man is quite another thing, he is disenthralled, manumitted, he wonders what so bewitched him, he can now both see, hear, smell, . handle, converse with his mistress, single by reason of the death of his rival, a widow having children, grown willing, prompt, amorous, showing no such great dislike to second nuptials, he might have her for asking, no such thing, his mind is changed, he loathes his former meat, had liever eat ratsbane, aconite, his humour is to die a bachelour; marke the conclusion. In this humour of celibate seven other years are consumed in idleness, sloth, world's plea- sures, which fatigate, satiate, induce weari- nesse, vapours, icedium vitce : When upon a day, behold a wonder, redit Amor, the man is as sick as ever, he is commenced lover upon the old stock, walks with his hand thrust in his bosom for negligence, moping he leans his head, face yellow, beard flowing and incomposite, eyes sunken, anhelus, breath wheezy and asthmatical, by reason of ovei^-much sighing: society he abhors, solitude is but a hell, what shall he doe? all this while his mistresse is forward, coming, amantissima, ready to jump at once into his mouth, her he hateth, feels disgust when she is but men- tioned, thinks her ugly, old, a painted Jesa- beel, Alecto, Megara, and Tisiphone all at once, a Corinthian Lais, a strumpet, only not handsome; that which he affecteth so much, that which drives him mad, distracted, phre- netic, beside himself, is no beauty which lives, nothing in rerum naturd (so he might entertain a hope of a cure), but something which is not, can never be, a certain fantastic opinion or notional image of his mistresse, that lohich she was, and that which hee thought her to bee, in former times, how beautiful ! torments him, frets him, follows him, makes him that he wishes to die. This Caprichio, Sir Humourous, hee cometh to me to be cured. I counsel marriage with his mistresse, according to Hippocrates his method, together with milk-diet, herbs, aloes, and wild parsley, good in such cases, though Avicenna preferreth some sorts of wild fowl, teals, widgeons, beccaficos, which men in Sussex eat. He flies out in a passion, ho ! ho ; and falls to calling me names, dizzard, ass, lunatic, moper, Bedlamite, Pseudo-Demo- critus. I smile in his face, bidding him be patient, tranquil, to no purpose, he still rages : I think this man must fetch his re- medies from Utopia, Fairy Land, Islands in the Moone, &c. EXTRACT II. ***** Much disputacyons of fierce wits amongst themselves, in logomachies, subtile controversies, many dry blows given on either side, contentions of learned men, or such as would be so thought, as Bodinus de Periodis saith of such an one, arrident amid ridet mundus, in English, this man his cronies they cocker him up, they flatter him, he would fayne appear somebody, meanwhile the world thinks him no better than a diz- zard, a ninny, a sophist. * * * * * Philosophy running mad, madness philosophizing, much idle-learned inquiries, what truth is? and no issue, fruit, of all these noises, only huge books are written, and who is the wiser? ***** Men sit- ting in the Doctor's chair, we marvel how they got there, being homines intellectus pul- verulenti as Trincauellius notes ; they care not so they may raise a dust to smother the eyes of their oppugners : homines parvulisr simi,^ as Lemnius, whom Alcuin herein taxeth of a crude Latinism ; dwarfs, minims, the least little men, these spend their .time, and it is odds but they lose their time and wits too into the bargain, chasing of nimble and retiring Truth : Her they prosecute, her still they worship, libant, they make liba- tions, spilling the wine, as those old Romans in their sacrifieials, Cerealia, May-fames: Truth is the game all these hunt after, to the extreme perturbacyon and drying up of the moistures, humidum radicate exsiccant, as Galen, in his counsels to one of these wear- wits, brain-moppers, spunges, saith. * * * * and for all this nunquam meiam aitingunt, and how should they ? they bowle awry, shooting beside the marke ; whereas it should appear, that Truth absolute on this planet of ours is scarcely to be found, but in her stede CURIOUS FRAGMENTS. 587 Queene Opinion predominates, governs, whose shifting and ever mutable Lampas, me seem- eth, is man's destinie to follow, she prgecur- seth, she guideth him, before his uncapable eyes she frisketh her tender lights, which entertayne the child-man, until) what time his sight be strong to endure the vision of Veri/ Truth, which is in the heavens, the vision beatifical, as Anianus expounds in his argument against certain mad wits which helde God to be corporeous ; these were dizzards, fools, gotliamites. * * * * but and if Ve7-y Truth be extant indeede on earth, as some hold she it is which actuates men's deeds, purposes, ye may in vaine look for her in the learned universities, halls, colleges. Truth is no Doctoresse, she takes no degrees at Paris or Oxford, amongst great clerks, disputants, subtile Aristotles, men nodosi in- genii, able to take Litlly by the cliin, but often- times to such an one as myself, an Idiota or common person, no great things, melancho- lizing in woods where waters are, quiet places by rivers, fountains, whereas the silly man expecting no such matter, thinketh only how best to delectate and refresh his mynde con- tinually with Natura her pleasaunt scenes, woods, water-falls, or Art her statelie gar- dens, parks, terraces, Belvideres, on a sudden the goddesse herself Truth has appeared, with a shyning lyghte, and a sparklyng countenance, so as yee may not be able lightly to resist her. ***** EXTRACT III. t This morning, May 2, 1662, having first broken my fast upon eggs and cooling salades, mallows, water-cresses, those herbes, accord- ing to Villanovus his prescription, who dis- allows the use of meat in a morning as gross, fat, hebetant, feral, altogether fitter for wild beasts than men, e contra commendeth this herb-diete for gentle, humane, active, con- ducing to contemplation in most men, I be- took myselfe to the nearest fields. (Being in London I commonly dwell in the suburbes, as airiest, quietest, loci musis propriores, free from noises of caroches, waggons, mechanick and base workes, workshoppes, also sights, pageants, spectacles of outlandish birds, fishes, crocodiles, Indians, mermaids ; adde quarrels, fightings, wranglings of the com- mon sort, plebs, the rabble, duelloes with fists, proper to this island, at which the stiletto'd and secret Italian laughs.) With- drawing myselfe from these buzzing and illi- terate vanities, with a bezo las manos to the city, I begin to inhale, draw in, snufi" up, as horses dilatis naribus snort the fresh aires, with exceeding great delight, when suddenly there crosses me a procession, sad, heavy, dolourous, tristfull, melancholick, able to change mirth into dolour, and overcast a clearer atmosphere than possibly the neigh- bourhoods of so great a city can afford. An old man, a poore man deceased, is borne on men's shoulders to a poore buriall, without solemnities of hearse, mourners, plumes, mutcB personcB, those personate actors that vnll iveep if yee shew them a piece of silver ; none of those customed civilities of children, kins- folk, dependants, following the coffin ; he died a poore man, his friends accessores opum, those cronies of his that stuck by him so long as he had a penny, now leave him, forsake him, shun him, desert him ; they think it much to follow his putrid and stinking carcase to the grave; his children, if he had any, for commonly the case stands thus, this poore man his son dies before him, he survives, poore, indigent, base, dejected, miserable, &c., or if he have any which survive him, sua negotia agunt, they mind their own business, forsooth, cannot, will not, find time, leisure, inclination, extremum mtinus perficere, to fol- low to the pit their old indulgent father, which loved them, stroked them, caressed them, cockering them up, quantum potuit, as farre as his means extended, while they were babes, chits, minims, hee may rot in his grave, lie stinking in the sun for them, have no buriall at all, they care not. Onefas! Chiefly I noted the coffin to have been with- out a pall, notMng but a few planks, of cheapest wood that could be had, naked, having none of the ordinary symptomata of a funerall, those locularii which bare the body having on diversely coloured coats, and none black: (one of these reported the deceased to have been an almsman seven yeares, a pauper, harboured and fed in the workhouse of St. Giles-in-the-Fields, to whose proper burying-ground he was now going for inter- ment.) All which when T behelde, hardly I refrained from weeping, and incontinently 1 fell to musing: "If this man had been rich, CURIOUS FRAGMENTS. a Crcesus, a Crassus, or as rich as Whittington, ■what pompe, charge, lavish cost, expenditure, of rich buriall, ceremoniall-obsequies, obsequious ceremonies, had been thought too good for such an one ; what store of panegyricks, elogies, funeral orations, &c., some beggarly poetaster, worthy to be beaten for his ill rimes, crying him up, hee was rich, generous, bountiful, polite, learned, a Mcecenas, while as in very deede he was nothing lesse : what weeping, sighing, sorrowing, honing, com- plaining, kinsmen, friends, relatives, four- tieth cousins, poor relatives, lamenting for the deceased ; hypocriticall heirs, sobbing, striking their breasts (they care not if he had died a year ago) ; so many clients, dependants, flatterers, parasites, cunning Gnathoes, tramping on foot after the hearse, all their care is, who shall stand fairest with the successour ; he mean time (like enough) spurns them from him, spits at them, treads them under his foot, will have nought to do with any such cattle. I think him in the right : Hcec sunt majora gravitate Heracliti. These follies are enough to give crying Hera clitus a Jit of the spleene. MR H , A FARCEJ IN TWO ACTS, AS IT WAS PERFORMED AT DRURY LANE THE AT RE, DECEMBER, 180( "Mr. H , thou wert damned. Bright shone the morning on the play-bills that announced thy appearance, and the streets were filled with the buzz of persons asking one another if they would go to see Mr. H , and answering that they would certainly; but before night, the gaiety, not of the author, but of his friends and the town, was eclipsed, for thou wert damned ! Hadst thou been anonymous, thou haply mightst have lived. But thou didst come to an untimely end for thy tricks, and for want of a better name to pass them off ." Theatrical Examiner, CHARACTEES. Mr. H . . Mr. Elliston. Melesinda . . 3Tiss Mellon. Beltil . . . Mr. Bartley. Maid to Melesinda • Mrs. Harlowe Landlobd Pry . . Mr. Wewifzer. Gentlemen, Ladies, Waiters, Servants, &c. Scene — Bath. PROLOGUE, SPOKEN BY MR. ELLISTON. If we have sinn'd in paring down a name, All civil, well-bred authors do the same. Survey .the columns of our daily writers — You'll find that some Initials are great fighters. How fierce the shock, how fatal is the jar. When Ensign W. meets Lieutenant R. With two stout seconds, just of their own gizzard, Cross Captain X. and rough old General Izzard ! Letter to Letters spread the dire alarms. Till half the Alphabet is up in arms. Nor with less lustre have Initials shone, To grace the gentler annals of Crim. Con. Where the dispensers of the public lash Soft penance give; a letter and a dash — Where Vice reduced in size shrinks to a failing. And loses half her grossness by curtailing. Faux pas are told in such a modest way, — "The affair of Colonel B— with Mrs. A—" You must forgive them — for what is there, say, Which such a pliant vowel must not grant To such a very pressing Consonant? Or who poetic justice dares dispute. When, mildly melting at a lover's suit. The wife's a Liquid, her good man a Mute ? Even in the homelier scenes of honest life. The coarse-spun intercourse of man and wife, ' Initials I am told have taken place Of Deary, Spouse, and that old-fashion'd race ; And Cabbage, ask'd by brother Snip to tea. Replies " 1 11 come — but it don't rest with me -— I always leaves them things to Mrs. C." should this mincing fashion ever spread From names of living heroes to the dead. How would Ambition sigh, and hang the head. As each loved syllable should melt away — Her Alexander turn'd into Great A — A single C. her Caesar to express — Her Scipio shrunk into a Roman S — And,nick'd and doek'd to these new modes of speech. Great Hannibal himself a Mr. H . 589 ME. H- A FAKCE, IN TWO ACTS. ACT 1. SoENE. — A Public Room in an Inn. Landlord, Waiters, Gentlemen, S^c. Enter Mk. H. Mr. H. Landlord, has the man brought home my boots? Landlord. Yes, Sir. il/r. H. You have paid him ? Landlord. There is the receipt, Sir, only not quite filled up, no name, only blank — "Blank, Dr. to Zekiel Spanish for one pair of best hessians." Now, Sir, he wishes to know what name he shall put in, who he shall say " Dr." il/r. H: Why, Mr. H. to be sure. Landlord. So I told him, Sir; but ZeMel has some qualms about it. He says he thinks that Mr. H. only would not stand good in law. 3Ir. H. Rot his impertinence I Bid him put in Nebuchadnezzar, and not trouble me ■with his scruples. Landlord. I shall, Sir. i^^^- Enter a Waiter. Waiter. Sir, Squire Level's man is below, with a hare and a brace of pheasants for Mr. H. Mr. H. Give the man half-a-crown, and bid him return my best respects to his master. Presents, it seems, will find me out, with any name or no name. Enter 2d Waiter. 2d Waiter. Sir, the man that makes up the Directory is at the door. Mr. H. Give him a shilling; that is what these fellows come for. 2d Waiter. He has sent up to know by what name your Honour will please to be inserted. Mr. H. Zounds, fellow, I give him a shilling for leaving out my name, not for putting it in. This is one of the plaguy comforts of going anonymous. [Exit2d Waiter. Enter 3d Waiter. Zd Waiter. Two letters for Mr. H. [Ezit. Mr. H. From ladies [opens them). This from Melesinda to remind me of the morning call I promised ; the pretty creature posi- tively languishes to be made Mrs. H. I believe I must indulge her [affectedly). This from her cousin, to bespeak me to some party, I suppose [opening it). — Oh, "this evening" — " Tea and cards" — [surveying himself with complacency). Dear H., thou art certainly a pretty fellow, I wonder what makes thee such a favourite among the ladies : I wish it may not be owing to the concealment of thy unfortunate pshaw! Enter ith Waiter. 4th Waiter. Sir, one Mr. Printagain is inquiring for you. Mr. H. Oh, I remember, the poet; he is publishing by subscription. Give him a guinea, and tell him he may put me down. 4th Waiter. What name shall I tell him, Sir? Mr. H. Zounds, he is a poet ; let him fancy a name. [Exit ith Waiter. Enter 5th Waiter, 5th Waiter. Sir, Bartlemy the lame beggar, that you sent a private donation to last Monday, has by some accident discovered his benefactor, and is at the door waiting to return thanks. Mr. IT. Oh, poor fellow, who could put it into his head ? Now I shall be teased by all his tribe, when once this is known. Well,- tell him I am glad I could be of any service to him, and send him away. 5t7i Waiter. I would have done so. Sir ; but the object of his call now, he says, is only to know who he is obliged to. Mr. H. Why, me. 590 MR. H- A FARCE. 591 5ih Waiter. Yes, Sir. M}\ E. Me, me, me ; who else, to be sure ? bill Waiter. Yes, Sir ; but he is anxious to know the name of his benefactor. Mr. H. Here is a pampered rogue of a oeggar, that cannot be obliged to a gentle- man in the way of his profession, but he must know the name, birth, parentage and education of his benefactor ! I warrant you, next he will require a certificate of one's good behaviour, and a magistrate's licence in one's pocket, lawfully empowering so and go to — give an alms. Any thing more ? bill Waiter. Yes, Sir; here has been Mr. Patriot, with the county petition to sign; and Mr. Failtime, that owes so much money, has sent to remind you of your promise to bail him. Mr. H. Neither of which I can do, while I have no name. Here is more of the plaguy comforts of going anonymous, that one can neither serve one's friend nor one's country. Damn it, a man had better be without a nose, than without a name. • I will not live long in this mutilated, dismembered state ; I will to Melesinda this instant, and try to forget these vexations. Melesinda! there is music in the name ; but then, hang it ! there is none in mine to answer to it. \_ExU. (Whiie Mr. H. has been speaJdng, two Gentlermn have been observing him curiously.) 1st Gent. Who the devil is this extra- ordinary personage? 2nd Gent. Who? Why 'tis Mr. H. 1st Gent. Has he no more name? 2nd Gent. None that has yet transpired. No more ! why that single letter has been enough to inflame the imaginations of all the ladies in Bath. He has been here but a fortnight, and is already received into all the first families. Isi Gent. Wonderful ! yet, nobody know ■who he is, or where he comes from ! 2nd Gent. He is vastly rich, gives away money as if he had infinity ; dresses well, as you see ; and for address, the mothers are all dying for fear the daughters should get him ; and for the daughters, he may com- mand them as absolutely as . Melesinda, the rich heiress, 'tis thought, will carry him. 1st Gent. And is it possible that a mere anonymous — 2nd Gent. Phoo ! that is the charm. — Who is he ? and what is he ? and what is his name? The man with the great nose on his face never excited more of the gaping passion of wonderment in the dames of Strasburg, than this new-comer, with the single letter to his name, has lighted up among the wives and maids of Bath ; his simply having lodgings here, draws more visiters to the house than an election. Come with me to the Parade, and I will show you more of him. lExewat. Scene in the street. Mr. H. walking, Belvil meeting Mm. Belvil. My old Jamaica schoolfellow, that I have not seen for so many years ? it must — it can be no other than Jack [going up to him). My dear Ho Mr. H. [Stopping his mouth). Ho ! the devil, hush. Belvil. Why sure it is — Mr. H. It is, it is your old friend Jack, that shall be nameless. Belvil. My dear Ho Mr. H. [stopping him). Don't name it. Belvil. Name what? Mr. H. My curst unfortunate name. I have reasons to conceal it for a time. Belvil. I understand you — Creditors, Jack? Mr. H. No, I assure you. Belvil. Snapp'd up a ward, peradventure, and the whole Chancery at your heels? Mr. H. I don't use to travel with such cumbersome luggage. Belvil. You ha'n't taken a purse? Mr. H. To relieve you at once from all disgraceful conjecture, you must know, 'tis nothing but the sound of my name. Belvil. Ridiculous ! 'tis true yours is none of the most romantic; but what can that signify in a man? Mr. H. You must understand that I am in some credit with the ladies. Belvil. With the ladies 1 Mr. H. And truly I think not without some pretensions. My fortune — Belvil. Sufficiently splendid, if I may judge from your appearance. Mr. H. My figure — Belvil. Airy, gay, and imposing. Mr. H. My parts — Belvil. Bright. Mr. H. My conversation — Belvil. Equally remote froni flippancy and taciturnity. 592 MR. H- A FARCE. Mr. R. But then my name — damn my name ! Belvil. Childish! Mr. H. Not so. Oh, Belvil, you are blest ■with one which sighing virgins may repeat ■without a blush, and for it change the paternal. But ■what virgin of any delicacy (and I require some in a wife) -would endure to be called Mrs. ? Belvil. Ha, ha, ha! most absurd. Did not Clementina Falconbridge, the ropaantic Clementina Falconbridge, fancy Tommy Potts? and Kosabella Sweetlips sacrifice her mellifluous appellative to Jack Deady ' Matilda her cousin married a Gubbins, and her sister Amelia a Clutterbuck. Mr. H. Potts is tolerable, Deady is suffer- able, Gubbins is bearable, and Clutterbuck is endurable, but IIo Belvil. Hush, Jack, don't betray yourself But you are really ashamed of the family name ? Mr. H. Ay, and of my father that begot nie, and my father's father, and all their forefathers that have borne it since the Conquest. Belvil. But hovsr do you kno-w the -women are so squeamish ? Mr. H. I have tried them. I tell you there is neither maiden of sixteen nor -widow of sixty but would turn up their noses at it. I have been refused by nineteen virgins, twenty-nine relicts, and two old maids. Belvil. That was hard indeed, Jack. Mr. H. Parsons have stuck at publishing the banns, because they averred it was a heathenish name ; parents have lingered their consent, because they suspected it was a fictitious name ; arrd rivals have declined my challenges, because they pretended it was an ungentlemanly name. Belvil. Ha, ha ha! but what course do you mean to pursue ? Mr. R. To engage the affections of some generous girl, who will be content to take me as Mr. H. Belvil. Mr. H ? Mr. R. Yes, that is the name.l go by here ; you know one likes to be as near the truth as possible. Belvil. Certainly. But what then ? to get her to consent — Mr. R. To accompany me to the altar without a name in short, to suspend her curiosity (that is all) till the moment the priest. shall pronounce the irrevocable charm, ■which makes two names one. Belvil. And that name and then she must be pleased, ha. Jack? Mr. R. Exactly such a girl it has been my fortune to meet with ; hark'e [whispers] [musing). Yet, hang it! 'tis cruel to betray her confidence. Belvil. But the family name, Jack ? Mr. R. As you say, the family name must be perpetuated. Belvil. Though it be but a homely one. Mr, R. True ; but come, I will show yon the house where dwells this credulous melt- ing fair. Belvil. Ha, ha ! my old friend dwindled down to one letter. [Exeunt. Scene. — An Apartment in Melesinda's Rouse. Melesinda sola, as if musing. Melesinda. H, H, H. Sure it must be something precious by its being concealed. It can't be Homer, that is a Heathen's name ; nor Horatio, that is no surname ; what if it be Hamlet? the Lord Hamlet — pretty, and I his poor distracted Ophelia ! No, 'tis -none of these ; 'tis Harcourt or Hargrave, or some such sounding name, or Howard, high-born Howard, that would do ; maybe it is Harley, methinks my H. resembles Harley, the feeling Harley. But I hear him ! and from his own lips 1 will once for ever be resolved. Enter Mr. H. Mr. R. My dear Melesinda, Melesinda. My dear H — that is all you give me power to swear allegiance to, — to be enamoured of inarticulate sounds, and call with sighs upon an empty letter. But I will know. Mr. R. My dear Melesinda, press me no more for the disclosure of that, which in the face of day so soon must be revealed. Call it whim, humour, caprice, in me. Suppose I have sworn an oath, never, till the cere- monj' of our marriage is over, to disclose my true name. Melesinda. Oh ! H, H, H, I cherish here a fire of restless curiosity which consumed me. 'Tis appetite, passion, call it whim, caprice, in me. Suppose I have sworn, I must and w'ill know it this very night. ME. H- A FARCE. 593 Mr, H. Ungenerous Melesinda ! I implore you to give me this one proof of your confidence. The holy vow once past, your H. shall not have a secret to withhold. Melesinda. My H. has overcome : his Melesinda shall pine away and die, before she dare express a saucy inclination ; but what shall I call you till we are married ? M7\ H. Call me? call me anything, call me Love, Love ! ay Love : Love will do very well. Melesinda. How many syllables is it, Love? Mr. H. How many ? ud, that is coming to the question with a vengeance ! One, two, three, four, — what does it signify how many syllables ? Melesinda. How many syllables. Love ? Mr. H. My Melesinda's mind, I had hoped, was superior to this childish curiosity. Melesinda. How many letters are there in it ? [Exit Me. 'B.. followed hy Melesinda, repeating tha question. Scene. — A Room in the Inn. Two Waiters disputing. \st Waiter. Sir Harbottle Hammond, you may depend upon it. 2d Waiter. Sir Harry Hardcastle, I tell you. \st Waiter. The Hammonds of Huntingdon- shire. 2d Waiter. The Hardcastles of Hertford- shire. 1st Waiter. The Hammonds. 2d Waiter. Don't tell me : does not Hardcastle begin with an H ? Is^ Waiter. So does Hammond for that matter. 2d Waiter. Faith, so it does if you go to spell it. I did not think of that. I begin to be of your opinion ; he is certainly a Hammond. Is^ Waiter. Here comes Susan Chamber- maid : may be she can tell. Enter Susan. Both. Well Susan, have you heard any- thing who the strange gentleman is ? Susan. Haven't you heard? it's all come out ! Mrs. Guesswell, the parson's widow, has been here about it. I overheard her talking in confidence to Mrs. Setter and Mrs. Pointer, and she says they were holding a sort of a cummitty about it. Both. What? What? Siisan. There can't be a doubt of it, she 38 says, what from his Jigger and the appearance he cuts, and his sumpshous way of living, and above all from the remarkable circum- stance that his surname should begin with an H, that he must be — Both. Well, well — Susan. Neither more nor less than the Prince. BotJi. Prince ! Susan. The Prince of Hessey-Cassel in disguise. Both. Very likely, very likely. Susan. Oh, there can't be a doubt on it. Mrs. Guesswell says she knows it. 1st Waiter. Now if we could be sure that the Prince of Hessy what-do-you-call-him was in England on his travels. 2d Waiter. Get a newspaper. Look in the newspapers. Susan. Fiddle of' the newspapers ; who else can it be ? Both. That is very true [gravely), ' Enter Landlord. Landlord. Here, Susan, James, Philip, where are you all? The London coach is come in, and there is Mr. Fillaside, the fat passenger, has been bawling for somebody to help him ofi" with his boots. \_The Chamhermaid and Waiters slip mii. (Solus.) The house is turned upside down since the strange gentleman came into it. Nothing but guessing and speculating, and speculating and guessing ; waiters and chambermaids getting into corners and speculating; ostlers and stable-boys specu- lating in the yard; I believe the very horses in the stable are speculating too, for there they stand in a musing posture, nothing for them to eat, and not seeming to care whether they have anything or no ; and after all what 'does it signify ? I hate such curious odso, I must take this box up into his bed -room — he charged me to see to it myself ; — I hate such inquisitive I wonder what is in it — it feels heavy ; [reads) " Leases, title-deeds, wills." Here, now a man might satisfy his curiosity at once. Deeds must have names to them, so must leases and wills. But I wouldn't — no I wouldn't it is a pretty box too — prettily dovetailed — I admire the fashion of it much. But Pd cut my fingers ofi^, before Pd do such a dirty — what have I to do — curse the 594 ME. H- A FARCE. keys, how they rattle ! — rattle in one's pockets — the keys and the half-pence [takes out a bunch and plays with them). I wonder if any of these would fit; one might just try them, but I wouldn't lift up the lid if they did. Oh no, what should I be the richer for knowing ? All this time he tries the keys one by one). What's his name to me? a thousand names begin with an H. I hate people that are always prying, poking and pi-ying into things, — thrusting their finger into one place — a mighty little hole this — and their keys into another. Oh Lord ! little rusty fits it ! but what is that to me? I wouldn't go to — no, no — but it is odd little rusty should just happen — [While he is turning up Ihe lid of the box, Mr. H. enters behind him unperceived.) Mr. H. "What are you about, you dog ?' - Landlord. Oh Lord, Sir ! pardon ; no thief, as I hope to be saved. Little Pry was always honest. Mr. H. What else could move you to open that box ? Landlord. Sir, don't kill me, and I will confess the whole truth. This box happened to be lying — that is, I happened to be carrying this box, and I happened to have my keys out, and so — little rusty happened to fit Mr. H. So little rusty happened to fit ! — and would not a rope fit that rogue's neck ? I see the papers have not been moved : all is safe, but it was as well to frighten him a little [aside). Come, Landlord, as I think you honest, and suspect you only intended to gratify a little foolish curiosity Landlord. That was all, Sir, upon my veracity. Mr. H. For this time I will pass it over. Your name is Pry, I think ? Landlord. Yes, Sir, Jeremiah Pry, at your service. Mr. H. An apt name : you have a prying temper — I mean, some little curiosity — a sort of inquisitiveness about you. Landlord. A natural thirst after know- ledge you may call it, Sir. When a boy, I was never easy but when I was thrusting up the lids of some of my school-fellows' boxes, — not to steal anything, upon my honour. Sir, — only to see what was in them ; have had pens stuck in my eyes for peeping through key-holes after knowledge ; could never see a cold pie with the legs dangling out at top, but my fingers were for lifting up the crust, — just to try if it were pigeon or partridge, — for no other reason, in the world. Surely I think my passion for nuts was owing to the pleasure of cracking the shell to get at something concealed, more than to any delight I took in eating the kernel. In short. Sir, this appetite has grown with my growth. Mr. H. You will certainly be hanged some day for peeping into some bureau or other, just to see what is in it. Landlord. That is my fear, Sir. The thumps and kicks I have had for peering into parcels, and turning of letters inside out, — just for curiosity! The blankets I have been made to dance in for searching parish registers for old ladies', ages, — just for curiosity ! Once I was dragged through a horse-pond, only for peeping into a closet that had glass doors to it, while my Lady Bluegarters was undressing, — just for curiosity ! Mr, R. A very harmless piece of curiosity, truly ; and now, Mr. Pry, first have the goodness to leave that box with me, and then do me the favour to carry your curiosity so far, as to inquire if my servants are within. Landlord. I shall. Sir. Here, David, Jonathan, — I think I hear them coming, — shall make bold to leave you, Sir. ' \_ExU. Mr. H. Another tolerable specimen of the comforts of going anonymous ! Enter Two Footmen. \st Footman. You speak first. 2d Footman. No, you had better speak. Ist Footman. You promised to begin. Mr. H. They have something to say to me. The rascals M'ant their wages raised, 1 suppose ; there is always a favour to be asked when they come smiling. Well, poor rogues, service is but a hard bargain at the best. I think I must not be close with them. Well, David — well, Jonathan. 1st Footman. We have served your honour faithfully Id Footm.an. Hope your honour won't take ofi'ence Mr. H. The old story, I suppose — wages ? 1st Footman. That's not it, your honour. • 2d Footman. You speak. 1st Footman. But if your honour would just be pleased to MR. H , A FARCE. 595 2d Footman. Only be pleased to Mr. H. Be quick with what you have to say, for I am in haste. l5^ Footman. Just to 2.d Footman. Let us know who it is Ist Footman. Who it is we have the honour to serve. Mr. H. Why me, me, me ; you serve me. 2d Footman. Yes, Sir; but we do not know who you are. Mr. H. Childish curiosity ! do not you serve a rich master, a gay master, an indulgent master? 1st Footman. Ah, Sir! the figure you make is to us, your poor servants, the principal mortification. 2d Footman. When we get over a pot at the public house, or in a gentleman's kitchen, or elsewhere, as poor servants must have their pleasures — when the question goes round, who is your master? and who do you serve? and one says, I serve Lord So-and-so, and another, I am Squire Such-a-one's footman l*'^ Footman. We have nothing to say for it, but that we serve Mr. H. 2d Footman. Or Squire H Mr. H. Really you are a couple of pretty modest, reasonable personages ! but I hope you will take it as no offence, gentlemen, if, upon a dispassionate review of all that you have said, I think fit not to tell you any more of my name, than I have chosen for especial purposes to communicate to the rest of the world. Ist Footman. Why, then. Sir, you may suit yourself. 2d Footman. We tell you plainly, we cannot stay. \st Footman. We don't choose to serve Mr. H. 2d Footman. Nor any Mr. or Squire in the alphabet Ist Footman. That lives in Chris-cross Row. Mr. H. Go, for a couple of ungrateful, inquisitive, senseless rascals ! Go hang, starve, or drown ! — Rogues, to speak thus irreverently of the alphabet — I shall live to see you glad to serve old Q — to curl the wig of great S — adjust the dot of little i — stand behind the chair of X, Y, Z — wear the livery of Etcsetera — and ride behind the sulky of And-by-itself-and ! [Exit in a rage. ACT IL Scene. — A handsome Apartment well lighted. Tea, Cards, f^c. — A large party of Ladies and Gentlemen; among them Melesinda. 1st Lady. I wonder when the charming man will be here. 2d Lady. He is a delightful creature ! Such a polish 2>d Lady. Such an air in all that he does or says Ath Lady. Yet gifted with a strong under- standing bth Ladij. But has your Ladyship the remotest idea of what his true name is? 1st Lady. They say, his very servants do not know it. His French valet, that has lived with him these two years 2d Lady. There, Madam, I must beg leave to set you right: my coachman l5^ Lady. I have it from the very best authority : my footman 2d Lady. Then, Madam, you have set your servants on 1st Lady. No, Madam, I would scorn any such little mean ways of coming at a secret. For my part, I don't think any secret of that consequence. 2d Lady. That's just like me ; I make a rule of troubling my head with nobody's business but my own. Melesinda. But then, she takes care to make everybody's business her own, and so to justify herself that way {Aside.) 1st Lady. My dear Melesinda, you look thoughtful. Melesinda. Nothing. 2d Lady. Give it a name. Melesinda. Perhaps it is nameless. 1st Lady. As the object Come, never blush, nor deny it, child. Bless me, what great ugly thing is that, that dangles at your bosom? Melesinda. This? it is a cross: how do you like it? 2d Lady. A cross! Well, to me it looks far all the world like a great staring H. (Here a genital laugh.') Melesinda. Malicious creatures! Believe me it is a cross, and nothing but a cross. 1st Lady. A cross, I believe, you would willingly hang at. 596 MR. H- A FARCE. Meleninda. Intolerable spite ! (Mr. H. is announced.) Enter Mr. H. \st Lady. 0, Mr. H., we are so glad 2cZ Lady. We have been so dull M Lady. So perfectly lifeless You owe it to us, to be more than commonly enter- taining. Mr. E. Ladies, this is so obliging Ath Lady. 0, Mr. H., those ranunculas you said were dying, pretty things, they have got up bth Lady. I have worked that sprig you commended — I want you to come - Mr. H. Ladies ()th Lady. I have sent for that piece of music from London. Mr. H. The Mozart — [seeing Melesinda) — Melesinda ! Several Ladies at once. Nay, positively, Melesinda, you shan't engross him all to yourself. [ While the Ladies are pressing about Mr. H., the gentle- men show signs of displeasure. \st Gent. Wq shan't be able to edge in a word, now this coxcomb is come. 2d Gent. Damn him, I will affront him. \st .Gent. Sir, with your leave, I have a word to say to one of these ladies. 2d Gent. If we could be heard [^The Ladies pay no attention but to Mr. H . Mr. H. You see, gentlemen, how the matter stands. {Hums an air.) I am not my own master: positively I exist and breathe but to be agreeable to these -Did you speak ? 1st Gent. And affects absence of mind — Puppy ! Mr. H. Who spoke of absence of mind ; did you, Madam ? How do you do, Lady Wear- well — how do? I did not see your ladyship before — what was I about to say — — absence of mind. I am the most unhappy dog in that way^ sometimes spurt out the strangest things — the most mal-a-propos — without meaning to give the least offence, upon my honour — sheer absence of mind — things I would have given the world not to have said. \st Gent. Do you hear the coxcomb ? \st Lady. Great wits, they say 2d Lady. Your fine geniuses are most given Zd Lady. Men of bright parts are com- monly too vivacious Mr. K But you shall hear. I Avas to dine the other day at a great Nabob's that must be nameless, who, between ourselves, is strongly suspected of — being very rich, that's all.. John, my valet, who knows my foible, cautioned me, while he was dressing me, as he usually does where he thinks there's a danger of my committing a lapsus, to take care in my conversation how I made any allusion direct or indirect to presents — you understand me? I set out double charged with my fellow's consideration and my own ; and, to do myself justice, behaved with toler- able circumspection for the first half-hour or so — till at last a gentleman in company, who was indulging a free vein of raillery at the expense of the ladies, stumbled upon that expression of the poet, which calls them " fair defects." 1st Lady. It is Pope, I believe, who says it. Mr. S. No, Madam ; Milton. Where was I ? Oh, " fair defects." This gave occasion to a critic in company, to deliver his opinion on the phrase — that led to an enumeration of all the various words which might have been used instead of " defect," as want, absence poverty, deficiency, lack. This moment I, who had not been attending to the progress of the argument, (as the denouement will show) starting suddenly up out of one of my reveries, by some unfortunate connexion of ideas, which the last fatal word had excited, the devil put it into my head to turn round to the Nabob, who was sitting next me, and in a very marked manner (as it seemed to the company) to put the question to him. Pray, Sir, what may be the exact value of a lack of rupees ? You may guess the confusion which followed. 1st Lady. What a distressing circumstance ! 2d Lady. To a delicate mind Zd Lady. How embarrassing ■ 4:th Lady. I declare, I quite pity you. 1st Gent. Puppy ! Mr. H. A Baronet at the table, seeing my dilemma, jogged my elVjow ; and a good- natured Duchess, who does everything with a grace peculiar to herself, trod on my toes at that instant: this brought me to myself, and — covered with blushes, and pitied by all the ladies — I withdrew. 1st Lady. How charmingly he tells a story I 2d Lady. But how distressing ! Mr. R. Lord Squandercounsel, who is my MR. H- A FAECE. 597 particular friend, was pleased to rally me in his inimitable way upon it next day. I shall never forget a sensible thing he said on the occasion — speaking of absence of mind, my foibie — says he, my dear Hogs Several Ladies. Hogs what — ha — Mr. U. My dear Hogsflesh — my name — [here a universal scream) — my cursed unfor- tunate tongue ! — H. I mean — where was I ? 1st Lady. Filthy — abominable ! 2d Lady. Unutterable ! Zd Lady. Hogs -fob ! Atli Lady. Disgusting ! bth Lady. Vile ! Q)th Lady. Shocking ! \st Lady. Odious ! Id Lady. Hogs pah ! 2,d Lady. A smelling bottle — look to Miss Melesinda. Poor thing ! it is no wonder. You had better keep off from her, Mr. Hogsflesh, and not be pressing about her in her circumstances. 1st Gent. Good time of day to you, Mr. Hogsflesh, 2d Gent. The compliments of the season to you, Mr. Hogsflesh. Mr. H. This is too much — flesh and blood cannot endure it, 1st Gent. What flesh ? — hog's-flesh ? 2d Gent. How he sets up his bristles ! Mr. H. Bristles ! 1st Gent. He looks as fierce as a hog in armour. Mr. H. A hog ! -Madam ! [here Tie severally accosts the Ladies, who hy turns repel him. ) 1st Ljady. Extremely obliged to you for your attentions ; but don't want a partner, 2d Lady. Greatly flattered by your pre- ference : but believe I shall remain single, %d Lady, Shall always acknowledge your politeness ; but have no thoughts of altering my condition, Aih Lady. Always be happy to respect you as a friend ; but you must not look for anything further, bth Lady. No doubt of your ability to make any woman happy ; but have no thoughts of changing my name.' &th Lady. Must tell you, Sir, that if, by your insinuations, you think to prevail with me, you have got the wrong sow by the ear. Does he think any lady would go to pig with him? Old Lady. Must beg you to be less parti- cular in your addresses to me. Does he take me for a Jew, to long after forbidden meats ? Mr. H. I shall go mad ! — to be refused by old Mother Damnable — she that's so old, nobody knows whether she was ever married or no, but passes for a maid by courtesy ; her juvenile exploits being beyond the farthest stretch of tradition! — old Mother Damnable ! \_Ezeunt all, eillier pitying or seeniiiig to avoid him. Scene. — The street. Belvil and another gentleman. Belvil. Poor Jack, I am really sorry for him. The account which you give me of his mortifying change of reception at the assembly, would be highly diverting, if it gave me less pain to hear it. With all his amusing absurdities, and amongst them not the least, a predominant desire to be thought well of by the fair sex, he has an abundant share of good-nature, and is a man of honour. Notwithstanding all that has hap- pened, Melesinda may do worse than take him yet. But did the women resent it so deeply as you say ? Gent. 0, intolerably — they fled him as fearfully when 'twas once blown, as a man would be avoided, who was suddenly dis- covered to have marks of the plague, and as fast ; when before they had been ready to devour the foolishest thing he could say, Belvil. Ha! ha! so frail is the tenure by which these women's favourites commonly hold their envied pre-eminence. Well, I must go find him out and comfort him. I suppose, I shall find him at the inn, Gent. Either there or at Melesinda's — Adieu ! \_Exmnt. Scene. — Me,. H 's Apartment. Mr. H. [solus.) Was ever anything so mortifying? to be refused by old Mother Damnable ! — with such parts and address, — and the little squeamish devils, to dislike me for a name, a sound. — Oh, my cursed name ! that it was something I could be revenged on ! if it were alive, that I might tread upon it, or crush it, or pummel it, or kick it, or spit it out — for it sticks in my throat, and will ohoke me. My plaguy ancestors ! if they had left me but a Van, or a Mac, or an Irish 0', it had 598 MR. H- A FAROE. been something to qualify it. — Mynheer Van Hogsflesh, — or Sawney Mac Hogsflesh, — or Sir Phelim O'Hogsfiesh, — but downright blunt . If it had been any other name in the world, I could have borne it. If it had been the name of a beast, as Bull, Fox, Kid, Lamb, Wolf, Lion ; or of a bird, as Sparrow, Hawk, Buzzard, Daw, Finch, Nightingale ; or of a fish, as Sprat, Herring, Salmon ; or the name of a thing, as Ginger, Hay, Wood ; or of a colour, as Black, Grey, White, Green ; or of a sound, as Bray ; or the name of a month, as March, May ; or of a place, as Barnet, Baldock, Hitchen ; or the name of a coin, as Farthing, Penny, Twopenny ; or of a profession, as Butcher, Baker, Carpenter, Piper, Fisher, Fletcher, Fowler, Glover; or a Jew's name, as Solomons, Isaacs, Jacobs ; or a personal name, as Foot, Leg, Crookshanks, Heaviside, Sidebottom, Longbottom, Rams- bottom, Winterbottom ; or a long name, as Blanchenhagen, or Blanchenhausen ; or a short name, as Crib, Crisp, Crips, Tag, Trot, Tub, Phips, Padge, Paps, or Prig, or Wig, or Pip, or Trip ; Trip had been something, but Ho . ( Walks about in great agitation — recovering his calmness a little, sits down. ) Farewell the most distant thoughts of marriage ; the finger-circling ring, the pui-ity- figuring glove, the envy-pining bridemaids, the wishing parson, and the simpering clerk. Farewell the ambiguous blusii-raising joke, the titter - provoking pun, the morning ■ stirring drum. — No son of mine shall exist, to bear my ill-fated name. No nurse come chuckling, to tell me it is a boy. No widwife, leering at me from under the lids of pro- fessional 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 ! Enter Landlord. Mr. H. Landlord, I must pack up to- night ; you will see all my things got ready. Landlord. Hope your Honour does not intend to quit the Blue Boar, — sorry any- thing has happened. Mr. H. He has heard it all. Landlord,. Your Honour tias had somo mortification, to be sure, as' a man may say ; you have brought your pigs to a fine market. Mr. H. Pigs ! Landlord. What then ? take old Psy's. advice, and never mind it. Don't scorch your crackling for 'em. Sir. Mr. H. Scorch my crackling ! a queer phrase ; but I suppose he don't mean to affront me. Landlord. What is done can't be undone , you can't make a silken purse out of a sow's ear. Mr. H. As you say. Landlord, thinking of a thing does but augment it. Landlord. Does hxxthogment it, indeed, Sir. Mr. H. Hogment it ! damn it, I said augment it. Landlord. Lord, Sir, 'tis not everybody has such gift of fine phrases as your Honour, that can lard his discourse — Mr. H. Lard ! Landlord. Suppose they do smoke you — - Mr. H. Smoke me ! Landlord. One of my phrases ; nevermind my woi'ds, Sir, my meaning is good. We all mean the same thing, only you express yourself one way, and I another, that's all. The meaning's the same ; it is all pork. Mr. R. That's another of your phrases, I presume. [Bell rings, and the Landlord called for. Landlord. Anon, anon. Mr, H. Oh, I wish I were anonymous. [Exeunt several ways. Scene. — dielesinda's A partment. Melesinda and Maid. Maid. Lord, Madam ! before I'd take on as you do about a foolish — what signifies a name? Hogs — Hogs — what is it — is just as good as any other, for what I see. Melesinda. Ignorant creature ! yet she is perhaps blest in the absence of those ideas, which, while they add a zest to the few pleasures which fall to the lot of superior natures to enjoy, doubly edge the Maid. Superior natures ! a fig ! If he's hog by name, he's not hog by nature, that don't follow — his name don't make him anything, does it? He don't grunt the more . for it, nor squeak, that ever I hear; he likes his victuals out of a plate, as other Christians do ; you never see him go to the trough MR. H , A FARCE. 599 Mdesinda. Unfeeling wretch ! yet possibly her intentions Maid. For instance, Madam, my name is Finch — Betty Finch. I don't whistle the more for that, nor long after canary-seed while I can get good wholesome mutton — no, nor you can't catch me by throwing salt )n my tail. If you come to that, hadn't I a young man used to come after me, they said courted me — his name was Lion, Francis Lion, a tailor ; but though he was fond enough of me, for all that he never offered to eat me. Melesinda. How fortunate that the dis- covery has been made before it was too late !, Had I listened to his deceits, and, as the perfidious man had almost persuaded me, precipitated myself into an . inextricable engagement before Maid. No great harm if you had. You'd only have bought a pig in a poke — and what then ? Oh, here he comes creeping Enter Mk. H. abject. Go to her, Mr. Hogs — Hogs — Hogbristles, what's your name ? Don't be afraid, man — don't give it up — she's not crying — only summat has made her eyes red — she has got a sty in her eye, I believe — [going). Melesinda. You are not going, Betty ? Maid. 0, Madam, never mind me — I shall be back in the twinkling of a pig's whiskers, as they say. iexU. Mr. H. Melesinda, you behold before you a wretch who would have betrayed your confidence — but it was love that prompted him ; who would have trick'd you, by an unworthy concealment, into a participation of that disgrace which a superficial world has agreed to attatch to a name — but with it you would have shared a fortune not con- temptible, and a heart — but 'tis over now. That name he is content to bear alone — to go where the persecuted syllables shall be no more heard, or excite no meaning — some spot where his native tongue has never penetrated, nor any of his countrymen have landed, to plant their unfeeling satire, their brutal wit, and national ill manners — where no Englishmen — [Here Melesinda, w/^o has been pouting during this speech, fetches a deep sigh). Some yet undiscovered Otaheite, where witless, unapprehensive savages shall innocently pronounce the ill-fated sounds and think them not inharmonious. Melesinda. Oh ! Mr. M. Who knows but among the female natives might be found Meleiinda. Sir ! [raising her head.) Mr. H. One who would be more kind than — some Oberea — Queen Oberea. Melesinda. Oh ! Mr. H. Or what if I were to seek for proofs of reciprocal esteem among unpre- judiced African maids, in Mouomotopa ? Enter Servant. Ser-vant. Mr. Belvil. [ExU. Enter Belvil. Mr. H. Monomotopa [musing). Belvil. Heyday, Jack ! what means this mortified f^ce ? nothing has happened, I hope, between this lady . and you 2 I beg pardon. Madam, but understanding my friend was with you, I took the liberty of seeking him here. Some little difference possibly which a third person can adjust — not a word. Will you. Madam, as this gentleman's friend, suffer me to be the arbitrator — strange — hark'ee. Jack, nothing has come out, has there ? you understand me. Oh, 1 guess how it "is — somebody has got at your secret ; you haven't blabbed it yourself, have you ? ha ! ha ! ha ! I could find in my heart — Jack, what would you give me if I should relieve you ? Mr. H. No power of man can relieve me [sighs) ; but it must lie at the root, gnawing at the root — here it will lie. Belvil. No power of man ? not a common man, I grant you : for instance, a subject — it's out of the power of any subject. M. H. Gnawing at the root — there it will lie. Belvil. Such a thing has been known as a name to be changed ; but not by a subject — [shows a Gazette). Mr. H. Gnawing at the root — [suddenly snatches the paper out o/Belvil's hand) — ha ! pish! nonsense! give it me — what! [reads promotions, bankrupts — a great many bank- rupts this week — there it will lie. [Lays it down, takes it up again, and reads.) " The King has been graciously pleased" — gnawing at the root — "graciously pleased to grant unto John Hogsflesh," — the devil — "Hogs-' flesh, Esq., of Sty Hall, in the county of Hants, his royal licence and authority" — Lord ! Lord ! — " that he and his issue " — me and my issue — "may take and use the 600 ME. H- A FARCE surname and arms of Bacon" — Bacon, the surname and arms of Bacon" — " in pursuance of an injunction contained in the last will and testament of Nicholas Bacon, Esq., his late uncle, as well as out of grateful respect to his memory:" — grateful respect! poor old soul here's more — "and that such arms maybe first duly exemplified" — they shall, I will take care of that — " according to the laws of arms, and recorded in the Herald's Office." Belvil. Come, Madam, give me leave to put my own interpretation upon your silence, and to plead for my friend, that now that only obstacle which seemed to stand in the way of your union is removed, you will suffer me to complete the happiness which my news seems to have brought him, by introducing him with a new claim to your favour, by the name of Mr. Bacon. {Takes their hands- and joins them, which Melesinba seems to give consent to with a smile.) Mr. JB. Generous Melesinda ! My dear friend — "he and his issue," me and my issue! — Lord! — Belvil. I wish you joy, Jack, with all my heart. Mr. H. Bacon, Bacon, Bacon — how odd it sounds ! I could never be tired of hearing it. There was Lord Chancellor Bacon. Methinks I have some of the Verulam blood in me already. — Methinks I could look through Nature — there was Friar Bacon, a conjuror, — I feel as if I could conjure too Enter a Servant. Servant. Two young ladies and an old lady are at the door, inquiring if you see company, Madam. Mr. H. "Surname and arms" — Melesinda. Show them up. — My dear Mr. Bacon, moderate your joy. JEnter three Ladies, being part of those who were at the Assembly. \st Lady. My dear Melesinda, how do you do? 2nd Lady. How do you do ? We have been so concerned for you ' Old Lady. We have been so concerned— {seeing him) — Mr. Hogsflesh Mr. H. There's no such person — nor there never was — nor 'tis not fit there should be — " surname and arms " Belvil. It is true what my friend would express : we have been all in a mistake, ladies. Very true, the name of this gen- tleman was what you call it, but it is so no longer. The succession to the long-contested Bacon estate is at length decided, and with it my friend succeeds to the name of his deceased relative. Mr. R. " His Majesty has been graciously pleased " — 1st Lady. I am sure we all join in hearty congratulation — (sighs). 2nd Lady. And wish y^u joy with all our hearts — {heigh ho !) Old Lady. And hope you will enjoy the name and estate many years — {cries). Belvil. Ha ! ha ! ha ! mortify them a little, Jack. 1st Lady. Hope you intend to stay 2nd Lady. With us some time Old Lady. In these parts Mr. H. Ladies, for your congratulations I thank you ; for the favours you have lavished on me, and in particular for this lady's {turning to the old Lady) good opinion, I rest your debtor. As to any future favours — accosts them severally in the order in which he was refused by them at the assem.bly) — Madam, shall always acknowledge your politeness ; but at present, you see, I am engaged with a partner. Always be happy to respect you as a friend, but you must not look for any- thing further. Must beg of you to be less particular in your adresses to me. Ladies all, with this piece of advice, of Bath and you Your ever grateful servant takes his leave. Lay your plans surer when you plot to grieve ; See, while you kindly mean to mortify Another, the wild arrow do not fly. And gall yourself. For once you've been mistaken ; Your shafts have miss'd their aim — Hogs- flesh has saved his Bacon. POEMS. 601 DEDICATION.* TO S. T. COLERIDGE, ESQ. Mt dear Coleridge, You will smile to see the slender labours of your friend desi^natea by the title of Woi-Jcs; but such was the wish of the gentlemen who have kindly undertaken the trouble of collect- ing them, and from their judgment could be no appeal. It would be a kind of disloyalty to offer to any one but yourself a volume containing the early pieces, which were first published among your poems, and were fairly derivatives from you and them. My friend Lloyd and myself came into our first battle (authorship is a sort of warfare) under cover of the greater Ajax. How this association, which shall always be a dear and proud recollection to me, came to be broken, — who snapped the three-fold cord whether yourself (but I know that was not the case) grew ashamed of your former com- panions, — or whether (which is by much the more probable) some ungracious bookseller was author of the separation, — I cannot tell; — but wanting the support of your friendly elm, (1 speak for myself,) my vine has, since that time, put forth few or no fruits ; the sap (if ever it had any) has become, in a manner, dried up and extinct ; and you will find your old associate in his second volume, dwindled into prose and criticism. Am I right in assuming this as the cause? or is it that, as years come upon us, (except with some more healthy-happy spirits,) Life itself loses much of its Poetry for us? we tran- scribe but what we read in the great volume of Nature ; and, as the characters grow dim, we turn off, and look another way. You yourself write no Christabels,i nor Ancient Mari- ners, now. Some of the Sonnets, which shall be carelessly turned over by the general reader, may happily awaken in you remembrances, which I should be sorry should be ever totally extinct — the memory "Of summer days and of delightful years—" even so far back as to those old suppers at our old ********** Inn, — when life was fresh, * Prefixed to the Author's works published in 1818. 603 604 DEDICATION. and topics exhaustless, — ^^and you first kindled in me, if not the power, yet the love of poetry, and beauty, and kindliness. — * "What words have I heard Spoke at the Mermaid!" The world has given you many a shrewd nip and gird since that time, but either my eyes are grown dimmer, or my old friend is the same who. stood before me three-and-twenty years ago — his hair a little confessing the hand of Time, but still shrouding the same capacious brain, — his heart not altered, scarcely where it " alteration finds." One piece, Coleridge, I have ventured to publish in its original form, though I have heard you complain of a certain over-imitation of the antique in the style. If I could see any way of getting rid of the objection, without re-writing it entirely, I would make some sacrifices. But when T wrote John Woodvil, I never proposed to myself any distinct deviation from common English. I had been newly initiated in the writings of our elder dramatists : Beau- mont and Fletcher, and Massinger, were then a first love : and from what I was so freshly conversant in, what wonder if my language imperceptibly took a tinge ? The very time which I had chosen for my story, that which immediately followed the Restoration, seemed to require, in an English play, that the English should be of rather an older cast than that of the precise year in which it happened to be written. I wish it had not some faults, which I can less vindicate than the language. I remain, My dear Coleridge, Yours, With unabated esteem, C. LAMB. POEMS. HESTER. When maidens sucli as Hester die, Their place ye may not well supply, Though ye among a thousand try. With Tain endeavour. A month or more has 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 fore- warning ! TO CHARLES LLOYD. AN UNEXPECTED VISITEK. 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 ? Li 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 glean of random joy Hath fiush'd my unaccustom'd cheek ; And, with an o'ercharged bursting heart, ' I feel the thanks I cannot speak. Oh ! sweet are all the Muses' lays. And sweet the charm of matin bird : 'Twas long since these estrangfe'd 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 httle week is o'er. To cheerless, friendless, solitude When I return, as heretofore, Long, long, within my aching heart The grateful sense shall cherish'd be ; rU think less meanly of myself. That Lloyd will sometimes think on me. 605 606 MISCELLANEOUS. THE THREE FRIENDS. Three young maids in friendship met ; Mary, Martha, Margaret, Margaret was tall and fair, Martha shorter by a hair ; If the first excell'd in feature, Th' other's grace and ease were greater; Mary, though to riral loth, In their best gifts equall'd both. They a due proportion kept ; Martha mourn'd if Margaret wept ; Margaret joy'd when any good She of Martha understood ; And in sympathy for either Mary was outdone by neither. Thus far, for a happy space. All three ran an equal race, A most constant friendship proving, Equally beloved and loving ; All their wishes, joys, the same; Sisters only not in name. Fortune upon each one smiled, As upon a fav'rite child ; AVell to do and well to see Were the parents of all three ; Till on Martha's father crosses Brought a flood of worldly losses, And his fortunes rich and great Changed at once to low estate ; Under which o'erwhelming blow Martha's mother was laid low ; She a hapless orphan left, Of maternal care bereft. Trouble following trouble fast, Lay in a sick bed at last. In the depth of her affliction Martha now receiv'd conviction. That a true and faithful friend Can the surest comfort lend. Night and day, with friendship tried, Ever constant by her side Was her gentle Mary found. With a love that knew no bound ; And the solace she imparted • Saved her dying broken-hearted. In this scene of earthly things Not one good unmixfed springs. That which had to Martha proved A,sweet consolation, moved Different feelings of regret In the mind of Margaret. She, whose loved was not less dear, Nor affection less sincere To her friend, was, by occasion Of more distant habitation. Fewer visits forced to pay her ; ■ When no other cause did stay her ; And her Mary living nearer, Margaret began to fear her, Lest her visits day by day Martha's heart should steal away. That whole heart she ill could spare her, Where till now she'd been a sharer. From this cause with grief she pined, Till at length her health declined. All her cheerful spirits flew, Fast as Martha's gather'd new ; And her sickness waxed sore. Just when Martha felt no more. Mary, who had quick suspicion Of her alter'd friend's condition. Seeing Martha's convalescence Less demanded now her presence. With a goodness, built on reason, Changed her measures with the season; Turn'd her steps from Martha's door. Went where she was wanted more ; All her care and thoughts were set Now to tend on Margaret. Mary living 'twixt the two. From her home could oft'ner go, Either of her friends to see, Than they could together be. Truth explain'd is to suspicion Evermore the best physician. Soon her visits had the effect ; All that Margaret did suspect. From her fancy vanish'd clean ; She was soon what she had been, And the colour she did lack To her faded cheek came back. Wounds which love had made her feel, Love alone had power to heal. Martha, who the frequent visit Now had lost, and sore did miss it. With impatience waxfed cross. Counted Margaret's gain her loss : All that Mary did confer On her friend, thought due to her. In her girlish bosom rise Little foolish jealousies. Which into such rancour wrought, She one day for Margaret sought ; Finding her by chance alone. She began, with reasons shown, To insinuate a fear Whether Mary was sincere ; MISCELLANEOUS. 607 Wish'd that Margaret would take heed Whence her actions did proceed. For herself, she'd long been minded Not with outsides to be blinded ; All that pity and compassion, She believed was affectation ; In her heart she doubted whether Mary cared a pin for either. She could keep whole weeks at distance, And not know of their existence, While all things remaiu'd the same ; But, when some misfortune came, Then she made a great parade Of her sympathy and aid, — Not that she did really grieve. It was only make-believe. And she cared for nothing, so She might her fine feelings show, And get credit, on her part, For a soft and tender heart. With such speeches, smoothly made, She found methods to persuade Margaret (who being sore From the doubts she'd felt before. Was prepared for mistrust) To believe her reasons just; Quite destroy'd that comfort glad, Which in Mary late she had ; Made her, in experience' spite, Think her friend a hypocrite. And resolve, with cruel scoff. To renounce and cast her ofi". See how good turns are rewarded ! She of both is now discarded. Who to both had been so late Their support in low estate. All their comfort, and their stay — Now of both is cast away. But the league her presence cherish'd, Losing its best prop, soon perish'd ; She that was a link to either. To keep them and it together. Being gone, the two (no wonder) That were left, soon fell asunder ; — Some civilities were kept. But the heart of friendship slept ; Love with hollow forms was fed. But the life of love lay dead : — A cold intercourse they held, After Mary was expell'd. Two long years did intervene Since they'd either of them seen, Or, by letter, any word Of their old companion heard, — When, upon a day once walking. Of indifferent matters talking. They a female figure met ; Martha said to Margaret, "That young maid in face does carry A resemblance strong of Mary." Margaret, at nearer sight, Own'd her observation right ; But they did not far proceed Ere they knew 'twas she indeed. She — but, ah! how changed they view her From that person which they knew her ! Her fine face disease had scarr'd. And its matchless beauty marr'd : — But enough was left to trace - Mary's sweetness — Mary's grace. When her eye did first behold them, How they blush'd! — but, when she told them, How on a sick-bed she lay Months, while they had kept away. And had no inquiries made If she were alive or dead ; — . How, for want of a true friend. She was brought near to her end. And was like so to have died, With no friend at her bed-side ; — How the constant irritation. Caused by fruitless expectation Of their coming, had extended The illness, when she might have mendea, — Then, then, how did reflection Come on them with recollection ! All that she had done for them. How it did their fault condemn ! But sweet Mary, still the same, Kindly eased them of their shame ; Spoke to them with accents bland'. Took them friendly by the hand ; Bound them both with promise fast. Not to speak of troubles past ; Made them on the spot declare A new league of friendship there ; Which, without a word of strife, Lasted thenceforth long as life. Martha now and Margaret Strove who most should pay the debt Which they owed her, nor did vary Ever after from their Mary. 608 MISCELLANEOUS. TO A RIVER IN WHICH A CHILD WAS DROWNED. Smiling river, smiling river, On thy bosom sun-beams play ; Though they're fleeting, and retreating, Thou hast more deceit than they. In thy channel, in thy channel. Choked with ooze and grav'lly stones, Deep immersed, and unhearsed, Lies young Edward's corse ; his bones Ever whitening, ever whitening. As thy waves against them dash -, What thy torrent, in the current, Swallow'd, now it helps to wash. As if senseless, as if senseless Things had feeling in this case ; What so blindly, and unkindly, It destroy' d, it now does grace. 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, AU, 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, aU are gone, the old famiUar 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 child- hood.* Earth seem'd a desert I was bound to traverse. Seeking to find the old familiar faces. Friend of my bosom, thou niore than a brother, Why wert not thou born in my father's dwelling? So might we talk of the old familiar faces — How &ome they have died, and some they have left me. And some are taken from me ; all are departed ; All, aU are gone, the old familiar faces. * See illustration opposite. 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 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." A VISION OF REPENTANCE. I SAW a famous fountain, in my dream. Where shady path-ways 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 moon-light, 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. : '-J > '. retreati: Ml they, : , round your dwelling .tj^ years I've paced in vain ; c3 of thy cold disdain ; '.''}, now yoa ooxnply, Vtiiut tity ', a frown ■ -corn rh.) ..:e grown. xligh-bor ortrait 's luing ; re had companions, '1 -ni ..' 'orfiil Sf^lionl To that 1 weep, nor ever sleep, ComiiLiijiing ail night long to L old, no longer cold, L^ite, with my bosom C; ]aft iu. \-id «om« are . i'i;u wnc?'"' Gntero ivi ■rery earthly thought, ,' as one that knew j: h"st innocence was I. , stood on holy ground, melancholy wrapt around. iiy soothfe. .'itood, and io^-ger had T staid, ■<•', Maw by the' sweet moon-ligbt, once o'er that silent shade, ntairs, :^oMBTHrs(}liker)ESPA! MISCELLANEOUS. C09 And eke with painful fingers she inwove Many an uncouth stem of savage thorn — " The Avillow 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, gath'ring 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?" " ! 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 promised spouse ? declare : And what those bridal garments were." ■ " Severe and saintly righteousness Composed the clear white bridal dress ; Jes0S, 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 tie, 39 Gave to a treacherous woeld 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 chant the ecstatic marriage hymn." "Now Christ restore thee soon" — I said, And thenceforth all my dream was fled. DIALOGUE BETWEEN A MOTHER AND CHILD. "0 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 ? mother, lay your costly robes aside, For you may never be another's bride. That line I learned not in the old sad song. I pray thee, pretty one, now hold thy tongue, Play with the bride-maids ; and be glad, my boy, For thou shalt be a second father's joy. CHttD. One father fondled me upon his knee. One father is enough, alone, for me. QUEEN ORIANA'S DREAM. On a bank with roses shaded. Whose sweet scent the violets aided, Violets whose breath alone Yields but feeble smell or none, (Sweeter bed Jove ne'er reposed on When his eyes Olympus closed on,) 610 MISCELLANEOUS. While o'er liead six slaves did hold Canopy of cloth o' gold, And two more did music keep, Which might Juno lull to sleep, Oriana, who was queen To the mighty Tamerlane, That was lord of all the land Between Thrace and Samerchand, While the noon-tide fervor beam'd, Mused herself to sleep, and dream'd. Thus far, in magnific strain, A young poet soothed his vein, But he had nor prose nor numbers To express a princess' slumbers. — Youthful Richard had strange fancies, Was deep versed in old romances, And could talk whole hours upon The Great Cham and Prester John, — Tell the field in which the Sophi From the Tartar won a trophy — What he read with such delight of, Thought he could as eas'ly write of — But his over -young invention Kept not pace with brave intention. Twenty suns did rise and set. And he could no further get; But, unable to proceed. Made a virtue out of need, And, his labours wiselier deem'd of, Did omit what the queen dream'd of. In a costly palace if the child with a pin Do but chance to prick a finger, straight the doctor is call'd in ; In a wretched workhouse men are left to perish For want of proper cordials, which their old age might cherish. In a costly palace Youth enjoys his lust; In a wretched workhouse Age, in corners thrust. Thinks upon the former days, when he was well to do. Had children to stand by him, both friends and kinsmen too. In a costly palace Youth his temples hides With a new-devised peruke that reaches to his sides ; In a wretched workhouse Age's crown is bare, With a few thin locks just to fence out the cold air. In peace, as in war, 'tis our young gallants' pride. To walk, each one i' the streets, with a rapier by his side. That none to do them injury may have pretence; Wretched Age, in poverty, must brook offence. A BALLAD. NOTING THE BIFFERENCB OF RICH AND POOR, IN THE WATS OP A RICH NOBLE'S PALACE AND A POOR ■WORKHOUSE. To the Tune of the "Old and Young Courtier." In a costly palace Yonth goes clad in gold; In a wretched workhouse Age's limbs are cold : There they sit, the old men by a shivering fire. Still close and closer cowering, warmth is their desire. In a costly palace, when the brave gallants dine, They have store of good venison, with old canary wine. With singing and music to heighten the cheer; Coarse bits, with grudging, are the pauper's best fare. In a costly palace Youth is still carest By a train of attendants which laugh at my young Lord's jest; In a wretched workhouse the contrary prevails : Does Age begin to prattle? — no man heark'neth to his tales. HYPOCHONDRIACUS. By myself walking. To myself talking, When as I ruminate On my untoward fate, Scarcely seem I Alone sufficiently. Black thoughts continually Crowding my privacy ; They come unbidden, Like foes at a wedding, Thrusting their faces In better guests' places, Peevish and malcontent, Clownish, impertinent. Dashing the merriment: So like in fashions Dim cogitations Follow and haunt me, Striving to daunt me, In my heart festering, In my ears whispering, "Thy friends are treacherous, Thy foes are dangerous, Thy dreams ominous." MISCELLANEOUS. 611 Fierce Anthropophagi, Spectra, Diaboli, What scared St. Anthony, Hobgoblins, Lemures, Dreams of Antipodes, Night-riding Incubi Troubling the fantasy, All dire iilusions Causing confusions; Figments heretical, Scruples fantastical. Doubts diabolical ; Abaddon vexeth me, Mahu perplexeth me, Lucifer teareth me Jesu ! ilaria ! liberate nos ab his dirts tentatio- nibus Inimici. A FAREWELL TO TOBACCO. Mat the Babylonish curse Straight 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 or scant) To take leave of thee, geeat plant! Or in any terms relate Half my love, or half my hate : For I hate, yet love, thee so. That, whichever thing I show. 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 dote upon Thy begrimed 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 lab'ring 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, Shoot at rovers, shooting at us ; While each man, thro' thy height'ning steam, Does like a smoking Etna seem, And all about us does express (Fancy and wit in richest dress) A Sicihan fruitfulness. Thou through such a mist dost show us, That onr 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 show What his deity can do, As the false Egj^ptian 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 Chemic art did ne'er presume Through her quaint alembic strain. None so sov'reign to the brain. Nature, that did in thee excel. Framed again no second smell. Roses, violets, but toys For the smaller sort of boys. Or for greener damsels meant; Thou art the only manly scent. Stinking'st of the stinking kind. Filth of the mouth and fog of the mind Africa, that brags her foison. 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. 612 MISCELLANEOUS. 'Twas but in a sort I blamed thee ; None e'er prosper'd who defamed thee ; Irony all, and feign'd abiise, Such as perplex'd 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 doth so' strike, They borrow language of dislike ; And, instead of Dearest Miss, Jewel, Honey, Sweetheart, Bliss, And those forms of old admiring, Call her Cockatrice and Siren, Basilisk, and all that's evil. Witch, Hyena, Mermaid, Devil, Ethiop, Wench, and Blackamoor, Monkey, Ape, and twenty more ; Friendly Trait'ress, loving Foe, — Not that she is truly so. But no other way they know A contentmen,t 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 dax'ling 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 hath 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 snatcli Sidelong odours, that give life Like glances from a neighbour's wife ; And still live in the by -places And the suburbs of thy graces ; And in thy borders take delight. An unconquer'd Canaanite. TO T. L. H. Model of thy parent dear, Serious infant worth a fear : In thy unfaltering visage well Picturing forth the son of Tell, When on his forehead, firm and good. Motionless mark, the apple stood ; Guileless traitor, rebel mild. Convict unconscious, culprit child ! Gates that close with iron roar Have been to thee thy nursery door ; Chains that chink in cheerless cells Have been thy rattles and thy bells ; Walls contrived for giant sin Have hemm'd thy faultless weakness in; Near thy sinless bed black Guilt Her discordant house hath built. And fiU'd it with her monstrous brood — Sights, by thee not understood — Sights of fear, and of distress, That pass a harmless infant's guess ! But the clouds, that overcast Thy young morning, may not last ; Soon shall arrive the rescuing hour That yields thee up to Nature's power; Nature, that so late doth greet thee, Shall in o'erflowing measure meet thee. She shall recompense with cost For every lesson thou hast lost. Then wandering up thy sire's loved hill,* Thou shalt take thy airy fill Of health and pastime. Birds shall sing For thy delight each May morning. 'Mid new-yean'd lambkins thou shalt play, Hardly less a lamb than they. Then thy prison's lengthen'd bound Shall be the horizon skirting round : And, while thou fill'st thy lap with flowers. To make amends for wintry hours, The breeze, the sunshine, and the place, Shall from thy tendei- brow efface Each vestige of untimely care. That sour restraint had graven there ; * Hampstead. MISCELLANEOUS. 613 And on thy every look impress A more excelling childishness. So shall be thy days beguiled, Thornton Hunt, my favourite child. BALLAD. FROM THE GERMAN. The clouds are blackening, the storms threatening, And ever the forest maketh a moan : Billows are breaking, the damsel's heart aching. Thus by herself she singeth alone, Weeping right plenteously. " The world is empty, the heart is dead surely, In this world plainly all seemeth amiss : To thy breast, holy one, take now thy little one, I have had earnest of all earth's bliss, Living right lovingly." DAVID IN THE CAVE OF ADULLAM. David and his three captains bold Kept ambush once within a hold. It was in Adullam's cave. Nigh which no water they could have, Nor spring, nor running brook was near To quench the thirst that parch'd them there. Then David, king of Israel, Straight bethought him of a well, Which stood beside the city gate, At Bethlem; where, before his state Of kingly dignity, he had Oft drunk his fill, a shepherd lad; But now his fierce Philistine foe Encamp'd before it he does know. Yet ne'er the less, with heat opprest, Those three bold captains he addrest; And wish'd that one to him would bring Some water from his native spring. His valiant captains instantly To execute his will did fly. The mighty Three the ranks broke through Of arm^d foes, and water drew . For David, their beloved king, At his own sweet native spring. Back through their arm'd foes they haste, With the hard-earn' d treasure graced. But when the good king David found What they had done, he on the ground The water pour'd. "Because," said he, •'That it was at the jeopardy Of your three lives this thing ye did, That I should drink it, God forbid." SALOME. Once on a charger there was laid, And brought before a royal maid, As price of attitude and grace, A guiltless head, a holy face. It was on Herod's natal day, Who o'er Judea's land held sway. He married his own brother's wife. Wicked Herodias. She the Hfe Of John the Baptist long had sought. ■ Because he openly had taught That she a life unlawful led, Having her husband's brother wed. This was he, that saintly John, Who in the wilderness alone Abiding, did for clothing wear A garment made of camel's hair; Honey and locusts were his food. And he was most severely good. He preached penitence and tears. And waking first the sinner's fears, Prepared a path, made smooth a way, For his diviner Master's day. Herod kept in princely state His birth-day. On his throne he sate, After the feast, beholding her Who danced with grace peculiar ; Fair Salome, who did excel All in that land for dancing well. The'feastful monarch's heart was fired, And whatsoe'er thing she desired, Though half his kingdom it should be, He in his pleasure swore that he Would give the graceful Salome. The damsel was Herodias' daughter : She to the queen hastes, and besought her To teach her what great gift to name. Instructed by Herodias, came The damsel back : to Herod said, " Give me John the Baptist's head; And in a charger let it be Hither straightway brought to me." Herod her suit would fain deny, But for his oath's sake must comply. When painters would by art express Beauty in loveliness. Thee, Herodias' daughter, thee. They fittest subject take to be. They give thy form and features grace ; But ever in thy beauteous face They show a steadfast cruel gaze, An eye unpitying ; and amaze 614 MISCELLANEOUS. In all beholders deep they mark, That thou iDetrayest not one spark Of feeling for the ruthless deed, < That did thy praiseful dance succeed. For on the head they make you look As if a sullen joy you took, A cruel triumph, wicked pride. That for your sport a saint had died. LINES SUGGESTED BY A PIOinKE OF TWO FEMALES BY LEONAEDO DA VINCI. The lady Blanch, regardless of all her lover's fears. To the Urs'line convent hastens, and long the Abbess hears, "0 Blanch, my child, repent ye of the courtly life ye lead." Blanch lOok'd on a rose-bud and little seem'd to heed. She look'd on the rose-bud, she look'd round, and thought On all her heart had whisper'd, and all the Nun had taught. " I am worshipp'd 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 sculptured marble is rais'd o'er my head, "And the matchless Blanch lies lifeless among the noble dead, "This saintly lady Abbess hath made me justly fear, " It nothing will avail me that I were worshipp'd here." LINES ON THE SAME PICTURE BEING REMOVED TO MAKE PLACE FOR A PORTRAIT OF A LADY BY TITIAN. 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 com- pare. 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 LINES ON THE CELEBRATED PICTURE BY LEONARDO DA VK^CI, CALLED THE VIRGIN OF THE ROCK?. While young John runs to greet The greater Infant's feet, The Mother standing by, with trembling passion Of devout admiration. Beholds the engaging mystic play, and pretty adoration ; Nor knows as yet the full event Of those so low beginnings. From whence we date our winnings. But wonders at the intent Of those new rites, and what that strange child- worship meant. But at her side An angel doth abide. With such a perfect joy As no dim doubts alloy, An intuition, A glory, an amenity. Passing the dark condition Of blind humanity. As if he surely knew All the blest wonder should ensue. Or he had lately left the upper sphere, And had read all the sovran schemes and divine riddles there. ON THE SAME. Maternal lady with the virgin grace. Heaven-born thy Jesus seemeth sure. And thou a virgin pure. Lady most perfect, when thy sinless face Men look upon, they wish to be A Catholic, Madonna fair, to worship thee. SONNETS, 615 SONNETS. 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, A thoughtful eye, and a reflecting brow. II. ON THE SIGHT OP SWANS IN KENSINGTON GARDEN. Queen-bird that sittest on thy shining-nest. And thy young cygnets without sorrow hatchest. And thou, thou other royal bird, that watchest Lest the white mother wandering feet molest ; Shrined are your offspring in a crystal cradle, Brighter than Helen's ere she yet had burst Her shelly prison. They shall be born at first Sti'ong, active, graceful, perfect, swan-like able To tread the land or waters with security. Unlike poor human births, conceived in sin. In grief brought forth, both outwardly and in Confessing weakness, error, and impurity. Did heavenly creatures own succession's line. The births of heaven like to yours would shine. III. Was it some sweet device of Faer 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 footsteps 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. Methinks how dainty sweet it were, reclined Beneath the vast out-stretching branches high Of some old wood, in careless sort to lie. Nor of the busier scenes we left behind Aught envying. And, Anna ! mild-eyed maid ! Beloved ! 1 were well content to play With thy free tresses all a summer's day, Losing the time beneath the greenwood shade 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 pi'actise not Or love or pity, though of woman born. When last I roved these winding wood-walks green, Green winding walks, and shady pathways sweet. Oft-times 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-wandering, where in happier days I held free converse with the 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 which ne'er must come again. Spake to my heart, and much my heart was moved. " Now fair befall thee, gentle maid I " said I, And from the cottage turn'd me with a sigh. VI. THE FAMILY NAME. What reason first imposed thee, gentle name. Name that my father bore, and his sire's sire. Without reproach ? we trace our stream no higher"; And I, a childless man, may end the same. Perchance some shepherd on Lincolnian plains, In manners guileless as his own sweet flocks. Received thee first amid the merry mocks And arch allusions of his fellow-swains. Perchance from Salem's holier fields return'd, AVith glory gotten on the heads abhorr'd Of faithless Saracens, some martial lord Took his meek title, in whose zeal he burn'd, Whate'er the fount whence thy beginnings ca/ne, I No deed of mine shall shame thee, gentle name. 616 SONNETS. If fx'om 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. A TIMID grace sits trembling in her eye, As loath to meet the rudeness of men's .sight, Yet shedding a delicious lunar light. That steeps in kind oblivious ecstacy The care-crazed 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. Turn'd are those lights from me, who fondly yet Past joys, vain loves, and buried hopes regret. TO JOHN LAMB, ESQ., OF THE SOUTH-SEA- HOUSE. John, you were figuring in the gay career Of blooming manhood with a young man's joy. When I was yet a little peevish boy — Though time has made the difference disappear Betwixt our ages, which then seem'd so great — And still by rightful custom you retain Much of the old authoritative strain, And keep the elder brother up in state. ! you do well in this. 'Tis man's worst deed To let the "things that have been" run to waste, And in the unmeaning present sink the past : In whose dim glass even now I faintly read Old buried forms, and faces long ago. Which you, and I, and one more, only know. ! I could laugh to hear the midnight wind, That, rushing on its way with careless sweep, Scatters the ocean waves. And I could weep Like to a child. For now to my raised mind On wings of winds comes wild-eyed Phantasy, And her rude visions give severe delight. winged bark ! how swift along the night Pass'd thy proud keel ! nor shall I let go by Lightly of that drear hour the memory, When wet and chilly on thy deck I stood, Unbonneted, and gazed upon the flood. Even till it seem'd a pleasant thing to die, — To be resolv'd into th' elemental wave, Or take my portion with the wiads that rave. AVe 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 by show of seeming good beguiled, I left the garb and manners of a child, And my first love for man's society, Defiling with the woi-ld my virgin heart — My loved companion dropp'd a tear, and fled, And hid in deepest shades her awful head. Beloved, who shall tell me where thou art — In yvhat delicious Eden to be found — That I may seek thee the wide world around ? BLANK VERSE. 617 BLANK VERSE. CHILDHOOD. In my poor mind it is most sweet to muse Upon the days gone by ; to act in thought Past seasons o'er, and be again a child ; 'lo sit in fancy on the turf-clad slope, Down which the child would roll ; to pluck gay flowers, Make posies in the sun, which the child's hand (Childhood offended soon, soon reconciled), VVould throw away, and straight take up again, Then fling them to the winds, and o'er the lawn Bound with so playful and so light a foot, Tbat the press'd daisy scarce declined her head. THE GRANDAME. On the green hill top. Hard by the house of prayer, a modest roof. And not distinguish'd from its neighboui'-barn, Save by a slender-tapering length of spire, The Grandame sleeps. A plain stone barely tells The name and date to the chance passenger. For lowly born was she, and long had eat, Well-earn'd, the bread of service :-^hers was else A mountain spirit, one that entertain'd Scorn of base action, deed dishonourable, Or aught unseemly. I remember well Her reverend image ; I remember, too. With what a zeal she served her master's house ; And how the prattling tongue of garrulous age Delighted to recount the oft-told tale Or anecdote domestic. Wise she was, And wondrous skill'd in geneaologies, And could in apt and voluble terms discourse Of births, of titles, and alliances ; Of marriages, and intermarriages ; Relationship remote, or near of kin ; Of friends offended, family disgraced — Maiden high-born, but wayward, disobeying Parental strict injunction, and regardless Of unmix'd blood, and ancestry remote, Stooping to wed with one of low degree. But these are not thy praises ; and I wrong Thy honour'd memory, recording chiefly Things light and trivial. Better 'twere to tell, How with a nobler zeal, and warmer love, She served her heavenly Master. I have seen That reverend form bent down with age and pain, And rankling malady. Yet not for this Ceased she to praise her Maker, or withdrew Her trust in him, her faith, an humble hope- So meekly had she learn'd to bear her cross — For she had studied patience in the school Of Christ ; much comfort she had thence derived, And was a follower of the Nazakene. • THE SABBATH BELLS. The cheerful sabbath bells, wherever heard. Strike pleasant on the sense, most like the voice Of one, who from the far-off hills proclaims Tidings of good to Zion : chiefly when Their piercing tones fall sudden on the ear Of the cohtemplant, solitary man. Whom thoughts abstruse or high have chanced to lure Forth from the walks of men, revolving oft, And oft again, hard matter, which eludes And baffles his pursuit — thought-sick and tired Of controversy, where no end appears. No clue to his research, the lonely man Half wishes for society again. Him, thus engaged, the sabbath bells salute Sudden ! his heart awakes, his ears drink in The cheering music ; his relenting soul Yearns after all the joys of social life, And softens with the love of human kind. FANCY EMPLOYED ON DIVINE SUBJECTS. The truant Fancy was a wanderer ever, A lone enthusiast maid. She loves to walk In the bright visions of empyreal light, By the green pastures, and the fragrant meads. Where the perpetual flowers of Eden blow ; By crystal streams, and by the living waters, Along whose margin grows the wondrous tree Whose leaves shall heal the nations ; underneath Whose holy shade a refuge shall be found From pain and want, and all the ills that wait i On mortal life, from sin and death for ever. 618 BLANK VERSE. COMPOSED AT MIDNIGHT. From broken visions of perturbed rest I wake, and start, and fear to sleep again. How total a privation of all sounds, Sights, and familiar objects, man, bird, beast, Herb, tree, or flower, and prodigal light of heaven. 'Twere some relief to catch the drowsy cry Of the mechanic watchman, or the noise Of revel reeling home from midnight cups. Those are the moanings of the dying man, Who lies in the upper chamber ; restless moans. And interrupted only by a cough Consumptive, torturing the wasted lungs. So in the bitterness of death he lies. And waits in anguish for the morning's light. What can that do for him, or what restore ? Short taste, faint sense, aifecting notices, And little images of pleasures past. Of health, and active life— health not yet slain. Nor the other grace of life, a good name, sold For sin's black wages. On his tedious bed He writhes, and turns him from the accusing light. And finds no comfort in the sun, but, says "When night comes I shall get a little rest." Some few groans more, death comes, and there an end. 'Tis darkness and conjecture all beyond; Weak Nature fears, though Charity must hope. And Fancy, most licentious on such themes Where decent reverence well had kept her mute, Hath o'er-stock'd hell with devils, and brought down By her enormous fablings and mad lies, Discredit on the gospel's serious truths And salutary fears. The man of parts, Poet, or prose declaimer, on his couch Lolling, like one indifferent, fabricates A heaven of gold, where he, and such as he. Their heads encompassed with crowns, their heels With fine wings garlanded, shall tread the stars Beneath their feet, heaven's pavement, far re- moved From damned spirits, and the torturing cries Of men, his breth'ren, fashion'd of the earth. As he was, nourish'd with the self-same bread. Belike his kindred or companions once — Through everlasting ages now divorced, In chains and savage torments to repent Short years of folly on earth. Their groans unheard In heav'n, the saint nor pity feels, nor care, For those thus sentenced — pity might disturb The delicate sense and most divine repose Of spirits angelical. Blessed be God, The measure of his judgments is not fix'd By man's erroneous standard. He discerns No such inordinate difference and vast Betwixt the sinner and the saint, to doom Such disproportion'd fates. Compared with him, No man on earth is holy call'd : they best Stand in his sight approved, who at his feet Their little crowns of virtue cast, and yield To him of his own works the praise, his due. JOHN WOODYIL A TEAGEDT. CHARACTERS. his sons. Sib Waiter Woobvil. JOHfl, Simon, LOVEE, "1 Gray ( pretended friends of John. Sanford. Sir Walter^ s old steward. Margaret. Orphan ward of Sir Walter. Four Gentixmen. John's riotous companions. Servants. Scene— /or t7ie most part at Sir Walter's mansion in Devonshiee; at other times in the Forest of Sherwood. Time — soon after the Eestoration. ACT THE PIRST. ScuNE — A Servants' Apartment in Woodvil Bdll. Servants drinking — Time, the Morning. A Song, hy Daniel. "When the King enjoys his own again." Peter. A delicate song. Where didst learn it, fellow ? Ban. Even there, where thou learnest thy oaths and thy politics — at our master's table. — Where else should a servant-man pick up his poor accom- plishments ? Mar. Well spoken, Daniel. rare Daniel! his oaths and his politics ! excellent ! ' Fran. And where didst pick up thy knavery, Daniel ? Peter. That came to him by inheritance. His family have supplied the shire of Devon, time out of mind, with good thieves and bad serving-men. All of his race have come into the world without their conscience. Mar. Good thieves, and bad serving-men ! Better and better. I marvel what Daniel hath got to say in reply. Ban. I marvel more when thou wilt say any thing to the purpose, thou shallow serving -man, whose swiftest conceit carries thee no higher than to appre- hend with difficulty the stale jests of us thy compeers. When was't ever known to club thy own particular jest among us ? Mar. Most unkind Daniel,, to speak such biting things of me ! Fran. See — if he hath not brought tears into the poor fellow's eyes with the saltness of his rebuke. Ban. No ofiFence, brother Martin — I meant none. 'Tis true, Heaven gives gifts, and withholds them. It has been pleased to bestow upon me a nimble in- vention to the manufacture of a jest; and upon thee, Martin, an indifferent bad capacity to under- stand my meaning. Mar. Is that all ? I am content. Here's my hand. Fran. Well, I like a little innocent mirth myself, but never could endure bawdry. Ban. Quot homines tot sententicB. Mar. And what is that? Ban. 'Tis Greeks and argues diflference of opinion. Mar. I hope there is none between us. Ban. Here's to thee, brother Martin. [Brinks.) Mar. And to thee, Daniel. {Brinks.) Fran. And to thee, Peter. (Brinks.) Peter. Thank you, Francis. And here's to thee. (Brinks.) Mar. 1 shall be fuddled anon. Ban. And drunkenness I hold to be a very despi- cable vice. All. 0! a shocking vice. (TTiey drink round.) Peter. In as much as it taketh away the under- standing. Ban. And makes the eyes red. Peter. And the tongue to stammer. Ban. And to blab out secrets. ^During this conversation they continue drinJdng.'] Peter. Some men do not know an enemy from a friend when they are drunk. Ban. Certainly sobriety is the health of th^ soul. Mar. Now I know I am going to be drunk Ban. How canst tell, dry-bones ? Mar. Because I begin to be melancholy. That's a sign. 619 620 JOHN WOODVIL, A TRAGEDY. Fran. Take care of Martin, he'll topple off his Beat else. ("Martin drops asleep. Peter. Times are greatly altered, since young master took upon himself the government of this household. All. Greatly altered. Fran. I think every thing be altered for the better since His Majesty's blessed restoration. Peter. In Sir Walter's days there was no encour- agement given to good house-keeping. All. None. Dan. For instance, no possibility of getting drunk before two in the afternoon. Peter. Every man his allowance of ale at break- fast — his quart ! All. A quart ! ! (In derision.) Dan. Nothing left to our own sweet discretions. Peter. Whereby it may appear, we were treated more like beasts than what we were — discreet and reasonable servirfg-men. All. Like beasts. Mar. [Opening Ms eyes.) Like beasts. Dan. To sleep, wagtail ! Fran. I marvel all this while where the old gen- tleman has found means to secrete himself. It seems no man has heard of him since the day of the King's return. Can any tell why our young master, being favoured by the court, should not have interest to procure his father's pardon ? Dan. Marry, I think 'tis the obstinacy of the old Knight, that will not be beholden to the court for his safety. liar. Now that is wilful. Fran. But can any tell me the place of his con- cealment? Peter. That cannot I; but I have my conjectures. Dan. Two hundred pounds, as I hear, to the man that shall apprehend him. Fran. Well, I have my suspicions. Peter. And so have I. Mar. And I can keep a secret. Fran, {to Peter.) Warwickshire, you mean. lAside. Peter. Perhaps not. Fran. Nearer, perhaps. Peter. I say nothing. Dan. I hope there is none in this company would be mean enough to betray him. All. Lord, surely not. IThey drink to Sm Walter's safety- Fran. I have often wondered how our master came to be excepted by name in the late Act of Oblivion. Dan. Shall I tell the reason All. Ay, do. Dan. 'Tis thought he is no great friend to the present happy establishment. All. ! monstrous ! Peter. Fellow servants, a thought strikes me. — Do we or do we not, come under the penalties of the treason-act, by reason of our being privy to this man's concealment ? All. Truly a sad consideration. To them enters Sandford suddenly. Sand. You well-fed and unprofitable grooms, Maintain'd for state, not use ; You lazy feasters at another's cost, That eat like maggots into an estate, And do as little work, Being indeed but foul excrescences. And no just parts in a well-order'd family ; You base and rascal imitators. Who act up to the height your master's vices, But cannot read his virtues in your bond: Which of you, as I enter'd, spake of betraying? Was it you, or you, or thin-face, was it you ? Mar. Whom does he call thin-face i Sand. No prating, loon, but tell me who he was. That I may brain the villain with my staff, That seeks Sir Walter's life ! You miserable men, With minds more slavish than your slave's estate, Have you that noble bounty so forgot. Which took you from the looms, and from the ploughs, Which better had ye follow'd, fed ye, clothed ye, And entertain'd ye in a worthy service. Where your best wages was the world's repute, That thus ye seek his life, by whom ye live. Have you forgot too. How often in old times Your drunken mirths have stunn'd day's sober ears Carousing full cups to Sir Walter's health ? — Whom now ye would betray, but that he lies Out of reach of your poor treacheries. This learn from me, Our master's secret sleeps with trustier tongues. Than will unlock themselves to earls like you. Go, get you gone, you knaves. Who stirs? this staff Shall teach you better manners else. All. Well, we are going. Sand. And quickly too, ye had better, for I see Young mistress Margaret coming this way. [Exeunt all hut Sandford. Enter Margaret, as in a fright, pursued by a Gentleman who, seeing Sandford, retires muttering a curse. Sand. Good morrow to my fair mistress. 'Twas a chance I saw you, lady, so intent was I On chiding hence these graceless serving-men, Who cannot break their fast at morning meals Without debauch and mis-timed riotings. This house hath been a scene of nothing else But atheist riot and profane excess. Since my old master quitted all his rights here. Marg. Each day I endure fresh insult from the scorn Of Woodvil's friends, the uncivil jests And free discourses of the dissolute men That haunt this mansion, making me their mirth. Sand. Does my young master know of these affronts ? JOHN WOODVIL, A TRAGEDY. C21 Marg. I cannot tell. Perhaps he has not been told. Perhaps he might have seen them if he would. I have known him more quick-sighted. Let that pass. All things seems changed, I think. I had a friend, (I can't but weep to think him alter'd too,) These things are best forgotten j but I knew A man, a young man, young, and full of honour, That would have pick'd a quarrel for a straw, And fought it out to the extremity, E'en with the dearest friend he had alive, On but a bare surmise, a possibility. That Margaret had suffer'd an affront. Some are too tame, that were too splenetic once. Sand. 'Twere best he should be told of these affronts. ilarg. I am the daughter of his father's friend, Sir Walter's orphan ward. I am not his servant maid, that I should wait The opportunity of a gracious hearing. Enquire the times and seasons when to put My peevish prayer up at young Woodvil's feet, And sue to him for slow redress, who was Himself a suitor late to Margaret. I am somewhat proud : and Woodvil taught me pride. I was his favourite once, his playfellow in infancy. And joyful mistress of his youth. None once so pleasant in his eyes as Margaret. His conscience, his religion, Margaret was. His dear heart's confessor, a heart within that heart. And all dear things summ'd up in her alone. As Margaret smil'd or frown'd, John liv'd or died; His dress, speech, gesture, studies, friendships, all Being fashion'd to her liking. His flatteries taught me first this self-esteem. His flatteries and caresses, while he loved. The world esteem'd her happy, who had won His heart, who won all hearts; And ladies envied me the love of Woodvil. Sand. He doth affect the courtier's life too much. Whose art is to forget. And that has wrought this seeming change in him, That was by nature noble. 'Tis these court-plagues, that swarm about our house, Have done the mischief, making his fancy giddy With images of state, preferment, place, Tainting his generous spirits with ambition. Marg. I know not how it is ; A cold protector is John grown to me. The mistress, and presumptive wife, of Woodvil Can never stoop so low to supplicate A man, her equal, to redress those wrongs, Which he was bound first to prevent ; But which his own neglects have sanction'd rather, Both sanction'd and provok'd : a mark'd neglect. And strangeness fastening bitter on his love. His love, which long has been upon the wane. For me, I am determined what to do : To leave this house this night, and lukewarm John, And trust for food to the earth and Providence. Sand. lady, have a care Of these indefinite and spleen-bred resolves. You know not half the dangers that attend Upon a life of wand'ring, which your thoughts now, Feeling the swellings of a lofty anger. To your abused fancy, as 'tis likely. Portray without its terrors, painting lies And representments of fallacious liberty — You know not what it is to leave the roof that shelters you. Marg. I have thought on every possible event, The dangers and discouragements you speak of. Even till my woman's heart hath ceased to fear them, And cowardice grows enamour'd of rare accidents; Nor am I so unfurnish'd as you think, Of practicable schemes. Sand. Now God forbid; think twice of this, dear lady. Marg. I pray you spare me, Mr. Sandford. And once for all believe, nothing can shake my purpose. Sand. But what course have you thought on ? Marg. To seek Sir Walter in theforest of Sherwood. I have letters from young Simon, Acquainting me with all the circumstances Of their concealment, place, and manner of life. And the merry hours they spend in the green haunts Of Sherwood, nigh which place they have ta'en ahouse In the town of Nottingham, and pass for foreigners, ' Wearing the dress of Frenchmen. — All which I have perused with so attent And child-like longings, that to my doting ears Two sounds now seem like one. One meaning in two words, Sherwood and Liberty, And, gentle Mr. Sandford, 'Tis you that must provide now The means of my departure, which for safety Must be in boy's apparel. Sand. Since you will have it so (My careful age trembles at all may happen), I will engage to furnish you. I have the keys of the wardrobe, and can fit you With garments to your size. I know a suit Of lively Lincoln green, that shall much grace you In the wear, being glossy fresh, and worn but seldom. Young Stephen Woodvil wore them while he lived. I have the keys of all this house and passages. And ere day-break will rise and let you forth. What things soe'er you have need of I can furnish you; And will provide a horse and trusty guide. To bear you on your way to Nottingham. Marg. That once this day and night were fairly past! For then I'll bid this house and love farewell; Farewell, sweet Devon ; farewell, lukewarm John • For with the morning's light will Margaret be gone. Thanks, courteous Mr. Sandford. — [Exeunt divers ways. 622 JOHN WOODVIL, A TRAGEDY. ACT THE SECOND. Scene. — An Apartment in Woodvil Hall. John Woodvil— aZorae. {Reading parts of a letter.) "When Love grows cold, and Indifference has usurped upon old Esteem, it is no marvel if the world begin to account that dependence, which hitherto has been esteemed honourable shelter. The course I have taken, (in leaving this house, not easily wrought thereunto,) seemed to me best for the once-for-all releasing of yourself (who in times past have deserved well of me) from the now daily, and not -to -be -endured tribute of forced love, and ill - dissembled reluctance of affection. Margaret." Gone! gone! my girl? so hasty, Margaret! And never a kiss at parting ? shallow loves, And likings of a ten days' growth, use courtesies, And show red eyes at parting. Who bids " Farewell" In the same tone he cries " God speed you, sir?" Or tells of joyful victories at sea. Where he hath ventures ; does not rather muffle His organs to emit a leaden sound, To suit the melancholy dull " farewell," Which they in Heaven not use ? — So peevish, Margaret? But 'tis the common error of your sex When our idolatry slackens, or grows less, (As who of woman born can keep his faculty Of Admiration, being a decaying faculty. For ever strain'd to the pitch? or can at pleasure Make it renewable, as some appetites are, As, namely. Hunger, Thirst ! — ) this being the case. They tax us with neglect, and love grown cold. Coin plainings of the perfidy of men, AVhieh into maxims pass, and apothegms To be retail'd in ballads. — I know them all. They are jealous, when our larger hearts receive More guests than one. (Love in a woman's heart Being all in one.) For me, I am sure I have room here For more disturbers of my sleep than one. Love shall have part, but love shall not have all. Ambition, Pleasure, Vanity, all by turns, Shall lie in my bed, and keep me fresh and waking; Yet Love not be excluded. — Foolish wench, I could have loved her twenty years to come, And still have kept my liking. But' since 'tis so. Why, fare thee well, old play-fellow ! I'll try To squeeze a tear for old acquaintance' sake. I shall not grudge so much. To him enters Lovel. Lovel. Bless us, Woodvil ! what is the matter ? I protest, man, I thought you had been weeping. Woi d. Nothing is the matter ; only the wench has forced some water into my eyes, which will quickly disband. Lovel. I cannot conceive you. Wood. Margaret is flown. Lovel. Upon what pretence ? Wood. Neglect on my part: which it seems sh<} has had the wit to discover, maugre all my pains to conceal it. Lovel. Then, you confess the charge ? Wood. To say the truth, my love for her has of late stopped short on Jhis side idolatry. Lovel. As all good Christians' should, I think. Wood. I am sure, I could have loved her still within the limits of warrantable love. Lovel. A kind of brotherly affection, I take it. Wood. We should have made excellent man and wife in time. Lovel. A good old couple, when the snows fell, to crowd about a sea-coal fire, and talk over old matters. Wood. AVhile each should feel, what neither cared to acknowledge, that stories oft repeated may, at last, come to lose some of their grace by the repetition. Lovel. Which both of you may yet live long enough to discover. For, take my word for it, Mar- garet is a bird that will come back to you without a lure. Wood. Never, never, Lovel. Spite of my levity, with tears I confess it, she was a lady of most con- firmed honour, of an unmatchable spirit, and deter- minate in all virtuous resolutions ; not hasty to an- ticipate an affront, nor slow to feel, where just provo- cation was given. Lovel. What made you neglect her, then ? Wood. Mere levity and youthfulness of blood, a malady incident to young men ; physicians call it caprice. Nothing else. He that slighted her knew her value : and 'tis odds, but, for thy sake, Margaret, John will yet go to his grave a bachelor. [A noise heard, as of one drunk and singing. Lovel. Here comes one, that will quickly dissipate these humours. Enter one drunk. Drunken Man. Good-morrow to you, gentlemen. Ml'. Lovel, I am your humble servant. Honest Jack Woodvil, I will get drunk with you to-morrow. Wood. And why to-morrow, honest Mr. Freeman? Drunken Man. I scent a traitor in that question. A beastly question. Is it not his Majesty's birthday ? the day of all days in the year, on which King Charles the Second was graciously pleased to be born. {Sings.) " Great pity 'tis such days as those should come but once a year." Lovel. Drunk in a morning ! foh ! how he stinks ! Drunken Man. And why not drunk in a morning ? canst tell, bully ? Wood. Because, being the sweet and tender in- fancy of the day, methinks, it should ill endure such early blightings. Drunken Man. I grant you, 'tis in some sort the youth and tender nonage of the day. Youth is bash- ful, and I give it a cup to encourage it. {Sings.) "Ale that will make Grimalkin prate." — At noon I JOHN WOODVIL, A TRAGEDY. 623 drink for ,hirst, at night for fellowship, but, above all, I love to usher in the bashful morning under the auspices of a freshening stoop of liquor. (Sings.) " Ale in a Saxon rumkin then, makes valour bur- geon in tall men." — But, I crave pardon. I fear I keep that gentleman from serious thoughts. There be those that wait for me in the cellar. Wond. Who are they ? Drunken Man. Gentlemen, ijiy good friends, Cleve- land, Delaval, and Truby. I know by this time they are all clamorous for me. [Exit singing. Wood. This keeping of open house acquaints a man with strange companions. Enter, at anoQier door, Three calling for HAiOiT Feeeman. Harry Freeman, Harry Freeman. He is not here. Let us go look for him. Where is Freeman ? AVhere is Harry ? \_Exeimt the Three calling for Freeman. Wood. Did you ever see such gentry ? {laughing.) These are they that fatten on ale and tobacco in a morning, drink burnt brandj' at noon to promote di- gestion, and piously conclude with quart bumpers after supper, to prove their loyalty. Lovel. Come, shall we adjourn to the Tennis Court? Wood. No, you shall go with me into the gallery, where I will show you the Vandyke I have pur- chased. " The late King taking leave of his children." Lovel. I will but adjust my dress, and attend you. [Exit Lovel. John Wood, {alone.) Now Universal England getteth drunk For joy, that Charles, her monarch, is restored: And she, that sometime wore a saintly mask, The stale-grown vizor from her face doth pluck, And weareth now a suit of morris bells, With which she jingling goes through all her towns and villages. The bafled factions in their houses skulk ; The commonwealthsmah, and state machinist. The cropt fanatic, and fifth-monarchy-man, Who heareth of these visionaries now? They and their dreams have ended. Fools do sing, Where good men yield God thanks; but politic spirits. Who live by observation, note these changes Of the popular mind, and thereby serve their ends. Then why not I? What's Charles to me, or Oliver, But as my own advancement hangs on one of them ? I to myself am chief. I know. Some shallow mouths cry out, that I am smit With the gauds and show of state, the point of place, And trick of precedence, the ducks, and nods Which weak minds pay to rank. 'Tis not to sit In place of worship at the royal masques. Their pastimes, plays, and Whitehall banquetings, For none of these, Nor yet to be seen whispering with some great one. Do I affect the favours of the court. I would be great, for greatness hath gr^aX power, And that's the fruit I reach at. — Great spirits ask great play-room. Who could sit. With these prophetie swellings in my breast. That prick and goad me on, and never cease. To the fortunes something tells me I was born to? Who, with such monitors within to stir him, Would sit him down, with lazy arms across, A unit, a thing without a name in the state, A something to be govern'd, not to govern, A fishing, hawking, hunting, country gentleman ? [Exit. Scene. — Sherwood Forest. Sm Waltee Woodvil. Simon Woodvil. (Disguised as Frenchmen.) Sir W. How fares my boy, Simon, my youngest born. My hope, my pride, young Woodvil, speak to me? Some grief untold weighs heavy at thy heart : I know it by thy alter'd cheer of late. Thinkest thy brother plays thy father false ? It is a mad and thriftless prodigal, Grown proud upon the favours of the court; Court manners, and court fashions, he affects. And in the heat and uncheck'd blood of youth, Harbours a company of riotous men, All hot, and young, court-seekers, like himself. Most skilful to devour a patrimony; And these have eat into my old estates. And these have drain'd thy father's cellars dry ; But these so common faults of youth not named, (Things which themselves outgrow, left to them» selves,) I know no quality that stains his honour. My life upon his faith and noble mind. Son John could never play thy father false. Simon. I never thought but nobly of my brother, Touching his honour and fidelity. Still I could wish him charier of his person. And of his time more frugal, than to spend In riotous living, graceless society. And mirth unpalatable, hours better employ'd (With those persuasive graces nature lent him) In fervent pleadings for a father's life. Sir W. I would not owe my life to a jealous court, Whose shallow policy I know it is. On some reluctant acts of prudent mercy, (Not voluntary, but extorted by the times. In the first tremblings of new-fixed power, And recollection smarting from old wounds,) On these to build a spurious popularity. Unknowing what free grace or mercy mean, They fear to punish, therefore do they pardon. For this cause have I oft forbid my son. By letters, overtures, open solicitings. Or closet tamperings, by gold or fee. To beg or bargain with the court for my life, Simon. And John has ta'en you, father, at youi word, \ True to the letter of his paternal charge. 624 JOHN WOODVIL, A TRAGEDY. Sir W. "Well, my good cause, and my good conscience, boy, Shall be for sons to me, if John prove false. Men die but once, and the opportunity Of a noble death is not an every-day fortune : It is a gift which noble spirits pray for. ' Simon. I would not wrong my brother by surmise; I know him generous, full of gentle qualities, Incapable of base compliances, "No prodigal in his nature, but affecting This show of bravery for ambitious ends. He drinks, for 'tis the humour of the court, And drink may one day wrest the secret from him. And pluck you from your hiding-place in the sequel. Sir W. Fair death shall be my doom, and foul life his. Till when, we'll live as- free in this green forest, As yonder deer, who roam unfearing treason : Who seem the aborigines of this place, Or Sherwood theirs by tenure. Simon. 'Tis said, that Robert Earl of Huntingdon, Men call'd him Robin Hood, an outlaw bold, With a merry crew of hunters here did haunt. Not sparing the king's venison. May one believe The antique tale ? Sir W. There is much likelihood, Such bandits did in England erst abound. When polity was young. I have read of the pranks Of that mad archer, and of the tax he levied On travellers, whatever their degree, Baron, or knight, whoever pass'd these woods, Layman, or priest, not sparing the bishop's mitre For spiritual regards ; nay, once, 'tis said, He robb'd the king himself. Simon. A perilous man {smiling). Sir W. How quietly we live here, Unread in the world's business. And take no note of all its slippery changes. 'Twere best we make a world among ourselves, A little world, Without the ills and falsehoods of the greater; We too being all the inhabitants of ours, And kings and subjects both in one. Simon. Only the dangerous errors, fond conceits. Which make the business of that greater world. Must have no place in ours : As, namely, riches, honours, birth, place, courtesy. Good fame and bad, rumours and popular noises. Books, creeds, opinions, prejudices national, Humours particular. Soul-killing lies, and truths that work small good. Feuds, factions, enmities, relationships. Loves, hatreds, sympathies, antipathies. And all the intricate stuff quarrels are made of. Maegaket enters in hoy^s apparel. Sir W. What pretty boy have we here ? Murg. Bon jour, messieurs. Ye have handsome English faces, I should have ta'en ye else for other two, I came to seek in the forest. Sir W. Who are they? Marg. A gallant brace of Frenchmen, curl'd monsieurs, That, men say, haunt these woods, affecting privacy^ More than the manner of their countrymen. Simon. We have here a wonder. The face is Margaret's face. Sir W. The face is Margaret's, but the dress the same My Stephen sometime wore. [^fo Margaret. Suppose us them ; whom do men say we are ? Or know you what you seek? Marg. A worthy pair of exiles. Two whom the politics of state revenge. In final issue of long civil broils. Have houseless driven from your native France, To wander idle in these English woods. Where now ye live; most part Thinking on home, and all the joys of France, Where grows the purple vine. Sir W. These woods, young stranger. And grassy pastures, which the slim deer loves. Are they less beauteous than the land of France, Where grows the purple vine? Marg. I cannot tell. To an indifferent eye both show alike. 'Tis not the scene, But all familiar objects in the scene. Which now. ye miss, that constitute a difference. Ye had a country, exiles, ye have none now ; Friends had ye, and much wealth, ye now have nothing ; Our manners, laws, our customs, all are foreign to yon, I know ye loathe them, cannot learn them readily ; And there is reason, exiles, ye should love Our English earth less than your land of France, Where grows the purple vine; where all delights grow Old custom has made pleasant. Sir W. You, that are read So dee|)ly in our story, what are you ? Marg. A bare adventurer; in brief a woman, That put strange garments on, and came thus far To seek an ancient friend : And having spent her stock of idle words, And feeling some tears coming. Hastes now to clasp Sir Walter Woodvil's knees. And beg a boon for Margaret ; his poor ward. [Kneeling Sir W. Not at my feet, Margaret; not at my feet. Marg. Yes, till her suit is answered. Sir W. Name it. Marg. A little boon, and yet so great a grace. She fears to ask it. Sir W. Some riddle, Margaret? Marg. No riddle, but a plain request. Sir W. Name it. Marg. Free liberty of Sherwood, And leave to take her lot with you in Ihe forest. Sir W. A scant petition, Margaret; but take it, Seal'd with an old man's tears. — Rise, daughter of Sir Rowland. JOHN WOODVIL, A TRAGEDY. 625 \_Addressing them both. you most worthy, You Constant followers of a man proscribed, following poor misery in the throat of danger ; B'ast servitors to crazed and penniless poverty, Serving poor poverty without hope of gain ; Kind children of a sire unfortunate ; Green clinging tendrils round a trunk decay'd, Which needs must bring on you timeless decay; Fair living forms to a dead carcase join'd; — What shall I say ? Better the dead were gather'd to the dead, Than death and life in disproportion meet. — Go, seek your fortunes, children. — Simon. Why, whither should we go ? Sir W. You to the Court, where now your brother John Commits a rape on Fortune. Simon. Luck to John ! A light-heel'd strumpet, when the sport is done. Sir W. You to the sweet society of your equals, Where the world's fashion smiles on youth and beauty. Marg. Where young men's flatteries cozen young maids' beauty. There pride oft gets the vantage hand of duty, There sweet humility withers. Simon. Mistress Margaret, How fared my brother John, when you left Devon ? Marg. John was well, sir. Simon. 'Tis now nine months almost. Since I saw home. What new friends has John made? Or keepshe his first love? — I did suspect Some foul disloyalty. Now do I know, John has proved false to her, for Margaret weeps. It is a scurvy brother. Sir W. Fie upon it. All men are false, I think. The date of love Is out expired ,• its stories all grown stale, O'erpast, forgotten, like an antique tale Of Hero and Leander. Simon. I have known some men that are too general-contemplative for the narrow passion. I am in some sort a general lover. Marg. In the name of the boy God, who plays at hoodman blind with the Muses, and cares not whom he catches : what is it you love ? Simon. Simply, all things that live, From the crook'd worm to man's imperial form. And God-resembling likeness. The poor fly, That makes short holiday in the sun-beam. And dies by some child's hand. The feeble bird With little wings, yet greatly venturous In the upper sky. The fish in th' other element. That knows no touch of eloquence. What else ? Yon tall and elegant stag. Who paints a dancing shadow of his horns In the water, where he drinks. 3farg. I myself love all these things, yet so as with a difference: — for example, some animals better than others, some men rather than other men ; the nightingale before the cuckoo, the swift and graceful 40 palfrey before the slow and asinine mule. Your humour goes to confound all qualities. What sports do you use in the forest? — Simon. 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 d^aaicers 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 struotur,e of a plant or tree. And all fair things of earth, how fair they be. Marg. [smiling.) And, afterwards, them paint in simile. Sir W. Mistress Margaret will have need of some refreshment. Please you, we have some poor viands within. Marg. Indeed I stand in need of them. Sir W. Under the shade of a thick-spreading tree, Upon the grass, no better carpeting. We'll eat onr noon-tide meal ; and, dinner done. One of us shall repair to Nottingham, To seek some safe night lodging in the town. Where you may sleep, while here with us you dwell By day, in the forest, expecting better times. And gentler habitations, noble Margaret. Simon. Allans, young Frenchman — Marg. Allans, Sir Englishman. The time has been I've studied love-lays in the English tongue. And been enamour'd of rare poesy : Which now I must unlearn. Henceforth, Sweet mother-tongue, old English speech, adieu; For Margaret has got new name and language new. [Exeunt. ACT THE THIRD. Scene. — An Apartment of State in Woodvil Hall. Cavaliers drinking. John Woodvil, Lovel, Gray, and four 7nore. John. More mirth, I beseech you, gentlemen — Mr. Gray, you are not merry. — Gray. More wine, say I, and mirth shall ensue in course. What ! we have not vet abov>) three half 626 JOHN WOODVIL, A TKAGEDY. pints a man to answer for. Bpevity is the soul of drinking, as of wit. Despatch, I say. More wine. {Fills.) Ist Gent. I entreat you, let there be some order, some method, in our drinkings. I love to lose my reason with my eyes open, to commit the deed of drunkenness with forethought and deliberation. I love to feel the fumes of the liquor gathering here, like clouds. 2nd Gent. And I am for plunging into madness at once. Damn order, and method, and steps, and de- grees, that he speaks of. Let confusion have her legitimate work. Lovel. I marvel why the poets, who, of all men, methinks, should possess the hottest livers, and most empyreal fancies, should affect to see such virtues in cold water. Gray. Virtue in cold water ! ha ! ha ! ha! — John. Because your poet-born hath an internal wine, richer than lippara or canaries, yet uncrushed from any grapes of earth, unpressed in mortal wine- presses. Zrd Gent. What may be the name of this wine ? John. It hath as many names as ciualities. It is denominated indifferently, wit, conceit, invention^ inspiration, but its most royal and comprehensive name is fancy. Zrd Gent. And where keeps he this sovereign liquor ? John. Its cellars are in the brain, whence your true poet deriveth intoxication at will; while his ani- mal spirits, catching a pride from the quality and neighbourhood of their noble relative, the brain, re- fuse to be sustained by wines and fermentations of earth. Srflf Gent. But is your poet-born always tipsy with this liquor ? John. He hath his stoopings and reposes ; but his proper element is the sky, and in the suburbs of the empyrean. 'ird Gent. Is your wine-intellectual so exquisite ? henceforth, I, a man of plain conceit, will, in all hu- mility, content my mind with canaries. Uh Gent. I am for a song or a catch. When will the catches come on, the sweet wicked catches? John. They cannot be introduced with propriety before midnight. Every man must commit his twenty bumpers first. We are not yet well roused. Frank Lovel, the glass stands, with you. Lovel. Gentlemen, the Duke. {Fills.) ^?L The Duke. {They drink.) Gray. Can any tell, why his Grace, being a Papist — John. Pshaw I we will have no questions of state now. . Is not this his Majesty's birth-day ? Gray. What follows ? John. That every man should sing, and be joyful, and ask no questions. 2nd Gent. Dojmn politics, they spoil drinking. ^rd Gent. For certain, 'tis a blessed monarchy. 2ud Gent, The cursed fanatic days we have seen ! The times have been when swearing was out of fashion. 'ird Gent. And drinking. \st Gent. And wenching. Gray. The cursed yeas and forsooths, which we have heard uttered, when a man could not rap out an innocent oath, but straight the air was thought to be infected. - Lovel. 'Twas a pleasant trick of the saint, which that trim puritan Swear-not-at-all Smooth-speech used, when his spouse chid him with an oath for committing with his servant-maid, to cause his house to be fumigated with burnt brandy, and ends of scripture, to disperse the devil's breath, as he termed it. All. Ha! ha! ha! Gray. But 'twas pleasanter, when the other saint Resist-the-devil-and-he-will-jlee-from-thee Pureman was overtaken in the act, to plead an illusio visAs, and maintain his sanctity upon a supposed power in the adversary to counterfeit the shapes of things. All. Ha! ha! ha! John. Another round, and then let every man de vise what trick he can in his fancy, for the better manifesting our loyalty this day. ■ Gray. Shall we hang a puritan ? John. No, that has been done already in Coleman- street. 2nd Gent. Or fire a conventicle ? John. That is stale too. Zrd Gent. Or burn the Assembly's catechism? Ath Gent. Or drink the king's health, every man standing upon his head naked? John, {to Lovel). We have here some pleasant madness. Zrd Gent. Who shall pledge me in a pint bumper, while we drink to the king upon our knees ? Lovel. Why on our knees, Cavalier? John {smilhig). For more devotion, to be sure. {To a servant.) Sirrah, fetch the gilt goblets. [T/ic goblets are brought. They dnnJc the King's health, kneeling. .S shout of general approbation following the first appearance of the goblets. John. We have here the unchecked virtues of the grape. How the vapours curl upwards ! It were a life of gods to dwell in such an element : to see, and hear, and talk brave things. Now fie upon these casual potations. That a man's most exalted reason should depend upon the ignoble fermenting of a fruit, which sparrows pluck at as well as we ! Gray {aside to Lovel). Observe how he is ravished. Lovel. Vanity and gay thoughts of wine do meet in him and engender madness. [ Willie the rest are engaged in a wild kind of talk, John advances to the front of the stage, and soliloquises. John. My spirits turn to fire, they mount so fast. My joys are turbulent, my hopes show like fruition. These high and gusty relishes of life, sure, Have no allay ings of mortality in them. JOHN WOODVIL, A TRAGEDY. 627 I am too hot now, and o'ercapable, For. the tedious processes, and creeping -wisdom. Of human acts, and enterprises of a man. I want some seasonings of adversity. Some strokes of the old mortifier Calamity, To take these swellings down, divines call vanity. 1st Gent. Mr. Woodvil, Mr. Woodvil. 2vd Gent. Where is Woodvil? Graij. Let him alone. I have seen him in these lunes before. His abstractions must not taint the good mirth. John {covtinuing to soliloquise). for some friend now. To conceal nothing from, to have no secrets. How fine and noble a thing is confidence, How reasonable too, and almost godlike ! Fast cement of fast friends, band of society, Old natural go-between in the world's business. Where civil life and order, wanting this cement, Would presently rush hack Into the pristine state of singularity. And each man stand alone. {A servant enters.) Servant. Gentlemen, the fireworks are ready ■ 1st Gent. What be they? Lovel.^The work of London artists, which our host has provided in honour of this day. 2nd Gent. 'Sdeath, who would part with his wine for a rocket ? Lovel. Why truly, gentlemen, as our kind host has been at the pains to provide this spectacle, we can do no less than be present at it. It will not take up much time. Every man may return fresh and thirsting to his liquor. Zrd Gent. There's reason in what he says. 2nd Gent. Charge on then, bottle in hand. There's husbandry in that. [They go out singing. Only Lovel remains, who observes Woodvil. John {still talhing to himself.) This Lovel here's of a tough honesty. Would put the rack to the proof. He is not of that sort Which haunt my house, snorting the liquors, And when their wisdoms are afloat with wine, Spend vows as fast as vapours, which go oif Even with the fumes, their fathers. He is one. Whose sober morning actions Shame not his o'ernight's promises ; Talks little, flatters less, and makes no promises ; Why this is he, whom the dark-wisdom'd fate Might trust her counsels of predestination with. And the world be no loser. Why should I fear this man ? [Seeing Lovel. Where is the company gone ? Lonel. To see the fireworks, where you will be expected to follow. But I perceive you are better engaged. John. I have been meditating this half hour On all the properties of a brave friendship, The mysteries that are in it, the noble uses. Its limits withal, and its nice boundaries. JExemjoli gratia, how far a man May lawfully forswear himself for his friend; What quantity of lies, some of them brave ones, He may lawfully incur in a friend's behalf; What oaths, blood-crimes, hereditary quarrels. Night brawls, fierce words, and duels in the morning. He need not stick at, to maintain his friend's honour, or his cause. Lovel. I think many men would die for their friends. John. Death ! why 'tis nothing. We go to it for sport. To gain a name, or purse, or please a sullen humour, When one has worn his fortune's livery thread-bare, Or his spleen'd mistress frowns. Husbands will venture on it. To cure the hot.fits and cold shakings of jealousy. A friend, sir; must do more. Lovel. Can he do more than die ? John. To serve a friend this he may do. Pray mark me. Having a law within (great spirits feel one) He cannot, ought not, to be bound by any Positive laws or ord'nances extern. But may reject all these : by the law of friendship He may do so much, be they, indifferently Penn'd statutes, or the land's unwritten usages. As public fame, civil compliances, Misnamed honour, trust in matter of secrets, All vows and promises, the feeble mind's religion, (Binding our morning knowledge to approve What last night's ignorance spake;) The ties of blood withal, and prejudice of kin. Sir, these weak terrors Must never shake me. I know what belongs To a worthy friendship. Come, you shall have my confidence. Lovel. I hope you think me worthy. John. You will smile to hear now — Sir Walter never has been out of the island. Lovel. You amaze me. John. That same report of his escape to France Was a fine tale, forged by myself — Ha! ha! ' I knew it would stagger him. Lovel. Pray, give me leave. Where has he dwelt, how lived, how lain eonceal'd ? Sure I may ask so much. Joh7i. From place to place, dwelling in no place long, My brother Simon still hath borne him company, ('Tis a brave youth, I envy him all his virtues). Disguised in foreign garb, they pass for Frenchmen, Two Protestant exiles from the Limousin Newly arrived. Their dwelling's now at Nottingham, Where no soul knows them. Lovel. Can you assign any reason, why a gentle- man of Sir Walter's known prudence should expose his person so lightly ? John. I believe a certain fondness, 628 JOHN WOODVIL, A TEAGEDY. A child-like cleaving to the land that gave him birth, Chains him like fate. Lovel. I have known some exiles thus To linger out the term of the law's indulgence, To the hazard of being known. John. You may suppose sometimes They use the neighb'ring Sherwood for their sport, Their exercise and freer recreation. — I see you smile. Pray now, be careful. Lovel. I am no babbler, sir ; you need not fear me. JoJin. But some men have been known to talk in their sleep. And tell fine tales that way. Lovel. I have heard so much. But, to say truth, I mostly sleep alone. John. Or drink, sir ? do you never drink too freely ? Some men will drink, and tell you all their secrets. Lovel. Why do you question me, 'who know my habits ? John. I think you are no sot. No tavern-troubler, worshipper of the grape; But all men drink sometimes. And veriest saints at festivals relax, The marriage of a friend, or a wife's birth-day. Lovel. How much, sir, may a man with safety drink ? [Smiling. John. Sir, three half pints a day is reasonable; ] care not if you never exceed that quantity. Lovel. I shall observe it ; On holidays two quarts. John. Or stay; you keep no wench? Lovel. Ha ! John. No painted mistress for your private hours? You keep no whore, sir? Lovel. What do^s he mean ? John. Who for a close embrace, a toy of sin, And amorous praising of your worship's breath, In rosy junction of four melting lips. Can kiss out secrets from you? Lovel. How strange this passionate behaviour shows in you ! Sure you think me some weak one. John. Pray pardon me some fears. You have now the pledge of a dear father's life. I am a son — would fain be thought a loving one; You may allow me some fears : do not despise me. If, in a posture foreign to my spirit. And by our well-knit friendship I conjure you. Touch not Sir Walter's life, [Kneels. You see these tears. My father's an old man. Pray let him live. Lovel. I must be bold to tell you, these new freedoms Show most unhandsome in you. John (rising). Ha ! do you say so ? Sure, you are not grown proud upon my secret ! Ah ! now I see it plain. He would be babbling. Ko doubt a garrulous and hard-faced traitor — But I'll not give you leave. [Drmvs. Lovel. What does this madman mean ? John. Come, sir; here is no subterfuge; You must kill me, or I kill you. Lovel (drawing). Then self-defence plead my excuse. Have at you, sir. [They fight. John. Stay, sir. I hope you have made your will. If not, 'tis no great matter. A broken cavalier has seldom much He can bequeath : an old worn peruke, A snufiF-box with a picture of Prince Kupert,_ A rusty sword he'll swear was used at Naseby, Though it ne'er came within ten miles of the place ; And, if he's very rich, A cheap edition of the Icon Basilihe, Is mostly all the wealth he dies possest of. You say few prayers, I fancy; — So to it again. [TUey fight again. Lotel is disarmed. Lovel. You had best now take my life. I guess you mean it. John (musing). No: — Men will say I fear'd him, if I kill'd him. Live still, and be a traitor in thy wish. But never act thy thought, being a coward. That vengeance, which thy soul shall nightly thirst for. And this" disgrace I've done you cry aloud for. Still have the will without the power to execute. So now I leave you. Feeling a sweet security. No doubt My secret shall remain a virgin for you ! — [Goes out smiling, in scorn. Lovel (rising). For once you are mistaken in your man. The deed you wot of shall forthwith be done. A bird let loose, a secret out of hand, Returns not back. Why, then 'tis baby policy To menace him who hath it in his keeping. I will go look for Gray ; Then, northward ho ! such tricks as we shall play Have not been seen, I think, in merry Sherwood, Since the days of Robin Hood, that archer good. ACT THE FOURTH. Scene. — An Apartment in Woodvil Hall, John Woodvil. (Alone.) ■ A weight of wine lies heavy on my head, The unconcocted follies of last night. Now all those jovial fancies, and bright hopes. Children of wine, go off like dreams. This sick vertigo here Preacheth of temperance, no sermon better. These black thoughts, and dull melancholy, That stick like burrs to the brain, will they ne'er leave me ? Some men are full of choler, when they are drunk • Some brawl of matter foreign to themselves ; And some, the most resolved fools of ail, Have told their dearest secrets in their cups. JOHN WOODVIL, A TRAGEDY. 629 Scene. — Tlie. Forest. Sir Waltee. Simon. Lovel. Gray. Lnvel. Sir, we are sorry we cannot return your French salutation. Gray. Nor otherwise consider this garb you trust to than as a poor disguise. Lovel. Nor use much ceremony with a traitor. Gray. Therefore, without much induction of superflous words, I attach you, Sir Walter Woodvil, of High Treason, in the King's name. Lovel. And of taking part in the great Rebellion against our late lawful Sovereign, Charles'the First. Simon. John has betrayed us, father. Lovel. Come, sir, you bad best surrender fairly. We know you, sir. Simon. Hang ye, villains, ye are two better known than trusted. I have seen those faces before. Are ye not two beggarly retainers, trencher-parasites, to John ? I think ye rank above his footmen. A sort of bed and board worms — locusts that infest our house; a leprosy that long has hung upon its walls and princely apartments, reaching to fill all the corners of my brother's once noble heart. Gray. We are bis friends. Simon. Fie, sir, do not weep. How these rogues will triumph ! Shall I whip off their heads^ father ? [Draws. Lovel. Come, sir, though this show handsome in you, being his son, yet the law must have its course. Simon. And if I tell ye the law shall not have its course, cannot ye be content? Courage, father; shall such things as these apprehend a man ? Which of ye will venture upon me ? — Will you, Mr. Con- stable self-elect ? or you, sir, with a pimple on your nose, got at Oxford by hard drinking, your only badge of loyalty ? Gray. 'Tis a brave youth — I cannot strike at him. Simon. Father, why do you cover your face with your hands ? Why do you fetch your breath so hard? See, villains, his heart is burst ! villains, he cannot speak. One of you run for some water ; quickly, ye knaves ; will ye have your throats cut? [They both slink off. How is it with you, Sir Walter ? Look up, sir, the villains are gone. He hears me not, and this deep disgrace of treachery in his son hath touched him even to the death. most distuned and distem- pered world, where sons talk their aged fathers into their graves ! Garrulous and diseased world, and still empty, rotten and hollow talking world, where good men decay, states turn round in an endless mutability, and still for the worse ; nothing is at a stay, nothing abides but vanity, chaotic vanity. — Brother, adieu ! There lies the parent stock which gave us life, Which I will see consign'd with tears to earth. Leave thou the solemn funeral rites to me. Grief and a true remorse abide with thee. [Beai-s in the body. Scene. — Another Part of the Forest. Marg. [alone.) It was an error merely, and no crime, An unsuspecting openness in youth, That from his lips the fatal secret drew, Which should have slept like one of nature's mysteries, Unveil'd by any man. Well, he is dead ! And what should Margaret do in the forest? ill-starr'd John ! Woodvil, man enfeoflf'd to despair ! Take thy farewell of peace. never look again to see good days. Or close thy lids in comfortable nights. Or ever think a happy thought again. If what I have heard be true. — Forsaken of the world must Woodvil live. If he did tell these men. No tongue must speak to him, no tongue of man Salute him, when he wakes up in a morning; Or bid "good night" to John. Who seeks to live In amity with thee, must for thy sake Abide the world's reproach. What then ? Shall Margaret join the clamours of the world Against her friend? undiscerning 'world, That cannot from misfortune separate guilt. No, not in thought ! never, never, John. Prepare to share the fortunes of her friend For better or for worse thy Margaret comes, To pour into thy wounds a healing love. And wake the memory of an ancient friendship. And pardon me, thou spirit of Sir Walter, Who, in compassion to the wretched living, Have but few tears to waste upon the dead. Scene. — Woodvil HaU. Sandfoed. MARGARET. {As from a Journey.) Sand. The violence of the sudden mischance hath so wrought in him, who by nature, is allied to no- thing less than a self-debasing humour of dejection, that I have never seen anything more changed and spirit-broken. He hath, with a peremptory resolu- tion, dismissed the partners of his riots and late hours, denied his house and person to their most earnest solicitings, and will be seen by none. He keeps ever alone, and his grief (which is solitary) does not so much seem to possess and govern in him, as it is by him, with a wilfulness of most manifest affection, entertained and cherished. llarg. How bears he up against the common rumour ? Sand. With a strange indifference, which whoso- ever dives not into the niceness of his sorrow might mistake for obdurate and insensate. Yet are the wings of his pride for ever dipt; and j'et a virtuous predominance of filial grief is so ever uppermost, that you may discover his thoughts less troubled with conjecturing what living opinions will say, anc' 630 JOHN WOODVIL, A TRAGEDY. judge of his deeds, than absorbed and buried with the dead, whom his indiscretion made so. Marg. I knew a greatness ever to be resident in him> to which the admiring eyes of men should look up even in the declining and bankrupt state of his pride. Fain would I see him, fain talk with him ; but that a sense of respect, which is violated, when without deliberation we press into the society of the unhappy, checks and holds me back. How, think you, he would bear my presence? Sand. As of an assured friend, whom in the for- getfulness of his fortunes he past by. See him you must ; but not to-night. The newness of the sight shall move the bitterest compunction and the truest remorse; but afterwards, trust me, dear lady, the happiest effects of a returning peace, and a gracious comfort, to him, to you, and all of us. 3Iarg. I think he would not deny me. He hath ere this received farewell letters from his -brother, who hath taken a resolution to estrange himself, for a time, from country, friends, and kindred, and- to seek occupation for his sad thoughts in travelling in foreign places, where sights remote and extern to himself may draw from him kindly and not painful ruminations. Sand . I was present at the receipt of the letter. The contents seemed to affect him, for a moment, with a more lively passion of grief than he has at any time outwardly shown. He wept with many tears (which I had not before noted in him), and ap- peared to be touched with the sense as of some un- kindness ; but the cause of their sad separation and divorce quickly recurring, he presently returned to his former inwardness of suffering. Marg. The reproach of his brother's presence at this hour would have been a weight more than could be sustained by his already oppressed and sinking spirit. ■ — Meditating upon these intricate and wide- spread sorrows, hath brought a heaviness upon me, as of sleep. How goes the night ? — Sand. An hour past sun-set. You shall first refresh your limbs (tired with travel) with meats and some cordial wine, and then betake your no less wearied mind to repose. 3Iarg. A good rest to us all. Sand. Thanks, lady. ACT TPIE FIFTH. John WooBva, (dressing). John. How beautiful {handlmg his mourning) And comely do these mourning garments show ! Sure grief hath set his sacred impress here, To claim the world's respect! they note so feelingly By outward types the serious man within. — Alas ! what part or portion can I claim In all the decencies of virtuous sorrow, Which other mourners use ? as namely, This black attire, abstraction from society, Good thoughts, and frequent sighs, and seldom smiles, A cleaving sadness native to the brow. All sweet condolements of like-grieved friends, (That steal awajr the sense of loss almost) Men's pity, and good offices Which enemies themselves do for us then, Putting their hostile disposition off. As we put off our high thoughts and proud looks. [Pauses, and observes the pictures. These pictures must be taken down : The portraitures of our most ancient family For nigh three hundred years ! How have listen'd. To hear Sir Walter, with an old man's pride. Holding me in his arms, a prating boy. And pointing to the pictures where they hung, Repeat by course their worthy histories, (As Hugh de Widville, Walter, first of the name, And Anne the handsome, Stephen, and famous John : Telling me, I must be famous John.) But that was in old times. Now, no more Must I grow proud upon our house's pride. I rather, I, by most unheard-of crimes, Have backward tainted all their noble blood. Rased out the memory of an ancient family, And quite reversed the honours of our house. Who now shall sit and tell us anecdotes ? The secret history of his own times, And fashions of the world when he was young, How England slept out three-and-twenty years, ■ While Carr and Villiers ruled the hahj king : The costly fancies of the pedant's reign, Balls, feastings, huntings, shows in allegory. And Beauties of the court of James the First. Margaret enters. John. Comes Margaret here to witness my disgrace ? 0, lady, I have suffer'd loss. And diminution of my honour's brightness. You bring some images of old times, Margaret, That should be now forgotten. Mary. Old times should riever be forgotten, Johii. I came to talk about them with my friend. John. I did refuse you, Margaret, in my pride. Marg. If John rejected Margaret in his pride, (As who does not, being splenetic, refuse Sometimes old playfellows,) the spleen being gone. The offence no longer lives.. Woodvil, those were happy days, When we two first began to love. When first, Under pretence of visiting my father, (Being then a stripling nigh upon my age,) You eame a wooing to his daughter, John, Do you remember, With what a coy reserve and seldom speecli- (Young maidens must be chary of their speecn. JOHN WOODVIL, A TRAGEDY. 631 I kept the honours of my maiden pride ? T was your favourite then. John. Margaret, Margaret ! These your submissions to my low estate, And cleavings to the fates of sunken Woodvil, Write bitter things 'gainst my unworthiness. Thou perfect pattern of thy slander'd sex, Whom miseries of mine could never alienate, Nor change of fortune shake; whom injuries, And slights (the worst of injuries) which moved Thy nature to return scorn with like scorn, Then when you left in virtuous pride this house, Could not so separate, but now in this My day of shame, when all the world forsake me. You only visit me, love, and forgive me. Alarg. Dost yet remember the green arbour, John, In the south gardens of my father's house. Where we have seen the summer sun go down, Exchanging true love's vows without restraint? And that old wood, you call'd your wilderness, And vow'd in sport to build a chapel in it. There dwell "Like hermit poor In pensive place obscure," And tell your Ave Maries by the curls (Dropping like golden beads) of Margaret's hair; ■ And make confession seven times a day Of every thought that stray'd from love and Margaret; And I your saint the penance should appoint — Believe me, sir, I will not now be laid Aside, like an old fashion. John. lady, poor and abject are my thoughts; My pride is cured, my hopes are under clouds, I have no part in any good man's love. In all earth's pleasures portion have I none, I fade and wither in my own esteem, This earth holds not alive so poor a thing as I am. I was not always thus. [TFeeps. Marg. Thou noble nature. Which lion-like didst awe the inferior creatures, Now trampled on by beasts of basest quality. My dear heart's lord, life's pride, soul-honour'd John! Upon her knees (regard her poor request) Your favourite, once beloved Margaret, kneels. John. What would'st thou, lady, ever honour'd Margaret ? Marg. That John would think more nobly of himself. More worthily of high Heaven ; And not for one misfortune, child of chance. No crime, but unforeseen, and sent to punish The less offence with image of the greater, Thereby to work the soul's humility, (AVhich end hath happily not been frustrate quite,) not for one offence mistrust Heaven's mercy. Nor quit thy hope of happy days to come — John yet has many happy days to live ; To live and make atonement. John. Excellent lady. Whose suit hath drawn this softness from my eyes. Not the world's scorn, nor falling off of friends, Could ever do. Will you go with me, Margaret? Ifarg. {rising.) Go whither, John. John. Go in with me, And pray for the peace of our unquiet minds ? ■ Ilarg. That I will, John. [Exeunt. Scene. — An inner Apartment. John is discovered kneeling. — Maroabet standing over him. ■ John, (rises.) I cannot bear To see you waste that youth and excellent beauty, ('Tis now the golden time of the day with you,) In tending such a broken wretch as I am. Marg. John will break Margaret's heart, if he speak so. sir, sir, sir, you are too melancholy, And I must call it caprice. I am somewhat bold Perhaps in this. But you are now my patient, (You know you gave me leave to call you so,) And I must chide these pestileut humours from you. John. They are gone. — Mark, love, how cheerfully I speak ! 1 can smile too, and I almost begin To understand what kind of creature Hope is. Marg. Now this is better, this mirth becomes you, John. John. Yet tell me, if I over-act my mirth (Being but a novice, I may fall into that error). That were a sad indecency, you know. Marg. Nay, never fear. I will be mistress of your humours. And you shall frown or smile by the book. And herein I shall be most peremptory, Cry, "This shows well, but that inclines to levity; This frown has too much of the Woodvil in it, But that fine sunshine has redeem'd it quite." John. How sweetly Margaret robs me of myself! Marg. To give you in your stead a better self! Such as you were, when these eyes first beheld You mounted on j''our sprightly steed. White Margery, Sir Rowland my father's gift. And all my maidens gave my heart for lost. I was a young thing then, being newly come Home from my convent education, where Seven j'ears I had wasted in the bosom of France : Returning home true protestant, you call'd me Your little heretic nun. How timid-bashful Did John salute his lovCj being newly seen ! Sir Rowland term'd it a rare modesty. And praised it in a youth. John. Now Margaret weeps herself. (A noise of bells heard.) Marg. Hark the bells, John. John. Those are the church bells of St. Mary Ottery. Marg. I know it. John. St. Mary Ottery, my native village In the sweet shire of Devon. Those are the bells. Ifarg. Wilt go to church, John ? John. I have been there already. Marg. How canst say thou hast been there already? 632 JOHN WOODVIL, A TRAGEDY. The bells are only now ringing for morning service, And hast thou been at church already? John. I left my bed betimes, I could not sleep, And when I rose, I look'd (as my custom is) From my chamber window, where I can see the sun rise ; And the first object I diseern'd Was the glistening spire of St. Mary Ottery. Ilarg. Well, John. John. Then I remember'd 'twas the sabbath-day. Immediately a wish arose in my mind. To go to church and pray with Christian people. And then I check'd myself, and said to myself, " Thou hast been a heathen, John, these two years past, (Not having been at church in all that time,) And is it fit, that now for the first time Thou should'st offend the eyes of Christian people With a murderer's presence in the house of prayer? Thou would'st but discompose their pious thoughts. And do thyself no good: for how could'st thou pray, With unwash'd hands, and lips unused to the offices ?" Andthen I at mj' own presumption smiled; And then I wept that I should smile at all, Having such cause of grief! I wept outright; Tears like a river flooded all my face, And I began to pray, and found I could pray ; And still I yearn'd to say my prayers in the church. " Doubtless (said I) one might find comfort in it." So stealing down the stairs, like one that fear'd detection, Or was about to act unlawful business At that dead time of dawn, I flew to the church, and found the doors wide open (Whether by negligence I knew not. Or some peculiar grace to me vouchsafed, For all things felt like mystery). Marg. Yes. John. So entering in, not without fea-r, I past into the family pew, And covering up my eyes for shame. And deep perception of unworthiness, Upon the little hassock knelt me down, Where I so oft had kneel'd, A docile infant by Sir Walter's side ; And, thinking so, I wept a second flood More poignant than the first; But afterwards was greatly comforted. It seem'd, the' guilt of blood was passing from me Even in the act and agony of tears, And all my sins forgiven. THE WITCH. A DRAMATIC SKETCH OF THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY. CHARACTERS. Old Servant in the family of Sir Francis Fairford. Stranqeb. Servant. One summer night Sir Francis, as it chanced, Was pacing to and 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 Fairford name. Being o'ertask'd in thought, he heeded not The importunate suit of one who stood by the gate, And begg'd an alms. Some say he shoved her rudely from the gate With angry chiding ; but I can never think (Our master's nature hath a sweetness in it) That he could use a woman, an old woman, With such discourtesy; but he refused her — And better had he met a lion in his path Than that old woman that night; For she was one who practised the black arts, And served the devil, being since burnt for witch- craft. She look'd at him as 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 Francis told the words): — A mischief, mischief, mischief, And a nine-times killing curse. By day and by night, the caitiff wight, Who shakes the poor like snakes from his door. And shuts up the womb of his purse. And still she cried — A mischief, And a nine-fold withering curse: For that shall come to thee that will undo thee. Both all that thou fearest and worse. So saying, she departed. Leaving Sir Francis like a man, beneath Whose feet a scaffolding was suddenly falling; So he described it. Stranger. A terrible curse ! What follow'd ? Servant. Nothing immediate, but some two months after. Young Philip Fairford suddenly fell sick. And none could tell what ail'd him; for he lay. And pined, and pined, till all his hair fell off, And he, that was full-flesh'd, became as thin As a two-months' babe that has been starved in the aursing. And sure I think He bore his death-wound like a 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-timed guests that had no proper dwelling there ; And, when they ask'd him his complaint, he laid His hand upon his heart to show the place. Where Susan came to him a-nights, he said. And prick'd him with a pin. — And thereupon Sir Francis call'd to mind The beggar-witch that stood by the gateway And begg'd an alms. Stranger. But did the witch confess ? Servant. All this and more at her death. Stranger. I do not love to credit tales of magic. Heaven's music, which is Order, seems unstrung, And this brave world (The mystery of God) unbeautified, Disorder'd, marr'd, where such strange things are acted 633 ALBLTM VEESES. WITH A FEW OTHERS. DEDICATION. TO THE PUBLISHER. Deak Moxon, I do not know to whoni a Dedication of these Trifles is more properly due than to yourself. You suggested the printing of them. You were desirous of exhibiting a specimen of the manner in which Publications, entrusted to your future care, would appear. With more propriety, perhaps, the '-Christmas," or some other of your own simple, unpretending Compositions, plight have served this purpose. But I forget — you have bid a long adieu to the Muses. I had on my hands sundry Copies of Verses written for Albums — Those books kept by modern young Ladies for show, Of which their plain Grandmothers nothing did know — or otherwise floating about in Periodicals; which you have chosen in this manner to embody. I feel little interest in their publication. They are simply — Advertisement Verses. It is not for me, nor you, to allude in public to the kindness of our honoured Friend, under whose auspices you are become a publisher. May that fine-minded Veteran in Verse enjoy life long enough to see his patronage justified! I venture to predict that your habits of industry, and your cheerful spirit, will carry you through the world. I am, Dear Moxon, your Friend and sincere Weil-Wisher, E-vriELD, \st June, 1839. CHARLES LAMB. IN THE AUTOGRAPH BOOK OF MRS. SERGEANT W . Had I a power, Lady, to my will, You should not want Hand Writings. I would fill Your leaves with Autographs — resplendent names Of Knights and Squires of old, and courtly Dames, Kings, Emperors, Popes. Next under these should stand The hands of famous Lawyers — a grave band — Who in their Courts of Law or Equity Have best upheld Freedom and Property. These should moot cases in your book, and vie To show their reading and their Sergeantry. But I have none of these; nor can I send The notes by Bullen to her Tyrant penn'd In her authentic hand; nor in soft hours Lines writ by Rosamund in Clifford's, bowers. The lack of curious Signatures I moan, And want the courage to subscribe my own. TO DORA W , ON BEING ASKED BY HER FATHER ro WRITE IN HER ALBUM. An Album is a Banquet : from the store, In his intelligential Orchard growing. Your Sire might heap your board to overflowing: One shake of the Tree — 'twould ask no more To set a Salad forth, more rich than that Which Evelyn ■*• in his princely cookery fancied: Or that more rare, by Eve's neat hands enhanced. Where, a pleased guest, the Angelic Virtue sat. But like the all-grasping Founder of the Feast, Whom Nathan to the sinning king did tax. From his less wealthy neighbours he exacts ; Spares his own flocks, and takes the poor man's beast. Obedient to his bidding, lo, I am, A zealous, meek, contributory Lamb. IN THE ALBUM OF A CLERGYMAN'S LADY. An Album is a Garden, not for show , Planted, but use ; where wholesome herbs should grow. A Cabinet of curious porcelain, where No fancy enters, but what's rich or rare. A chapel, where mere ornamental things Are pure as crowns of saints, or angels' wings. A List of living friends; a holier Room For names of some since mouldering in the tomb, Whose blooming memories life's cold laws survive ; And, dead elsewhere, they here yet speak and live. Such, and so tender, should an Album be; And, Lady, such I wish this book to thee. * Acetaria, a Discourse of Sallets. by J. E. 1706. 634 ALBUM VEKSES. 635 IN THE ALBUM OF EDITH S . In Christian world Mary the garland wears ! Rkbecca 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 I Of Marthas, and of Abigails, few lines Have bragg'd in verse. Of coarsest household stuJBF Should homely Joan be fashion'd. 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. IN THE ALBUM OF ROTHA Q . A passing glance was all I caught of thee. In my own Enfield haunts at random roving. ■ Old friends of ours were with thee, faces loving ; Time short and salutations cursory, Though deep, and hearty. The familiar Name Of you, yet unfamiliar, raised in me Thoughts — what the daughter of that Man should be. Who call'd our Wordsworth friend. My thoughts did frame A growing Maiden, who, from day to dny Advancing still in stature, and in grace. Would all her lonely Father's griefs efface, And his paternal cares with usury pay I still retain the phantom, as I can ; And call the gentle image — Quillinan. IN THE ALBUM OF CATHERINE ORKNEY. Canadia ! boast no more the toils Of hunters for the furry spoils ; Your whitest ermines are but foils To brighter Catherine Orkney. That such a flower should ever burst From climes with rigorous winter curst ! — We bless you, that so kindly nurst ^ This flower, this Catherine Orkney. We envy not your proud display Of lake — wood — vast Niagara ; Your greatest pride we've borne away. How spare you Catherine Orkney ? That Wolfe on Heights of Abraham fell, To your reproach no more we tell: Canadia, you repaid us well With rearing Catherine Orkney. Britain, guard with tenderest care The charge allotted to your share : You've scarce a -native maid so fair, So good, as Catherine Orkney. IN THE ALBUM OF LUCY BARTON. Little Book, surnamed 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 the golden rules within ; Sayings fetch'd from sages old ; Laws which Holy Writ unfold, Worthy to be graved' 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 j Darker meanings of offence ; What but shades — be banish'd hence. Whitest thoughts in whitest dress, Candid meanings, best express Mind of quiet Quakeress. IN THE ALBUM OF MRS. JANE TOWERS. Lady unknown, who crav'st from me Unknown The trifle of a verse these leaves to grace. How shall I find fit matter ? with what face Address a face that ne'er to me was shown ? Thy looks, cones, gesture, manners, and what not Conjecturing, I wander in the dark. I know thee only Sister to Charles Clarke ! But at that name my cold muse waxes hot. And swears that thou art such a one as he, Warm, laughter-loving, with a touch of madness, Wild, glee-provoking, pouring oil of gladness From frank heart without guile. And, if thou bo The pure reverse of this, and I mistake — Demure one, I will like thee for his sake. IN THE ALBUM OF MISS Such goodness in your face doth shine, With modest look, without design. That I despair, poor pen of mine Can e'er express it. 636 MISCELLANEOUS. To give it words I feebly try ; My spirits fail me to supply Befitting language for't, and I Can only bless it ! But stop, rash verse ! and don't abuse A bashful Maiden's ear with news Of her own virtues. She'll refuse Praise sung so loudly. Of that same goodness you admire, The best part is, she don't aspire To praise — nor of herself desire To think too proudly. IN MY OWN ALBUM. Fresh clad from heaven in robes of white, A young probationer of light Thou wert, my soul, an album bright, A spotless leaf; but thought, and care, And friend and foe, in foul or fair. Have " written strange defeatures " there ; And Time with heaviest hand of all, Like that fierce writing on the wall, Hath stamp'd sad dates — he can't recall ; And error gilding worst designs — Like speckled snake that strays and shinee • Betrays his path by crooked lines; And vice hath left his ugly'blot ; And good resolves, a moment hot, Fairly began — but finish'd not; And fruitless, late remorse doth trace — Like Hebrew lore a backward pace — Her .irrecoverable race. Disjointed numbers ; sense unknit ; Huge reams of folly, shreds of wit; Compose the mingled mass of it. My scalded eyes no longer brook Upon this ink-blurr'd thing to look — Go, shut the leaves, and clasp the book. MISCELLANEOUS. ANGEL HELP.* This rare tablet doth include Poverty with Sanctitude. Past midnight this poor maid hath spun, And yet the work is not half none. Which must supply from earnings scant A feeble bed-rid parent's want. Her sleep-charged eyes exemption ask. And Holy hands take up the task ; Unseen the rock and spindle ply, And do her earthly drudgery. Sleep, saintly poor one ! sleep, sleep on ; And, waking, find thy labours done. Perchance she knows it by her dreams; Her eye hath caught the golden gleams, Angelic presence testifying, That round her everywhere are flying ; Ostents from which she may presume. That much of heaven is in the room. Skirting her own bright hair they run. And to the sunny add more sun : * Suggested by a drawing in the possession of Charles Aders, Esq., in which is represented the legend of a poor female Saint ; who, having spun past midnight, to maintain a bed-rid mother, has fallen asleep from fatigue, and Angels are finishing her work. In another part of the chamber, an angel is tending a lily, the emblem of purity. Now on that aged face they fix, Streaming from the Crucifix ; The flesh-clogg'd spirit dis.abusing. Death-disarming sleeps infusing, Prelibations, foretastes high. And equal thoughts to live or die. Gardener bright from Eden's bower, Tend with care that lily flower ; To its leaves and root infuse Heaven's sunshine. Heaven's dews. 'Tis a type, and 'tis a pledge. Of a crowning privilege. Careful as that lily flower. This Maid must keep her precious dower; Live a sainted Maid, or die Martyr to virginity. ON AN INFANT DYING AS SOON AS BORN. I SAW where in the shroud did lurk A curious frame of Nature's work. A flow'ret crushed in the bud, A nameless piece of Babyhood, Was in her cradle-coffin lying ; Extinct, with scarce the sense of dying : So soon to exchange the imprisoning womb For darker closets of the tomb ! MISCELLANEOUS. 637 She did but ope an eye, and put A clear beam forth, then straight up shut For the long dark : ne'er more to see Through glasses of mortality. Riddle of destiny, who can show What thy short visit meant, or know What thy errand here below? Shall we say, that Nature blind Check'd her hand, and changed her mind, Jnst when she had exactly wrought A finish'd pattern without fault ? Could she flag, or could she tire, Or lack'd she the Promethean fire (With her nine moons' long workings sioken'd) That should thy little limbs have quicken'd ? Limbs so firm, they seem'd to assure Life of health and days mature : Woman's self in miniature ! Limbs so fair, they might stipply (Themselves now but cold imagery) The Sculptor to make Beauty by. Or did the stern-eyed Fate descry, That babe, or mother, one must die ; So in mercy left the stock. And cut the branch; to save the shock Of young years widow'd; and the pain. When Single State comes back again To the lone man who, 'reft of wife. Thenceforward dra.gs a maimed life? The economy of Heaven is dark; And wisest clerks have miss'd the mark, Why Human Buds, like this, should fall, More brief than fly ephemeral, That has his day; while shrivell'd crones Stiffen with age to stocks and stones ; And crabbed use the conscience s^ars In sinners of an hundred years. Mother's prattle, mother's kiss, Baby fond, thou ne'er wilt miss. Rites, which custom does impose. Silver bells and baby clothes; Coral redder than those lips, Which pale death did late eclipse ; Music framed for infants' glee. Whistle never turn for thee ; Though thou want'st not, thou shalt have them. Loving hearts were they which gave them. Let not one be missing ; nurse. See them laid upon the hearse Of infant slain by doom perverse. Why should kings and nobles have Pictured trophies to their grave ; And we, churls, to thee deny Thy pretty toys with thee to lie, A more harmless vanity ? THE CHRISTENING-. Akrat'd — a half-angelic sight — In vests of pure Baptismal white, The Mother to the Font doth bring The little helpless nameless thing. With hushes soft and mild caressing. At once to get — a name and blessing. Close by the babe the Priest doth stand, The Cleansing Water at his hand. Which must assoil the soul within From every stain of Adam's sin. The infant eyei^ the mystic scenes. Nor knows what all this wonder means And now he smiles, as if to say " I am a Christian made this day ; " Now frighted clings to Nurse's hold, Shrinking from the water cold. Whose virtues, rightly understood, Are, as Bethesda's waters, good. Strange words — The World, The Flesh, The Devil — Poor Babe, what can it know of Evil ? But we must silently adore Mysterious truths, and not explore. Enough for him, in after-times. When he shall read these artless rhymes. If, looking back upon this day AVith quiet conscience, he can say — "I have in part redeem'd the pledge Of my Baptismal privilege ; And more and more will strive to flee All which my Sponsors kind did then renounce for me." THE YOUNG CATECHIST.* While this tawny Ethiop prayeth, Painter, who is she that stayeth By, with skin of whitest lustre. Sunny locks, a shining cluster, . Saint-like seeming to direct him To the Power that must protect hira ? Is she of the Heaven-born 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 stock of Scriptural 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. * A picture by Henry Meyer, Esq. C38 SONNETS. TO A YOUNG FRIEND. ON HER TWENTT-FIUST BIRTHDAY. Crown me a cheerful goblet, while I pray A blessing on thy years, young Isola ; Young, but no more a child. IIuw swift have flown To me thy girlish times, a woman grown Beneath my heedless eyes ! in vain I rack My fancy to believe the almanac, That speaks thee Twenty- One. Thou shouldst have still Remain'd a child, and at thy sovereign wili Gambol'd about our house, as in times past. Ungrateful Emma, to grow up so fast. Hastening to leave thy friends ! — for which intent. Fond Runagate, be this thy punishment: After some thirty years, spent in such bliss As this earth can afford, where still we miss Something of joy entire, may'st thou grow old As we whom thou hast left ! That wish was cold. far more aged and wrinkled, till folks say, Looking upon thee reverend in decay, " This Dame, for length of days, and virtues rare, With her respected Grandsire may compare." Grandchild of that respected Isola, Thou shouldst have had about thee on this day Kind looks of Parents, to congratulate Their Pride grown up to woman's grave estate. But they Save died, and left thee, to advance Thy fortunes how thou may'st, and owe to «hanee The friends which nature grudged. And thouwiltfind, Or make such, Emma, if I am not blind To thee and thy deservings. That last strain Had too much sorrow in it. Fill again Another cheerful goblet, while I say " Health, and twice health, to our lost Isola." SHE IS GOING. For their elder Sister's hair Martha does a wreath prepare Of bridal rose, ornate and gay : / To-morrow is the wedding day. She is going. Mary, youngest of the three. Laughing idler, full of glee, Arm in arm does fondly chain her. Thinking, poor trifler, to detain her — But she's going. Vox not, maidens, nor regret Thus to part with Margaret. Charms like yours can never stay Long within doors ; and one day You'll be going. SONNETS. HARMONY IN UNLIKENESS. By Enfield lanes, and Winchmore's verdant hill, Two lovely damsels cheer my lonely walk : The fair Maria, as a vestal, still ; And Emma brown, exuberant in talk. With soft and Lady speech the first applies The mild correctives that to grace belong To her redundant friend, who her defies AVith jest, and mad discourse, and bursts of song. differing Pair, yet sweetly thus agreeing, What music from your happy discord rises, ■ A¥hile your companion hearing each, and seeing, Nor this, nor that, but both together, prizes ; This lesson teaching, which our souls may strike, That harmonies may be in things unlike ! WRITTEN AT CAMBRIDGE. I WAS not train'd in Academic bowers. And to those learned streams I nothing owe Which copious from those twin fair founts do flowj Mine have been anything but studious hours. Yet can I fancy, wandering mid thy towers. Myself a nursling, Granta, of thy lap ; My brow seems tightening with the Doctor's cap, And I walk gow7ied ; feel unusual powers. Strange forms of logic clothe my admiring speech, Old Ramus' ghost is busy at my brain ; And my skull teems with notions infinite. Be still, ye reeds of Camus, while I teach Truths, which transcend the searching School-men's vein, And half had stagger'd that stout Stagirite ! TO A CELEBRATED FEMALE PERFORMER IN THE "BLIND BOY," Rare artist ! who with half thy tools, or none, Canst execute with ease thy curious art, And press thy powerfui'st meanings on the heart, Unaided by the eye, expression's throne I COMMENDATORY VERSES, ETC. 639 While each blind sense, intelligential grown Beyond its sphere, performs the eflfect of sight; Those orbs alone, wanting their proper might, All motionless and silent seem to moan The unseemly negligence of nature's hand, That left them so forlorn. What praise is thine, mistress of the passions ! artist fine ! Who dost our souls against our sense command, Plucking the horror from a sightless face, Lending to blank deformity a grace. WORK. Wno 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 that dry drudgery at the desk's dead wood ? Who but the Being unblest, alien from good, Sabbathless Satan! he who his unglad Task ever plies 'mid rotatory burningSy That round and round incalculably reel — For wrath divine hath made him like a wheel — In that red realm from which are no returniugs : Where toiling, and turmoiling, ever and aye, He, and his thoughts, keep pensive working-day. LEISURE. They talk of time, and of time's galling yoke, That like a mill-stone on man's mind doth press, Which only works and business can redress : Of divine Leisure such foul lies are spoke, Wounding- her fair gifts with calumnious stroke. But might I, fed with silent meditation, Assoiled live from that fiend Occupation — Jmprohus Labor, which my spirits hath broke — I'd drink of time's rich cup, and never surfeit: Fling in more days than went to make the gem That crown'd the white top of Methusalem : Yea, on my weak neck take, and never forfeit, Like Atlas bearing up the dainty sky, The heaven-sweet burthen of eternity. DE0S NOBIS H^C OTIA FECIT. TO SAMUEL ROGERS, ESQ. Rogers, of all the men that I have known But slightly, who have died, j'our Brother's loss Touch'd 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 sat; 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. THE GIPSY'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, Strain 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 Beldam energetical. And bann'd the ungiving door with lips prophetical. COMMENDATORY VEKSES, Etc. TO J. S. KNOWLES, ESQ., ON HIS TRAGEDY OP VIRGINIUS. T'WELVE years ago I knew thee, Knowles, and then Esteem'd you a perfect specimen Of those fine spirits warm-soul'd Ireland sends. To teach us colder English how a friend's Quick pulse should beat. I knew you brave, and plain. Strong-sensed, rough-witted, above fear or gain; But nothing further had the gift to espy. Sudden you re-appeared. With wonder I Hear my old friend (turn'd Shakspeare) read a scene 640 COMMENDATORY VERSES, ETC. Only to Ms inferior in the clean Passes of pathos : with such fence-like art — Ere we can see the steel, 'tis in our heart. Almost without the aid language affords, Your piece seems wrought. That huf&ng medium, words, (Which in the modern Tamburlaines quite sway Our shamed souls from their bias) in your play We scarce attend to. Hastier passion draws Our tears on credit : and we find the cause Some two hours after, spelling o'er again Those strange few words at ease, that wrought the pain. Proceed, old friend; and, as the year returns, Still snatch some new-old story from the urns Of long-dead virtue. We, that knew before Your worth, may admire, we cannot love you more. TO THE AUTHOR OF POEMS, PUBLISHED UNDER THE NAME OF BARRY CORNWALL. Let hate, or grosser heats, their foulness mask Under the vizor of a borrow'd name; Let things eschew the light deserving blame : No cause hast thou to blush for thy sweet task. " Marcian Colonna" is a dainty book; And thy "Sicilian Tale" may boldly pass; Thy " Dream" 'bove all, in which, as in a glass, On the great world's antique glories we may look. No longer then, as " lowly substitute. Factor, or Procter, for another's gains," Suffer the admiring world to be deceived; Lest thou thyself, by self of fame bereaved, Lament too late the lost prize of thy pains. And heavenly tunes piped through an alien flute. Verse-honouring Phoebus, Father of bright Bays, Must needs bestow on you both good and many, Who, building trophies of his Children's praise, Run their rich Zodiac through, not missing any. Dan Phoebus loves your book — trust me, friend Hone — The title only errs, he bids me say ; For while such art, wit, reading, there are shown, He swears, 'tis not a work of every day. TO THE EDITOR OF THE "EVERY-DAY BOOK." 1 LIKE you, and your book, ingenuous Hone ! In whose capacious all-embracing leaves The very marrow of tradition's shown ; And all that history — much that fiction — weaves. By every sort of taste your work is graced. Vast stores of modern anecdotes we find. With good old story quaintly interlaced — The theme as various as the reader's mind. Rome's lie-fraught legends you so truly paint — Yet kindly, — that the half-turn'd Catholic Scarcely forbears to smile at his own saint, And cannot curse the candid heretic. Rags, relics, witches, ghosts, fiends, crowd your page; Our fathers' mummeries we well pleased behold, And, proudly conscious of a purer age. Forgive some fopperies in the times of old. TO T. STOTHARD, ESQ., ON HIS ILLUSTRATIONS OF THE POEMS OF MR. ROGERS. CoNStrMMATE 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 pictur'd 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 talej" Did o'er my raw credulity prevail. Where Glums and Gawries wear raj'sterious 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. 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 furll Of the deform'd, 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's 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 oifspring ; a keen sense • Alike of benefit, and of offence, * Illustrations of the British Novelists. t Peter Wilkins. COMMENDATORY VERSES, ETC. 641 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 burn'd into her mind. If these, dear friend, a dowry can confer Kicher 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. [In a leaf of a quarto edition of the "Lives of the Saints, written in Spanish by the learnecl and reverend father, Alfonso Villegas, Divine, of the Order of St. Domiuick, set forth in English by John Heigham, Anno 1630," bought at a Catholic book-shop in Duke-street, Lincoln's Inn Fields, I found, carefully inserted, a painted flowei', seemiugly coeval with the book itself; and did not, for some time, discover that it opened in the middle, and was the cover to a very humble draught of a St. Anne, with the Virgin and Child; doubtless the performance of some poor but pious Catholic, whose meditations it assisted.] LIFT with reverent hand that tarnish'd flower, That shrines beneath her modest canopy Memorials dear to Romish piety ; Dim specks, rude shapes, of Saints ! in fervent hour The work perchance of some meek devotee, Who poor in worldly treasures to set forth The sanctities she worshipp'd to their worth. In this imperfect tracery might see Hints, that all Heaven did to her sense reveal. Cheap gifts best fit poor givers. We are told Of the. lone mite, the cup of water cold, That in their way approved the offerer's zeal. True love shows costliest, where the means are scant; And, in their reckoning, thoy abound, who want. THE SELF-ENCHANTED. I HAD a sense in dreams of a beauty rare. Whom Fate had spell-bound, and rooted there. Stooping, like some enchanted theme. Over the marge of that crystal stream, Where the blooming Greek, to Echo blind. With Self-love fond, had to waters pined. Ages had waked, and ages slept, And that bending posture still she kept; For her eyes she may not turn away, 'Till a fairer object shall pass that way 'Till an image more beauteous this world can show, Than her own which she sees in the mirror below. Pore on, fair Creature ! for ever pore, Nor dream to be disenchanted more : For vain is expectance, and wish in vain, 'Till a new Narcissus can come again. TO LOUISA M , WHOM I USED TO CALL " MONKET." LousiA, serious grown and mild, I knew you once a romping child. Obstreperous much and very wild. Then you would clamber up my knees, And strive with every art to tease, When every art of yours could please. Those things would scarce be proper now. But they are gone, I know not how, And woman's written on your brow. Time draws his finger o'er the scene; But I cannot forget between The Thing to me you once have been; Each sportive sally, wild escape, — The scoif, the bante-r, and the jape, — And antics of my gamesome Ape. 41 TRANSLATIONS. FKOM THE LATIN OF VINCENT BOURNE. THE BALLAD SINGERS. Where seven fair Streets to one tall Column* draw, Two Nymphs have ta'en their stand, in hats of straw ; Their yellow necks huge beads of amber grace, And by their trade they're of the Sirens' race : With cloak loose-pinn'd on each, that has been red, But long with dust and dirt discoloured Belies its hue ; in mud behind, before, Prom heel to middle leg becrusted o'er. One a small infant at the breast does bear; And one in her right hand her tuneful ware, Which she would vend. Their station scarce is taken. When youths and maids flock round. His stall forsaken. Forth comes a Son of Crispin, leathern- capt. Prepared to buy a ballad, if one apt To move his fancy offers. Crispin's sons Have, from uncounted time, with al(3 and buns, Cherish'd the gift of Song, which sorrow quells; And, working single in their low-rooft cells, Oft cheat the tedium of a winter's night AVith anthems warbled in the Muses' spight. — Who now hath caught the alarm ? the Servant Maid Hath heard a buzz at distance; and, afraid To miss a note, with elbows red comes out. Leaving his forge to cool, Pyracmon stout Thrusts in his unwash'd visage. He stands by, Who the hard trade of Porterage does ply With stooping shoulders. What cares he ? he sees The assembled ring, nor heeds his tottering knees. But pricks his ears up with the hopes of song. So, while the Bard of Rhodope his wrong Bewail'd to Proserpine on Thracian strings, The tasks of gloomy Orcus lost their stings, And stone-vext Sysiphus forgets his load. Hither and thither from the sevenfold road Some cart or waggon crosses, which divides The close-wedged audience; but, as when the tides * Seven Dials. To ploughing ships give way, the ship being past, They reunite, so these unite as fast. The older Songstress hitherto hath spent Her elocution in the argument Of their great Song in pmse ; to wit the woes Which Maiden true to faithless Sailor owes — Ah! "Wandering He!" — which now in loftier verse Pathetic they alternately rehearse. All gaping wait the event. This Critic opes His right ear to the strain. The other hopes To catch it better with his left. Long trade It were to tell, how the deluded Maid A victim fell. And now right greedily All hands are stretching forth the songs to buy, That are so tragical; which She, and She, Deals out, and singa the while ; nor can there be A breast so obdurate here, that will hold back His contribution from the gentle rack Of Music's pleasing tortui-e. Irus' self. The staff-propt Beggar, his thin gotten pelf Brings out from pouch, where squalid farthings rest. And boldly claims his ballad with the best. An old Dame only lingers. To her purse The penny sticks. At length, with harmless curse, " Give me," she cries. " I'll paste it on my wall, While the wall lasts, to show what ills befall Fond hearts, seduced from Innocency's way ; * How Maidens fall, and Mariners betray." TO DAVID COOK, OF THE PARISH OF ST. MARGARET'S, WESTMINSTER, WATCHMAN. For much good-natured verse received from thee, A loving verse take in return from me. "Good morrow to my masters," is your cry; And to our David " twice as good," say I. Not Peter's monitor, shrill Chanticleer, Crows the approach of dawn in notes more clear. Or tells the hours more faithfully. While night Fills half the world with shadows of affright, You with your lantern, partner of your round, Traverse the paths of Margaret's hallow'd bound. 642 TRANSLATIONS. 643 The tales of ghosts which old wives' ears drink up, The drunkard reeling home from tavern oup, Nor prowling robber, your firm soul appal; Arm'd with thy faithful staff, thou slight'st them all. But if the market gard'ner chance to pass. Bringing to town his fruit, or early grass. The gentle salesman you with candour greet And with reit'rated "good mornings" meet. Announcing your approach by formal bell. Of nightly weather you the changes tell; Whether the Moon shines, or her head doth steep In rain-portendiug clouds. When mortals sleep In downy rest, you brave the snows and sleet Of winter ; and in alley, or in street. Relieve your midnight progress with a verse. What though fastidious Phoebus frown averse On your didactic strain — indulgent Night AVith caution hath seal'd up both ears of Spite, And critics sleep, while you in staves do sound The praise of long-dead Saints, whose Days abound In wintry months ; but Crispin chief proclaim : Who stirs not at that Prince of Cobblers' name ? Profuse in loyalty some couplets shine, And wish long days to all the Brunswick line ! To youths and virgins they chaste lessons read; Teaeti wives and husbands how their lives to lead; Maids to be cleanly, footmen free from vice ; How death at last all ranks doth equalize; And, in conclusion, pray good years betall. With store of wealth, your " worthy masters all." For this and other tokens of good will, On boxing-day may store of shillings fill Your Christmas purse ; no householder give less. When at each door your blameless suit you press : And what you wish to us (it is but reason) Receive in turn — the compliments o' th' season ! ON A SEPULCHRAL STATUE OF AN INFANT SLEEPING. Beautiful Infant, who dost keep Thy posture here, and sleep'st a marble sleep. May the repose unbroken be. Which the fine Artist's hand hath lent to thee, While thou enjoy'st along with it That which no art, or craft, could ever hit, Or counterfeit to mortal sense. The heaven-infused sleep of Innocence ! EPITAPH ON A DOG. Poor Trus' faithful wolf-dog here I lie, That wont to tend my old blind master's steps. His guide and guard; nor, while my service lasted. Had he occasion for that staflT, with which He now goes picking out his path in fear Over the highways and crossings, but would plant Safe in the conduct of my friendly string, A firm foot forward still, till he had reach'd His poor seat on some stone, nigh where the tide Of passers-by in thickest confluence flow'd ; To whom with loud and passionate laments From morn to eve his dark estate he wail'd. Nor wail'd to all in vain : some here and there, The well-disposed and good, their pennies gave. I meantime at his feet obsequious slept; Not all-asleep in sleep, but heart and ear Prick'd up at his least motion, to receive At his kind hand my customary crumbs. And common portion in his feast of scraps ; Or when- night warn'd us homeward, tired and spent With our long day and tedious beggary. These were my manners, this my way of life. Till- age and slow disease me overtook, And sever'd from my sightless master's side. But lest the grace of so good deeds should die. Through tract of years in mute oblivion lost, This slender tomb of turf hath Irus rear'd. Cheap monument of no ungrudging hand. And with short verse inscribed it, to attest, In long and lasting union to attest. The virtues of the Beggar and his Dog. THE RIVAL BELLS. A TUNEFUL challenge rings from either side Of Thames' fair banks. Thy twice six Bells, St. Bride, Peal swift and shrill ; to which more slow reply The deep-toned eight of Mary Overy. Such harmony from the contention flows. That the divided ear no preference knows; Betwixt them both disparting Music's State, While one exceeds in number, one in weight. NEWTON'S PRINCIPIA. Great Newton's self, to whom the world's in debt, Owed to School Mistress sage his Alphabet ; But quickly wiser than his Teacher grown, Discover'd properties to her unknown ; Of A pZiis B, or minus, learn'd the use. Known Quantities from unknown to educe; And made — no doubt to that old dame's sur- prise — The Christ-Cross-Row his Ladder to the skies. Yet, whatsoe'er Geometricians say. Her Lessons were his true Principia ! 644 TRANSLATIONS. THE HOUSEKEEPER. The frugal snail, with fore-cast of repose, Carries his house with him, where'er he goes ; Peeps out — and if there comes a shower of rain, Retreats to his small domicile amain. Touch but a tip of him, a horn — 'tis well — He curls up in his sanctury shell. He's his own landlord, his own tenant ; stay- Long as he will, he dreads no Quarter Day. Himself he boards and lodges ; both invites. And feasts, himself; sleeps with himself o' nights. He spares the upholsterer trouble to procure Chattels; himself is his own furniture. And his sole riches. Wharesoe'er he roam — Knock when you will — he's sure to be at home. ON A DEAF AND DUMB ARTIST.^! And hath thy blameless life become A prey to the devouring tomb ? A more mute silence hast thou known, A deafness deeper than thine own. While Time was? and no friendly Muse, That mark'd thy life, and knows thy dues, Repair with quickening verse the breach, And write thee into light and speech ? The Power, that made the Tongue, restrain'd Thy lips from lies, and speeches feign'd ; Who made the Hearing, without wrong Did rescue thine from Siren's song. He4et thee see the ways of men, Which thou with pencil, not with pen, Careful Beholder, down didst note. And all their motley actions quote, Thyself unstain'd the while. From look Or gesture reading, more than book, In letter'd pride thou took'st no part, Contented with the Silent Art, Thyself as silent. Might I be As speechless, deaf, and good, as He ! THE FEMALE ORATORS. Nigh London's famous Bridge, a Gate more famed Stands, or once stood, from old Belinus named, So judged Antiquity ; and therein wrongs A name, allusive strictly to tioo Totigiies.f Her School hard by the Goddess Rhetoric opes, And gratis deals to Oyster-wives her Tropes. With Nereid green, green Nereid disputes, * Ben i am in Ferrers — Died A.D. 1732. f &linguis in the Latin. Replies, rejoins, confutes, and still confutes. One her coarse sense by metaphors expounds, And one in literalities abounds ; In mood and figure these keep up the din ; Words multiply, and every word tells in. Her hundred throats her bawling Slandor strains ; And unclothed Venus to her tongue gives reins In terms, which Demosthenic force outgo. And baldest jests of foul-mouth'd Cicero. Right in the midst great Ate keeps her stand. And from her sovereign station taints the land. Hence Pulpits rail ; grave Senates learn to jar; Quacks scold ; and Billingsgate infects the Bar. PINDARIC ODE TO THE TREAD-MILL. Inspire my spirit. Spirit of De Foe, That sang the Pillory, In loftier strains to show A more sublime Machine Than that, where thou wert seen, With neck out-streteht and shoulders ill awry. Courting coarse plaudits from vile crowd below — A most unseemly show ! In such a place Who could expose thy face. Historiographer of deathless Crusoe! That paint'st the strife And all the naked ills of savage life, Far above Rousseau ? Rather myself had stood In that ignoble wood. Bare to the mob, on holyday or high day. If nought else could atone For waggish libel, I swear on bible, I would have spared him for thy sake alone, Man Friday ! Our ancestors' were sour days, Great Master of Romance ! A milder doom had fallen to thy chance In our days : Thy sole assignment Some solitary confinement, (Not worth thy care a carrot,) Where in world-hidden cell Thou thy own Crusoe might have acted well, Only without the parrot; By sure experience taught to know, Whetlier the qualms thou mak'st him feel were truly such or no. GOING OR GONE. 645 But stay ! methinbs in statelier measure — A more companionable pleasure — I see thy steps the mighty Tread-Mill trace, (The subject of my song, Delay'ii however long,) And some of thine own race, To keep thee company, thou bring'st with thee along. There with thee go, Link'd in like sentence, With regulated pace and footing slow, Each old acquaintance, Rogue — harlot — thief — that live to future ages; Through many a labour'd tome, Rankly embalm'd in thy too natural pages. Faith, friend De Foe, thou art quite at home ! Not one of thy great offspring thou dost lack, From pirate Singleton to pilfering Jack. Here Flandrian Moll her brazen incest brags ; Vice-stript Roxana, penitent in rags. There points to Amy, treading equal chimes, The faithful handmaid to her faithless crimes. Incompetent my song to raise To its just height thy praise. Great Mill! That by thy motion proper ' (No thanks to wind, or sail, or working rill). Grinding that stubborn corn, the Human will, Turn'st out men's consciences, That were begrimed before, as clean and sweet As flour from purest wheat, Into thy hopper. All reformation short of thee but nonsense is, Or human, or divine. Compared with thee. What are the labours of that Jumping Sect, Which feeble laws connive at rather than respect? Thou dost not bump. Or jump. But ^mlk men into virtue ; betwixt crime And slow repentance giving breathing time. And leisure to be good; Instructing with discretion demi-reps How" to direct their steps. Thnu best Philosopher made out of wood ! Not that which framed the tub, AVhere sate the Cynic cub. With nothing in his bosom sympathetic; But from those groves derived, I deem. Whore Plato nursed his dream Of immortality ; Seeing that clearly Thy system all is merely Peripatetic. Thou to thy pupils dost such lessons give Of how to live With temperance, sobriety, morality, (A new art,) That froui thy school, by force of virtuous deeds. Each Tyro now proceeds A "Walking Stewart!" GOING OE. GONE. Fine merry franions. Wanton companions. My days are ev'n banyans With thinking upon ye ! How Death, that last stinger, Finis-writer, end-bringer, Has laid his chill finger. Or is laying on ye. There's rich Kitty Wheatley, With footing it featly That took me completely. She sleeps in the Kirk House; And poor Polly Perkin, AVhose Dad was still firking The jolly ale firkin, She's gone to the Work-house ; Fine Gard'ner, Ben Carter (In ten counties no smarter) Has ta'en his departure For Proserpine's orchards : And Lily, postilion. With cheeks of vermilion. Is one of a million That fill up the church-yards j And, lusty as Dido, Fat Clemitson's widow Flits now a small shadow By Stygian hid ford ; And good Master Clapton Has thirty years napt on, The ground he last hapt on, Intomb'd by fair Widford; And gallant Tom Dockwra, Of Nature's finest crockery, 646 FREE THOUGHTS ON SEVERAL EMINENT COMPOSERS. Now but thin air and mockery, Lurks by Avernus, Whose honest grasp of hand Still, while his life did stand, At friend's or foe's command. Almost did burn ns. Roger de Coverley Not more good man than he; Tet has he equally Push'd for Cocytus, With drivelling TTorral, And wicked old Dorrell. 'Gainst whom I've a quarrel, Whose end might affright us ! • Kindly hearts have I known ; Kindly hearts, they are flown ; Here and there if but one Linger yet un effaced. Imbecile tottering elves, Soon to be wreck'd on shelves. These scarce are half themselves, With age and care crazed. But this day Fanny Hutton Her last dress has put on ; Her fine lessons forgotten. She died, as the dunce died ; And prim Betsy Chambers, Decay'd in her members, No longer remembers Things, as she once did ; And prudent Miss Wither Not in jest now doth lokher. And soon must go — whither Nor I well, nor you know ; And flaunting Miss Waller, That soon must befall her. Whence none can recall her, Though proud once as Juno ! FREE THOUGHTS ON SEVERAL EMINENT COMPOSERS. SoiTE 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 through the world with comfort go. That never heard of Doctor Blow? So help me heaven, I hardly have ; And yet I eat, and drink, and shave. Like other people, if you watch it. And know no more of stave or crotchet. Than did the primitive 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 Cimarosa, 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 Hersehel, 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 choose '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, or Rossini, I shall not say a word to grieve 'em. Because thev're living ; so I leave 'em. THE WIFE'S TEIAL; OR, THE IXTEUDIXG WIDOW. WL 53ramatfc iioem. rOUNDED ON MR. CRABBE's TALE OF " THE CONFIDANT.' CHARACTERS. Me. Selbt, a Wiltshire Gentleman. I Lrcr, Sister to Sdby. ■ KaiheeixEj Wife to Sdhy. \ Mrs. Feajipton, A Widmo. Servants. Scene. — at Mr. Selbt/'s House, or in the grounds adjacent. Scene. — A Library. Mh. Selbt. Kaiherdte. Selhy. Do not too far mistake me, gentlest wife ; I meant to cliide your virtues, not yourself, And those too with allowance. I have not Been blest by thy fair side with five white years Of smooth and even wedlock, now to touch With any strain of harshness on a string Hath yielded me such music. 'Twas the quality Of a too grateful nature in my Katherine, That to the lame performance of some vows. And common courtesies of man to wife. Attributing too much, hath sometimes seem'd To esteem as favours, what in that blest union Are but reciprocal and trivial dues, As fairly yours as mine : 'twas this I thought Gently to reprehend. Kath. In friendship's barter The riches we exchange should hold some level. And corresponding worth. Jewels for toys Demand some thanks thrown in. You took me, sir. To that blest haven of my peace, your bosom. An orphan founder'd in the world's black storm. Poor, you have made me rich •. from lonely maiden, Your cherish'd and your full-accompanied wife. Selhy. But to divert the subject: Kate too fond, I would not wrest your meanings ; else that word Accompanied, and full-accompanied too. Might raise a doubt in some men, that their wives Haply did think their company too long; And over-company, we know by proof, Is worse than no attendance. Kath. I must guess, Tou speak this of the widow — Selhy. 'Twas a bolt At random shot; but if it hit, believe me, I am most sorry to have wounded you Through a friend's side. I know not how we have swerved From our first talk. I was to caution you Against this fault of a too grateful nature : Which, for some girlish obligations past, In that relenting season of the heart, When slightest favours pass for benefits Of endless binding, would entail upon you An iron slavery of obsequious duty To the proud will of an imperious woman. Kath. The favours are not slight to her I owe. Selhy. Slight or not slight, the tribute she exacts Cancels all dues — [a voice wUhin.. even now I hear her call you In such a tone, as lordliest mistresses Expect a slave's attendance. Prithee, Kat^, Let her expect a brace of minutes or so. Say you are busy. Use her by degrees To some less hard exactions. Kath. . I conjure you. Detain me not. I will return — 647 648 THE WIFE'S TRIAL; OR, THE INTRUDING WIDOW. Selby. ■ Sweet wife, Use thy own pleasure— i^''^ Katherine. but it troubles me. A visit of three days, as was pretended. Spun to ten tedious weeks, and no hint given When she will go! I would this buxom Widow Were a thought handsomer! I'd fairly try My Katherine's constancy ; make desperate love In seeming earnest; and raise up such broils, That she, not I, should be the fift to warn The insidious guest depart. Re-enter Kathekine. So soon return'd I What was our Widow's will ? Kath. A trifle, sir. Selhy. Some toilet service — to adjust her head, Or help to stick a pin in the right place — Kath. Indeed 'twas none of these. Selly. Or new vamp up The tarnish'd cloak she came in. I have seen her Demand such service from thee as her maid, Twice told to do it, would blush angry-red, And pack her few clothes up. Poor fool ! fond slave ! ■ And yet my dearest Kate! — This day at least (It is our wedding-day) we spend in freedom, And will forget our Widow. — Philip, our coach — Why weeps my wife? You know, I promised you An airing o'er the pleasant Hampshire downs To the blest cottage on the green hill side. Where first I told my love. I wonder much. If the crimson parlour hath exchanged its hue For colours not so welcome. Faded though it be, It will not show less lovely than the tinge Of this faint red, contending with the pale, Where once the full-flush'd health gave to this cheek An apt resemblance to the fruit's warm side. That bears my Katherine's name. — Our carriager> Philip. Enter a Servant. Now, Robin, what make you here ? Servant. May it please you. The coachman has driven out with Mrs. Frampton. Selhy. He had no orders — Servant. None, sir, that I know of. But from the lady, who expects some letter At the next Post Town. Selby. Gro, Robin. [Exit Servant. How is this? Kath. I came to tell you so, butfear'd your anger — Selby. It was ill done though of this Mistress Frampton, This forward A¥idow. But a ride's poor loss- Imports not much. In to your chamber, love. Where you with music may beguile the hour. While I am tossing over dusty tomes. Till our most reasonable friend returns. Kath. I am all obedience. [Exit Katheeine. Selby. ■ Too obedient, Kate, And to too many masters. I can hardly On such a day as this refrain to speak My sense of this injurious friend, this pest, This household evil, this close-clinging fiend. In rough terms to my wife. 'Death, my own servants Controll'd above me! orders countermanded! What next? [Servant enters and announces the Sister Enter Luct. Sister! I know you are come to welcome This day's return. 'Twas well done. Lucy. You seem ruffled. In years gone by, this day was used to be The smoothest of the year. Your honey turn'd So soon to gall? Selby. Gall'd am I, and with cause, And rid to death, yet cannot get a riddance. Nay, scarce a ride, by this proud Widow's leave. Lucy. Something you wrote me of a Mistress Frampton. Selhy. She came at first a meek admitted guest, Pretending a short stay; her whole deportment Seem'd as of one obliged. A slender trunk, The wardrobe of her scant and ancient clothing. Bespoke no more. But in few days her dress. Her looks, were proudly changed. And now she flaunts it In jewels stolen or borrow'd from my wife; ' Who owes her some strange service, of what nature I must be kept in ignorance. Katherine's meek And gentle spirit cowers beneath her eye, As spell-bound by some witch. Lticy. Some mystery hangs on it. How bears she in her carriage towards yourself? Selhy. As one who fears, and yet not greatly cares For my displeasure. Sometimes I have thought, A secret glance would tell me she could love, If I but gave encouragement. Before me She keeps some moderation ; but is never Closeted with mj' wife, but in the end I find my Katherine in briny tears. From the small chamber, where she first was lodged, The gradual fiend by specious wriggling arts Has now ensconced herself in the best part Of this large mansion; calls the left wing her own: Commands my servants, equipage. — I hear Her hated tread. What makes she back so soon ? Enter Mrs. !Frampton. Afrs. F. 0, I am jolter'd, bruised, and shook to death. With your vile Wiltshire roads. The villain Philip Chose, on my conscience, the perversest tracks. And stoniest hard lanes in all the county. Till I was fain get out, and so walk back. My errand unperform'd at Andover. Lucy. And I shall love the knave for ever after. [Asidt, Mrs. F. A friend with you ! Selhy. My eldest sister, Lucy, THE WIFE'S TRIAL; OR, THE INTRUDING WIDOW. 649 Come to congratulate this returning morn. — Sister, my wife's friend, Mistress Frampton. Mrs. F. Pray, Be seated, for your brother's sake, you are welcome. I had thought this day to have spent in homely fashion With the good couple, to whose hospitality I stand so far indebted. But your coming Makes it a feast. Lucy. She does the honours naturally — \_Aside. -Selhy. As if she were the mistress of the house — [Aside. Mrs. F. I love to be at home with loving friends. To stand on ceremony with obligations. Is to restrain the obliger. That old coach, though, Of yours jumbles one strangely. Selby. I shall order An equipage soon, more easy to you, madam — Lucy. To drive her and her pride to Lucifer, I hope he ineans. [Aside. Mrs. F. I must go trim myself; this humbled garb Would shame a wedding-feast. I have your leave For a short absence ? — and your Katherine — Selby. You'll find her in her closet — Mrs. F Fare you well, then. lExit. Selby. How like you her assurance ? Lucy. Even so well, That if this Widow were my guest, not yours. She should have coach enough, and scope to ride. My merry groom should in a trice convey her To Sarum Plain, and set her down at Stonehenge, To pick her path through those antiques at leisure; She should take sample of our Wiltshire flints. 0, be not lightly jealous ! nor surmise, That to a wanton bold-faced thing like this Your modest shrinking Katherine could impart Secrets of any worth, especially Secrets that touch'd your peace. If there be aught. My life upon't, 'tis but some girlish story Of a First Love; which even the boldest wife Might modestly deny to a husband's ear. Much more your timid and too sensitive Katherine. Selby. I think it is no more ; and will dismiss My further fears, if ever I have had such. Iiucy. Shall we go walk? I'd see your gardens, brother; And how the new trees thrive, I recommended. Your Katherine is engaged now — Selby. I'll attend you. [EoKwU. Scene. — Servants^ Hall. Housekeeper, Philip, and others, laughing. Housekeeper. Our Lady's guest, since her short ride, seems ruffled, And somewhat in disorder. Philip, Philip, I do suspect some roguery. Your mad tricks Will some day cost you a good place, I warrant. Philip. Good Mistress Jane, our serious house- keeper. And sage Duenna to the maids and scullions. We must have leave to laugh ; our brains are younger And undisturb'd with care of keys and pantries. We are wild things. Butler. Good Philip, tell us all. All. Ay, as you live, tell, tell — Philip. Mad fellows, you shall have it. The Widow's bell rang lustily and loud — Butler. I think that no one can mistake her ringing. Waiting-maid. Our Lady's ring is soft sweet musio to it. More of entreaty hath it than command. Philip). I lose my story, if you interrupt me thus. The bell, 1 say, rang fiercely ; and a voice More shrill than bell, call'd out for "Coachman Philip !" I straight obey'd, as 'tis my name and office. "Drive n^e," quoth she, "to the next market town, Where I have hope of letters." I made haste; Put to the horses, saw her safely coach'd. And drove her — Waiting -maid. By the straight high road to Andover, I guess — Philip. Pray, warrant things within your knowledge. Good Mistress Abigail ; look to your dressings. And leave the skill in horses to the coachman. Butler. He'll have his humour ; best not inter- rupt him. Philip. 'Tis market-day, thought I ; and the poor beasts, Meeting such droves of cattle and of people. May take a fright; so down the lane I trundled. Where Goodman Dobson's crazy mare was founder'd. And where the flints were biggest, and ruts widest, By ups and downs, and such bone-cracking motions We flounder'd on a furlong, till my madam. In pelicy, to save the few joints left her, Betook her to her feet, and there we parted. All. Ha! ha! ha! Butler. Hang her, 'tis pity such as she should ride. Waiting-maid. I think she is a witch; I have tired myself out With sticking pins in her pillow; still she 'scapes them — Butler. And I with helping her to mum for claret, But never yet could cheat her dainty palate. Housekeeper. Well, well, she is the guest of our good Mistress, And so should be respected. Though, I think Our master cares not for her company. He would ill brook we should express so much By rude discourtesies, and short attendance, Being but servants. ^ {A Bell rings furiously.) 'Tis her bell speaks now ; Good, good, bestir yourselves : who knows who's wanted ? Butler. But 'twas a merry trick of Philip coachman. [Exeunt. 650 THE WIFE'S TRIAL ; OR, THE INTRUDING WIDOW. Scene. — Mrs. Selhy^s Chamber. Mrs. Frampion, Katherine, wmidng. F. I am thinking, child, how contrary our fates Have traced our lots through life. — Another needle, This works untowardly. — An heiress born To splendid prospects, at our common school I was as one above you all, not of you ; Had my distinct prerogatives ; my freedoms, Denied to you. Pray, listen — Kath. I must hear. What you are pleased to speak — how my heart sinks here ! \_Aside. Mrs. F. My chamber to myself, my separate maid. My coach, and so forth. — Not that needle, simple one. With the great staring eye fit for a Cyclops ! Mine own are not so blinded with their griefs. But I could make a shift to thread a smaller. A cable or a camel might go through this, And never strain for the passage. Kath. I will fit you. — Intolerable tyranny ! lAside. Ilrs. F. Quick, quick ; You were not once so slack. — As I was saying, Not a young thing among ye, but observed me Above the mistress. Who but I was sought to In all your dangers, all your little difBculties, Tour girlish scrapes ? I was the scape-goat still, , To fetch you off ; kept all your secrets, some. Perhaps, since then — Kath. No more of that, for mercy. If you'd not have me, sinking at your feet. Cleave the cold earth for comfort. [Kneels. Mrs F. This to me ? This posture to your friend had better suited The orphan Katherine in her humble school-days To the then rich heiress, than the wife of Selby, Of wealthy Mr. Selby, To the poor widow Frampton, sunk as she is. Come, come, 'Twas something, or 'twas nothing, that I said ; I did not mean to fright you, sweetest bed-fellow ! You once were so, but Selby now engrosses you. I'll make him give you up a night or so ; In faith I will : that we may lie, and talk Old tricks of school-days over. Kath. Hear me, madam — Mrs F. Not by that name. Your friend — Kath. My truest friend. And saviour of my honour ! Mrs. F. This sounds better; You still shall find me such. Kath. That you have graced Our poor house with your presence hitherto. Has been my greatest comfort, the sole solace Of my forlorn and hardly guess'd estate. You have been pleased To accept some trivial hospitalities In part of payment of a long arrear I owe to you, no less than for my life. Mrs. F. You speak my services too large. Kath. Nay, less; For what an abject thing were life to me Without your silence on my dreadful secret ! And I would wish the league we had renew'd Might be perpetual — Mrs. F. Have a care, fine madam ! \_Aside Kath. That one house still might hold us. Bui my husband Has shown himself of late — Mrs. F. How, Mistress Selby ? Kath. Not, not impatient. You misconstrue him. He honours, and he loves, he must love The friend of his wife's youth. But there are moods, In which — Mrs. F. I understand you; — in which husbands. And wives that love, may wish to be alone. To nurse the tender fits of new-born dalliance. After a five years' wedlock. Kath. Was that well. Or charitably put? do these pale cheeks Proclaim a wanton blood ? This wasting form Seem a fit theatre for Levity To play his love-tricks on ; and act such follies, As even in Afi'ection's first bland Moon Have less of grace than pardon in best wedlocks ? I was about to say, that there are times. When the most frank and sociable man May surfeit on most loved society^ Preferring loneness rather — Mrs. F. To my company — Kath. Ay, yours, or mine, or any one's. Nay, take Not this unto yourself. Even in the newness Of our first married loves 'twas something so. - For solitude, I have heard my Selby say. Is to the mind as rest to the corporeal functions ; And he would call it oft, the day's soft sleep. Mrs. F. What is your drift? and whereto tends this speech, Rhetorically labour'd ? Kath. That you would Abstain from our house a month, a week ; I make request but for a single day. Mrs. F. A month, a week, a day ! A single hour Is every week, and month, and the long year, And all the years to come ! My footing here, Slipt once, recovers never. From the state Of gilded roofs, attendance, luxuries. Parks, gardens, sauntering walks, or wholesome rides. To the bare cottage on the withering moor. Where I myself am servant to myself. Or only waited on by blackest thoughts — I sink, if this be so. No; here I sit. Kath. Then I am lost for ever ! Sinks at her feci — curtain drops. THE WIFE'S TRIAL ; OR, THE INTRUDING WIDOW. C51 Scene. — An Apartment contiguous to the last. Selbt, as if listening. Selhy. The sounds have died away. What am I changed to ? What do I here, list'ning like to an abject, Or heartless wittol, that must hear no good, If he hear aught? "This shall to the ear of your husband." It was the Widow's word. I guess'd some mystery, And the solution with a vengeance comes. What can my wife have left untold to me, That must be told by proxy ? I begin Ta call in doubt the course of her life past Under my very eyes. She hath not been good, Not virtuous, not discreet; she hath not outrun My wishes stillwith prompt and meek observance. Perhaps she is not fair, sweet- voiced; her eyes Not like the dove's; all this as well may be, As that she should entreasure up a secret In the peculiar closet of her breast. And grudge it to my ear. It is my right To claim the halves in any truth she owns. As much as in the babe I have by her; Upon whose face henceforth I fear to look, Lest I should fancy in its innocent brow Some strange shame written. Enter Lucy. Sister, an anxious word with you. From out the chamber, where my wife but now Held talk with her encroaching friend, I heard (Not of set purpose heark'ning, but by chance) A voice of chiding, answer'd by a tone Of replication, such as the meek dove Makes^ when the kite has clutch'd her. The high Widow Was loud and stormy. I distinctly heard One threat pronounced — "Your husband shall know all." I am no listener, sister ; and I hold A secret, got by such unmanly shift. The pitiful'st of thefts ; but what mine ear, I not intending it, receives perforce, I count my lawful prize. Some subtle meaning Lurks in this fiend's behaviour; which, by force Or fraud, I must make mine. Lucy. The gentlest means Are still the wisest. What, if you should press Your wife to a disclosure ? Selby. I have tried All gentler means ; thrown out low hints, which, though Merely suggestions, still have never fail'd To blanch her cheek with fears. Roughlier to insist, Would be to kill, where I but meant to heal. Lucy. Your own description gave that Widow out As one not much precise, nor over coy, And nice to listen to a suit of love. What if you feign'd a courtship, putting on, (To work the secret from her easy faith,) For honest ends, a most dishonest seeming? Selby. I see your drift, and partly meet your counsel. But must it not in me appear prodigious, To say the least, unnatural, and suspicious, To move hot love, where I have shown cool scorn. And undissembled looks of blank aversion ? Lucy. Vain woman is the dupe of her own charms, And easily credits the resistless power. That in besieging beauty lies, to cast down The slight-built fortress of a casual hate. Selby. I am resolved — Lucy. Success attend your wooing ! Selby. And I'll about it roundly, my wise sister. [Exeunt, Scene. — Tlie Library. Mr. Selby. Mrs. Frampton. Selby. A fortunate encounter, Mistress Frampton. My purpose was, if you could spare so much From j'our sweet leisure, a few words in private. 3Irs. F. What mean his alter'd tones? These looks to me. Whose glances yet he has repell'd with coolness? Is the wind changed? I'll veer about with it, And meet him in all fashions. [Aside. All my leisure, Feebly bestow'd upon my kind friends here. Would not express a tithe of the obligements I every hour incur. Selby. ■ No more of that. I know not why, my wife hath lost of late Much of her cheerful spirits. Mrs. F. It was my topic To-day; and every day, and all day long, I still am chiding with her. " Child," I said. And said it pretty roundly — it may be I was too peremptory — we elder school-fellows, Presuming on the advantage of a year Or two, which, in that tender time, seem'd much. In after years, much like to elder sisters, Are prone to keep the authoritative Style, When time has made the difference most ridiculous — • Selby. The observation 's shrewd. Mrs. F. " Child," I was saying, " If some wives had obtain'd a lot like yours," And then perhaps I sigh'd, "they would not sit In corners moping, like to sullen moppets. That want their will, but dry their eyes, and look Their cheerful husbands in the face," perhaps I said, their Selbys, " with proportion'd looks Of honest joy." Selby. You do suspect no jealousy? Mrs. F. What is his im-port ? Whereto tends his speech ? [Aside. Of whom, or what, should she be jealous, sir? Selby. I do not know, but women have their fancies ; And underneath a cold indifference, Go:2 THE WIFE'S TEIAL; OR, THE INTEUDING WIDOW. Or show of some distaste, husbands have mask'd A grciving fondness for a female friend, AVhich the wife's eye was sharp enough to see. Before the friend had wit to find it out. You do not quit us soon ? Ifrs. F. 'Tisaslfind; Your Katherine profits by my lessons, sir. — Means this man honest? Is there no deceit ? [Aside Selby. She cannot choose. — Well, well, I have been thinking, And if the matter were to do again — Mm. F. What matter, sir ? Selhy. This idle bond of wedlock ; These sour-sweet briars, fetters of harsh silk ; T might have made, I do not say a better, But a more .fit choice in a wife. Mra.F. The parch'd ground. In hottest Julys, drinks not in the showers More greedily than I his words ! \_Aside. Selby. My humour Is to be frank and jovial ; and that man Aifects me best, who most reflects me in My most free temper. I\Trs. F. Were you free to choose. As jestingly I'll put the supposition, ' Without a thought reflecting on your Katherine, What sort of Woman would you make your choice? Selhy. I like your humour and will meet your jest. She should be one about my Katherine's age ; But not so old, by some ten years, in gravity, One that would meet my mirth, sometimes outrun it ; No muling, pining moppet, as you said. Nor moping maid that I must still be teaching The freedoms of a wife all her life after : But one that, having worn the chain before, (And worn it lightly, as report gave out,) Enfranchised from it by her poor fool's death. Took it not so to heart that I need dread To die myself, for fear a second time To wet a widow's eye. Mrs. F. Some widows, sir, Hearing you talk so wildly, would be apt To put strange misconstruction on your words. As aiming at a Turkish liberty. Where the free husband has his several mates, His Penseroso, his Allegro wife, To suit his sober or his frolic fit. Selhy. How judge you of that latitude? J//-S. F. As one, In European customs bred, must judge. Had I Been born a native of the liberal East, T might have thought as they do. Yet I knew A married man that took a second wife, And (the man's circumstances duly weigb'd, With all their bearings) the considerate world Nor much approved, nor much condenin'd the deed. Selby. You move my wonder strangely. Pray, proceed. Mrs. F. An eye of wanton liking he had placed Upon a Widow, who liked him again, Bi.t stood on terms of honourable love. And scrupled wronging his most virtuous wife — When to their ears a lucky rumour ran. That this demure and saintly-seeming wife Had a first husband living ; with the which Being question'd, she but faintly could deny. "A priest indeed there was; some words had pass'd, But scarce amounting to a marriage rite. Her friend was absent; she supposed him dead; And, seven years parted, both were free to choose." Selby. What did the indignant husband? Did he not With violent handlings stigmatise the cheek Of the deceiving wife, who had entail'd Shame on their innocent babe? Mrs. F. < He neither tore His wife's locks nor his own; but wisely weighing His own offence with hers in equal poise, And woman's weakness 'gainst the strength of man, Came to a calm and witty compromise. He coolly took his gay-faced widow home, Made her his second wife; and still the first Lost few or none of her prerogatives. The servants call'd her mistress still ; she kept The keys, and had the total ordering Of the house affairs; and, some slight toys excepted, Was all a moderate wife would wish to be. Selby. A tale full of dramatic incident ! — And if a man should put it in a play, How should he name the parties ? 3Irs. F. The man's name Through time I have forgot — the widow's too ; — But his first wife's first name, her maiden one, Was — not unlike to that your. Katherine bore, Before she took the honor'd style of Selby. Selby. A dangerous meaning in your riddle lurks. One knot is yet unsolved ; that told, this strange And most mysterious drama ends. The name Of that first husband — Unter Lucy. Ifrs. F. Sir, your pardon — The allegory fits your private ear. Some half hour hence, in the garden's secret walk. We shall have leisure. {Exit. Selby. Sister, whence come you ? Lucy. From your poor Katherine's chamber, where she droops In sad presageful thoughts, and si%hs, and weeps. And seems to pray by turns. At times she looks As she would pour her secret in my bosom — Then starts, as I have seen her, at the mention Of some immodest act. At her request, I left her on her knees. Selby. The fittest posture : For great has been her fault to Heaven and me. She married me with a first husband living, Or not known not to be so, which, in the judgment Of any but indifferent honesty. Must be esteem'd the same. The shallow Widow, Caught by my arl", under a riddling veil I Too thin to hide her meaning, hath confess'd all. THE WIFE'S TRIAL; OR, THE INTRUDING WIDOW. 653 Your coming in broke off the conference, When she was ripe to tell the fatal name That seals my wedded doom. Luci/. Was she so forward To pour her hateful meanings in your ear At the first hint? Selhy. Her newly flatter'd hopes Array'd themselves at first in forms of doubt; And with a female caution she stood off Awhile, to read the meaning of my suit, Which with such honest seeming I enforced. That her cold scruples soon gave way; and now She rests prepared, as mistress, or as wife, To seize the place of her betrayed friend — My much offending, but more suffering, Katherine. Lucy. Into what labyrinth of fearful shapes My simple project has conducted you — Were but my wit as skilful to invent A clue to lead you forth !— I call to mind A letter which your wife received from the Cape, Soon after you were married, with some circumstances Of mysterj' too. Selby. I well remember it. That letter did confirm the truth (she said) Of a friend's death, which she had long fear'd true, But knew not for a fact. A youth of promise She gave him out — a hot adventurous spirit — That had set sail in quest of golden dreams, And cities in the heart of Central Afric ; But najned no names, nor did I care to press My question further, in the passionate grief She show'd at the receipt. Might this be he ? Lucy. Tears were not all. When that first shower was past. With elasp'd hands she raised her eyes to Heav'n, As if in thankfulness for some escape. Or strange deliverance, in the news implied. Which sweeten'd that sad news. Selhy. Something of that I noted also — Lucy. In her closet once. Seeking some other trifle, I espied A ring, in mournful characters deciphering The death of " Robert Halford, aged two And twenty." Brother, I am not given To the confident use of wagers, which I hold Unseemely in a .woman's argument; But I am strangely tempted now to risk A thousand pounds out of my patrimony, (And let my future husband look to it, If it be lost,) that this immodest Widow Shall name the name that tallies with that ring; Selby. That wager lost, I should be rich indeed — Rich in my rescued Kate — rich in my honour, Which now was bankrupt. Sister, I accept Your merry wager, with an aching heart For very fear of winning. 'Tis the hour That I should meet my Widow in the walk. The south side of the garden. On some pretence Lure forth my Wife that way, that she may witness Our seeming courtship. Keep us still in sight, Yourselves unseen; and by some sign I'll give, (A finger held up, or a kerchief waved,) You'll know your wager won — then break upon us. As if by chance. Lucy. I apprehend your meaning — Selby. And may you prove a true Cassandra here. Though my poor acres smart fcr't, wagering sister I , [Exeunt. Scene. — Mrs. Sdby'-s Chamber. Mrs. Feami'ton, Katherine. 3]rs. F. Did I express myself in terms so strong? Knth. As nothing could have more affrighted me. J//-S. F. Think it a hurt friend's jest, in retribution Of a suspected cooling hospitality. And, for my staying here, or going hence, (Now I remember something of our argument, Selby and I can settle that between us. You look amazed. What if your husband, child, Himself has courted me to stay ? Katli. You move My wonder and my pleasure equally. 3Ir8. F. Yes, courted me to stay, waived all ob- jections. Made it a favour to yourselves ; not me, His troublesome guest, as you surmised. Child, child, When I recall his flattering welcome, I Begin to think the burden of my presence Was — Kcdh. What, for Heaven — Mrs. F. A little, little spiee Of jealousy — that's all — an honest pretext, No wife need blush for. Say that you should see, (As oftentimes we widows take such freedoms. Yet still on this side virtue,) in a jest Your husband pat me on the cheek, or steal A kiss, while you were by, — not else, for virtue's sake. KaiJi. I could endure all this, thinking my husband Meant it in sport — J/rs. F. But if in downright earnest (Putting myself out of the question here) Your Selby, as I partly do suspect, Own'd a divided heart — KatJi. My own would break — Ifrs. F. Why, what a blind and witless fool it is, That will not see its gains, its infinite gains Kath. Gain in a loss. Or mirth in utter desolation ! 3Irs. F. He doating on a face — suppose it mine, Or any other's tolerably fair — What need you care about a senseless secret ? Kath. Perplex'd and fearful woman ! I in part Fathom your dangerous meaning. You have broke The worse than iron band, fretting the soul, By which you held me captive. Whether my husband Is what you gave him out, or your fool'd fancy But dreams he is so, either way I am free. 3Irs. F. It talks it bravely, blazons out its shame; A very heroine while on its knees ; 654 THE WIFE'S TRIAL; OR, THE INTRUDING WIDOW. Rowe's Penitent, an absolute Calista? Kath. Not to thy wretched self these tears are falling ; But to my husband, and offended Heaven, Some drops are due — and then I sleep in peace, Relieved from frightful dreams, my dreams though sad. [^Exit. Mrs. F. I have gone too far. Who knows but in this mood She may forestall my story, win on Selby By a frank confession ? — • and the time draws on For our appointed meeting. The game's desperate. For which I play. A moment's difference May make it hers or mine. I fly to meet him. \_Exit. Scene. — A garden. Mr. Selbt. Mrs. Frampion. Selhy. I am not so ill a guesser, Mrs Frampton, Not to conjecture, that some passages In your unfinish'd story, rightly interpreted. Glanced at my bosom's peace ; You knew my wife ? Mrs. F. Even from her earliest school days — What of that ? Or how is she eoncern'd in my fine riddles, Framed for the hour's amusement? Selby. By my hopes Of my new interest conceived in you. And by the honest passion of my heart. Which not obliquely I to you did hint; Come from the clouds of misty allegory. And in plain language let me hear the worst. Stand I disgraced, or no ? Mrs. F. Then, by my hopes Of my new, interest conceived in you, And by the kindling passion in my breast. Which through my riddles you had almost read, Adjured so strongly, I will tell you all. In her school years, then bordering on fifteen Or haply not much past, she loved a youth — Selby. My most ingenuous AVidow. — Mrs. F. Met him oft By stealth, where I still of the party was — Selhy- Prime confidant to all the school, I warrant. And general go-between — [Aside. Mrs. F. One morning he came In breathless haste. "The ship was under sail, Or in a few hours would be, that must convey Him and his destinies to barbarous shores. Where, should he perish by inglorious hands, It would be consolation in his death To have call'd his Katherine his." Selby. Thus far the story Tallies with what I hoped. [Aside. Mrs. F. Wavering between The doubt of doing wrong, and losing him; And my dissuasions not o'er hotly urged. Whom he had flatter'd with the bride-maid's part; — Selby. I owe my subtle Widow, then, for this. [Aside. Ifrs. F. Briefly, we went to church. The ceremony Scarcely was huddled over, and the ring Yet cold upon her finger, when they parted — He to his ship ; and we to school got back. Scarce miss'd, before the dinner-bell could ring. Selby. And from that hour — Mrs. F. Nor sight, nor news of him, For aught that I could hear, she e'er obtain'd. Selby. Like to a man that hovers in suspense Over a letter just received, on which The black seal hath impress'd its ominous token, Whether to open it or no, so I Suspended stand, whether to press my fate Further, or check ill curiosity. That tempts me to more loss. — The name, the name Of this fine youth ? 3Irs. F. What boots it, if 'twere told; Selby. Now, by our loves. And by my hopes of happier wedlocks, some day To be acoomplish'd, give me his name ! Mrs. F. 'Tis no such serious matter. It was — Huntingdon. Selby. How have three little syllables pluck'd from me A world of countless hopes ! — [Aside. Evasive Widow. Ifrs. F. How, sir! — I like not this. [Asid/i. Selby. No, no, I meant Nothing but good to thee. That other woman. How shall I call her but evasive, false. And treacherous? — by the trust I place in thee, Tell me, and tell me truly, was the name As you pronounced it ? Mrs. F. Huntingdon — the name. Which his paternal grandfather assumed. Together with the estates of a remote Kinsman : but our high-spirited youth — Selby. Yes — Mrs. F. Disdaining For sordid pelf to truck the family honours, At risk of the lost estates, resumed the old style, And answer'd only to the name of — Selby. AVhaf — 3frs. F. Of Halford — Selby. A Huntingdon to Halford changed so soon !. Why, then I see, a witch hath her good spells. As well as bad, and can by a backward charm Unrufile the foul storm she has just been raising [Aside. He makes the signal. My frank, fair-spoken Widow ! let this kiss, AVhich yet aspires no higher, speak my thanks, Till I can think on greater. Enter Lxict aiid Katherine. Mrs. F. Interrupted! Selby. My sister here ! and see, where with her comes My serpent gliding in an angel's form, To taint the new-born Eden of our joys. Why should we fear them ? We'll not stir a foot. Nor coy it for their pleasures. [He courts tlie Widow. THE WIFE'S TRIAL ; OR, THE INTRUDING WIDOW. 655 Lucy (to Katherine). This your free, And sweet ingenuous confession, binds me For ever to you ; and it shall go hard, But it shall fetch you back your husband's heart, That now seems blindly straying ; or, at worst, In me you have still a sister. — Some wives, brother, Would think it strange to catch their husbands thus Alone with a trim widow ; but your Katherine Is arm'd, I think, with patience. Kath. I am fortified With knowledge of self-faults to endure worse wrongs, If they be wrongs, than he can lay upon me ; Even to look on, and see him sue in earnest, As now I think he does it but in seeming. To that ill woman. Selby. Good words, gentle Kate, And not a thought irreverent of our Widow. Why, 'twere unmannerly at any time. But most uncourteous on our wedding day, When we should show most hospitable. — Some ■^yine ! \ Wine is brought. I am for sports. And now I do remember. The old Egyptians at their banquets placed A charnel sight of dead men's skulls before them. With images of cold mortality, To temper their fierce joys when they grew rampant. I like the custom well : and ere we crown With freer mirth the day, I shall propose, In calmest recollection of our spirits. We drink the solemn 'Memory of the Dead' — Mrs. F. Or the supposed dead — \_Aside to hvm,. Selby. Pledge me, good, wife — [She fiUs. Nay, higher yet, till the brimm'd cup swell o'er. Kath. I catch the awful import of your words ; And, though I could accuse you of unkindness. Yet as your lawful and obedient wife. While that name last (as I perceive it fading, Nor I much longer may have leave to use it) I calmly take the ofiice you impose ; And on my knees, imploring their forgiveness. Whom I in heaven or earth may have offended. Exempt from starting tears, and woman's weakness, I pledge you, sir — the Memory of the Dead ! \^She drinks kneding. Selhy. 'Tis gently and discreetly said, and like My former loving Kate. Mrs. F. Does he relent? [Aside. Selby. That ceremony past, we give the day To unabated sport. And, in requital Of certain stories and quaint allegories. Which my rare Widow hath been telling to me To raise my morning mirth, if she will lend Her patient hearing, I will here recite A Parable ; and, the more to suit her taste. The scene is laid in the East. Mra. F. 1 long to hear it. Some tale, to fit his wife. [Aside. Kath. Now, comes my Trial. Lucy. The hour of your deliverance is at hand, If I presage right Bear up, gentlest sister. Selby. "The Sultan Haroun "— Stay— now I have it — ' " The Caliph Haroun in his orchards had A fruit-tree, bearing such delicious fruits. That he reserved them for his proper gust; And through the Palace it was Death proclaim'd To any one that should purloin the same." Mrs. F. A heavy penance for so light a fault — Selby. Pray you, be silent, else you put me out. " A crafty page, that for advantage watch'd. Detected in the act a brother page. Of his own years, that was his bosom friend ; And thenceforth he became that other's lord, And like a tyrant he demean'd himself. Laid forced exactions on his fellow's purse ; And when that poor means fail'd, held o'er his head Threats of impending death in hideous' forms; Till the small culprit on his nightly couch Dream'd of strange pains, and felt his body writhe In tortuous pangs around the impaling stake." M7-S. F. I like not this beginning — Selby. Pray you, attend. " The Secret, like a night-hag, rid his sleeps. And took the youthful pleasures from his days. And chased the youthful smoothness from his brow, That from a rose-cheek'd boy he waned and waned To a pale skeleton of what he was ; And would have died, but for one lucky chance." Kath. Oh ! Mrs. F. Your wife — she faints — some cordial — smell to this. Selby. Stand off. My sister will best do that office. Mr