LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 
 
 Shelf- ..._ 
 
 UNITE© STATES OF AMERICA. 
 
It may well be that the " Essays of Elia " will be found to have 
 kept their perfume, and the Letters of Charles Lamb to 
 retam their old sweet savor, when " Sartor Resartus " has about as 
 many readers as Bulwer's " Artificial Changeling," and nine tenths 
 even of "Don Juan" lie darkening under the same deep dust that 
 covers the rarely troubled pages of the "Secchia Rapita." 
 
 A. C. Swinburne. 
 
 No assemblage of letters, parallel or kindred to that in the hands 
 
 of the reader, if we consider its width of range, the fruitful period 
 
 over which it stretches, and its typical character, has ever been 
 
 produced. 
 
 W, C. Hazlitt on Lamb's Letters. 
 
THE BEST LETTERS 
 
 OF 
 
 CHARLES LAMB 
 
 v\ 
 
 lEtiiteti luiti) an Kntrotiuctiott 
 
 By EDWARD GILPIN JOHNSON 
 
 
 CHICAGO 
 
 A. C. McCLURG AND COMPANY 
 
 1892 
 

 Copyright, 
 
 By a. C. McClurg and Co. 
 
 A. D. 1892. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 INTRODUCTION 9 
 
 LETTER 
 
 I. To Samuel Taylor Coleridge 3^ 
 
 II. To Coleridge 33 
 
 III. To Coleridge 3^ 
 
 IV. To Coleridge 5^ 
 
 V. To Coleridge 55 
 
 VI. To Coleridge - ^7 
 
 VII. To Coleridge 64 
 
 VIII. To Coleridge 66 
 
 IX. To Coleridge .^ ........ 69 
 
 X. To Coleridge 7° 
 
 XI. To Coleridge 74 
 
 XII. To Coleridge 79 
 
 XIII. To Coleridge 85 
 
 XIV. To Coleridge 9^ 
 
 XV. To Robert Southey 94 
 
 XVI. To Southey 9^ 
 
 XVII. To Southey 99 
 
 XVIII. To Southey . ; i°2 
 
 XIX. To Thomas Manning 106 
 
 XX. To Coleridge 108 
 
 XXI. To Manning . . ' io9 
 
 XXII. To Coleridge iio 
 
 XXIII. To Manning "2 
 
 XXIV. To Manning 1^5 
 
 XXV. To Coleridge "^ 
 
vi CONTENTS. 
 
 LETTER PAGE 
 
 XXVI. To Manning 120 
 
 XXVII. To Coleridge 122 
 
 XXVIII. To Coleridge 125 
 
 XXIX. To Manning 127 
 
 XXX. To Manning 130 
 
 XXXI. To Manning 132 
 
 XXXII. To Manning 134 
 
 XXXIII. To Coleridge 137 
 
 XXXIV. To Wordsworth '. . 140 
 
 XXXV. To Wordsworth 143 
 
 XXXVI. To Manning 145 
 
 XXXVII. To Manning 147 
 
 XXXVIII. To Manning 150 
 
 XXXIX. To Coleridge 154 
 
 XL. To Manning 157 
 
 XLI. To Manning 159 
 
 XLII. To Manning i'6i 
 
 XLIII. To William Godwin 164 
 
 XLIV. To Manning 167 
 
 XLV. To Miss Wordsworth i;o 
 
 XLVI To Manning 172 
 
 XLVII. To Wordsworth 175 
 
 XLVIII. To Manning 179 
 
 XLIX. To Wordsworth 186 
 
 L. To Manning 187 
 
 LI. To Miss Wordsworth 191 
 
 LII. To Wordsworth 192 
 
 LIII. To Wordsworth 194 
 
 LIV. To Wordsworth 198 
 
 LV. To Wordsworth 203 
 
 LVI. To Southey 208 
 
 LVII. To Miss Hutchinson 212 
 
 LVIII. To Manning 213 
 
 LIX. To Manning 217 
 
 LX. To Wordsworth 219 
 
 LXI. To Wordsworth 221 
 
CONTENTS. vii 
 
 LETTER PAGE 
 
 LXII. To H. Dodwell 225 
 
 LXIII. To Mrs. Wordsworth 226 
 
 LXIV. To Wordsworth 232 
 
 LXV. To Manning 236 
 
 LXVI. To Miss Wordsworth 238 
 
 LXVII. To Coleridge 241 
 
 LXVIII. To Wordsworth . 244 
 
 LXIX. To John Clarke 247 
 
 LXX. To Mr. Barron Field 249 
 
 LXXI. To Walter Wilson 251 
 
 LXXII. To Bernard Barton 253 
 
 LXXIII. To Miss Wordsworth 255 
 
 LXX IV. To Mr. and Mrs. Bruton 257 
 
 LXXV. To Bernard Barton 259 
 
 LXXVr. To Miss Hutchinson 261 
 
 LXXVII. To Bernard Barton 264 
 
 LXXVIII. To Mrs. Hazlitt 266 
 
 LXXIX. To Bernard Barton 268 
 
 LXXX. To Bernard Barton 270 
 
 LXXXI. To Bernard Barton 273 
 
 LXXXII. To Bernard Barton 275 
 
 LXXXIII. To Bernard Barton 278 
 
 LXXXIV. To Bernard Barton 279 
 
 LXXXV. To Bernard Barton 281 
 
 LXXX VI. To Wordsworth 282 
 
 LXXXVII. To Bernard Barton 285 
 
 LXXXVIII. To Bernard Barton . 2S6 
 
 LXXXIX. To Bernard Barton 287 
 
 XC. To Southey 289 
 
 XCI. To Bernard Barton 293 
 
 XCIT. ToJ. B. Dibdin 295 
 
 XCin. To Henry Crabb Robinson 297 
 
 XCIV. To Peter George Patmore 299 
 
 XCV. To Bernard Barton 302 
 
 XCVI. To Thomas Hood • .... 304 
 
 XCVII. To P. G. Patmore 307 
 
viii CONTENTS. 
 
 LETTER PAGE 
 
 XCVIII. To Bernard Barton 309 
 
 XCIX. To Procter 312 
 
 C. To Bernard Barton 314 
 
 CI. To Mr. Gilman 317 
 
 CII. To Wordsworth 319 
 
 cm. To Mrs. Hazlitt 325 
 
 CIV. To George Dyer 328 
 
 CV. To Dyer 330 
 
 CVI. To Mr. Moxon 334 
 
 CVII. To Mr. Moxon 335 
 
INTRODUCTION. 
 
 No writer, perhaps, since the days of Dr. Johnson 
 has been oftener brought before us in biographies, 
 essays, letters, etc., than Charles Lamb. His stam- 
 mering speech, his gaiter-clad legs, — " almost imma- 
 terial legs," Hood called them, — his frail wisp of a 
 body, topped by a head " worthy of Aristotle," his love 
 of punning, of the Indian weed, and, alas ! of the kindly 
 production of the juniper-berry (he was not, he owned, 
 " constellated under Aquarius "), his antiquarianism of 
 taste, and relish of the crotchets and whimsies of author- 
 ship, are as familiar to us almost as they were to the 
 group he gathered round him Wednesdays at No. 4, 
 Inner Temple Lane, where " a clear fire, a clean hearth, 
 and the rigor of the game" awaited them. Talfourd 
 has unctuously celebrated Lamb's " Wednesday Nights." 
 He has kindly left ajar a door through which poster- 
 ity peeps in upon the company, — Hazlitt, Leigh Hunt, 
 " Barry Cornwall," Godwin, Martin Burney, Crabb 
 Robinson (a ubiquitous shade, dimly suggestive of that 
 figment, " Mrs. Harris "), Charles Kemble, Fanny Kelly 
 (" Barbara S."), on red-letter occasions Coleridge and 
 Wordsworth, — and sees them discharging the severer 
 offices of the whist-table (" cards were cards " then), 
 and, later, unbending their minds over poetry, criticism, 
 and metaphysics. Elia was no Barmecide host, and 
 the Serjeant dwells not without regret upon the solider 
 business of the evening, — " the cold roast lamb or boiled 
 beef, the heaps of smoking roasted potatoes, and the 
 
10 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 vast jug of porter, often replenished from the foaming 
 pots which the best tap of Fleet Street supplied," hos- 
 pitably presided over by " the most quiet, sensible, and 
 kind of women," Mary Lamb. 
 
 The literati of Talfourd's day were clearly hardier 
 of digestion than their descendants are. Roast lamb, 
 boiled beef, " heaps of smoking roasted potatoes," pots 
 of porter, — a noontide meal for a hodman, — and the 
 hour midnight ! One is reminded, a propos of Miss 
 Lamb's robust viands, that Eiia somewhere confesses 
 to " an occasional nightmare ; " " but I do not," he 
 adds, "keep a whole stud of them." To go deeper into 
 this matter, to speculate upon the possible germs, the 
 first vague intimations to the mind of Coleridge of the 
 weird spectra of " The Ancient Mariner," the phantas- 
 magoria of " Kubla Khan," would be, perhaps, over- 
 refining. " Barry Cornwall," too, Lamb tells us, " had 
 his tritons and his nereids gambolling before him in 
 nocturnal visions." No wonder! 
 
 It is not intended here to re- thresh the straw left by 
 Talfourd, Fitzgerald, Canon Ainger, and others, in the 
 hope of discovering something new about Charles Lamb. 
 In this quarter, at least, the wind shall be tempered to 
 the reader, — shorn as he is by these pages of a charm- 
 ing letter or two. So far as fresh facts are concerned, 
 the theme may fairly be considered exhausted. Num- 
 berless writers, too, have rung the changes upon " poor 
 Charles Lamb," "dear Charles Lamb," "gentle Charles 
 Lamb," and the rest, — the final epithet, by the way, 
 being one that Elia, living, specially resented: 
 
 " For God's sake," he wrote to Coleridge, " don't make me 
 ridiculous any more by terming me gentle-hearted in print, 
 or do it in better verses. It did well enough five years ago, 
 when I came to see you, and was moral coxcomb enough at 
 the time you wrote the lines to feed upon such epithets ; but 
 besides that the meaning of 'gentle' is equivocal at best, and 
 almost always means poor-spirited, the very quality of gen- 
 
INTR OB UC TION. 1 1 
 
 tleness is abhorrent to such vile trumpethigs. My sentiment 
 is long since vanished. I hope my -virtues have done sucking. 
 I can scarce think but you meant it in joke. I hope you did, 
 for I should be ashamed to believe that you could think to 
 gratify me by such praise, fit only to be a cordial to some 
 green-sick sonneteer." 
 
 The indulgent pity conventionally bestowed upon 
 Charles Lamb — one of the most manly, self-reliant of 
 characters, to say nothing of his genius — is absurdly 
 misplaced. 
 
 Still farther be it from us to blunt the edge of appe- 
 tite by sapiently essaying to " analyze " and account for 
 Lamb's special zest and flavor, as though his writings, 
 or any others worth the reading, were put together upon 
 principles of clockwork. We are perhaps over-fond 
 of these arid pastimes nowadays. It is not the "sweet 
 musk-roses," the " apricocks and dewberries " of litera- 
 ture that please us best ; like Bottom the Weaver, we 
 prefer the " bottle of hay." What a mockery of right 
 enjoyment our endless prying and sifting, our hunting 
 of riddles in metaphors, innuendoes in tropes, ciphers in 
 Shakspeare ! Literature exhausted, we may turn to art, 
 and resolve, say, the Sistine Madonna (I deprecate the 
 Manes of the " Divine Painter ") into some ingenious 
 and recondite rebus. For such critical chopped-hay — 
 sweeter to the modern taste than honey of- Hybla — 
 Charles Lamb had little relish. " I am, sir," he once 
 boasted to an analytical, unimaginative proser who had 
 insisted upon explaining some quaint passage in Mar- 
 vel! or Wither, " I am, sir, a matter-of-lie man." It was 
 his best warrant to sit at the Muses' banquet. Charles 
 Lamb was blessed with an intellectual palate as fine as 
 Keats's, and could enjoy the savor of a book (or of that 
 dainty, " in the whole mtindtis edibilis the most delicate," 
 Roast Pig, for that matter) without pragmatically ask- 
 ing, as the king did of the apple in the dumpling, " how 
 the devil it got there." His value as a critic is grounded 
 
12 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 in this capacity of naive enjoyment (not of pig, but of 
 literature), of discerning beauty and making us discern 
 it, — thus adding to the known treasures and pleasures 
 of mankind. 
 
 Suggestions not unprofitable for these later days lurk 
 in these traits of Eha the student and critic. How 
 worthy the imitation, for instance, of those disciples who 
 band together to treat a fine poem (of Browning, say, 
 or Shelley) as they might a chapter in the Revelation, 
 — speculating sagely upon the import of the seven seals 
 and the horns of the great beast, instead of enjoying 
 the obvious beauties of their author. To the school- 
 master — whose motto would seem too often to be the 
 counsel of the irate old lady in Dickens," Give him a meal 
 of chaff ! " — Charles Lamb's critical methods are rich 
 in suggestion. How many ingenuous boys, lads in the 
 very flush and hey-day of appreciativeness of the epic 
 virtues, have been parsed, declined, and conjugated into 
 an utter detestation of the melodious names of Homer 
 and Virgil ! Better far for such victims had they, in- 
 stead of aspiring to the vanities of a " classical educa- 
 tion/' sat, like Keats, unlearnedly at the feet of quaint 
 Chapman, or Dryden, or even of Mr. Pope. 
 
 Perhaps, by way of preparative to the reading of 
 Charles Lamb's letters, it will be well to run over once 
 more the leading facts of his life. First let us glance 
 at his outward appearance. Fortunately there are a 
 number of capital pieces of verbal portraiture of Elia. 
 
 Referring to the year 1817, " Barry Cornwall" wrote: 
 
 " Persons who had been in the habit of traversing Covent 
 Garden at that time of night, by extending their walk a few 
 yards into Russell Street have noticed a small, spare man 
 clothed in black, who went out every morning, and returned 
 every afternoon as the hands of the clock moved toward 
 certain hours. You could not mistake him. He was some- 
 what stiff in his manner, and almost clerical in dress, which 
 indicated much wear. He had a long, melancholy face, with 
 
INTRODUCTION. 13 
 
 keen, penetrating eyes; and he walked with a short, resolute 
 step citywards. He looked no one in the face for more than 
 a momentj yet contrived to see everything as he went on. 
 No one who ever studied the human features could pass him 
 by without recollecting his countenance ; it was full of sen- 
 sibility, and it came upon you like new thought, which you 
 could not help dwelling upon afterwards : it gave rise to 
 meditation, and did you good. This small, half-clerical man 
 was — Charles Lamb." 
 
 His countenance is thus described by Thomas Hood : 
 
 •* His was no common face, none of those willow-pattern 
 ones which Nature turns out by thousands at her potteries, 
 but more like a chance specimen of the Chinese ware, — one 
 to the set ; unique, antique, quaint, you might have sworn to 
 it piecemeal, — a separate affidavit to each feature." 
 
 Mrs. Charles Mathews, wife of the comedian, who 
 met Lamb at a dinner, gives an amusing account of 
 him : — 
 
 " Mr. Lamb's first appearance was not prepossessing. His 
 figure was small and mean, and no man was certainly ever 
 less beholden to his tailor. His 'bran' new suit of black 
 cloth (in which he affected several times during the day to 
 take great pride, and to cherish as a novelty that he had 
 looked for and wanted) was drolly contrasted with his very 
 rusty silk stockings, shown from his knees, and his much too 
 large, thick shoes, without polish. His shirt rejoiced in a wide, 
 ill-plaited frill, and his very small, tight, white neckcloth was 
 hemmed to a fine point at the ends that formed part of a lit- 
 tle bow. His hair was black and sleek, but not formal, and 
 his face the gravest I ever saw, but indicating great intellect, 
 and resembling very much the portraits of Charles I." 
 
 From this sprightly and not too flattering sketch we 
 may turn to Serjeant Talfourd's tender and charming 
 portrait, — slightly idealized, no doubt ; for the man of 
 the coif held a brief for his friend, and was a poet 
 besides : — 
 
 " Methinks I see him before me now as he appeared then, 
 and as he continued without any perceptible alteration to me, 
 
1 4 INTR on UC TION. 
 
 during the twenty years of intimacy which followed, and were 
 closed by his death. A light frame, so fragile that it seemed 
 as if a breath would overthrow it, clad in clerk-like black, 
 was surmounted by a head of form and expression the most 
 noble and sweet. His black hair curled crisply about an 
 expanded forehead ; his eyes, softly brown, twinkled with 
 varying expression, though the prevalent expression was 
 sad ; and the nose, slightly curved, and delicately carved at 
 the nostril, with the lower outline of the face delicately oval, 
 completed a head wliich was finely placed upon the shoulders, 
 and gave importance and even dignity to a diminutive and 
 shadowy stem. Who shall describe his countenance, catch its 
 quivering sweetness, and fix it forever in words ? There are 
 none, alas ! to answer the vain desire of friendship. Deep 
 thought, striving with humor ; the lines of suffering wreathed 
 into cordial mirth, and a smile of painful sweetness, present 
 an image to the mind it can as little describe as lose. His per- 
 sonal appearance and manner are not unjustly characterized 
 by what he himself says in one of his letters to Manning,^ 
 ' a compound of the Jew, the gentleman, and the angel.' " 
 
 The writings of Charles Lamb abound in passages of 
 autobiography. " I was born," he tells us in that delight- 
 ful sketch, "The Old Benchers of the Inner Temple," 
 " and passed the first seven years of my life in the Tem- 
 ple. Its church, its halls, its gardens, its fountain, its 
 river, I had almost said, — for in those young years 
 what was this king of rivers to me but a stream that 
 watered our pleasant places ? — these are of my oldest 
 recollections." His father, John Lamb, the " Lovel " 
 of the essay cited, had come up a little boy from Lin- 
 colnshire to enter the service of Samuel Salt, — one of 
 those " Old Benchers " upon whom the pen of Elia 
 has shed immortality, a stanch friend and patron to 
 the Lambs, the kind proprietor of that " spacious closet 
 of good old English reading " upon whose " fair and 
 wholesome pasturage " Charles and his sister, as 
 children, " browsed at will." 
 
 1 Letter L. 
 
INTROD UCTION, 1 5 
 
 John Lamb had married Elizabeth Field, whose 
 mother was for fifty years housekeeper at the country- 
 seat of the Plumers, Blakesware, in Hertfordshire, the 
 " Blakesmoor " of the Essays, frequent scene of Lamb's 
 childish holiday sports, — a spacious mansion, with its 
 park and terraces and " firry wilderness, the haunt of the 
 squirrel and day-long murmuring wood-pigeon ; " an 
 Eden it must have seemed to the London-bred child, in 
 whose fancy the dusty trees and sparrows and smoke- 
 grimed fountain of Temple Court had been a pastoral. 
 Within the cincture of its excluding garden-walls, wrote 
 Elia in later years, " I could have exclaimed with that 
 garden-loving poet,^ — 
 
 " * Bind me, ye woodbines, in your twines ; 
 Curl me about, ye gadding vines ; 
 And oh, so close your circles lace 
 That I may never leave this place : 
 But lest your fetters prove too weak. 
 Ere I your silken bondage break, 
 Do you, O brambles, chain me too, 
 And, courteous briers, nail me through.' " 
 
 At Blakesware, too, was the room whence the spirit 
 of Sarah Battle — that " gentlewoman born " — winged 
 its flight to a region where revokes and "luke-warm 
 gamesters " are unknown. 
 
 To John and Elizabeth Lamb were born seven chil- 
 dren, only three of whom, John, Mary, and Charles, 
 survived their infancy. Of the survivors, Charles was 
 the youngest, John being twelve and Mary ten years 
 his senior, — a fact to be weighed in estimating the 
 heroism of Lamb's later life. At the age of seven, 
 Charles Lamb, "son of John Lamb, scrivener, and 
 Elizabeth, his wife," was entered at the school of 
 Christ's Hospital, — " the antique foundation of that 
 godly and royal child King Edward VL" Of his life 
 
 1 Cowley. 
 
l6 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 at this institution he has left us abundant and charming 
 memorials in the Essays, *' Recollections of Christ's 
 Hospital," and " Christ's Hospital Five-and-thirty Years 
 Ago," — the latter sketch corrective of the rather op- 
 timistic impressions of the former. 
 
 With his schoolfellows Charles seems to have been, 
 despite his timid and retiring disposition (he said of 
 himself, "while the others were all fire and play, he 
 stole along with all the self-concentration of a young 
 monk "), a decided favorite. " Lamb," wrote C. V. Le 
 Grice, a schoolmate often mentioned in essay and 
 letter, " was an amiable, gentle boy, very sensible and 
 keenly observing, indulged by his schoolfellows and 
 by his master on account of his infirmity of speech. 
 ... I never heard his name mentioned without the 
 addition of Charles, although, as there was no other 
 boy of the name of Lamb, the addition was unneces- 
 sary ; but there was an implied kindness in it, and it 
 was a proof that his gentle manners excited that 
 kindness." 
 
 For us the most important fact of the Christ's Hospi- 
 tal school-days is the commencement of Lamb's life-long 
 friendship with Samuel Taylor Coleridge, two years his 
 senior, and the object of his fervent hero-worship. 
 Most of us, perhaps, can find the true source of what- 
 ever of notable good or evil we have effected in life in 
 the moulding influence of one of these early friendships 
 or admirations. It is the boy's hero, the one he loves 
 and reverences among his schoolfellows, — not his task- 
 master, — that is his true teacher, the setter of the 
 broader standards by which he is to abide through life. 
 Happy the man the feet of whose early idols have not 
 been of clay. 
 
 It was under the quickening influence of the eloquent, 
 precocious genius of the " inspired charity boy " that 
 Charles Lamb's ideals and ambitions shaped themselves 
 out of the haze of a child's conceptions. Coleridge at 
 
INTRODUCTION. 1 7 
 
 sixteen was already a poet, his ear attuned to the 
 subtlest melody of verse, and his hand rivalling, in pre- 
 luding fragments, the efforts of his maturer years ; he 
 was already a philosopher, rapt in Utopian schemes 
 and mantling hopes as enchanting — and as chimerical 
 — as the pleasure-domes and caves of ice decreed by 
 Kubla Khan ; and the younger lad became his ardent 
 disciple. 
 
 Lamb quitted Christ's Hospital, prematurely, in No- 
 vember, 1787, and the companionship of the two friends 
 was for a time interrupted. To part with Coleridge, to 
 exchange the ease and congenial scholastic atmosphere 
 of the Hospital for the res angiista domi, for the intel- 
 lectual starvation of a life of counting-house drudgery, 
 must have been a bitter trial for him. But the shadow of 
 poverty was upon the little household in the Temple ; on 
 the horizon of the future the blackening clouds of anxie- 
 ties still graver were gathering ; and the youngest child 
 was called home to share the common burden. 
 
 Charles Lamb was first employed in the South Sea 
 House, where his brother John ^ — a cheerful optimist, 
 a dilettante in art, genial, prosperous, thoroughly selfish, 
 in so far as the family fortunes were concerned an out- 
 sider — already held a lucrative post. It was not long 
 before Charles obtained promotion in the form of a 
 clerkship with the East India Company, — one of the 
 last kind services of Samuel Salt, who died in the same 
 year, 1792, — and with the East India Company he 
 remained for the rest of his working life. 
 
 Upon the death of their generous patron the Lambs 
 removed from the Temple and took lodgings in Little 
 Queen Street, Holborn ; and for Charles the battle of 
 life may be said to have fairly begun. His work as a 
 junior clerk absorbed, of course, the greater part of his 
 day and of his year. Yet there were breathing-spaces : 
 there were the long evenings with the poets ; with Mar- 
 
 1 The James Elia of the essay " My Relations." 
 2 
 
1 8 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 lowe, Drayton, Drummond of Hawthornden, and Cow- 
 ley, — " the sweetest names, which carry a perfume in 
 the mention ; " there were the visits to the play, the 
 yearly vacation jaunts to simny Hertfordshire. The 
 intercourse with Coleridge, too, was now occasionally 
 renewed. The latter had gone up to Cambridge early 
 in 1791, there to remain — except the period of his six 
 months' dragooning — for the next four years. During 
 his visits to London it was the habit of the two school- 
 fellows to meet at a tavern near Smithfield, the " Sal- 
 utation and Cat," to discuss the topics dear to both ; and 
 it was about this time that Lamb's sonnet to Mrs Sid- 
 dons, his first appearance in print, was published in the 
 " Morning Chronicle." 
 
 The year 1796 was a terribly eventful one for the 
 Lambs. There was a taint of insanity in the family 
 on the father's side, and on May 27, 1796, we find 
 Charles writing to Coleridge these sad words, — doubly 
 sad for the ring of mockery in them : — 
 
 " My life has been somewhat diversified of late. The six 
 weeks that finished last year and began this, your very 
 humble servant spent very agreeably in a madhouse at 
 Hoxton. I am got somewhat rational now, and don't bite 
 any one. But mad I was ! " ^ 
 
 Charles, thanks to the resolution with which he com- 
 bated the tendency, and to the steadying influence of 
 his work at the desk, — despite his occasional murmurs, 
 his best friend and sheet-anchor in life, — never again 
 succumbed to the family malady ; but from that mo- 
 ment, over his small household. Madness — like Death 
 in Milton's vision — continually " shook its dart," and 
 at best only " delayed to strike." ^ 
 
 It was in the September of 1796 that the calamity 
 befell which has tinged the story of Charles and Mary 
 
 1 Letter I. 2 Talfourd's Memoir. 
 
INTRO D UC TION. 1 9 
 
 Lamb with the sombrest hues of the Greek tragedy. 
 The family were still in the Holborn lodgings, — the 
 mother an invalid, the father sinking into a second 
 childhood. Mary, in addition to the burden of min- 
 istering to her parents, was working for their support 
 with her needle. 
 
 At this point it will be well to insert a prefatory word 
 or two as to the character of Mary Lamb ; and here 
 the witnesses are in accord. There is no jarring of 
 opinion, as in her brother's case ; for Charles Lamb 
 has been sorely misjudged, — often, it must be admitted, 
 with ground of reason ; sometimes by persons who might 
 and should have looked deeper. In a notable instance, 
 the heroism of his life has been meanly overlooked by 
 one who preached to mankind with the eloquence of 
 the Prophets the prime need and virtue of recognizing 
 the hero. If self-abnegation lies at the root of true hero- 
 ism, Charles Lamb — that " sorry phenomenon " with 
 an " insuperable proclivity to gin " ^ — was a greater 
 hero than was covered by the shield of Achilles. The 
 character of Mary Lamb is quickly summed up. She 
 was one of the most womanly of women. "In all its 
 essential sweetness," says Talfourd, "her character 
 was like her brother's ; while, by a temper more placid, 
 a spirit of enjoyment more serene, she was enabled 
 to guide, to counsel, to cheer him, and to protect him 
 on the verge of the mysterious calamity, from the 
 depths of which she rose so often unruffled to his side. 
 To a friend in any difficulty she was the most comfort- 
 able of advisers, the wisest of consolers." Hazlitt said 
 that " he never met with a woman who could reason, 
 and had met with only one thoroughly reasonable, — 
 Mary Lamb." The writings of Elia are strewn, as 
 we know, with the tenderest tributes to her worth. " I 
 wish, " he says, " that I could throw into a heap the 
 
 ^ Carlyle. 
 
20 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 remainder of our joint existences, that we might share 
 them in equal division." 
 
 The psychology of madness is a most subtle inquiry. 
 How slight the mysterious touch that throws the 
 smooth-running human mechanism into a chaos of 
 jarring elements, that transforms, in the turn of an 
 eyelash, the mild humanity of the gentlest of beings 
 into the unreasoning ferocity of the tiger. 
 
 The London "Times" of September 26, 1796, con- 
 tained the following paragraph : — 
 
 " On Friday afternoon the coroner and a jury sat on the 
 body of a lady in the neighborhood of Holborn, who died in 
 consequence of a wound from her daughter the preceding day. 
 It appeared by the evidence adduced that while the family 
 were preparing for dinner, the young lady seized a case-knife 
 lying on the table, and in a menacing manner pursued a little 
 girl, her apprentice, round the room. On the calls of her 
 infirm mother to forbear, she renounced her first object, and 
 with loud shrieks approached her parent. The child, by her 
 cries, quickly brought up the landlord of the house, but too 
 late.i The dreadful scene presented him the mother lifeless, 
 pierced to the heart, on a chair, her daughter yet wildly stand- 
 ing over her with the fatal knife, and the old man, her father, 
 weeping by her side, himself bleeding at the forehead from 
 the effects of a severe blow he received from one of the forks 
 she had been madly hurling about the room. 
 
 " For a few days prior to this, the family had observed 
 some symptoms of insanity in her, which had so much in- 
 creased on the Wednesday evening that her brother, early 
 the next morning, went to Dr. Pitcairn ; but that gentleman 
 was not at home. 
 
 " The jury of course brought in their verdict, — Lunacy''' 
 
 I need not supply the omitted names of the actors in 
 this harrowing scene. Mary Lamb was at once placed 
 
 ^ It would seem from Lamb's lettter to Coleridge (Letter IV.) that 
 it was he^ not the landlord, who appeared thus too late, and who 
 snatched the knife from the unconscious hand. 
 
INTR on UC TION. 2 1 
 
 in the Asylum at Hoxton, and the victim of her frenzy 
 was^ laid to rest in the churchyard of St. Andrew's, 
 Holborn. It became necessary for Charles and his 
 father to make an immediate change of residence, and 
 they took lodgings at Pentonville. There is a pregnant 
 sentence in one of Lamb's letters that flashes with the 
 vividness of lightning into the darkest recesses of those 
 early troubles and embarrassments. " We are," he wrote 
 to Coleridge, " m a manner iiiarked.'''' 
 
 Charles Lamb after some weeks obtained the release 
 of his sister from the Hoxton Asylum by formally un- 
 dertaking her future guardianship, — a charge which was 
 borne, until Death released the compact, with a stead- 
 fastness, a cheerful renunciation of what men regard as 
 the crowning blessings of manhood,^ that has shed a 
 halo more radiant even than that of his genius about 
 the figure — it was "small and mean," said sprightly 
 Mrs. Mathews — of the India House clerk. 
 
 As already stated, the mania that had once attacked 
 Charles never returned ; but from the side of Mary 
 Lamb this grimmest of spectres never departed. " Mary 
 is again/r<?;;2 homej " " Mary \^ fallen ill again : " how 
 often do such tear-fraught phrases — tenderly veiled, lest 
 some chance might bring them to the eye of the blame- 
 less sufferer — recur in the Letters ! Brother and sister 
 were ever on the watch for the symptoms premonitory 
 of the return of this " their sorrow's crown of sorrows." 
 Upon their little holiday excursions, says Talfourd, a 
 strait-waistcoat, carefully packed by Miss Lamb herself, 
 was their constant companion. Charles Lloyd relates 
 that he once met them slowly pacing together a little 
 footpath in Hoxton fields, both weeping bitterly, and 
 found on joining them that they were taking their solemn 
 way to the old asylum. Thus, upon this guiltless pair 
 were visited the sins of their fathers. 
 
 ^ The reader is referred to Lamb's beautiful essay, "Dream 
 Children." 
 
2 2 INTR on UC TION. 
 
 With the tragical events just narrated, the stonn of 
 calamity seemed to have spent its force, and there were 
 thenceforth plenty of days of calm and of sunshine for 
 Charles Lamb. The stress of poverty was lightened 
 and finally removed by successive increases of salary at 
 the India House ; the introductions of Coleridge and 
 his own growing repute in the world of letters gathered 
 about him a circle of friends — Southey, Wordsworth, 
 Hazlitt, Manning, Barton, and the rest — more con- 
 genial, and certainly more profitable, than the vagrant 
 zjitimados, " to the world's eye a ragged regiment," 
 who had wasted his substance and his leisure in the 
 early Temple days. 
 
 Lamb's earliest avowed appearance as an author was 
 in Coleridge's first volume of poems, published by Cottle, 
 of Bristol, in 1796. " The effusions signed C. L.," says 
 Coleridge in the preface, " were written by Mr. Charles 
 Lamb, of the India House. Independently of the sig- 
 nature, their superior merit would have sufficiently dis- 
 tinguished them." The " effusions " were ^four sonnets, 
 two of them — the most noteworthy — touching upon 
 the one love-romance of Lamb's lif e,^ — his earl)' attach- 
 ment to the " fair-haired " Hertfordshire girl, the " Anna " 
 
 of the Sonnets, the "Alice W n" of the Essays. 
 
 We remember that Elia in describing the gallery of old 
 
 family portraits, in the essay, " Blakesmoor in H 
 
 shire," dwells upon " that beauty with the cool, blue, 
 pastoral drapery, and a lamb, that hung next the great 
 bay window, with the bright yellow Hertfordshire hair, 
 so like Diy Alice.'''' 
 
 In 1797 Cottle issued a second edition of Coleridge's 
 poems, this time with eleven additional pieces by Lamb, 
 — making fifteen of his in all, — and containing verses 
 by their friend Charles Lloyd. " It is unlikely," observes 
 
 ^ If we except his passing tenderness for the young Quakeress, 
 Hester Savory. Lamb admitted that he had never spoken to the 
 lady in his hfe. 
 
INTR OD UC TION. 2 3 
 
 Canon Ainger, " that this little venture brought any profit 
 to its authors, or that a subsequent volume of blank verse 
 by Lamb and Lloyd in the following year proved more 
 remunerative." In 1798 Lamb, anxious for his sister's 
 sake to add to his slender income, composed his " minia- 
 ture romance," as Talfourd calls it, " Rosamund Gray ; " 
 and this little volume, which has not yet lost its charm, 
 proved a moderate success. Shelley, writing from Italy 
 to Leigh Hunt in 1 819, said of it : " What a lovely thing 
 is his ' Rosamund Gray ' ! How much knowledge of the 
 sweetest and deepest part of our nature in it ! When I 
 think of such a mind as Lamb's, when I see how un- 
 noticed remain things of such exquisite and complete 
 perfection, what should I hope for myself if I had not 
 higher objects in view than fame 1 " 
 
 It is rather unpleasant, in view of this generous — if 
 overstrained — tribute, to find the object of it referring 
 later to the works of his encomiast as " thin sown with 
 profit or delight," ^ 
 
 In 1802 Lamb published in a small duodecimo his 
 blank-verse tragedy, " John Woodvil,"— it had previ- 
 ously been declined by John Kemble as unsuited to the 
 stage, — and in 1806 was produced at the Drury Lane 
 Theatre his farce " Mr. H.," the summary failure of 
 which is chronicled with much humor in the Letters.^ 
 
 The "Tales from Shakspeare," by Charles and Mary 
 Lamb, were pubHshed by Godwin in 1807, and a 
 second edition was called for in the following year. 
 Lamb was now getting on surer — and more remunera- 
 tive — ground; and in 1808 he prepared for the firm 
 of Longmans his masterly " Specimens of the English 
 Dramatic Poets contemporary with Shakspeare." Con- 
 cerning this work he wrote to Manning : — 
 
 "Specimens are becoming fashionable. We have Speci- 
 mens of Ancient English Poets, Specimens of Modern Eng- 
 
 1 Letter LXXXIII 2 Letters LXVII., LXVIIL, LXIX. 
 
2 4 INTR 01) UC TION. 
 
 lish Poets, Specimens of Ancient English Prose Writers, 
 without end. They used to be called ' Beauties.' You have 
 seen Beauties of Shakspeare ? so have many people that 
 never saw any beauties in Shakspeare." 
 
 From Charles Lamb's " Specimens " dates, as we 
 know, the revival of the study of the old English 
 dramatists other than Shakespeare. He was the first 
 to call attention to the neglected beauties of those great 
 Elizabethans, Webster, Marlowe, Ford, Dekker, Mas- 
 singer, — no longer accounted mere " mushrooms that 
 sprang up in a ring under the great oak of Arden." ^ 
 
 The opportunity that was to call forth Lamb's special 
 faculty in authorship came late in life. In January, 1820, 
 Baldwin, Cradock, and Joy, the publishers, brought out 
 the first number of a new monthly journal under the 
 name of an earlier and extinct periodical, the " London 
 Magazine," and in the August number appeared an 
 article, " Recollections of the South Sea House," over 
 the signature EliaP- With this delightful sketch the 
 essayist Elia may be said to have been born. In none 
 of Lamb's previous writings had there been more than a 
 hint of that unique vein, — wise, playful, tender, fantas- 
 tic, " everything by starts, and nothing long," exhibited 
 with a felicity of phrase certainly unexcelled in English 
 prose literature, — that we associate with his name. The 
 careful reader of the Letters cannot fail to note that it 
 is there that Lamb's peculiar quality in authorship is 
 first manifest. There is a letter to South ey, written as 
 early as 1798, that has the true Elia ring.^ With the 
 "London Magazine," which was discontinued in 1826, 
 
 1 W. S. Landor. 
 
 2 In assuming this pseudonym Lamb- borrowed the name of a 
 fellow-clerk who had served with him thirty years before in the Soutli 
 Sea House, — an Italian named Elia. The name has probably never 
 been pronounced as Lamb intended. " Call him Ellia^'' he said in 
 a letter to J. Taylor, concerning this old acquaintance. 
 
 8 Letter XV 11. 
 
INTRODUCTION. 25 
 
 Elia was born, and with it he may be said to have died, 
 — although some of his later contributions to the " New 
 Monthly " 1 and to the " Englishman's Magazine " were 
 included in the " Last Essays of Elia," collected and pub- 
 lished in 1833. The first series of Lamb's essays under 
 the title of Elia had been published in a single volume by 
 Taylor and Hessey, of the " London Magazine," in 1823. 
 
 The story of Lamb's working life — latterly an un- 
 eventful one, broken chiefly by changes of abode and 
 by the yearly holiday jaunts, "migrations from the 
 blue bed to the brown" — from 1796, when the cor- 
 respondence with Coleridge begins, is told in the letters. 
 For thirty-three years he served the East India Com- 
 pany, and he served it faithfully and steadily. There 
 is, indeed, a tradition that havmg been reproved on one 
 occasion for coming to the office late in the morning, he 
 pleaded that he always left it " so very early in the 
 evening." Poets, we know, often "heard the chimes 
 at midnight " in Elia's day, and the plea has certainly 
 a most Lamb-like ring. That the Company's directors, 
 however, were more than content with the service of 
 their literate clerk, the sequel shows. 
 
 It is manifest in certain letters, written toward the 
 close of 1824 and in the beginning of 1825, that Lamb's 
 confinement was at last telling upon him, and that he 
 was thinking of a release from his bondage to the 
 " desk's dead wood." In February, 1825, he wrote to 
 Barton, — 
 
 '* Your gentleman brother sets my mouth watering after 
 liberty. Oh that I were kicked out of Leadenhall with 
 every mark of indignity, and a competence in my fob ! The 
 birds of the air would not be so free as I should. How 
 I would prance and curvet it, and pick up cowslips, and 
 ramble about purposeless as an idiot ! " 
 
 1 The rather unimportant series, " Popular Fallacies, " appeared 
 in the " New Monthly." 
 
26 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 Later in March we learn that he had signified to the 
 directors his wilHngness to resign. 
 
 " I am sick of hope deferred. The grand wheel is in agi- 
 tation that is to turn up my fortune ; but round it rolls, 
 and will turn up nothing. I have a glimpse of freedom, of 
 becoming a gentleman at large, but I am put off from day 
 to day. I have offered my resignation, and it is neither ac- 
 cepted nor rejected. Eight weeks am I kept in this fear- 
 ful suspense. Guess what an absorbing state I feel it. I am 
 not conscious of the existence of friends, present or absent. 
 The East India directors alone can be that thing to me. I 
 have just learned that nothing will be decided this week. 
 Why the next ? Why any week ? " 
 
 But the " grand wheel " was really turning to some 
 purpose, and a few days later, April 6, 1825, he joyfully 
 wrote to Barton, — 
 
 "My spirits are so tumultuary with the novelty of my 
 recent emancipation that I have scarce steadiness of hand, 
 much more mind, to compose a letter. I am free, B. B., 
 — free as air ! 
 
 " ' The little bird that wings the sky 
 Knows no such liberty.' 
 
 I was set free on Tuesday in last week at four o'clock. I 
 came home forever ! '* 
 
 The quality of the generosity of the East India 
 directors was not strained in Lamb's case. It should 
 be recorded as an agreeable commercial phenomenon 
 that these officials, men of business acting in " a busi- 
 ness matter," — words too often held to exclude all such 
 Quixotic matters as sentiment, gratitude, and Christian 
 equity between man and man, — were not only just, but 
 munificent. ^ From the path of Charles and Mary 
 Lamb — already beset with anxieties grave enough — 
 
 1 In the essay " The Superannuated Man " Lamb describes, with 
 certain changes and modifications, his retirement from the India 
 House. 
 
iNTR on uc tion: 2 7 
 
 they removed forever the shadow of want. Lamb's 
 salary at the time of his retirement was nearly seven 
 hundred pounds a year, and the offer made to him was 
 a pension of four hundred and fifty, with a deduction 
 of nine pounds a year for his sister, should she survive 
 him. 
 
 Lamb lived to enjoy his freedom and the Company's 
 bounty nearly nine years. Soon after his retirement he 
 settled with his sister at Enfield, within easy reach of 
 his loved London, removing thence to the neighboring 
 parish of Edmonton, — his last change of residence. 
 Coleridge's death, in July, 1834, was a heavy blow to 
 him. " When I heard of the death of Coleridge," he 
 wrote, " it was without grief. It seemed to me that he 
 had long been on the confines of the next world, that 
 he had a hunger for eternity. I grieved then that I could 
 not grieve ; but since, I feel how great a part he was of 
 me. His great and dear spirit haunts me. I cannot 
 think a thought, I cannot make a criticism on men or 
 books, without an ineffectual turning and reference to 
 him. He was the proof and touchstone of all my cogi- 
 tations." Lamb did not long outlive his old schoolfellow. 
 Walking in the middle of December along the London 
 road, he stumbled and fell, inflicting a slight wound upon 
 his face. The injury at first seemed trivial ; but soon 
 after, erysipelas appearing, it became evident that his 
 general health was too feeble to resist. On the 27th of 
 December, 1834, he passed quietly away, whispering in 
 his last moments the names of his dearest friends. 
 
 Mary Lamb survived her brother nearly thirteen years, 
 dying, at the advanced age of eighty-two, on May 20, 
 1847. With increasing years her attacks had become 
 more frequent and of longer duration, till her mind be- 
 came permanently weakened. After leaving Edmon- 
 ton, she lived chiefly in a pleasant house in St. John's 
 Wood, surrounded by old books and prints, under the 
 care of a nurse. Her pension, together with the income 
 
28 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 from her brother's savings, was amply sufficient for 
 her support. 
 
 Talfourd, who was present at the burial of Mary 
 Lamb, has eloquently described the earthly reunion of 
 the brother and sister : — 
 
 "A few survivors of the old circle, then sadly thinned, 
 attended her remains to the spot in Edmonton churchyard 
 where they were laid, above those of her brother. In accord- 
 ance with Lamb's own feeling, so far as it could be gathered 
 from his expressions on a subject to which he did not often 
 or willingly refer, he had been interred in a deep grave, simply 
 dug and wattled round, but without any affectation of stone 
 or brickwork to keep the human dust from its kindred earth. 
 So dry, however, is the soil of the quiet churchyard that the 
 excavated earth left perfect walls of stiff clay, and permitted 
 us just to catch a glimpse of the still untarnished edges of the 
 coffin, in which all the mortal part of one of the most delight- 
 ful persons who ever lived was contained, and on which the 
 remains of her he had loved with love ' passing the love of 
 woman' were henceforth to rest, — the last glances we shall 
 ever have even of that covering, — concealed from us as we 
 parted by the coffin of the sister. We felt, I believe, after 
 a moment's strange shuddering, that the reunion was well 
 accomplished ; although the true-hearted son of Admiral 
 Burney, who had known and loved the pair we quitted 
 from a child, and who had been among the dearest objects of 
 existence to him, refused to be comforted." 
 
 There are certain handy phrases, the legal-tender of 
 conversation, that people generally use without troubling 
 themselves to look into their title to currency. It is 
 often said, for instance, with an air of deploring a phase 
 of general mental degeneracy, that " letter-writing is a 
 lost art." And so it is, — not because men nowadays, if 
 they were put to it, could not, on the average, write as 
 good letters as ever (the average, although we certainly 
 have no Lambs, and perhaps no Walpoles or Southeys 
 to raise it, would probably be higher), but because the 
 
INTRODUCTION. 29 
 
 conditions that call for and develop the epistolary art 
 have largely passed away. With our modern facility of 
 communication, the letter has lost the pristine dignity 
 of its function. The earth has dwindled strangely 
 since the advent of steam and electricity, and in a 
 generation used to Mr. Edison's devices. Puck's girdle 
 presents no difficulties to the imagination. In Charles 
 Lamb's time the expression " from Land's End to John 
 O'Groat's" meant something; to-day it means a few 
 comfortable hours by rail, a few minutes by telegraph. 
 Wordsworth in the North of England was to Lamb, so 
 far as the chance of personal contact was concerned, 
 nearly as remote as Manning in China. Under such 
 conditions a letter was of course a weighty matter ; 
 it was a thoughtful summary of opinion, a rarely re- 
 curring budget of general intelligence, expensive to 
 send, and paid for by the recipient ; and men put their 
 minds and energies into composing it. " One wrote at 
 that time," says W. C. Hazlitt, " a letter to an acquaint- 
 ance in one of the home counties which one would only 
 write nowadays to a settler in the Colonies or a relative 
 in India." 
 
 But to whatever conditions or circumstances we may 
 owe the existence of Charles Lamb's letters, their qual- 
 ity is of course the fruit of the genius and temperament 
 of the writer. Unpremeditated as the strain of the sky- 
 lark, they have almost to excess (were that possible) the 
 prime epistolary merit of spontaneity. From the brain 
 of the writer to the sheet before him flows an unbroken 
 Pactolian stream. Lamb, at his best, ranges with 
 Shakspearian facility the gamut of human emotion, 
 exclaiming, as it were at one moment, with Jaques, 
 " Motley 's the only wear ! " — in the next probing the 
 source of tears. He is as ejaculatory with his pen as 
 other men are with their tongues. Puns, quotations, con- 
 ceits, critical estimates of the rarest insight and sug- 
 gestiveness, chase each other over his pages like clouds 
 
so INTRODUCTION. 
 
 over a summer sky ; and the whole is leavened with the 
 sterling ethical and aesthetic good sense that renders 
 Charles Lamb one of the wholesomest of writers. 
 
 As to the plan on which the selections for this volume 
 have been made, it needs only to be said that, in gen- 
 eral, the editor has aimed to include those letters which 
 exhibit most fully the writer's distinctive charm and 
 quality. This plan leaves, of course, a residue of consid- 
 erable biographical and critical value ; but it is believed 
 that to all who really love and appreciate him, Charles 
 Lamb's "Best Letters" are those which are most 
 uniquely and unmistakably Charles Lamb's. 
 
 E. G. J. 
 
 September, 1891. 
 
THE BEST LETTERS 
 
 OF 
 
 CHARLES LAMB. 
 
 T. 
 
 TO SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. 
 
 May 27, 1796. 
 
 Dear Coleridge, — Make yourself perfectly easy 
 about May. I paid his bill when I sent your 
 clothes. I was flush of money, and am so still to 
 all the purposes of a single life ; so give yourself 
 no further concern about it. The money would 
 be superfluous to me if I had it. 
 
 When Southey becomes as modest as his prede- 
 cessor, Milton, and publishes his Epics in duode- 
 cimo, I will read 'em ; a guinea a book is somewhat 
 exorbitant, nor have I the opportunity of borrowing 
 the work. The extracts from it in the " Monthly 
 Review," and the short passages in your "Watch- 
 man," seem to me much superior to anything in his 
 partnership account with Lovell.^ Your poems I 
 shall procure forthwith. There were noble lines in 
 
 1 Southey had just published his " Joan of Arc," in quarto. 
 He and Lovell had published jointly, two years before, 
 "Poenis by Bion and Moschus." 
 
32 LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 
 
 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 disso- 
 nant mood to your disposition. I wish you success 
 in all your undertakings, and am glad to hear you 
 are employed about the " Evidences of Religion." 
 There is need of multiplying such books a hundred- 
 fold in this philosophical age, to prevent converts 
 to atheism, for they seem too tough disputants to 
 meddle with afterwards. . . . 
 
 Coleridge, I know not what suffering scenes you 
 have gone through at Bristol. My life has been 
 somewhat diversified of late. The six weeks that 
 finished last year and began this, your very humble 
 servant spent very agreeably in a madhouse at Hox- 
 ton. 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 ex- 
 tended to the number of nine since I saw you, and 
 will some day communicate to you. I am beginning 
 a poem in blank verse, which, if I finish, I publish. 
 White ^ is on the eve of publishing (he took the 
 hint from Vortigern) " Original Letters of Falstaff, 
 Shallow," etc. ; a copy you shall have when it 
 comes out. They are without exception the best 
 imitations I ever saw. Coleridge, it may convince 
 you of my regards for you when I tell you my 
 head ran on you in my madness as much almost 
 
 1 A Christ's Hospital schoolfellow, the " Jem " White of 
 the Elia essay, " The Praise of Chimney-Sweepers." 
 
LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 33 
 
 as on another person, who I am incHned to think 
 was the more immediate cause of my temporary 
 frenzy. 
 
 The sonnet I send you has small merit as poetry ; 
 but you will be curious to read it when I tell you 
 it was written in my prison-house in one of my 
 lucid intervals. 
 
 TO MY SISTER. 
 
 If from my lips some angry accents fell, 
 
 Peevish complaint, or harsh reproof unkind, 
 'T was but the error of a sickly mind 
 
 And troubled thoughts, clouding the purer well 
 And waters clear of Reason ; and for me 
 Let this my verse the poor atonement be, — 
 My verse, which thou to praise wert e'er inclined 
 Too highly, and with partial eye to see 
 
 No blemish. Thou to me didst ever show 
 Kindest affection ; and wouldst oft-times lend 
 An ear to the desponding love-sick lay, 
 Weeping my sorrows with me, who repay 
 
 But ill the mighty debt of love I owe, 
 Mary, to thee, my sister and my friend. 
 
 With these lines, and with that sister's kindest 
 remembrances to Cottle, I conclude. 
 
 Yours sincerely, 
 
 Lamb 
 
 II. 
 
 TO COLERIDGE. 
 
 {No month) 1796. 
 Tuesday night. — Of your " Watchman," the re- 
 view of Burke was the best prose. I augured great 
 things from the first number. There is some 
 
 3 
 
34 LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 
 
 exquisite poetry interspersed. I have re-read the 
 extract from the "Religious Musings," and retract 
 whatever invidious there was in my censure of it as 
 elaborate. There are times when one is not in 
 a disposition thoroughly to relish good writing. I 
 have re-read it in a more favorable moment, and 
 hesitate not to pronounce it sublime. If there be 
 anything in it approaching to tumidity (which I 
 meant not to infer; by *< elaborate " I meant simply 
 "labored "), it is the gigantic hyperbole by which 
 you describe the evils of existing society : " snakes, 
 lions, hyenas, and behemoths," is carrying your re- 
 sentment beyond bounds. The pictures of "The 
 Simoom," of -"Frenzy and Ruin," of "The Whore 
 of Babylon," and " The Cry of Foul Spirits disin- 
 herited of Earth," and " The Strange Beatitude " 
 which the good man shall recognize in heaven, as 
 well as the particularizing of the children of wretch- 
 edness (I have unconsciously included every part 
 of it), form a variety of uniform excellence. I 
 hunger and thirst to read the poem complete. 
 That is a capital line in your sixth number, — 
 
 " This dark, frieze-coated, hoarse, teeth-chattering month." 
 
 They are exactly such epithets as Burns would have 
 stumbled on, whose poem on the ploughed-up 
 daisy you seem to have had in mind. Your com- 
 plaint 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 
 
LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 35 
 
 like to have forgot thanking you for that exquisite 
 little morsel, the first Sclavonian Song. The ex- 
 pression in the second, " more happy to be un- 
 happy in hell," is it not very quaint? Accept my 
 thanks, in common with those of all who love good 
 poetry, for ^'The Braes of Yarrow." I congratulate 
 you on the enemies you must have made by your 
 splendid invective against the barterers in human 
 flesh and sinews. Coleridge, you will rejoice to 
 hear that Cowper is recovered from his lunacy, and 
 is employed on his translation of the Italian, etc., 
 poems of Milton for an edition where Fuseli pre- 
 sides as designer. Coleridge, to an idler like 
 myself, to write and receive letters are both very 
 pleasant; but I wish not to break in upon your 
 valuable time by expecting to hear very frequently 
 from you. Reserve that obligation for your mo- 
 ments of lassitude, when you have nothing else to 
 do ; for your loco-restive and all your idle propen- 
 sities, of course, have given way to the duties of 
 providing for a family. The mail is come in, but 
 no parcel; yet this is Tuesday. Farewell, then, 
 till to-morrow ; for a niche and a nook I must leave 
 for criticisms. By the way, I hope you do not send 
 your own only copy of ''Joan of Arc; " I will in 
 that case return it immediately. 
 
 Your parcel is come ; you have been lavish of 
 your presents. 
 
 Wordsworth's poem I have hurried through, not 
 without delight. Poor Lovell ! my heart almost 
 accuses me for the light manner I lately spoke of 
 him, not dreaming of his death. My heart bleeds 
 
36 LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 
 
 for your accumulated troubles ; God send you 
 through 'em with patience. I conjure you dream 
 not that I will ever think of being repaid ; the very 
 word is galling to the ears. I have read all your 
 "Religious Musings" with uninterrupted feelings 
 of profound admiration. You may safely rest your 
 fame on it. The best remaining things are what I 
 have before read, and they lose nothing by my 
 recollection of your manner of rec'ting '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, ab- 
 ruptly. 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 novitiate thought in ministeries 
 of heart-stirring song," though not now new to me, 
 cannot be enough admired. To speak politely, they 
 are a well-turned compliment to poetry. I hasten 
 to read ''Joan of Arc," etc. I have read your lines 
 at the beginning of second book ; ^ they are worthy 
 of Milton, but in my mind yield to your " Religious 
 Musings." I shall read the whole carefully, and 
 in some future letter take the hberty to particularize 
 
 1 Coleridge contributed some four hundred lines to the 
 second book of Southey's epic. 
 
LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 37 
 
 my opinions of it. Of what is new to me among 
 your poems next to the ^^ Musings," that beginning 
 " My Pensive Sara " gave me most pleasure. The 
 lines in it I just alluded to are most exquisite ; they 
 made my sister and self smile, as conveying a 
 pleasing picture of Mrs. C. checking your wild 
 wanderings, which we were so fond of hearing you 
 indulge when among us. It has endeared us more 
 than anything to your good lady, and your own self- 
 reproof that follows delighted us. 'T is a charming 
 poem throughout (you have well remarked that 
 charming, admirable, exquisite are the words ex- 
 pressive of feelings more than conveying of ideas, 
 else I might plead very well want of room in my 
 paper as excuse for generalizing). I want room 
 to tell you how we are charmed with your verses in 
 the manner of Spenser, etc. I am glad you resume 
 the " Watchman." Change the name ; leave out 
 all articles of news, and whatever things are pecu- 
 liar to newspapers, and confine yourself to ethics, 
 verse, criticism ; or, rather, do not confine your- 
 self. Let your plan be as diffuse as the " Specta- 
 tor," and I '11 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 supe- 
 riority over you. I have seen Priestley. I love to 
 see his name repeated in your writings. I love 
 and honor him almost profanely. You would be 
 charmed with his Sermons, if you never read 'em. 
 You have doubtless read his books illustrative of the 
 doctrine of Necessity. Prefixed to a late work of 
 
38 LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 
 
 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. 
 
 III. 
 
 TO COLERIDGE. 
 
 June 10, 1796. 
 With "Joan of Arc" I have been delighted, 
 amazed. I had not presumed to expect anything of 
 such excellence from Southey. Why, the poem is 
 alone sufficient to redeem the character of the age 
 we live in from the imputation of degenerating in 
 poetry, were there no such beings extant as Burns, 
 
 and Bowles, Cowper, and , — fill up the blank 
 
 how you please ; I say nothing. The subject is well 
 chosen ; it opens well. To become more particular, 
 I will notice in their order a few passages that chiefly 
 struck me on perusal. Page 26 : " Fierce and terri- 
 ble Benevolence ! " is a phrase full of grandeur and 
 originality. The whole context made me feel pos- 
 sessed^ even like Joan herself. Page 28 : " It is most 
 horrible with the keen sword to gore the finely fibred 
 human frame," and what follows, pleased me might- 
 ily. In the second book, the first forty lines in par- 
 ticular are majestic and high-sounding. Indeed, the 
 
LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 39 
 
 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 compar- 
 ison with any in Milton for fulness of circumstance 
 and lofty-pacedness of versification. Southey's 
 similes, though many of 'em are capital, are all in- 
 ferior. In one of his books, the simile of the oak 
 in the storm occurs, I think, four times. To return : 
 the light in which you view the heathen deities is 
 accurate and beautiful. Southey's personifications 
 in this book are so many fine and faultless pictures. 
 I was much pleased with your manner of accounting 
 for the reason why monarchs take delight in war. 
 At the 447th line you have placed Prophets and 
 Enthusiasts cheek by jowl, on too intimate a footing 
 for the dignity of the former. Necessarian-like- 
 speaking, it is correct. Page 98 : " Dead is the 
 Douglas ! cold thy warrior frame, illustrious Buchan," 
 etc., are of kindred excellence with Gray's *' Cold is 
 Cadwallo's tongue," etc. How famously the Maid 
 baffles the Doctors, Seraphic and Irrefragable, 
 "with all their trumpery!" Page 126: the pro- 
 cession, the appearances of the Maid, of the Bastard 
 Son of Orleans, and 01 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 
 
 1 Lapland mountains. From Coleridge's "Destiny of 
 Nations." 
 
40 LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 
 
 of the Loire is altogether beautiful. Page 313 : 
 the conjecture that in dreams " all things are that 
 seem," is one of those conceits which the poet de- 
 lights to admit into his creed, — a creed, by the way, 
 more marvellous and mystic than ever Athanasius 
 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 very confused, and sickens me with a load 
 of useless personifications ; else that ninth book is 
 the finest in the volume, — an exquisite combination 
 of the ludicrous and the terrible. I have never read 
 either, even in translation, but such I conceive to 
 be the manner of Dante or Ariosto. The tenth 
 book is the most languid. 
 
 On the whole, considering the celerity wherewith 
 the poem was finished, I was astonished at the 
 unfrequency of weak lines. I had expected to find 
 it verbose. Joan, I think, does too little in battle, 
 Dunois perhaps the same ; Conrade too much. The 
 anecdotes interspersed among the battles refresh the 
 mind very agreeably, and I am delighted with the 
 very many passages of simple pathos abounding 
 throughout the poem, — passages which the author of 
 " Crazy Kate " might have written. Has not Master 
 Southey spoke very slightingly in his preface and 
 disparagingly of Cowper's Homer? What makes 
 
LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 41 
 
 him reluctant to give Cowper his fame ? And does 
 not Sou they use too often the expletives " did " and 
 " does " ? They have a good effect at times, but 
 are too inconsiderable, or rather become blemishes 
 when they mark a style. On the whole, I expect 
 Southey one day to rival Milton; I already deem 
 him equal to Cowper, and superior to all living poets 
 besides. What says Coleridge ? The " Monody on 
 Henderson " is immensely good ; the rest of that little 
 volume is readable and above inediocrify} I pro- 
 ceed to a more pleasant task, — pleasant because the 
 poems are yours ; pleasant because you impose the 
 task on me ; and pleasant, let me add, because it 
 will confer a whimsical importance on me to sit in 
 judgment upon your rhymes. First, though, let me 
 thank you again and again, in my own and my 
 sister's name, for your invitations. Nothing could 
 give us more pleasure than to come ; but (were 
 there no other reasons) while my brother's leg is so 
 bad, it is out of the question. Poor fellow ! he is 
 very feverish and light-headed ; but Cruikshanks has 
 pronounced the symptoms favourable, and gives us 
 every hope that there will be no need of amputa- 
 tion. God send not ! We are necessarily confined 
 with him all the afternoon and evening till very late, 
 so that I am stealing a few minutes to write to you. 
 Thank you for your frequent letters ; you are 
 the only correspondent and, I might add, the only 
 friend I have in the world. I go nowhere, and 
 
 1 The " Monody" referred to was by Cottle, and appeared 
 in a volume of poems published by him at Bristol in 1795. 
 Coleridge had forwarded the book to Lamb for his opinion. 
 
42 LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 
 
 have no acquaintance. Slow of speech and reserved 
 of manners, no one seeks or cares for my society, 
 and 1 am left alone. Austin calls only occasionally, 
 as though it were a duty rather, and seldom stays 
 ten minutes. Then judge how thankful I am for 
 your letters ! Do not, however, burden yourself 
 with the correspondence. I trouble you again so 
 soon only in obedience to your injunctions. Com- 
 plaints apart, proceed we to our task. I am 
 called away to tea, — thence must wait upon my 
 brother ; so must delay till to-morrow. Farewell ! 
 — Wednesday. 
 
 Thursday. — I will first notice what is new to me. 
 Thirteenth page : " The thrilling tones that concen- 
 trate the soul " is a nervous line, and the six first 
 lines of page 14 are very pretty, the twenty-first 
 effusion a perfect thing. That in the manner of 
 Spenser is very sweet, particularly at the close ; the 
 thirty-fifth effusion is most exquisite, — that line in 
 particular, " And, tranquil, muse upon tranquillity." 
 It is the very reflex pleasure that distinguishes the 
 tranquillity of a thinking being from that of a shep- 
 herd, — a modern one I would be understood to 
 mean, — a Damoetas ; one that keeps other people's 
 sheep. Certainly, Coleridge, your letter from Shur- 
 ton Bars has less merit than most things in your 
 volume ; personally it may chime in best with your 
 own feelings, and therefore you love it best. It 
 has, however, great merit. In your fourth epistle 
 that is an exquisite paragraph, and fancy-full, of " A 
 stream there is which rolls in lazy flow," etc. " Mur- 
 murs sweet undersong 'mid jasmin bowers " is a 
 
LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 43 
 
 sweet line, and so are the three next. The con- 
 cluding simile is far-fetched ; " tempest-honored " 
 is a quaintish phrase. 
 
 Yours is a poetical family. I was much surprised 
 and pleased to see the signature of Sara to that 
 elegant composition, the fifth epistle. I dare not 
 criticise the "Religious Musings;" I like not to 
 select any part, where all is excellent. I can only 
 admire, and thank you for it in the name of a Chris- 
 tian, as well as a lover of good poetry; only let me 
 ask, is not that thought and those words in Young, 
 " stands in the sun," — or is it only such as Young, 
 in one of his better moments, might have writ? 
 
 " Believe thou, O my soul, 
 Life is a vision shadowy of Truth ; 
 And vice, and anguish, and the wormy grave, 
 Shapes of a dream ! " 
 
 I thank you for these lines in the name of a neces- 
 sarian, and for what follows in next paragraph, in 
 the name of a child of fancy. After all, you cannot 
 nor ever will write anything with which I shall be so 
 delighted as what I have heard yourself repeat. You 
 came to town, and I saw you at a time when your 
 heart was yet bleeding with recent wounds. Like 
 yourself, I was sore galled with disappointed hope ; 
 
 you had 
 
 " Many an holy lay 
 That, mourning, soothed the mourner on his way." 
 
 I had ears of sympathy to drink them in, and they 
 yet vibrate pleasant on the sense. When I read in 
 your little volume your nineteenth effusion, or the 
 twenty-eighth or twenty- ninth, or what you call the 
 
44 LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 
 
 " Sigh," I think I hear yoit again. I image to my- 
 self the Httle smoky room at the " Salutation and 
 Cat," where we have sat together through the winter 
 nights, beguiling the cares of life with poesy. When 
 you left London, I felt a dismal void in my heart. 
 I found myself cut off, at one and the same time, 
 from two most dear to me. " How blest with ye 
 the path could I have trod of quiet life ! " In your 
 conversation you had blended so many pleasant fan- 
 cies 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 
 indiiferent 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 mo- 
 ments of occasional solitary devotion. 
 
 A correspondence, opening with you, has roused 
 me a little from my lethargy and made me conscious 
 of existence. Indulge me in it ; I will not be very 
 troublesome ! At some future time I will amuse 
 you with an account, as full as my memory will per- 
 mit, 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, — compar- 
 atively so. Excuse this selfish digression. Your 
 "Monody"^ is so superlatively excellent that I can 
 
 1 The Monody on Chatterton. 
 
LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 45 
 
 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 his poor unsheltered head 
 Did Penury her sickly mildew shed; 
 Ah ! where are fled the charms of vernal grace, 
 And joy's wild gleams that lightened o'er his face." 
 
 Then "youth of tumultuous soul" to "sigh," as 
 before. The rest may all stand down to " gaze upon 
 the waves below." What follows now may come 
 next as detached verses, suggested by the " Mon- 
 ody," rather than a part of it. They are, indeed, 
 in themselves, very sweet ; 
 
 " And we, at sober eve, would round thee throng, 
 Hanging enraptured on thy stately song ! " 
 
 in particular, perhaps. If I am obscure, you may 
 understand me by counting lines. I have proposed 
 omitting twenty-four lines; I feel that thus com- 
 pressed 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 
 
46 LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 
 
 of identical feelings ? I only propose with diffidence. 
 Reject you, if you please, with as little remorse as 
 you would the color of a coat or the pattern of a 
 buckle, where our fancies differed. 
 
 The " Pixies " is a perfect thing, and so are the 
 " Lines on the Spring," page 28. The " Epitaph 
 on an Infant," like a Jack-o'-lantern, has danced 
 about (or like Dr. Forster's-"- scholars) out of the 
 *' Morning Chronicle" into the "Watchman," and 
 thence back into your collection. It is very pretty, 
 and you seem to think so, but, may be, 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 yott recited 
 it. I will not notice, in this tedious (to you) man- 
 ner, verses which have been so long delighful to me, 
 and which you already know my opinion of. Of 
 this kind are Bowles, Priestley, and that most exqui- 
 site and most Bowles-like of all, the nineteenth effu- 
 sion. It would have better ended with " agony of 
 care; " the last two lines are obvious and unneces- 
 sary ; and you need not now make fourteen lines of 
 it, now it is rechristened from a Sonnet to an 
 Effusion. 
 
 Schiller might have written the twentieth effu- 
 sion ; 't is worthy of him in any sense. I was glad 
 to meet with those lines you sent me when my 
 
 1 Dr. Faustus's. 
 
LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 47 
 
 sister was so ill ; I had lost the copy, and I felt 
 not a little proud at seeing my name in your verse. 
 The " Complaint of Ninathoma" (first stanza in par- 
 ticular) 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 add- 
 ing nothing to the meaning. Slander couching was 
 better than "squatting." In the " Man of Ross" 
 it was a better line thus, — 
 
 " If 'neath this roof thy wine-cheered moments pass," 
 
 than as it stands now. Time nor nothing can 
 reconcile me to the concluding five lines of " Kos- 
 ciusko ; " call it anything you will but sublime. 
 In my twelfth effusion I had rather have seen what 
 I wrote myself, though they bear no comparison 
 with your exquisite lines, — 
 
 " On rose-leaf d beds amid your faery bowers," etc. 
 I love my sonnets because they are the reflected 
 images of my own feelings at different times. To 
 instance, in the thirteenth, — 
 
 " How reason reeled," etc., 
 are good lines, but must spoil the whole with me, 
 who know it is only a fiction of yours, and that the 
 " rude dashings " did in fact not " rock me to 
 repose." I grant the same objection applies not 
 to the former sonnet ; but still I love my own feel- 
 ings, — they are dear to memory, though they now 
 
48 LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 
 
 and then wake a sigh or a tear. "Thinking on 
 divers things fordone," I charge you, Coleridge, 
 spare my ewe-lambs ; and though a gentleman may 
 borrow six lines in an epic poem (I should have 
 no objection to borrow five hundred, and without 
 acknowledging), still, in a sonnet, a personal poem, 
 I do not " ask my friend the aiding verse ; " I 
 would not wrong your feelings by proposing any 
 improvements (did I think myself capable of sug- 
 gesting '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 alterandum, cut-up- 
 andum, abridgeandum," just what you will with it; 
 but spare my ewe-lambs ! That to " Mrs. Siddons," 
 now, you were welcome to improve, if it had been 
 worth it ; but I say unto you again, Coleridge, spare 
 my ewe-lambs ! I must confess, were they mine, 
 I should omit, in editione seamda, effusions two and 
 three, because satiric and below the dignity of the 
 poet of " Religious Musings," fifth, seventh, half 
 of the eighth, that "Written in early youth," as far 
 as "thousand eyes," — though I part not unreluc- 
 tantly with that lively line, — 
 
 "Chaste joyance dancing in her bright blue eyes," 
 
LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 49 
 
 and one or two just thereabouts. But I would sub- 
 stitute 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 num- 
 ber 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 
 " Condones 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. Aus- 
 tin, I am sorry to say, is a confirmed atheist. Stod- 
 dart, a cold-hearted, well-bred, conceited disciple of 
 Godwin, does him no good. His wife has several 
 daughters (one of 'em as old as himself) . Surely 
 there is something unnatural in such a marriage. 
 
 How I sympathize with you on the dull duty of 
 a reviewer, and heartily damn with you Ned Evans 
 and the Prosodist ! I shall, however, wait impa- 
 tiently for the articles in the " Critical Review " 
 
 4 
 
50 LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 
 
 next month, because they are yours. Young Evans 
 (W. Evans, a branch of a family you were once 
 so mtimate with) is come into our office, and sends 
 his love to you. Coleridge, I devoutly wish that 
 Fortune, who has made sport with you so long, may 
 play one freak more, throw you into London or 
 some spot near it, and there snug-ify you for life. 
 'T is a selfish but natural wish for me, cast as I am 
 " on life's wide plain, friendless." Are you ac- 
 quainted with Bowles.? I see by his last Elegy (writ- 
 ten at Bath) you are near neighbors. — Thursday. 
 
 "And I can think I can see the groves again; " 
 "Was it the voice of thee ; " " Turns not the voice 
 of thee, my buried friend; " "Who dries with her 
 dark locks the tender tear," — are touches as true 
 to Nature as any in his other Elegy, written at the 
 Hot Wells, about poor Kassell, etc. You are doubt- 
 less acquainted with it. 
 
 I do not know that I entirely agree with you in 
 your stricture upon my sonnet "To Innocence." 
 To men whose hearts are not quite deadened by 
 their commerce with the world, innocence (no 
 longer familiar) becomes an awful idea. So I felt 
 when I wrote it. Your other censures (qualified 
 and sweetened, though, with praises somewhat ex- 
 travagant) I perfectly coincide with; yet I choose 
 to retain the word "lunar," — indulge a "lunatic" 
 in his loyalty to his mistress the moon ! I have just 
 been reading a most pathetic copy of verses on 
 Sophia Pringle, who was hanged and burned for coin- 
 ing. One of the strokes of pathos (which are very 
 many, all somewhat obscure) is, " She lifted up her 
 
LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 51 
 
 guilty forger to heaven." A note explains, by '^ for- 
 ger," her right hand, with which she forged or coined 
 the base metal. For " pathos " read " bathos." You 
 have put me out of conceit with my blank verse by 
 your " Religious Musings." I think it will come to 
 nothing. I do not like 'em enough to send 'em. I 
 have just been reading a book, which I may be too 
 partial to, as it was the delight of my childhood ; but 
 I will recommend it to you, — it is Izaak Walton's 
 " Complete Angler." All the scientific part you may 
 omit in reading. The dialogue is very simple, full of 
 pastoral beauties, and will charm you. Many pretty 
 old verses are interspersed. This letter, which would 
 be a week's work reading only, I do not wish you to 
 answer in less than a month. I shall be richly con- 
 tent with a letter from you some day early in July ; 
 though, if you get anyhow settled before then, pray 
 let me know it immediately ; 't would give me much 
 satisfaction. Concerning the Unitarian chapel, the 
 salary is the only scruple that the most rigid moral- 
 ist would admit as valid. Concerning the tutorage, 
 is not the salary low, and absence from your family 
 unavoidable? London is the only fostering soil for 
 genius. Nothing more occurs just now; so I will 
 leave you, in mercy, one small white spot empty 
 below, to repose your eyes upon, fatigued as they 
 must be with the wilderness of words they have by 
 this time painfully travelled through. God love you, 
 Coleridge, and prosper you through life ! though 
 mine will be loss if your lot is to be cast at Bristol, 
 or at Nottingham, or anywhere but London. Our 
 loves to Mrs. C . C. L. 
 
52 LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 
 
 IV. 
 
 TO COLERIDGE. 
 
 June 14, 1796. 
 I AM not quite satisfied now with the Chatterton,^ 
 and with your leave will try my hand at it again. A 
 master-joiner, you know, may leave a cabinet to be 
 finished, when his own hands are full. To your list of 
 illustrative personifications, into which a fine imagi- 
 nation enters, I will take leave to add the following 
 from Beaumont and Fletcher's " Wife for a Month ; " 
 't is the conclusion of a description of a sea-fight : 
 " The game of death was never played so nobly ; the 
 meagre thief grew wanton in his mischiefs, and his 
 shrunk, hollow eyes smiled on his ruins." There is 
 fancy in these of a lower order from " Bonduca " : 
 " Then did I see these valiant men of Britain, like 
 boding owls creep into tods of ivy, and hoot their 
 fears to one another nightly." Not that it is a per- 
 sonification, only it just caught my eye in a httle 
 extract-book I keep, which is full of quotations from 
 B. and F. in particular, in which authors I can't help 
 thinking there is a greater richness of poetical fancy 
 than in any one, Shakspeare excepted. Are you 
 acquainted with Massinger? At a hazard I will 
 trouble you with a passage from a play of his called 
 " A Very Woman." The lines are spoken by a lover 
 (disguised) to his faithless mistress. You will re- 
 mark the fine effect of the double endings. You 
 
 1 Coleridge's "Monody" on Chatterton. 
 
LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 53 
 
 will by your ear distinguish the lines, for I write 'em 
 as prose. " Not far from where my father lives, a 
 lady, a neighbor by, blest with as great a beattty as 
 Nature durst bestow without undoing, dwelt, and 
 most happily, as I thought then, and blest the 
 house a thousand times she dwelt in. This beauty, 
 in the blossom of my youth, when my first fire knew 
 no adulterate incense, nor I no way to flatter but my 
 fondness ; in all the bravery my friends could show 
 me, in all the faith my innocence could give me, in 
 the best language my true tongue could tell me, and 
 all the broken sighs my sick heart lend me, I sued 
 and served ; long did I serve this lady, long was my 
 travail, long my trade to win her ; with all the duty 
 of my soul I served her." "Then she must love." 
 " She did, but never me : she could not love me ; 
 she would not love, she hated, — more, she scorn'd 
 me ; and in so a poor and base a way abused me for 
 all my services, for all my bounties, so bold neglects 
 flung on me." " What out of love, and worthy love, 
 I gave her (shame to her most unworthy mind !), 
 to fools, to girls, to fiddlers and her boys she flung, 
 all in disdain of me." One more passage strikes 
 my eye from B. and F.'s " Palamon and Arcite." 
 One of 'em complains in prison : " This is all our 
 world ; we shall know nothing here but one another, 
 hear nothing but the clock that tells us our woes ; 
 the vine shall grow, but we shall never see it," etc. 
 Is not the last circumstance exquisite? I mean not 
 to lay myself open by saying they exceed Milton, 
 and perhaps Collins in sublimity. But don't you 
 conceive all poets after Shakspeare yield to 'em in 
 
54 LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 
 
 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 quo- 
 tations, 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 else- 
 where occasionally ; and perhaps by Cowper in his 
 " Crazy Kate," and in parts of his translation, such 
 as the speeches of Hecuba and Andromache. I 
 long to know your opinion of that translation. The 
 Odyssey especially is surely very Homeric. What 
 nobler than the appearance of Phoebus at the begin- 
 ning of the Iliad, — the lines ending with " Dread 
 sounding, bounding on the silver bow ! " 
 
 I beg you will give me your opinion of the trans- 
 lation ; 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 Hcking 
 the book into any meaning at all. Yet did the 
 knave clear fifty or sixty pounds by subscription 
 and selling the copyright. The book itself not a 
 week's work ! To-day's portion of my journalizing 
 epistle has been very dull and poverty-stricken. I 
 
 will here end. 
 
 Tuesday night. 
 
 I have been drinking egg-hot and smoking Oro- 
 
 nooko (associated circumstances, which ever forci- 
 
LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 55 
 
 bly recall to my mind our evenings and nights at 
 the "Salutation"). My eyes and brain are heavy 
 and asleep, but my heart is awake ; and if words 
 came as ready as ideas, and ideas as feelings, I 
 could say ten hundred kind things. Coleridge, you 
 know not my supreme happiness at having one 
 on earth (though counties separate us) whom I can 
 call a friend. Remember you those tender lines 
 of Logan ? — 
 
 " Our broken friendships we deplore, 
 And loves of youth that are no more ; 
 No after friendships e'er can raise 
 Th' endearments of our early days, 
 And ne'er the heart such fondness prove, 
 As when we first began to love." 
 
 I am writing at random, and half-tipsy, what you 
 may not equally understand, as you will be sober 
 when you read it ; but my sober and my half-tipsy 
 hours you are alike a sharer in. Good night. 
 
 " Then up rose our bard, like a prophet in drink, 
 Craigdoroch, thou 'It soar when creation shall sink." 
 
 Burns. 
 
 V. 
 
 TO COLERIDGE. 
 
 September 27, 1796. 
 My dearest Friend, — White, or some of my 
 friends, or the public papers, by this time may have 
 informed you of the terrible calamities that have 
 fallen on our family. I will only give you the out- 
 lines : My poor dear, dearest sister, in a fit of 
 
56 LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 
 
 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 hos- 
 pital. 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 reli- 
 gious a letter as possible, but no mention of what is 
 gone and done with. With me " the former things 
 are passed away," and I have something more to do 
 than to feel. 
 
 God Almighty have us all in his keeping ! 
 
 C. Lamb. 
 
 Mention nothing of poetry. I have destroyed 
 every vestige of past vanities of that kind. Do as 
 you please, but if you publish, publish mine (I give 
 free leave) without name or initial, and never send 
 me a book, I charge you. 
 
 Your own judgment will convince you not to take 
 any notice of this yet to your dear wife. You look 
 after your family ; I have my reason and strength 
 left to take care of mine. I charge you, don't think 
 of coming to see me. Write. I will not see you, if 
 you come. God Almighty love you an(f all of us ! 
 
 C. Lamb. 
 
LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 57 
 
 VI. 
 
 TO COLERIDGE. 
 
 October 3, 1796. 
 My dearest Friend, — Your letter was an inesti- 
 mable treasure to me. It will be a comfort to you, 
 I know, to know that our prospects are somewhat 
 brighter. My poor dear, dearest sister, the unhappy 
 and unconscious instrument of the Almighty's 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 tempered with religious resigna- 
 tion and the reasonings of a sound judgment, which 
 in this early stage knows how to distinguish between 
 a deed committed in a transient fit of frenzy, and 
 the terrible guilt of a mother's murder. I have seen 
 her. I found her, this morning, calm and serene ; 
 far, very, very far, from an indecent, forgetful serenity. 
 She has a most affectionate and tender concern for 
 what has happened. Indeed, from the beginning, 
 frightful and hopeless as her disorder seemed, I had 
 confidence enough in her strength of mind and reli- 
 gious principle to look forward to a time when even 
 she might recover tranquillity. God be praised, 
 Coleridge, wonderful as it is to tell, I have never 
 once been otherwise than collected and calm ; even 
 on the dreadful day and in the midst of the terrible 
 scene, I preserved a tranquillity which bystanders 
 may have construed into indifference, — a tranquil- 
 
58 LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 
 
 lity not of despair. Is it folly or sin in me to say 
 that it was a religious principle that most supported 
 me ? I allow much to other favorable circumstances. 
 I felt that I had something else to do than to regret. 
 On that first evening my aunt was lying insensible, 
 to all appearance like one dying; my father with 
 his poor forehead plastered over, from a wound he 
 had received from a daughter dearly loved by him, 
 and who loved him no less dearly ; my mother a dead 
 and murdered corpse in the next room, — yet was 
 I wonderfully supported. I 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 en- 
 deavored after a comprehension of mind unsatisfied 
 with the " ignorant present time ; " and this kept 
 me up. I had the whole weight of the family thrown 
 on me ; for my brother,^ little disposed (I speak 
 not without tenderness for him) at any time to take 
 care of old age and infirmities, had now, with his bad 
 leg, an exemption from such duties ; and I was now 
 left alone. 
 
 One little incident may serve to make you 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 partake of it now, when she is far away? 
 A thought occurred and relieved me : if I give in 
 
 ' John Lamb, the "James Elia " of the essay " My Rela- 
 tions." 
 
LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 59 
 
 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 feehng. I did not 
 let this carry me, though, too far. On the very 
 second day (I date from the day of horrors), as is 
 usual in such cases, there were a matter of twenty 
 people, I do think, supping in our room ; they pre- 
 vailed on me to eat with the^n (for to eat I never 
 refused). They were all making merry in the room ! 
 Some had come from friendship, some from busy 
 curiosity, and some from interest. I was going to 
 partake with them, when my recollection came that 
 my poor dead mother was lying in the next room, — 
 the very next room ; a mother who through life 
 wished nothing but her children's welfare. Indigna- 
 tion, the rage of grief, something like remorse, rushed 
 upon my mind. In an agony of emotion I found my 
 way mechanically to the adjoining room, and fell on 
 my knees by the side of her coffin, asking forgive- 
 ness of Heaven, and sometimes of her, for forgetting 
 her so soon. TranquilUty returned, and it was the 
 only violent emotion that mastered me ; and I think 
 it did me good. 
 
 I mention these things because I hate conceal- 
 ment, and love to give a faithful journal of what 
 passes within me. Our friends have been very 
 good. Sam Le Grice,^ who was then in town, was 
 with me the three or four first days, and was as 
 a brother to me, gave up every hour of his time, 
 to the very hurting of his health and spirits, in 
 
 1 A Christ's Hospital schoolfellow. 
 
6o LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 
 
 constant attendance and humoring my poor father ; 
 talked with him, read to him, played at cribbage 
 with him (for so short is the old man's recollection 
 that he was playing at cards, as though nothing had 
 happened, while the coroner's inquest was sitting 
 over the way ! ) . Samuel wept tenderly when he 
 went away, for his mother wrote him a very severe 
 letter on his loitering so long in town, and he was 
 forced to go. Mr. Norris, of Christ's Hospital, has 
 been as a father to me, Mrs. Norris as a mother, 
 though we had few claims on them. A gentleman, 
 brother to my god- mother, from whom we never 
 had right or reason to expect any such assistance, 
 sent my father twenty pounds; and to crown all 
 these God's blessings to our family at such a time, 
 an old lady, a cousin of my father and aunt's, a 
 gentlewoman of fortune, is to take my aunt and 
 make her comfortable for the short remainder of 
 her days. My aunt is recovered, and as well as 
 ever, and highly pleased at thoughts of going, and 
 has generously given up the interest of her little 
 money (which was formerly paid my father for her 
 board) wholely and solely to my sister's use. 
 Reckoning this, we have. Daddy and I, for our 
 two selves and an old maid-servant to look after 
 him when I am out, which will be necessary, ;£i7o, 
 or ;^i8o rather, a year, out of which we can spare 
 £,^0 or ^60 at least for Mary while she stays at 
 Islington, where she must and shall stay during her 
 father's life, for his and her comfort. I know John 
 will make speeches about it, but she shall not go 
 into an hospital. The good lady of the madhouse 
 
LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 6i 
 
 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 ^loo which my father will have at Christmas, 
 and this £20 \ mentioned before, with what is in 
 the house, will much more than set us clear. If 
 my father, an old servant-maid, and I can't live, and 
 live comfortably, on ^130 or ^120 a year, we 
 ought to burn by slow fires ; and I almost would, 
 that Mary might not go into an hospital. 
 
 Let me not leave one unfavorable impression on 
 your mind respecting my brother. Since this has 
 happened, he has been very kind and brotherly; 
 but I fear for his mind. He has taken his ease 
 in the world, and is not fit himself to struggle with 
 difficulties, nor has much accustomed himself to 
 throw himself into their way ; and I know his lan- 
 guage is already, " Charles, you must take care of 
 yourself, you must not abridge yourself of a single 
 pleasure you have been used to," etc., and in 
 that style of talking. But you, a necessarian, can 
 respect a diiference of mind, and love what is ami- 
 
62 LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 
 
 able in a character not perfect. He has been very 
 good, but I fear for his mind. Thank God, I 
 can unconnect myself with him, and shall manage 
 all my father's moneys in future myself, if I take 
 charge of Daddy, which poor John has not even 
 hinted a wish, at any future time even, to share 
 with me. The lady at this madhouse assures me 
 that I may dismiss immediately both doctor and 
 apothecary, retaining occasionally a composing 
 draught or so for a while ; and there is a less ex- 
 pensive establishment in her house, where she will 
 only not have a room and nurse to herself, for JP^^o 
 or guineas a year, — the outside would be ^60. 
 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 let- 
 ter, for my own comfort, for I understand her 
 thoroughly ; and if I mistake not, in the most try- 
 ing situation that a human being can be found in, 
 she will be found (I speak not with sufficient humil- 
 ity, I fear, but humanly and foolishly speaking) , — 
 she will be found, I trust, uniformly great and ami- 
 able. God keep her in her present mind, to whom 
 
LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. (i2> 
 
 be thanks and praise for all His dispensations to 
 mankind ! 
 
 C. Lamb. 
 
 These mentioned good fortunes and change of 
 prospects had almost brought my mind over to the 
 extreme the very opposite to despair. I was in 
 danger of making myself too happy. Your letter 
 brought me back to a view of things which I had 
 entertained from the beginning. I hope (for Mary 
 I can answer) — but I hope that / shall through life 
 never have less recollection, nor a fainter impres- 
 sion, of what has happened than I have now. 'T is 
 not a light thing, nor meant by the Almighty to be 
 received lightly. I must be serious, circumspect, 
 and deeply religious through life ; and by such 
 means may both of us escape madness in future, if 
 it so please the Almighty ! 
 
 Send me word how it fares with Sara. I repeat 
 it, your letter was, and will be, an inestimable treas- 
 ure to me. You have a view of what my situation 
 demands of me, like my own view, and I trust a just 
 one. 
 
 Coleridge, continue to write, but do not forever 
 offend me by talking of sending me cash. Sin- 
 cerely and on my soul, we do not want it. God 
 love you both ! 
 
 I will write again very soon. Do you write 
 directly. 
 
64 LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 
 
 VII. 
 
 TO COLERIDGE. 
 
 October 17, 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 untoward fatality (speaking humanly) that 
 does this for you, — a stubborn, irresistible concur- 
 rence of events, — or hes 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 dan- 
 cing demon may conduct you at last in peace and 
 comfort to the " life and labours of a cottager " ! 
 You see from the above awkward playfulness of 
 fancy that my spirits are not quite depressed. I 
 should ill deserve God's blessings, which, since the 
 late terrible event, have come down in mercy upon 
 us, if I indulge in regret or querulousness. Mary 
 continues serene and cheerful. I have not by me a 
 little letter she wrote to me ; for though I see her 
 almost every day, yet we delight to write to one an- 
 other, for we can scarce see each other but in com- 
 pany 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 
 
LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 65 
 
 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 rea- 
 son which the Almighty has given me. I shall see 
 her again in heaven ; she will then understand me 
 better. My grandmother, too, will understand me 
 better, and will then say no more, as she used to do, 
 'Polly, what are those poor crazy, moythered brains of 
 yours thinking of always ? ' " Poor Mary ! my mother 
 indeed never understood her right. She loved her, as 
 she loved us all, with a mother's love ; but in opinion, 
 in feeling and sentiment and disposition, bore so dis- 
 tant a resemblance to her daughter that she never 
 understood her right, — never could believe how 
 much she loved her, but met her caresses, her protes- 
 tations of filial affection, too frequently with coldness 
 and repulse. Still, she was a good mother. God 
 forbid I should think of her but most respectfully, 
 most affectionately. Yet she would always love my 
 brother above Mary, who was not worthy of one tenth 
 of that affection which Mary had a right to claim. 
 But it is my sister's gratifying recollection that 
 every act of duty and of love she could pay, every 
 kindness (and I speak true, when I say to the hurt- 
 ing of her health, and most probably in great part 
 to the derangement of her senses) through a long 
 course of infirmities and sickness she could show 
 her, she ever did. I will some day, as I promised, 
 enlarge to you upon my sister's excellences ; 't will 
 seem like exaggeration, but I will do it. At present, 
 
 5 
 
66 LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 
 
 short letters suit my state of mind best. So take my 
 kindest wishes for your comfort and estabhshment 
 in Hfe, and for Sara's welfare and comforts with you. 
 God love you ; God love us all ! 
 
 C. Lamb. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 TO COLERIDGE. 
 
 November 14, 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 in uncomplaining melan- 
 choly, a delicious regret for the past, or weave fine 
 visions of that awful future, — 
 
 " When all the vanities of life's brief day 
 Oblivion's hurrying hand hath swept away, 
 And all its sorrows, at the awful blast 
 Of the archangel's trump, are but as shadows past." 
 
 I have another sort of dedication in my head for 
 my few things, which I want to know if you approve 
 of and can insert.^ I mean to inscribe them to my 
 sister. It will be unexpected, and it will give her 
 pleasure ; or do you think it will look whimsical 
 
 1 The earliest sonnets of William Lisle Bowles were pub- 
 lished in 1789, the year of Lamb's removal from Christ's 
 Hospital. 
 
 2 Alluding to the prospective joint volume of poems (by 
 Coleridge, Lamb, and Charles Lloyd) to be published by Cottle 
 in 1797. This was Lamb's second serious literary venture, he 
 and Coleridge having issued a joint volume in 1796. 
 
LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 67 
 
 at all ? As I have not spoke to her about it, I can 
 easily reject the idea. But there is a monotony in 
 the affections which people living together, or as we 
 do now, very frequently seeing each other, are apt to 
 give in to, — a sort of indifference in the expression 
 of kindness for each other, which demands that we 
 should sometimes call to our aid the trickery of sur- 
 prise. Do you pubUsh with Lloyd, or without him ? 
 In either case my little portion may come last, and 
 after the fashion of orders to a country correspon- 
 dent, I will give directions how I should like to have 
 'em done. The tide-page to stand thus : — 
 
 POEMS 
 
 BY 
 CHARLES LAMB, OF THE INDIA HOUSE. 
 
 Under this tide 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 gen- 
 tleman choose what arms, mottoes, or armorial 
 bearings the herald will give him leave, without 
 consulting his republican friend, who might advise 
 none ? May not a publican put up the sign of the 
 Saracen's Head, even though his undiscerning 
 neighbor should prefer, as more genteel, the Cat 
 
 and Gridiron? 
 
 [Motto.] 
 
 "This beauty, in the blossom of my youth, 
 When my first fire knew no adulterate incense. 
 Nor I no way to flatter but my fondness, 
 In the best language my true tongue could tell me, 
 And all the broken sighs my sick heart lend me, 
 I sued and served. Long did I love this lady.''^ 
 
 Massinger. 
 ^ From " A Verv Woman." 
 
68 LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 
 
 THE DEDICATION. 
 
 THE FEW FOLLOWING POEMS, 
 CREATURES OF THE FANCY AND THE FEELING 
 
 IN life's more vacant hours, 
 
 PRODUCED, for THE MOST PART, BY 
 
 LOVE IN IDLENESS, 
 
 ARE, 
 
 WITH ALL A brother's FONDNESS, 
 
 INSCRIBED TO 
 
 MARY ANN LAMB, 
 
 THE author's BEST FRIEND AND SISTER. 
 
 This is the pomp and paraphernaHa of parting, 
 with which I take my leave of a passion which has 
 reigned so royally (so long) within me ; thus, with 
 its trappings of laureateship, I fling it off, pleased 
 and satisfied with myself that the weakness troubles 
 me no longer. I am wedded, Coleridge, to the 
 •fortunes of my sister and my poor old father. Oh, 
 my friend, I think sometimes, could I recall the 
 days that are past, which among them should I 
 choose? Not those '' merrier days," not the " plea- 
 sant days of hope," not " those wanderings with a 
 fair-hair'd maid," ^ which I have so often and so 
 feehngly regretted, but the days, Coleridge, of a 
 mother's fondness for her schoolboy. What would 
 I give to call her back to earth for one day, on 
 my knees to ask her pardon for all those little 
 asperities of temper which from time to time have 
 
 1 An allusion to Lamb's first love, — the "Anna" of his 
 sonnets, and the original, probably, of " Rosamund Gray " 
 
 and of " Alice W n " in the beautiful essay " Dream 
 
 Children." 
 
LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 69 
 
 given her gentle spirit pain. And the day, my 
 friend, I trust will come ; there will be " time 
 enough " for kind offices of love, if " Heaven's 
 eternal year " be ours. Hereafter, her meek spirit 
 shall not reproach me. Oh, my friend, cultivate 
 the filial feehngs, and let no man think himself 
 released from the kind " charities " of relationship. 
 These shall give him peace at the last ; these are 
 the best foundation for every species of benevo- 
 lence. I rejoice to hear, by certain channels, that 
 you, my friend, are reconciled with all your rela- 
 tions. 'T is the most kindly and natural species 
 of love, and we have all the associated train of early 
 feelings to secure its strength and perpetuity. Send 
 me an account of your health ; indeed I am solicit- 
 ous about you. God love you and yours ! 
 
 C. Lamb. 
 
 IX. 
 
 TO COLERIDGE. 
 
 [Fragment] 
 
 Dec. 5, 1796. 
 
 At length I have done with verse-making, — not 
 that I reUsh other people's poetry less : theirs comes 
 from 'em without effort ; mine is the difficult opera- 
 tion of a brain scanty of ideas, made more difficult 
 by disuse. I hs^e been reading " The Task " with 
 fresh delight. I am glad you love Cowper. I 
 could forgive a man for not enjoying Milton ; but 
 I would not call that man my friend who should be 
 offended with the " divine chit-chat of Cowper." 
 Write to me. God love you and yours ! 
 
 C. L. 
 
70 LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 
 
 X. 
 
 TO COLERIDGE. 
 
 Dec. lo, 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 sense of it is yet warm j for if I linger a 
 day or two, I may use the same phrase of acknowl- 
 edgment, or similar, but the feeling that dictates it 
 now will be gone ; I shall send you a caput mor- 
 tumn, not a cor vivens. Thy "Watchman's," thy 
 bellman's verses, I do retort upon thee, thou libel- 
 lous 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 compli- 
 ments, ingeniously decked out in the garb of sin- 
 cerity, 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 
 
 1 See preceding letter. 
 
LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 71 
 
 it, dissuade and discourage me from attempting 
 anything after you. At present I have not leisure 
 to make verses, nor anything approaching to a 
 fondness for the exercise. In the ignorant present 
 time, who can answer for the future man? "At 
 lovers' perjuries Jove laughs," — and poets have 
 sometimes a disingenuous way of forswearing their 
 occupation. This, though, is not my case. The 
 tender cast of soul, sombred with melancholy and 
 subsiding recollections, is favorable to the Sonnet 
 or the Elegy ; but from — 
 
 ** The sainted growing woof 
 The teasing troubles keep aloof." 
 
 The music of poesy may charm for a while the im- 
 portunate, teasing cares of life ; but the teased and 
 troubled man is not in a disposition to make that 
 music. 
 
 You sent me some very sweet lines relative to 
 Burns ; but it was at a time when, in my highly agi- 
 tated and perhaps distorted state of mind, I thought 
 it a duty to read 'em hastily and burn 'em. I 
 burned all my own verses, all my book of extracts 
 from Beaumont and Fletcher and a thousand 
 sources ; I burned a little journal of my foolish pas- 
 sion which I had a long time kept, — 
 
 " Noting, ere they past away, 
 The little lines of yesterday." 
 
 I almost burned all your letters ; I did as bad, — I 
 lent 'em to a friend to keep out of my brother's 
 sight, should he come and make inquisition into our 
 papers ; for much as he dwelt upon your conversation 
 
72 LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 
 
 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 moun- 
 tains of Parnassus, is said to have cursed wit, and 
 poetry, and Pope.-^ I quote wrong, but no matter. 
 These letters I lent to a friend to be out of the way 
 for a season ; but I have claimed them in vain, and 
 shall not cease to regret their loss. Your packets 
 posterior to the date of my misfortunes, commencing 
 with that valuable consolatory epistle, are every day 
 accumulating, — they are sacred things with me. 
 
 Publish your Burns ^ when and how you like ; it 
 will be new to me, — my memory of it is very con- 
 fused, and tainted with unpleasant associations. 
 Burns was the god of my idolatry, as Bowles of 
 yours. I am jealous of your fraternizing with Bowles, 
 when I think you relish him more than Burns or my 
 old favorite, Cowper. But you conciliate matters 
 when you talk of the " divine chit-chat " of the 
 latter ; by the expression I see you thoroughly relish 
 him. I love Mrs. Coleridge for her excuses an 
 hundred-fold more dearly than if she heaped " line 
 upon line," out- Hannah- ing Hannah More, and had 
 
 1 Epistle to Arbuthnot : — 
 
 " Poor Cornus sees his frantic wife elope, 
 And curses wit, and poetry, and Pope." 
 
 2 The lines on him which Coleridge had sent to Lamb, 
 and which the latter had burned. 
 
LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 73 
 
 rather hear you sing "Did a very httle baby" by 
 your family fireside, than listen to you when you 
 were repeating one of Bowles's sweetest sonnets in 
 your sweet manner, while we two were indulging 
 sympathy, a solitary luxury, by the fireside at the 
 " Salutation." Yet have I no higher ideas of heaven. 
 Your company was one " cordial in this melancholy 
 vale," — the remembrance of it is a blessing partly, 
 and partly a curse. When I can abstract myself 
 from things present, I can enjoy it with a fresh- 
 ness of relish ; but it more constantly operates to 
 an unfavorable comparison with the uninterest- 
 ing 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 Testa- 
 ment, — 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, Ind'eed, is all I can 
 wish in a companion; but our spirits are alike 
 poorly, our reading and knowledge from the self- 
 same sources, our communication with the scenes of 
 the world alike narrow. Never having kept separate 
 company, or any " company " together; never hav- 
 ing read separate books, and few books together, — 
 what knowledge have we to convey to each other? 
 In our little range of duties and connections, how few 
 sentiments can take place without friends, with few 
 books, with a taste for religion rather than a strong 
 religious habit ! We need some support, some 
 leading-strings to cheer and direct us. You talk 
 very wisely ; and be not sparing of your advice. 
 
74 LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 
 
 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 in- 
 deed an unreasonable correspondent ; but I was 
 unwilling to let my last night's letter go off without 
 this qualifier : you will perceive by this my mind is 
 easier, and you will rejoice. I do not expect or 
 wish you to write till you are moved ; and of course 
 shall not, till you announce to me that event, think 
 of writing myself. Love to Mrs. Coleridge and 
 David Hartley, and my kind remembrance to 
 Lloyd, if he is with you. 
 
 C. Lamb. 
 
 XL 
 
 TO COLERIDGE. 
 
 January 5, 1797. 
 
 Sunday Morning. — You cannot surely mean to 
 
 degrade the Joan of Arc into a pot-girl.^ You are 
 
 not going, I hope, to annex to that most splendid 
 
 ornament of Southey's poem all this cock-and-a-buU 
 
 1 Coleridge, in later years, indorsed Lamb's opinion of this 
 portion of his contribution to "Joan of Arc." " I was really 
 astonished," he said, "(i) at the schoolboy, wretched, alle- 
 goric machinery; {2) at the transmogrification of the fanatic 
 virago into a modern novel-pawing proselyte of the " Age of 
 Reason," — a Tom Paine in petticoats; (3) at the utter want 
 of all rhythm in the verse, the monotony and dead plumb-down 
 of the pauses, and the absence of all bone, muscle, and sinew 
 in the single lines." 
 
LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 75 
 
 Story of Joan, the publican's daughter of Neufchatel, 
 with the lamentable episode of a wagoner, his wife, 
 and six children. The texture will be most lamenta- 
 bly disproportionate. The first forty or fifty lines of 
 these addenda are no doubt in their way admirable 
 too ; but many would prefer the Joan of Southey. 
 
 " On mightiest deeds to brood 
 Of shadowy vastness, such as made my heart 
 Throb fast ; anon I paused, and in a state 
 Of half expectance listened to the wind." 
 
 " They wondered at me, who had known me once 
 A cheerful, careless damsel." 
 
 " The eye, 
 
 That of the circling throng and of the visible world, 
 Unseeing, saw the shapes of holy phantasy." 
 
 I see riothing in your description of the Maid equal 
 to these. There is a fine originality certainly in those 
 lines, — 
 
 " For she had lived in this bad world 
 As in a place of tombs, 
 And touched not the pollutions of the dead ; " 
 
 but your "fierce vivacity" is a faint copy of the 
 '■'fierce and terrible benevolence" of Southey; 
 added to this, that it will look like rivalship in you, 
 and extort a comparison with Southey, — I think 
 to your disadvantage. And the lines, considered in 
 themselves as an addition to what you had before 
 written (strains of a far higher mood), are but such 
 as Madame Fancy loves in some of her more fa- 
 miliar moods, — at such times as she has met Noll 
 Goldsmith, and walked and talked with him, calling 
 him " old acquaintance." Southey certainly has no 
 
76 LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 
 
 pretensions to vie with you in the sublime of poetry ; 
 but he tells a plain tale better than you. I will enu- 
 merate some woful blemishes, some of 'em sad de- 
 viations 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 im- 
 mortal" (rather ludicrous again); "voiced a sad 
 and simple tale " (abominable ! ) ; " unproven- 
 dered ; " " such his tale ; " " Ah, suffering to the 
 height of what was sufffered " (a most insufferable 
 line) ; "amazements of affright; " "The hot, sore 
 brain attributes its own hues of ghastliness and 
 torture" (what shocking confusion of ideas !). 
 
 In these delineations of common and natural 
 feelings, in the familiar walks of poetry, yoli seem 
 to resemble Montauban dancing with Roubign^'s 
 tenants,^ " much of his native loftiness re77iained 
 in the execution'"' 
 
 I was reading your " Religious Musings " the other 
 day, and sincerely I think it the noblest poem in the 
 language next after the " Paradise Lost ; " and even 
 that was not made the vehicle of such grand truths. 
 "There is one mind," etc., down to "Almighty's 
 throne," are without a rival in the whole compass of 
 my poetical reading. 
 
 " Stands in the sun, and with no partial gaze 
 Views all creation." 
 
 1 In Mackenzie's tale, "Julia de Roubigne." 
 
LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 77 
 
 I wish I could have written those hnes. I rejoice 
 that I am able to relish them. The loftier walks of 
 Pindus are your proper region. There you have 
 no compeer in modern times. Leave the lowlands, 
 unenvied, in possession of such men as Cowper 
 and Southey. Thus am I pouring balsam into the 
 wounds I may have been inflicting on my poor 
 friend's vanity. 
 
 In your notice of Southey' s new volume you 
 omit to mention the most pleasing of all, the 
 
 *•' Miniature." 
 
 " There were 
 Who formed high hopes and flattering ones of thee, 
 Young Robert ! " 
 " Spirit of Spenser ! was the wanderer wrong ? " 
 
 Fairfax I have been in quest of a long time. 
 Johnson, in his " Life of Waller," gives a most de- 
 licious specimen of him, and adds, in the true man- 
 ner of that deUcate critic, as well as amiable man, 
 " It may be presumed that this old version will not 
 be much read after the elegant translation of my 
 friend Mr. Hoole." I endeavored — I wished to 
 gain some idea of Tasso from this Mr. Hoole, the 
 great boast and ornament of the India House, but 
 soon desisted. I found him more vapid than small- 
 est 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 re- 
 mainder is so-so. The best line, I think, is, " He 
 belong'd, I believe, to the witch Melancholy." By 
 
78 LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 
 
 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 gener- 
 ality of my friend's correspondents, — such poor and 
 honest dogs as John Thelwall particularly. I can- 
 not say I know Coulson, — at least intimately ; I once 
 supped with him and Austin ; I think his manners 
 very pleasing. I will not tell you what I think of 
 Lloyd, for he may by chance come to see this letter ; 
 and that thought puts a restraint on me. I cannot 
 think what subject would suit your epic genius, — 
 some philosophical subject, I conjecture, in which 
 shall be blended the sublime of poetry and of 
 science. Your proposed " Hymns " will be a fit 
 preparatory study wherewith " to discipline your 
 young novitiate soul." I grow dull ; I '11 go walk 
 myself out of my dulness. 
 
 Sunday Night. — You and Sara are very good 
 to think so kindly and so favorably of poor Mary ; 
 I would to God all did so too. But I very much 
 fear she must not think of coming home in my 
 father's lifetime. It is very hard upon her, but 
 our circumstances are peculiar, and we must submit 
 to them. God be praised she is so well as she is. 
 She bears her situation as one who has no right to 
 complain. My poor old aunt, whom you have seen, 
 the kindest, goodest creature to me when I was at 
 school ; who used to toddle there to bring me good 
 things, when I, schoolboy- like, only despised her for 
 it, and used to be ashamed to see her come and sit 
 
LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 79 
 
 herself down on the old coal-hole steps as you went 
 into the old grammar-school, and open her apron, 
 and bring out her basin, with some nice thing she 
 had caused to be saved for me, 1 — 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 ill- 
 ness. She says, poor thing, she is glad she is come 
 home to die with me. I was always her favourite ; 
 
 " No after friendship e'er can raise 
 The endearments of our early days ; 
 Nor e'er the heart such fondness prove, 
 As when it first began to love." 
 
 XII. 
 
 TO COLERIDGE. 
 
 January 10, 1797. 
 I NEED not repeat my wishes to have my little 
 sonnets printed verbatim my last way. In particu- 
 lar, I fear lest you should prefer printing my first 
 sonnet, as you have done more than once, " did the 
 wand of Merlin wave," it looks so like Mr. Merlin,'^ 
 the ingenious successor of the immortal Merlin, now 
 living in good health and spirits, and flourishing in 
 magical reputation, in Oxford Street ', and, on my 
 life, one half who read it would understand it so. 
 
 1 See the essay, " Christ's Hospital Five-and-Thirty Years 
 Ago." 
 
 2 A well-known conjuror of the time. 
 
8o lETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 
 
 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 num- 
 ber of his friends, if they differ inter se. Thus taste 
 may safely be put to the vote. I do long to see 
 our names together, — not for vanity's sake, and 
 naughty pride of heart altogether; for not a living 
 soul I know, or am intimate with, will scarce read 
 the book, — so I shall gain nothing, quoad famam ; 
 and yet there is a little vanity mixes in it, I cannot 
 help denying. — I am aware of the unpoetical cast 
 of the last six lines of my last sonnet, and think my- 
 self unwarranted in smuggling so tame a thing into 
 the book ; only the sentiments of those six lines are 
 thoroughly congenial to me in my state of mind, 
 and I wish to accumulate perpetuating tokens of my 
 affection to poor Mary. That it has no originality 
 in its cast, nor anything in the feelings but what 
 is common and natural to thousands, nor ought 
 properly to be called poetry, I see ; still, it will tend 
 to keep present to my mind a view of things which 
 I ought to indulge. These six lines, too, have not, 
 to a reader, a connectedness with the foregoing. 
 Omit it if you like. — What a treasure it is to my 
 poor, indolent, and unemployed mind thus to lay 
 hold on a subject to talk about, though 'tis but 
 a sonnet, and that of the lowest order ! How 
 mournfully inactive I am ! — 'T is 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 
 
LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 8i 
 
 your present situation at Stowey. Is it a farm that 
 you have got? and what does your worship know 
 about farming? 
 
 Coleridge, I want you to write an epic poem. 
 Nothing short of it can satisfy the vast capacity of 
 true poetic genius. Having one great end to direct 
 all your poetical faculties to, and on which to lay out 
 your hopes, your ambition will show you to what you 
 are equal. By the sacred energies of Milton ! by 
 the dainty, sweet, and soothing phantasies of honey- 
 tongued Spenser ! I adjure you to attempt the 
 epic, or do something more ample than the writ- 
 ing an occasional brief ode or sonnet ; something 
 " to make yourself forever known, — to make the 
 age to come your own." But I prate ; doubtless you 
 meditate something. When you are exalted among 
 the lords of epic fame, I shall recall with pleasure 
 and exultingly the days of your humility, when you 
 disdained not to put forth, in the same volume with 
 mine, your "Religious Musings" and that other 
 poem from the "Joan of Arc," those promising first- 
 fruits of high renown to come. You have learning, 
 you have fancy, you have enthusiasm, you have 
 strength and amplitude of wing enow for flights like 
 those I recommend. In the vast and unexplored 
 regions of fairy-land there is ground enough unfound 
 and uncultivated : search there, and realize your 
 favorite Susquehanna scheme. In all our com- 
 parisons of taste, I do not know whether I have 
 ever heard your opinion of a poet very dear to me, 
 — the now-out-of-fashion Cowley. Favor me with 
 your judgment of him, and tell me if his prose 
 
 6 
 
82 LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 
 
 essays, in particular, as well as no inconsiderable 
 part of his verse, be not delicious. I prefer the 
 graceful rambling of his essays even to the courtly 
 elegance and ease of Addison, abstracting from this 
 the latter's exquisite humor. 
 
 When the little volume is printed, send me three 
 or four, at all events not more than six, copies, and 
 tell me if 1 put you to any additional expense by 
 printing with you. I have no thought of the kind, 
 and in that case must reimburse you. 
 
 Priestley, whom I sin in almost adoring, speaks 
 of " such a choice of company as tends to keep up 
 that right bent and firmness of mind which a neces- 
 sary intercourse with the world would otherwise 
 warp and relax. . . . Such fellowship is the true 
 balsam of life ; its cement is infinitely more durable 
 th'kn that of the friendships of the world, and it 
 looks for its proper fruit and complete gratification 
 to the life beyond the grave." Is there a possible 
 chance for such an one as I to realize in this world 
 such friendships? Where am I to look for 'em? 
 What testimonials shall I bring of my being worthy 
 of such friendship ? Alas ! the great and good go 
 together in separate herds, and leave such as I 
 to lag far, far behind in all intellectual and, far 
 more grievous to say, in all moral accomplishments. 
 Coleridge, I have not one truly elevated character 
 among my acquaintance, — not one Christian ; not 
 one but undervalues Christianity. Singly what am 
 I to do? Wesley (have you read his life?), was he 
 not an elevated character ? Wesley has said, " Re- 
 ligion is not a solitary thing." Alas ! it necessarily 
 
LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. ^2> 
 
 is so with me, or next to solitary. 'T is true you 
 write to me. But correspondence by letter and 
 personal intimacy are very widely different. Do, 
 do write to me, and do some good to my mind, al- 
 ready how much " warped and relaxed " by the 
 world ! 'T is the conclusion of another evening. 
 Good night ; God have us all in His keeping ! 
 
 If you are sufficiently at leisure, obhge me with 
 an account of your plan of life at Stowey ; your 
 literary occupations and prospects, — in short, make 
 me acquainted with every circumstance which, as 
 relating to you, can be interesting to me. Are you 
 yet a Berkleyan? Make me one. I rejoice in 
 being, speculatively, a necessarian. Would to God 
 I were habitually a practical one ! Confirm me in 
 the faith of that great and glorious doctrine, and 
 keep me steady in the contemplation of it. You 
 some time since expressed an intention you had of 
 finishing some extensive work on the Evidences of 
 Natural and Revealed Religion. Have you let that 
 intention go ? Or are you doing anything towards 
 it? Make to yourself other ten talents. My letter 
 is full of nothingness. I talk of nothing. But I 
 must talk. I love to write to you. I take a pride 
 in it. It makes me think less meanly of myself. It 
 makes me think myself not totally disconnected 
 from the better part of mankind. I know I am too 
 dissatisfied with the beings around me ; but I can- 
 not help occasionally exclaiming, " Woe is me, that 
 I am constrained to dwell with Meshech, and to 
 have my habitation among the tents of Kedar." I 
 know I am noways better in practice than my neigh- 
 
^4 LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 
 
 bors, but I have a taste for religion, an occasional 
 earnest aspiration after perfection, which they have 
 not. I gain nothing by being with such as myself, 
 — we encourage one another in mediocrity. I am 
 always longing to be with men more excellent than 
 myself. All this must sound odd to you ; but these 
 are my predominant feelings when I sit down to 
 write to you, and I should put force upon my mind, 
 were I to reject them. Yet I rejoice, and feel my 
 privilege with gratitude, when I have been reading 
 some wise book, such as I have just been reading, — 
 Priestley on Philosophical Necessity, — in the thought 
 that I enjoy a kind of communion, a kind of friend- 
 ship even, with the great and good. Books are to 
 me instead of friends. I wish they did not resemble 
 the latter in their scarceness. 
 
 And how does little David Hartley ? " Ecquid in 
 antiquam virtutem?" Does his mighty name work 
 wonders yet upon his little frame and opening mind ? 
 I did not distinctly understand you, — you don't 
 mean to make an actual ploughman of him? Is 
 Lloyd with you yet ? Are you intimate with Southey ? 
 What poems is he about to publish? He hath a 
 most prolific brain, and is indeed a most sweet poet. 
 But how can you answer all the various mass of 
 interrogation I have put to you in the course of 
 the sheet? Write back just what you like, only 
 write something, however brief. I have now nigh 
 finished my page, and got to the end of another 
 evening (Monday evening), and my eyes are heavy 
 and sleepy, and my brain unsuggestive. I have 
 just heart enough awake to say good night once 
 
LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB, 85 
 
 more, and God love you, my dear friend ; God love 
 us all ! Mary bears an affectionate remembrance of 
 
 you. 
 
 Charles Lamb. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 TO COLERIDGE. 
 
 February 13, 1797. 
 Your poem is altogether admirable — parts of it 
 are even exquisite ; in particular your personal ac- 
 count of the Maid far surpasses anything of the 
 sort in Southey.^ I perceived all its excellences, 
 on a first reading, as readily as now you have been 
 removing a supposed film from my eyes. I was 
 only struck with a certain faulty disproportion in 
 the matter and the style, which I still think I per- 
 ceive, between these lines and the former ones. I 
 had an end in view, — I wished to make you reject 
 the poem, only as being discordant with the other ; 
 and, in subservience to that end, it was politically 
 done in me to over-pass, and make no mention of, 
 merit which, could you think me capable of over- 
 looking, might reasonably damn forever in your 
 judgment all pretensions in me to be critical. There, 
 I will be judged by Lloyd whether I have not made 
 a very handsome recantation. I was in the case of 
 a man whose friend has asked him his opinion of a 
 certain young lady ; the deluded wight gives judg- 
 ment against her in toto, — don't like her face, her 
 
 1 See Letter VIII. 
 
86 LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 
 
 walk, her manners ; finds fault with her eyebrows ; 
 can see no wit in her. His friend looks blank; 
 he begins to smell a rat ; wind veers about ; he ac- 
 knowledges her good sense, her judgment in dress, 
 a certain simplicity of manners and honesty of heart, 
 something too in her manners which gains upon you 
 after a short acquaintance, — and then her accurate 
 pronunciation of the French language, and a pretty, 
 uncultivated taste in drawing. The reconciled gen- 
 tleman smiles applause, squeezes him by the hand, 
 and hopes he will do him the honor of taking a bit 
 
 of dinner with Mrs. and him — a plain family 
 
 dinner — some day next week ; '^ for, I suppose, 
 you never heard we were married. I 'm glad to 
 see you like my wife, however ; you '11 come and 
 see her, ha? " Now am I too proud to retract en- 
 tirely? Yet I do perceive I am in some sort strait- 
 ened ; you are manifestly wedded to this poem, and 
 what fancy has joined, let no man separate. I turn 
 me to the "Joan of Arc," second book. 
 
 The solemn openings of it are with sounds which, 
 Lloyd would say, " are silence to the mind." The 
 deep preluding strains are fitted to initiate the mind, 
 with a pleasing awe, into the sublimest mysteries of 
 theory concerning man's nature and his noblest 
 destination, — the philosophy of a first cause ; of 
 subordinate agents in creation superior to man; 
 the subserviency of pagan worship and pagan faith 
 to the introduction of a purer and more perfect reli- 
 gion, which you so elegantly describe as winning, 
 with gradual steps, her difficult way northward from 
 Bethabara. After all this cometh Joan, a publican's 
 
LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 87 
 
 daughter, sitting od 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 revolu- 
 tions ; though that needs no pardon, it is executed 
 so nobly. After all, if you perceive no dispropor- 
 tion, all argument is vain; I do not so much object 
 to parts. Again, when you talk of building your 
 fame on these lines in preference to the " Religious 
 Musings j" I cannot help conceiving of you and of 
 the author of that as two different persons, and I 
 think you a very vain man. 
 
 I have been re-reading your letter. Much of it I 
 could dispute ; but with the latter part of it, in which 
 you compare the two Joans with respect to their 
 predispositions for fanaticism, I toto corde coincide ; 
 only I think that Southey's strength rather lies in 
 the description of the emotions of the Maid under 
 the weight of inspiration. These (I see no mighty 
 difference between her describing them or you de- 
 scribing them), — these if you only equal, the pre- 
 vious 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 emo- 
 tions is expected to be most highly finished. By 
 the way, I spoke far too disparagingly of your lines. 
 
SS LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 
 
 and, I am ashamed to say, purposely. I should like 
 you to specify or particularize ; the story of the 
 "Tottering Eld," of "his eventful years all come 
 and gone," is too general ; why not make him a 
 soldier, or some character, however, in which he 
 has been witness to frequency of " cruel wrong and 
 strange distress " ? I think I should. When I 
 laughed at the " miserable man crawling from 
 beneath the coverture," I wonder I did not perceive 
 it was a laugh of horror, — such as I have laughed 
 at Dante's picture of the famished Ugolino. With- 
 out falsehood, I perceive an hundred beauties in 
 your narrative. Yet I wonder you do not perceive 
 something out-of-the-way, something unsimple and 
 artificial, in the expression, "voiced a sad tale." I 
 hate made-dishes at the muses' banquet. I be- 
 lieve I was wrong in most of my other objections. 
 But surely "hailed him immortal " adds nothing to 
 the terror of the man's death, which it was your 
 business to heighten, not diminish by a phrase 
 which takes away all terror from it. I like that line, 
 " They closed their eyes in sleep, nor knew 't was 
 death." Indeed, there is scarce a line I do not like. 
 " Turbid ecstasy " is surely not so good as what 
 you /z<^^ written, — "troublous." "Turbid" rather 
 suits the muddy kind of inspiration which London 
 porter confers. The versification is throughout, to 
 my ears, unexceptionable, with no disparagement to 
 the measure of the " Religious Musings," which is 
 exactly fitted to the thoughts. 
 
 You were building your house on a rock when 
 you rested your fame on that poem. I can scarce 
 
LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 89 
 
 bring myself to believe that I am admitted to a 
 familiar correspondence, and all the license of friend- 
 ship, with a man who writes blank verse like Milton. 
 Now, this is delicate flattery, indirect flattery. Go 
 on with your " Maid of Orleans," and be content to 
 be second to yourself. I shall become a convert to 
 it, when 't is finished. 
 
 This afternoon I attend the funeral of my poor 
 old aunt, who died on Thursday. I own I am thank- 
 ful that the good creature has ended all her days of 
 suffering and infirmity. She was to me the " che- 
 risher of infancy ; " and one must fall on these occa- 
 sions into reflections, which it would be common- 
 place to enumerate, concerning death, ^' of chance 
 and change, and fate in human hfe." Good God, 
 who could have foreseen all this but four months 
 back ! I had reckoned, in particular, on my aunt's 
 living many years ; she was a very hearty old woman. 
 But she was a mere skeleton before she died ; looked 
 more like a corpse that had lain weeks in the grave, 
 than one fresh dead. " Truly the light is sweet, and 
 a pleasant thing it is for the eyes to behold the sun : 
 but let a man live many days, and rejoice in them 
 all ; yet let him remember the days of darkness, for 
 they shall be many." Coleridge, why are we to live 
 on after all the strength and beauty of existence are 
 gone, when all the life of life is fled, as poor Burns 
 expresses it? Tell Lloyd I have had thoughts of 
 turning Quaker, and have been reading, or am rather 
 just beginning to read, a most capital book, good 
 thoughts in good language, William Penn's "No 
 Cross, no Crown; " I like it immensely. Unluckily 
 
90 LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 
 
 I went to one of his meetings, tell him, in St. John 
 Street, yesterday, and saw a man mider all the agita- 
 tions and workings of a fanatic, who believed fiimself 
 under the influence of some " inevitable presence." 
 This cured me of Quakerism ; I love it in the books 
 of Penn and Woolman, but I detest the vanity of a 
 man thinking he speaks by the Spirit, when what 
 he says an ordinary man might say without all that 
 quaking and trembUng. In the midst of his inspi- 
 ration, — and the effects of it were most noisy, — was 
 handed into the midst of the meeting a most terrible 
 blackguard Wapping sailor ; the poor man, I believe, 
 had rather have been in the hottest part of an 
 engagement, for the congregation of broad-brims, 
 together with the ravings of the prophet, were too 
 much for his gravity, though I saw even he had 
 delicacy enough not to laugh out. And the inspired 
 gentleman, though his manner was so supernatural, 
 yet neither talked nor professed to talk anything 
 more than good sober sense, common morality, with 
 now and then a declaration of not speaking from 
 himself. Among other things, looking back to this 
 childhood and early youth, he told the meeting what 
 a graceless young dog he had been, that in his youth 
 he had a good share of wit. Reader, if thou hadst 
 seen the gentleman, thou wouldst have sworn that 
 it must indeed have been many years ago, for his 
 rueful physiognomy would have scared away the play- 
 ful goddess from the meeting, where he presided, 
 forever. A wit ! a wit ! what could he mean ? 
 Lloyd, it minded me of Falkland in the "Rivals," 
 " Am I full of wit and humor? No, indeed, you are 
 
LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 91 
 
 not. Am I the life and soul of every company I 
 come into? No, it cannot be said you are." That 
 hard-faced gentleman a wit ! Why, Nature wrote 
 on his fanatic forehead fifty years ago, " Wit never 
 comes, that comes to all." I should be as scanda- 
 lized at a don-mot issuing from his oracle-looking 
 mouth as to see Cato go down a country- dance. 
 God love you all ! You are very good to submit 
 to be pleased with reading my nothings. 'T is the 
 privilege of friendship to talk nonsense and to have 
 her nonsense respected. Yours ever, 
 
 C. Lamb. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 TO COLERIDGE. 
 
 January 28, 1798. 
 You have writ me many kind letters, and I have 
 answered none of them. I don't deserve your 
 attentions. An unnatural indifference has been 
 creeping on me since my last misfortunes, or I 
 should have seized the first opening of a corre- 
 spondence with you. To you I owe much under 
 God. In my brief acquaintance with you in Lon- 
 don, your conversations won me to the better cause, 
 and rescued me from the polluting spirit of the 
 world. I might have been a worthless character 
 without you; as it is, I do possess a certain im- 
 provable portion of devotional feehngs, though when 
 I view myself in the light of divine truth, and not 
 according to the common measures of human judg- 
 
92 LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 
 
 ment, I am altogether corrupt and sinful. This is 
 no cant. I am very sincere. 
 
 These last afflictions,^ Coleridge, have failed to 
 soften and bend my will. They found me unpre- 
 pared. My former calamities produced in me a 
 spirit of humility and a spirit of prayer. I thought 
 they had sufficiently disciplined me ; but the event 
 ought to humble me. If God's judgments now fail 
 to take away from me the heart of stone, what more 
 grievous trials ought I not to expect? I have been 
 very querulous, impatient under the rod, full of lit- 
 tle jealousies and heartburnings. I had wellnigh 
 quarrelled with Charles Lloyd, and for no other 
 reason, I believe, than that the good creature did 
 all he could to make me happy. The truth is, I 
 thought he tried to force my mind from its natural 
 and proper bent : he continually wished me to be 
 from home ; he was drawing me from the consider- 
 ation of my poor dear Mary's situation, rather than 
 assisting me to gain a proper view of it with relig- 
 ious consolations. I wanted to be left to the ten- 
 dency of my own mind in a solitary state which, 
 in times past, I knew had led to quietness and a 
 patient bearing of the yoke. He was hurt that I 
 was not more constantly with him ; but he was 
 living with White, — a man to whom I had never 
 been accustomed to impart my dearest feelings, 
 though from long habits of friendliness, and many 
 a social and good quality, I loved him very much. 
 I met company there sometimes, — indiscriminate 
 company. Any society almost, when I am in afflic- 
 
 1 Mary Lamb had fallen ill again. 
 
LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 93 
 
 tion, is sorely painful to me. I seem to breathe 
 more freely, to think more collectedly, to feel more 
 properly and calmly, when alone. All these things 
 the good creature did with the kindest intentions 
 in the world, but they produced in me nothing but 
 soreness and discontent. I became, as he com- 
 plained, " jaundiced " towards him. . . . But he has 
 forgiven me; and his smile, I hope, will draw all 
 such humors from me. I am recovering, God be 
 praised for it, a healthiness of mind, something like 
 calmness ; but I want more religion, I am jealous 
 of human helps and leaning- places. I rejoice in 
 your good fortunes. May God at the last settle 
 you ! You have had many and painful trials ; hu- 
 manly speaking, they are going to end ; but we 
 should rather pray that discipline may attend us 
 through the whole of our lives. ... A careless and 
 a dissolute spirit has advanced upon me with large 
 strides. Pray God that my present afflictions may 
 be sanctified to me ! Mary is recovering ; but I 
 see no opening yet of a situation for her. Your invi- 
 tation 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 con- 
 sider her as perpetually on the brink of madness. 
 I think you would almost make her dance within 
 an inch of the precipice ; she must be with duller 
 fancies and cooler intellects. I know a young man 
 of this description who has suited her these twenty 
 years, and may live to do so still, if we are one day 
 restored to each other. In answer to your sugges- 
 tions of occupation for me, I must say that I do 
 
94 LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 
 
 not think my capacity altogether suited for dis- 
 quisitions of that kind. ... I have read little ; I 
 have a very weak memory, and retain little of what 
 I read ; am unused to composition in which any 
 methodizing is required. But I thank you sincerely 
 for the hint, and shall receive it as far as I am able, 
 — that is, endeavor to engage my mind in some con- 
 stant and innocent pursuit. I know my capacities 
 better than you do. 
 
 Accept my kindest love, and believe me yours, 
 as ever. 
 
 C. L. 
 
 XV. 
 
 TO ROBERT SOUTHEY 
 
 (No month, 1798.) 
 Dear Southey, — I thank you heartily for the 
 eclogue ; ^ it pleases me mightily, being so full 
 of picture-work and circumstances. I find no fault 
 in it, unless perhaps that Joanna's ruin is a catas- 
 trophe too trite ; and this is not the first or second 
 time you have clothed your indignation, in verse, in 
 a tale of ruined innocence. The old lady, spinning 
 in the sun, I hope would not disdain to claim some 
 kindred with old Margaret. I could almost wish 
 you to vary some circumstances in the conclusion. 
 A gentleman seducer has so often been described 
 in prose and verse : what if you had accomplished 
 Joanna's ruin by the clumsy arts and rustic gifts 
 of some country fellow? I am thinking, I believe, 
 of the song, — 
 
 1 The eclogue was entitled " The Ruined Cottage." 
 
LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 95 
 
 *' An old woman clothed in gray, 
 
 Whose daughter was charming and young. 
 And she was deluded away 
 
 By Roger's false, flattering tongue." 
 
 A Roger- Lothario would be a novel character; I 
 think you might paint him very well. You may 
 think this a very silly suggestion, and so indeed it 
 is ; but, in good truth, nothing else but the first 
 words of that foolish ballad put me upon scribbling 
 my " Rosamund." ^ But I thank you heartily for 
 the poem. Not having anything of my own to send 
 you in return, — though, to tell truth, I am at work 
 upon something which, if I were to cut away and 
 garble, perhaps I might send you an extract or two 
 that might not displease you ; but I will not do 
 that ; and whether it will come to anything, I know 
 not, for I am as slow as a Fleming painter when 
 I compose anything. I will crave leave to put 
 down a few lines of old Christopher Marlowe's ; I 
 take them from his tragedy, "The Jew of Malta." 
 The Jew is a famous character, quite out of nature ; 
 but when we consider the terrible idea our simple 
 ancestors had of a Jew, not more to be discom- 
 mended for a certain discoloring (I think Addison 
 calls it) than the witches and fairies of Marlowe's 
 mighty successor. The scene is betwixt Barabas, 
 the Jew, and Ithamore, a Turkish captive exposed 
 to sale for a slave. 
 
 Barabas. 
 {A p7'ecioiis rascal.) 
 " As for myself, I walk abroad o' nights, 
 And kill sick people groaning under walls ; 
 
 1 His romance, " Rosamund Gray." 
 
96 LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 
 
 Sometimes I go about and poison wells ; 
 
 And now and then, to cherish Christian thieves, 
 
 I am content to lose some of my crowns, 
 
 That I may, walking in my gallery, 
 
 See 'm go pinioned along by my door. 
 
 Being young, I studied physic, and began 
 
 To practise first upon the Italian ; 
 
 There I enriched the priests with burials. 
 
 And always kept the sexton's arms in ure ^ 
 
 With digging graves and ringing dead men's knells. 
 
 And after that, was I an engineer. 
 
 And in the wars 'twixt France and Germany, 
 
 Under pretence of serving Charles the Fifth, 
 
 Slew friend and enemy with my stratagems. 
 
 Then after that was I an usurer, 
 
 And with extorting, cozening, forfeiting, 
 
 And tricks belonging unto brokery, 
 
 I fiU'd the jails with bankrupts in a year. 
 
 And with young orphans planted hospitals, 
 
 And every moon made some or other mad ; 
 
 And now and then one hang'd himself for grief, 
 
 Pinning upon his breast a long great scroll, 
 
 How I with interest tormented him." 
 
 Now hear Ithamore, the other gentle nature, ex- 
 plain how he has spent his time : — 
 
 Ithamore. 
 
 [A Comical Dog.) 
 
 " Faith, master, in setting Christian villages on fire, 
 Chaining of eunuchs, binding galley-slaves. 
 One time I was an hostler in an inn. 
 And in the night-time secret would I steal 
 To travellers' chambers, and there cut their throats. 
 Once at Jerusalem, where the pilgrims kneel'd, 
 I strewed powder on the marble stones, 
 And therewithal their knees would rankle so, 
 
 1 Use. 
 
LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 97 
 
 That I have laugh'd a-good to see the cripples 
 Go limping home to Christendom on stilts." 
 
 Barabas. 
 " Why, this is something." 
 
 There is a mixture of the ludicrous and the 
 terrible in these lines, brimful of genius and antique 
 invention, that at first reminded me of your old 
 description of cruelty in hell, which was in the true 
 Hogarthian style. I need not tell yotc that Marlowe 
 was author of that pretty madrigal, ^' Come live with 
 me, and be my Love," and of the tragedy of " Ed- 
 ward II.," in which are certain lines unequalled in 
 our English tongue. Honest Walton mentions the 
 said madrigal under the denomination of " certain 
 smooth verses made long since by Kit Marlowe." 
 
 I am glad you have put me on the scent after old 
 Quarles. If I do not put up those eclogues, and 
 that shortly, say I am no true-nosed hound. I have 
 had a letter from Lloyd ; the young metaphysician 
 of Caius is well, and is busy recanting the new 
 heresy, metaphysics, for the old dogma Greek. My 
 sister, I thank you, is quite well. She had a slight 
 attack the other day, which frightened me a good 
 deal ; but it went off unaccountably. Love and 
 respects to Edith. 
 
 Yours sincerely, 
 
 C. Lamb. 
 
98 LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 TO SOUTHEY. 
 
 November?), 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 soliloquizes in company with a 
 full heart. What wretched stuff are the " Divine 
 Fancies " of Quarles ! Religion appears to him no 
 longer valuable than it furnishes matter for quibbles 
 and riddles ; he turns God's grace into wantonness. 
 Wither is like an old friend, whose warm-heartedness 
 and estimable qualities make us wish he possessed 
 more genius, but at the same time make us willing 
 to dispense with that want. I always love W., and 
 sometimes admire Q. Still, that portrait is a fine 
 one ; and the extract from '^ The Shepherds' Hunt- 
 ing " 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 Mari- 
 nere ; " -^ so far from calling it, as you do, with 
 some wit but more severity, "A Dutch Attempt," 
 etc., I call it a right English attempt, and a success- 
 ful one, to dethrone German sublimity. You have 
 selected a passage fertile in unmeaning miracles, but 
 have passed by fifty passages as miraculous as the 
 
 1 The "Lyrical Ballads " of Wordsworth and Coleridge 
 had just appeared. The volume contained four pieces, in- 
 cluding the " Ancient Mariner," by Coleridge. 
 
LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 99 
 
 miracles they celebrate. I never so deeply felt the 
 pathetic as in that part, — 
 
 " A spring of love gush'd from my heart, 
 And I bless'd them unaware." 
 
 It stung me into high pleasure through sufferings. 
 Lloyd does not like it ; his head is too metaphysical, 
 and your taste too correct, — at least I must allege 
 something against you both, to excuse my own 
 dotage, — 
 
 " So lonely 'twas, that God himself 
 Scarce seemed there to be ! " etc. 
 
 But you allow some elaborate beauties j you should 
 have extracted 'em. " The Ancient Marinere " plays 
 more tricks with the mind than that last poem, 
 which is yet one of the finest written. But I am 
 getting too dogmatical; and before I degenerate 
 into abuse, I will conclude with assuring you that 
 I am, Sincerely yours, 
 
 C. Lamb. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 TO SOUTHEY. 
 
 November 28, 1798. 
 
 I SHOWED my " Witch " and " Dying Lover " to 
 Dyer^ last night; but George could not compre- 
 
 1 This quaint scholar, a marvel of simplicity and universal 
 optimism, is a constantly recurring and delightfully humorous 
 character in the Letters. Lamb and Dyer had been school- 
 fellows at Christ's Hospital. 
 
lOO LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 
 
 hend how that could be poetry which did not go 
 upon ten feet, as George and his predecessors had 
 taught it to do ; so George read me some lectures 
 on the distinguishing qualities of the Ode, the Epi- 
 gram, and the Epic, and went home to illustrate his 
 doctrine by correcting a proof-sheet of his own 
 Lyrics. George writes odes where the rhymes, like 
 fashionable man and wife, keep a comfortable dis- 
 tance of six or eight lines apart, and calls that " ob- 
 serving the laws of verse." George tells you, before 
 he recites, that you must listen with great attention, 
 or you '11 miss the rhymes. I did so, and found 
 them pretty exact. George, speaking of the dead 
 Ossian, exclaimeth, " Dark are the poet's eyes." I 
 humbly represented to him that his own eyes were 
 dark, and many a living bard's besides, and recom- 
 mended " Clos'd are the poet's eyes." But that 
 would not do. I found there was an antithesis be- 
 tween the darkness of his eyes and the splendor of 
 his genius, and I acquiesced. 
 
 Your recipe for a Turk's poison is invaluable 
 and truly Marlowish. . . . Lloyd objects to " shut- 
 ting up the womb of his purse " in my Curse (which 
 for a Christian witch in a Christian country is not 
 too mild, I hope): do you object? I think there 
 is a strangeness in the idea, as well as " shaking the 
 poor like snakes from his door," which suits the 
 speaker. Witches illustrate, as fine ladies do, from 
 their own familiar objects, and snakes and shutting 
 up of wombs are in their way. I don't know that 
 this last charge has been before brought against 'em, 
 nor either the sour milk or the mandrake babe ; but 
 
LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 10 1 
 
 I affirm these be things a witch would do if she 
 could. 
 
 My tragedy ^ will be a medley (as I intend it to 
 be a medley) of laughter and tears, prose and verse, 
 and in some places rhyme, songs, wit, pathos, hu- 
 mor, and if possible, sublimity, — at least, it is not 
 a fault in my intention if it does not comprehend 
 most of these discordant colors. Heaven send they 
 dance not the "Dance of Death!" I hear that 
 the Two Noble Englishmen ^ have parted no sooner 
 than they set foot on German earth ; but I have not 
 heard the reason, — possibly to give novelists a 
 handle to exclaim, "Ah me, what things are per- 
 fect ! " I think I shall adopt your emendation in 
 the " Dying Lover," though I do not myself feel the 
 objection against " Silent Prayer." 
 
 My tailor has brought me home a new coat 
 lapelled, with a velvet collar. He assures me every- 
 body 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 mod- 
 est 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 fam- 
 ily in a one-horse shay from Hampstead ; the villains 
 rifled him of four guineas, some shillings and half- 
 
 1 John Woodvil. 
 
 2 Coleridge and Wordsworth, who started for Germany 
 together. 
 
I02 LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 
 
 pence, and a bundle of customers' measures, which 
 they swore were bank-notes. They did not shoot 
 him, and when they rode off he addressed them with 
 profound gratitude, making a congee : " Gentlemen, 
 I wish you good-night ; and we are very much obhged 
 to you that you have not used us ill ! " And this is 
 the cuckoo that has the audacity to foist upon me 
 ten buttons on a side and a black velvet collar, — a 
 cursed ninth of a scoundrel ! 
 
 When you write to Lloyd, he wishes his Jacobin 
 correspondents to address him as Mr. C. L. Love 
 and respects to Edith. I hope she is well. 
 Yours sincerely, 
 
 C. Lamb. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 TO SOUTHEY. 
 
 March 20, 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 com- 
 pound of Burns and Old Quarles, those kind of 
 home -strokes, where more is felt than strikes the 
 ear, — a terseness, a jocular pathos which makes 
 one feel in laughter. The measure, too, is novel 
 and pleasing. I could almost wonder Rob Burns 
 in his lifetime never stumbled upon it. The fourth 
 stanza is less striking, as being less original. The 
 fifth falls off. It has no felicity of phrase, no old- 
 fashioned phrase or feeling. 
 
 " Young hopes, and love's delightful dreams," 
 
LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 103 
 
 savor neither of Burns nor Quarles ; they seem more 
 like shreds of many a modern sentimental sonnet. 
 The last stanza hath nothing striking in it, if I ex- 
 cept the two concluding lines, which are Burns all 
 over. I wish, if you concur with me, these things 
 could be looked to. I am sure this is a kind of 
 writing which comes tenfold better recommended 
 to the heart, comes there more like a neighbor or 
 familiar, than thousands of Hamnels and Zillahs 
 and Madelons. I beg you will send me the " Holly- 
 tree," if it at all resemble this, for it must please 
 me. I have never seen it. I love this sort of 
 poems, that open a new intercourse with the most 
 despised of the animal and insect race. I think 
 this vein may be further opened ; Peter Pindar hath 
 very prettily apostrophized a fly; Burns hath his 
 mouse and his louse ; Coleridge, less successfully, 
 hath made overtures of intimacy to a jackass, 
 — therein only following at unresembling distance 
 Sterne and greater Cervantes. Besides these, I 
 know of no other examples of breaking down the 
 partition between us and our " poor earth-born 
 companions." It is sometimes revolting to be put 
 in a track of feeling by other people, not one's own 
 immediate thoughts, else I would persuade you, if 
 I could (I am in earnest), to commence a series of 
 these animal poems, which might have a tendency 
 to rescue some poor creatures from the antipathy 
 of mankind. Some thoughts come across me : 
 for instance, to a rat, to a toad, to a cockchafer, 
 to a mole, — people bake moles alive by a slow 
 oven-fire to cure consumption. Rats are, indeed. 
 
I04 LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 
 
 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. Cock- 
 chafers are old sport ; then again to a worm, with 
 an apostrophe to anglers, — those patient tyrants, 
 meek inflictors of pangs intolerable, cool devils ; ^ to 
 an owl; to all snakes, with an apology for their 
 poison ; to a cat in boots or bladders. Your own 
 fancy, if it takes a fancy to these hints, will suggest 
 many more. A series of such poems, suppose them 
 accompanied with plates descriptive of animal tor- 
 ments, — cooks roasting lobsters, fishmongers crimp- 
 ing skates, etc., — would take excessively. I will 
 willingly enter into a partnership in the plan with 
 you ; I think my heart and soul would go with it 
 too, — at least, give it a thought. My plan is but 
 this minute come into my head ; but it strikes me 
 instantaneously as something new, good, and useful, 
 full of pleasure and full of moral. If old Quarles 
 and Wither could live again, we would invite them 
 into our firm. Burns hath done his part. 
 
 Poor Sam Le Grice ! I am afraid the world 
 
 1 Leigh Hunt says : "Walton says that an angler does no 
 hurt but to fish ; and this he counts as nothing. . . . Now, 
 fancy a Genius fishing for us. Fancy him baiting a great 
 hook with pickled salmon, and twitching up old Izaac Walton 
 from the banks of the River Lee, with the hook through his 
 ear. How he would go up, roaring and screaming, and 
 thinking the devil had got him ! 
 
 " ' Other joys 
 Are but toys.' 
 
 Walton." 
 
LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 105 
 
 and the camp and the university have spoiled him 
 among them. 'Tis certain he had at one time a 
 strong capacity of turning out something better. I 
 knew him, and that not long since, when he had a 
 most warm heart. I am ashamed of the indiffer- 
 ence 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 hear- 
 tiest sympathy,^ even for an agony of sympathy 
 expressed both by word and deed, and tears for me 
 when I was in my greatest distress. But I have 
 forgot that, — as, I fear, he has nigh forgot the aw- 
 ful scenes which were before his eyes when he 
 served the office of a comforter to me. No service 
 was too mean or troublesome for him to perform. 
 I can't think what but the devil, " that old spider," 
 could have suck'd my heart so dry of its sense of 
 all gratitude. If he does come in your way, Southey, 
 fail not to tell him that I retain a most affectionate 
 remembrance of his old friendliness, and an earnest 
 wish to resume our intercourse. In this I am seri- 
 ous. I cannot recommend him to your society, 
 because I am afraid whether he be quite worthy of 
 it. But I have no right to dismiss him from my 
 regard. He was at one time, and in the worst of 
 times, my own familiar friend, and great comfort to 
 me then. I have known him to play at cards with 
 my father, meal-times excepted, literally all day 
 long, in long days too, to save me from being teased 
 by the old man when I was not able to bear it. 
 God bless him for it, and God bless you, Southey ! 
 
 C. L. 
 
 1 See Letter VI. 
 
I06 LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB, 
 
 XIX. 
 
 TO THOMAS MANNING.i 
 
 March i, 1800. 
 I HOPE by this time you are prepared to say the 
 " Falstaff's Letters " are a bundle of the sharpest, 
 queerest, profoundest humors of any these juice- 
 drained latter times have spawned. I should have 
 advertised you that the meaning is frequently hard 
 to be got at, — and so are the future guineas that 
 now lie ripening and aurifying in the womb of some 
 undiscovered Potosi ; but dig, dig, dig, dig. Man- 
 ning ! I set to with an unconquerable propulsion to 
 write, with a lamentable want of what to write. My 
 private goings on are orderly as the movements of 
 the spheres, and stale as their music to angels' ears. 
 Public affairs, except as they touch upon me, and 
 so turn into private, I cannot whip up my mind to 
 feel any interest in. I grieve, indeed, that War 
 and Nature and Mr. Pitt, that hangs up in Lloyd's 
 best parlour, should have conspired to call up three 
 
 1 To this remarkable person we are largely indebted for 
 some of the best of Lamb's letters, lie was mathematical 
 tutor at Caius College, Cambridge, and in later years be- 
 came somewhat famous as an explorer of the remoter parts 
 of China and Thibet. Lamb had been introduced to him, 
 during a Cambridge visit, by Charles Lloyd, and afterwards 
 told Crabb Robinson that he was the most " wonderful man " 
 he ever met. An account of Manning will be found in the 
 memoir prefixed to his "Journey to Lhasa," in 1811-12. 
 (George Bogle and Thomas Manning's Journey to Thibet and 
 Lhasa, by C. R. Markham, 1876.) 
 
LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 107 
 
 necessaries, simple commoners as our fathers knew 
 them, into the upper house of luxuries, — bread and 
 beer and coals, Manning. But as to France and 
 Frenchmen, and the Abbe Sieyes and his constitu- 
 tions, 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 philosophi- 
 cal Humeian indifference, so cold and unnatural 
 and inhuman ! None of the cursed Gibbonian fine 
 writing, so fine and composite. None of Dr. Rob- 
 ertson's periods with three members. None of Mr. 
 Roscoe's sage remarks, all so apposite, and coming 
 in so clever, lest the reader should have had the 
 trouble of drawing an inference. Burnet's good 
 old prattle I can bring present to my mind ; I can 
 make the Revolution present to me : the French 
 Revolution, by a converse perversity in my nature, 
 I fling as far from me. To quit this tiresome sub- 
 ject, and to relieve you from two or three dismal 
 
I08 LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 
 
 yawns, which I hear in spirit, I here conclude my 
 more than commonly obtuse letter, — dull up to the 
 dulness of a Dutch commentator on Shakspeare. 
 My love to Lloyd and Sophia. 
 
 C. L. 
 
 XX. 
 
 TO COLERIDGE. 
 
 May 12, 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 conse- 
 quence of fatigue and anxiety, is fallen ill again, and 
 I was obliged to remove her yesterday. I am left 
 alone in a house with nothing but Hetty's dead 
 body to keep me company. To-morrow I bury her, 
 and then I shall be quite alone, with nothing but a 
 cat to remind me that the house has been full of 
 living beings like myself. My heart is quite sunk, 
 and I don't know where to look for relief. Mary 
 will get better again ; but her constantly being liable 
 to such relapses is dreadful; nor is it the least of 
 our evils that her case and all our story is so well 
 known around us. We are in a manner marked. 
 Excuse my troubling you ; but I have nobody by me 
 to speak to me. I slept out last night, not being 
 able to endure the change and the stillness. But I 
 did not sleep well, and I must come back to my 
 own bed. I am going to try and get a friend to 
 1 The Lambs' old servant. 
 
LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 109 
 
 come and be with me to-morrow. I am completely 
 shipwrecked. My head is quite bad. I almost 
 wish that Mary were dead. God bless you. Love 
 to Sara and Hartley. 
 
 C. Lamb. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 TO MANNING. 
 
 Before June, 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 mid- 
 summer, by which time I hope my sister will be well 
 enough to join me. It is a great object to me to 
 live in town, where we shall be much more private, 
 and to quit a house and neighborhood where poor 
 Mary's disorder, so frequently recurring, has made 
 us a sort of marked people. We can be nowhere 
 private except in the midst of London. We shall 
 be in a family where we visit very frequently ; only 
 my landlord and I have not yet come to a conclu- 
 sion. 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 re- 
 spects, highly exceptionable. Only God send Mary 
 
no LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 
 
 well again, and I hope all will be well ! The pros- 
 pect, such as it is, has made me quite happy. I 
 have just time to tell you of it, as I know it will give 
 
 you pleasure. Farewell. 
 
 C. Lamb. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 TO COLERIDGE. 
 
 August, 6, 1800. 
 Dear Coleridge, — I have taken to-day and 
 delivered to Longman and Co., Imprimis : your 
 books, viz., three ponderous German dictiona- 
 ries, one volume (I can find no more) of German 
 and French ditto, sundry other German books un- 
 bound, 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, so7ne few Epic poems, — one 
 about Cain and Abel, which came from Poole, 
 etc., and also your tragedy ; with one or two small 
 German books, and that drama in which Got-fader 
 performs. Tertio : a small oblong box containing 
 all you7' letters, collected from all your waste papers, 
 and which fill the said little box. All other waste 
 
LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. II I 
 
 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 dis- 
 charged my conscience and my lumber-room of all 
 your property, save and except a foho entitled 
 Tyrrell's "Bibliotheca Politica," which you used to 
 learn your politics out of when you wrote for the Post, 
 — mutatis mutandis, i. e., applying past inferences 
 to modern data. I retain that, because I am sensi- 
 ble 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 aiford to buy it — 
 all Bonaparte's Letters, Arthur Young's Treatise 
 on Corn, and one or two more light-armed infantry, 
 which I thought better suited the flippancy of Lon- 
 dbn discussion than the dignity of Keswick thinking. 
 Mary says you will be in a passion about them when 
 you come to miss them ; but you must study philoso- 
 phy. Read Albertus Magnus de Chartis Amissis 
 five times over after phlebotomizing, — '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 kiss to Eliza Bucking- 
 ham? Pray tell your wife that a note of interro- 
 gation on the superscription of a letter is highly 
 ungrammatical ! She proposes writing my name 
 Lambe? Lamb is quite enough. I have had the 
 Anthology, and like only one thing in it, — Lewti ; but 
 of that the last stanza is detestable, the rest most 
 exquisite ! The epithet enviable would dash the 
 finest poem. For God's sake (I never was more 
 serious), don't make me ridiculous any more by 
 
112 LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 
 
 teniiing me gentle-hearted in print, or do it in 
 better verses.-^ It did well enough five years ago, 
 when I came to see you, and was moral coxcomb 
 enough at the time you wrote the lines, to feed upon 
 such epithets ; but, besides that, the meaning of 
 "gentle" is equivocal at best, and almost always 
 means " poor-spirited ; " the very quality of gentle- 
 ness is abhorrent to such vile trumpetings. My 
 sentiment is long since vanished. I hope my virtues 
 have done sucking. I can scarce think but you 
 meant it in joke. I hope you did, for I should 
 be ashamed to think you could think to gratify me 
 by such praise, fit only to be a cordial to some green- 
 sick sonneteer. 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 TO MANNING. 
 
 August, 1800. 
 
 Dear Manning, — I am going to ask a favor of 
 you, and am at a loss how to do it in the most deli- 
 cate 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 
 
 1 An allusion to Coleridge's lines, " This Lime-Tree Bower 
 my Prison," wherein he styles Lamb "my gentle-hearted 
 Charles." 
 
LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 113 
 
 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 ap- 
 proach thy circle, illustrious Trismegist ! But that 
 worthy man and excellent poet, George Dyer, made 
 me a visit yesternight on purpose to borrow one, 
 supposing, rationally enough, I must say, that you 
 had made me a present of one before this; the 
 omission of which I take to have proceeded only 
 from negligence: but it is a fault. I could lend 
 him no assistance. You must know he is just now 
 diverted from the pursuit of Bell Letters by a par- 
 adox, which he has heard his friend Frend ^ (that 
 learned mathematician) maintain, that the negative 
 
 quantities of mathematicians were merce migce, 
 
 things scarcely in rerum naturd, 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 mathe- 
 matics; he even frantically talks of purchasing 
 Manning's Algebra, which shows him far gone, for, 
 to my knowledge, he has not been master of seven 
 
 shillings a good time. George's pockets and 's ; 
 
 brains are two things in nature which do not abhor ' 
 a vacuum. . . . Now, if you could step in, in this 
 
 1 Manning, while at Cambridge, published a work on 
 Algebra. 
 
 2 The Rev. William Frend, who was expelled from Cam- 
 bridge for Unitarianism. 
 
114 LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 
 
 trembling suspense of his reason, and he should find 
 on Saturday morning, lying for him at the Porter's 
 Lodge, CHfford's Inn, — his safest address, — Man- 
 ning's Algebra, with a neat manuscriptum in the 
 blank leaf, running thus, ^'' From the Author ! " it 
 might save his wits and restore the unhappy author 
 to those studies of poetry and criticism which are 
 at present suspended, to the infinite regret of the 
 whole literary world. N. B. — Dirty books, smeared 
 leaves, and dogs' ears will be rather a recommenda- 
 tion than otherwise. N. B. — He must have the 
 book as soon as possible, or nothing can withhold 
 him from madly purchasing the book on tick. . . . 
 Then shall we see him sweetly restored to the chair 
 of Longinus, — to dictate in smooth and modest 
 phrase the laws of verse ; to prove that Theocritus 
 first introduced the Pastoral, and Virgil and Pope 
 brought it to its perfection ; that Gray and Mason 
 (who always hunt in couples in George's brain) have 
 shown a great deal of poetical fire in their lyric poetry ; 
 that Aristotle's rules are not to be servilely followed, 
 which George has shown to have imposed great 
 shackles upon modern genius. His poems, I find, 
 are to consist of two vols., reasonable octavo ; and 
 a third book will exclusively contain criticisms, in 
 which he asserts he has gone pi^etty deeply into the 
 laws of blank verse and rhyme, epic poetry, dra- 
 matic 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 
 
LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 115 
 
 mention his turn, which I take to be chiefly towards 
 the lyrical poetry) hardly quahfied him for these 
 disquisitions, I modestly inquired what plays he had 
 read. I found by George's reply that he had read 
 Shakspeare, but that was a good while since : he 
 calls him a great but irregular genius, which I think 
 to be an original and just remark. (Beaumont and 
 Fletcher, Massinger, Ben Jonson, Shirley, Marlowe, 
 Ford, and the worthies of Dodsley's Collection, — 
 he confessed he had read none of them, but pro- 
 fessed his intention of looking through them all, so 
 as to be able to touch upon them in his book.) 
 So Shakspeare, Otway, and I believe Rowe, to whom 
 he was naturally directed by Johnson's Lives, and 
 these not read lately, are to stand him in stead of a 
 general knowledge of the subject. God bless his 
 dear absurd head ! 
 
 By the by, did I not v/rite you a letter with some- 
 thing about an invitation in it ? — but let that pass ; 
 I suppose it is not agreeable. 
 
 N. B. It would not be amiss if you were to ac- 
 company your present with a dissertation on negative 
 quantities. 
 
 C. L. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 TO MANNING. 
 
 1800. 
 
 George Dyer is an Archimedes and an Archi- 
 magus and a Tycho Brahe and a Copernicus ; and 
 thou art the darling of the Nine, and midwife to 
 
Il6 LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 
 
 their wandering babe also ! We take tea with that 
 learned poet and critic on Tuesday night, at half- 
 past five, in his neat library ; the repast will be light 
 and Attic, with criticism. If thou couldst contrive 
 to wheel up thy dear carcase on the Monday, and 
 after dining with us on tripe, calves' kidneys, or 
 whatever else the Cornucopia of St. Clare may be 
 willing to pour out on the occasion, might we not 
 adjourn together to the Heathen's, thou with thy 
 Black Backs, and I with some innocent volume of 
 the Bell Letters, — Shenstone, or the like ; it would 
 make him wash his old flannel gown (that has not 
 been washed, to my knowledge, since it has been his, 
 — Oh, the long time !) with tears of joy. Thou 
 shouldst settle his scruples, and unravel his cobwebs, 
 and sponge off the sad stuff that weighs upon his 
 dear wounded pia mater ; thou shouldst restore light 
 to his eyes, and him to his friends and the public ; 
 Parnassus should shower her civic crowns upon thee 
 for saving the wits of a citizen ! I thought I saw a 
 lucid interval in George the other night : he broke 
 in upon my studies just at tea-time, and brought with 
 him Dr. Anderson, an old gentleman who ties his 
 breeches' knees with packthread, and boasts that he 
 has been disappointed by ministers. The Doctor 
 wanted to see vie ; 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. 
 
LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB, 117 
 
 George had been sitting inattentive seemingly to 
 what was going on, — hatching of negative quantities, 
 — when, suddenly, the name of his old friend Ho- 
 mer stung his pericranicks, and, jumping up, he 
 begged to know where he could meet with Wilkie's 
 work. " It was a curious fact that there should be 
 such an epic poem and he not know of it ; and he 
 mitst get a copy of it, as he was going to touch pretty 
 deeply upon the subject of the epic, — and he was sure 
 there must be some things good in a poem of eight 
 thousand hnes ! " I was pleased with this transient 
 return of his reason and recurrence to his old ways 
 of thinking ; it gave me great hopes of a recovery, 
 which nothing but your book can completely insure. 
 Pray come on Monday if you can, and stay your 
 own time. I have a good large room, with two beds 
 in it, in the handsomest of which thou shalt repose 
 a-nights, and dream of spheroides. I hope you will 
 understand by the nonsense of this letter that I am 
 not melancholy at the thoughts of thy coming; I 
 thought it necessary to add this, because you love 
 precision. Take notice that our stay at Dyer's will 
 not exceed eight o'clock, after which our pursuits 
 will be our own. But indeed I think a little recrea- 
 tion among the Bell Letters and poetry will do you 
 some service in the interval of severer studies. I 
 hope we shall fully discuss with George Dyer what I 
 have never yet heard done to my satisfaction, — the 
 reason of Dr. Johnson's malevolent strictures on the 
 higher species of the Ode. 
 
 C. Lamb. 
 
Il8 LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 TO COLERIDGE. 
 
 August 14, 1800. 
 My head is playing all the tunes in the world, 
 ringing such peals ! It has just finished the " Merry 
 Christ Church Bells," and absolutely is beginning 
 "Turn again, Whittington." Buz, buz, buz; bum, 
 bum, bum ; wheeze, wheeze, wheeze ; fen, fen, fen ; 
 tinky, tinky, tinky ; cr'annch. I shall certainly come 
 to be condemned at last. I have been drinking too 
 much for two days running. I find my moral sense 
 in the last stage of a consumption, and my rehgion 
 getting faint. This is disheartening, but T trust the 
 devil will not overpower me. In the midst of this 
 infernal torture Conscience is barking and yelping 
 as loud as any of them, I have sat down to read 
 over again, and I think I do begin to spy out some- 
 thing with beauty and design in it. I perfectly ac- 
 cede to all your alterations, and only desire that you 
 had cut deeper, when your hand was in. 
 
 • • • • • 
 
 Now I am on the subject of poetry, I must an- 
 nounce 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 pon- 
 derous 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 
 
LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 119 
 
 truly original prospectus, renounceth forever, whim- 
 sically foisting the intention in between the price 
 of his book and the proposed number of subscribers. 
 (If I can, I will get you a copy of his handbill^ He 
 has tried his vein in every species besides, — the 
 Spenserian, Thomsonian, Masonic, and Akensidish 
 more especially. The second volume is all criti- 
 cism ; wherein he demonstrates to the entire satis- 
 faction of the literary world, in a way that must 
 silence all reply forever, that the pastoral was intro- 
 duced by Theocritus and poUshed by Virgil and 
 Pope j that Gray and Mason (who always hunt in 
 couples in George's brain) have a good deal of poet- 
 ical fire and true lyric genius; that Cowley was 
 ruined by excess of wit (a warning to all moderns) ; 
 that Charles Lloyd, Charles Lamb, and William 
 Wordsworth, in later days, have struck the true 
 chords of poesy. Oh, George, George, with a head 
 uniformly wrong and a heart uniformly right, that I 
 had power and might equal to my wishes ; then 
 would I call the gentry of thy native island, and 
 they should come in troops, flocking at the sound 
 of thy prospectus-trumpet, and crowding who shall 
 be first to stand in thy list of subscribers ! I can 
 only put twelve shillings into thy pocket (which, I 
 will answer for them, will not stick there long) out 
 of a pocket almost as bare as thine. Is it not a pity 
 so much fine writing should be erased? But, to tell 
 the truth, I began to scent that I was getting into 
 that sort of style which Longinus and Dionysius 
 Halicarnassus fitly call "the affected." 
 
 C. L. 
 
I20 LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 TO MANNING. 
 
 August 22, 1800. 
 
 Dear Manning, — You need not imagine any 
 apology necessary. Your fine hare and fine birds 
 (which just now are dangling by our kitchen blaze) 
 discourse most eloquent music in your justification. 
 You just nicked my palate ; for, with all due deco- 
 rum and leave may it be spoken, my worship hath 
 taken physic to-day, and being low and puling, re- 
 quireth 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 (yclept bread- 
 sauce), each to each giving double grace, do mu- 
 tually illustrate and set off (as skilful gold-foils to 
 rare jewels) your partridge, pheasant, woodcock, 
 snipe, teal, widgeon, and the other lesser daughters 
 of the ark. My friendship, struggling with my carnal 
 and fleshly prudence (which suggests that a bird a 
 man is the proper allotment in such cases) , yearneth 
 sometimes to have thee here to pick a wing or so. 
 I question if your Norfolk sauces match our London 
 culinaric. 
 
 George Dyer has introduced me to the table of 
 an agreeable old gentleman, Dr. Anderson, who gives 
 hot legs of mutton and grape pies at his sylvan 
 lodge at Isleworth, where, in the middle of a street. 
 
LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 1 21 
 
 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 win- 
 dows (for air), causeth his neighbors to speculate 
 strangely on the state of the good man's pericra- 
 nicks. Plainly, he lives under the reputation of 
 being deranged. George does not mind this cir- 
 cumstance ; he rather likes him the better for it. 
 The Doctor, in his pursuits, joins agricultural to poet- 
 ical science, and has set George's brains mad about 
 the old Scotch writers, Barbour, Douglas's ^neid, 
 Blind Harry, etc. We returned home in a return 
 postchaise (having dined with the Doctor) ; and 
 George kept wondering and wondering, for eight or 
 nine turnpike miles, what was the name, and striving 
 to recollect the name, of a poet anterior to Barbour. 
 I begged to know what was remaining of his works. 
 " There is nothing extant of his works, sir ; but by 
 all accounts he seems to have been a fine genius ! " 
 This fine genius, without anything to show for it or 
 any title beyond George's courtesy, without even a 
 name, and Barbour and Douglas and Blind Harry 
 now are the predominant sounds in George's pia 
 mater, and their buzzings exclude politics, criticism, 
 and algebra, — the late lords of that illustrious lum- 
 ber-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 inflam- 
 mable matter. 
 
 Could I .have my will of the heathen, I would 
 lock him up from all access of new ideas j I would 
 
122 LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 
 
 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, Aken- 
 side, and Mason. In these sounds, reiterated as 
 often as possible, there could be nothing painful, 
 nothing distracting. 
 
 God bless me, here are the birds, smoking hot ! 
 
 All that is gross and unspiritual in me rises at the 
 sight ! 
 
 Avaunt friendship and all memory of absent 
 friends ! 
 
 C. Lamb. 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 TO COLERIDGE. 
 
 August 26, 1800. 
 
 George Dyer is the only literary character I am 
 happily acquainted with. The oftener I see him, 
 the more deeply I admire him. He is goodness 
 itself. If I could but calculate the precise date of 
 his death, I would write a novel on purpose to make 
 George the hero. I could hit him off to a hair. 
 
 George brought a Dr. Anderson ^ to see me. The 
 Doctor is a very pleasant old man, a great genius 
 for agriculture, one that ties his breeches-knees with 
 packthread, and boasts of having had disappoint- 
 ments from ministers. The Doctor happened to 
 mention an epic poem by one Wilkie, called the 
 
 } See preceding Letter. 
 
LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 123 
 
 " Epigoniad," in which he assured us there is not 
 one tolerable line from beginning to end, but all 
 the characters, incidents, etc., verbally copied from 
 Homer. George, who had been sitting quite inat- 
 tentive to the Doctor's criticism, no sooner heard 
 the sound of Homer strike his pericraniks, than up 
 he gets, and declares he must see that poem imme-. 
 diately : where was it to be had ? An epic poem of 
 eight thousand lines, and he not hear of it ! There 
 must be some things good in it, and it was necessary 
 he should see it, for he had touched pretty deeply 
 upon that subject in his criticisms on the Epic. 
 George had touched pretty deeply upon the Lyric, 
 I find ; he has also prepared a dissertation on the 
 Drama, and the comparison of the English and Ger- 
 man theatres. As I rather doubted his competency 
 to do the latter, knowing that his peculiar turn lies 
 in the lyric species of composition, I questioned 
 George what English plays he had read. I found 
 that he had read Shakspeare (whom he calls an 
 original, but irregular, genius), but it was a good 
 while ago ; and he has dipped into Rowe and Ot- 
 way, I suppose having found their names in John- 
 son'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, Mar- 
 lowe, Massinger, and the worthies of Dodsley's Col- 
 lection ; but he is to read all these, to prepare him 
 for bringing out his " Parallel " in the winter. I 
 find he is also determined to vindicate poetry from 
 the shackles which Aristotle and some others have 
 imposed upon it, — which is very good-natured of 
 
124 LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 
 
 him, and very necessary just now ! Now I am 
 touching so deeply upon poetry, can I forget that 
 I have just received from Cottle a magnificent copy 
 of his Guinea Epic.^ Four-and-twenty books to 
 read in the dog days ! I got as far as the Mad 
 Monk the first day, and fainted. Mr. Cottle's 
 •genius strongly points him to the Pasto7'al, but his 
 incUnations divert him perpetually from his calling. 
 He imitates Southey, as Rowe did Shakspeare, with 
 his " Good morrow to ye, good master Lieutenant." 
 Instead of a man, a woman, a daughter, he con- 
 stantly writes " one a man," " one a woman," " one 
 his daughter." Instead of the king, the hero, he 
 constantly writes, " he the king," "he the hero," — 
 two flowers of rhetoric palpably from the "Joan." 
 But Mr. Cottle soars a higher pitch ; and when he 
 is original, it is in a most original way indeed. 
 His terrific scenes are indefatigable. Serpents, asps, 
 spiders, ghosts, dead bodies, staircases made of noth- 
 ing, 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. 
 
 1 Alfred. 
 
LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 125 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 TO COLERIDGE. 
 
 October 9, 1800. 
 I SUPPOSE you have heard of the death of Amos 
 Cottle. I paid a solemn visit of condolence to his 
 brother, accompanied by George Dyer, of burlesque 
 memory. I went, trembling, to see poor Cottle so 
 immediately upon the event. He was in black, 
 and his younger brother was also in black. Every- 
 thing wore an aspect suitable to the respect due to 
 the freshly dead. For some time after our entrance, 
 nobody spake, till George modestly put in a question, 
 whether ''Alfred" was likely to sell. This was 
 Lethe to Cottle, and his poor face wet with tears, 
 and his kind eye brightened up in a moment. Now 
 I felt it was my cue to speak. I had to thank him 
 for a present of a magnificent copy, and had prom- 
 ised to send him my remarks, —the least thing I 
 could do; so I ventured to suggest that I per- 
 ceived a considerable improvement he had made in 
 his first book since the state in which he first read it 
 to me. Joseph, who till now had sat with his knees 
 cowering in by the fireplace, wheeled about, and 
 with great difficulty of body shifted the same round 
 to the corner of a table where I was sitting, and 
 first stationing one thigh over the other, which is 
 his sedentary mood, and placidly fixing his benevo- 
 lent face right against mine, waited my observations. 
 At that moment it came strongly into my mind that 
 
126 LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 
 
 I had got Uncle Toby before me, he looked so 
 kind and so good. I could not say an unkind thing 
 of *' Alfred." So I set my memory to work to recol- 
 lect what was the name of Alfred's queen, and with 
 some adroitness recalled the well-known sound to 
 Cottle's ears of Alswitha. At that moment I could 
 perceive that Cottle had forgot his brother was so 
 lately become a blessed spirit. In the language of 
 mathematicians, the author was as 9, the brother 
 as I. I felt my cue, and strong pity working at 
 the root, I went to work and beslabber'd " Alfred " 
 with most unqualified praise, or only qualifying my 
 praise by the occasional poUte interposition of an 
 exception taken against trivial faults, slips, and hu- 
 man imperfections, which, by removing the appear- 
 ance of insincerity, did but in truth heighten the 
 relish. Perhaps I might have spared that refine- 
 ment, for Joseph was in a humor to hope and 
 believe all things. What I said was beautifully sup- 
 ported, corroborated, and confirmed by the stu- 
 pidity of his brother on my left hand, and by 
 George on my right, who has an utter incapacity of 
 comprehending that there can be anything bad in 
 poetry. All poems are good poems to George ; all 
 men are fine geniuses. So what with my actual 
 memory, of which I made the most, and Cottle's 
 own helping me out, for I really had forgotten a 
 good deal of " Alfred," I made shift to discuss the 
 most essential parts entirely to the satisfaction of its 
 author, who repeatedly declared that he loved noth- 
 ing better than candid criticism. Was I a candid 
 greyhound now for all this? or did I do right? I 
 
LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 127 
 
 believe I did. The effect was luscious to my con- 
 science. For all the rest of the evening Amos was 
 no more heard of, till George revived the subject by 
 inquiring whether some account should not be 
 drawn up by the friends of the deceased to be in- 
 serted in " Phillips's Monthly Obituary ; " adding, 
 that Amos was estimable both for his head and 
 heart, and would have made a fine poet if he had 
 lived. To the expediency of this measure Cottle 
 fully assented, but could not help adding that he 
 always thought that the qualities of his brother's 
 heart exceeded those of his head. I believe his 
 brother, when living, had formed precisely the same 
 idea of him ; and I apprehend the world will assent 
 to both judgments. I rather guess that the broth- 
 ers were poetical rivals. I judged so when I saw 
 them together. Poor Cottle, I must leave him, 
 after his short dream, to muse again upon his poor 
 brother, for whom I am sure in secret he will yet 
 shed many a tear. Now send me in return some 
 Greta news. 
 
 C. L. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 TO MANNING. 
 
 October 16, 1800. 
 Dear Manning, — Had you written one week be- 
 fore 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 
 
128 LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB, 
 
 these four days) are confined with severe fevers ; 
 and two more, who belong to the Tower Mihtia, 
 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 con- 
 trition of sinner Peter if I fail) [is] that I will come 
 the very first spaj^e 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 morn- 
 ings. 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 yottr 
 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 oi snakes, — whip- 
 snakes, thunder- snakes, pig-nose- snakes, American 
 vipers, and this monster. He lies curled up in 
 folds j 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 
 
LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 129 
 
 as loud, and reared up a head, from the midst of 
 these folds, like a toad, and shook his head, and 
 showed every sign a snake can show of irritation. 
 I had the foolish curiosity to strike the wires with 
 my finger, and the devil flew at me with his toad- 
 mouth wide open : the inside of his mouth is quite 
 white. I had got my finger away, nor could he 
 well have bit me with his big mouth, which would 
 have been certain death in five minutes. But it 
 frightened me so much that I did not recover my 
 voice for a minute's space. I forgot, in my fear, 
 that he was secured. You would have forgot too, 
 for 't is incredible how such a monster can be con- 
 fined 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 with- 
 out infringing on another box, and just behind, a 
 little devil, not an inch from my back, had got his 
 nose out, with some difficulty and pain, quite through 
 the bars ! He was soon taught better manners. 
 All the snakes were curious, and objects of terror ; 
 but this monster, like Aaron's serpent, swallowed up 
 the impression of the rest. He opened his cursed 
 mouth, when he made at me, as wide as his head 
 was broad. I hallooed out quite loud, and felt 
 pains all over my body with the fright. 
 
 I have had the felicity of hearing George Dyer 
 read out one book of "The Farmer's Boy." I 
 thought it rather childish. No doubt, there is orig- 
 inality in it (which, in your self-taught geniuses, is 
 a most rare quality, they generally getting hold of 
 
 9 
 
I30 LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 
 
 some bad models in a scarcity of books, and form- 
 ing their taste on them), but no selection. All 'vs> 
 described. 
 
 Mind, I have only heard read one book. 
 Yours sincerely, 
 
 Philo-Snake, 
 
 C. L. 
 
 XXX. 
 
 TO MANNING. 
 
 November 3, 1800. 
 Ecquid meditatiir Archimedes ? What is Euclid 
 doing? What has happened to learned Trismegist? 
 Doth he take it in ill part that his humble friend 
 did not comply with his courteous invitation ? Let 
 it suffice, I could not come. Are impossibilities 
 nothing? — be they abstractions of the intellects, 
 or not (rather) most sharp and mortifying realities? 
 nuts in the Will's mouth too hard for her to crack? 
 brick and stone walls in her way, which she can by 
 no means eat through? sore lets, impedimenta via- 
 7'U7fi, no thoroughfares? racemi nimiu7n alte pen- 
 defites ? Is the phrase classic ? I allude to the 
 grapes in ^sop, which cost the fox a strain, and 
 gained the world an aphorism. Observe the super- 
 scription of this letter. In adapting the size of the 
 letters which constitute yotir name and Mr. Crisp'' s 
 name respectively, I had an eye to your different 
 stations in life. 'Tis really curious, and must be 
 soothing to an aristocrat. I wonder it has never 
 been hit on before my time. I have made an ac- 
 
LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 131 
 
 quisition latterly of a pleasant hajtd, 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 agra- 
 rian law, or common property, in matter of soci- 
 ety ; but for once he has done me a great pleasure, 
 while he was only pursuing a principle, as ignes 
 fatiii 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 WIS king time of the night, when you wi's/i for 
 somebody to come in, without a distinct idea of a 
 probable anybody. Just in the nick, neither too 
 early to be tedious, nor too late to sit a reasonable 
 time. He is a most pleasant hand, — a fine, rat- 
 tling fellow, has gone through life laughing at sol- 
 emn apes ; himself hugely literate, oppressively full 
 of information in all stuff of conversation, from mat- 
 ter of fact to Xenophon and Plato ; can talk Greek 
 with Porson, politics with Thelwall, conjecture with 
 George Dyer, nonsense with me, and anything with 
 anybody; a great farmer, somewhat concerned in 
 an agricultural magazine ; reads no poetry but 
 Shakspeare, very intimate with Southey, but never 
 reads his poetry ; relishes George Dyer, thoroughly 
 penetrates into the ridiculous wherever found, un- 
 derstands the ^rsf time (a great desideratum in 
 
 1 John Rickman, clerk-assistant at the table of the House 
 of Commons, an eminent statistician, and the intimate friend 
 of Lamb, Southey, and others of their set 
 
132 LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 
 
 common minds) , — you need never twice speak 
 to him ; does not want explanations, translations, 
 limitations, as Professor Godwin does when you 
 make an assertion ; up to anything, down to every- 
 thing, — whatever sapit honiinem. A perfect man. 
 All this farrago, which must perplex you to read, 
 and has put me to a little trouble to select, only 
 proves how impossible it is to describe a pleasant 
 hand. You must see Rickman to know him, for he 
 is a species in one, — a new class ; an exotic, any 
 slip of which I am proud to put in my garden-pot. 
 The clearest-headed fellow ; fullest of matter, with 
 least verbosity. If there be any alloy in my fortune 
 to have met with such a man, it is that he com- 
 monly divides his time between town and country, 
 having some foolish family ties at Christchurch, by 
 which means he can only gladden our London 
 hemisphere with returns of light. He is now going 
 for six weeks. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 TO MANNING. 
 
 November 28, 1800 
 
 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 fortu- 
 nately 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 deter- 
 mined to get away from the office by some means. 
 
LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 133 
 
 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 my- 
 self, pent up all my life in a dirty city, have formed 
 of a tour to the Lakes. Consider Grasmere ! Am- 
 bleside ! Wordsworth ! Coleridge ! Hills, woods, 
 lakes, and mountains, to the devil ! I will eat snipes 
 with thee, Thomas Manning. Only confess, confess, 
 a bite. 
 
 P. S. — I think you named the i6th ; but was it 
 not modest of Lloyd to send such an invitation ! 
 It shows his knowledge of money and time. I 
 would be loth to think he meant 
 
 " Ironic satire sidelong sklented 
 On my poor pursie." ^ 
 
 For my part, with reference to my friends north- 
 ward, I must confess that I am not romance-bit 
 about Natttre, 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 sen- 
 sibly and feel properly, I have no need to stand 
 staring upon the gilded looking-glass (that strained 
 my friend's purse-strings in the purchase), nor his 
 five-shilling print over the mantelpiece of old Nabbs 
 the carrier (which only betrays his false taste). 
 Just as important to me (in a sense) is all the fur- 
 niture of my world, — eye-pampering, but satisfies 
 
 i Burns. 
 
134 LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 
 
 no heart. Streets, streets, streets, markets, the- 
 atres, churches, Covent Gardens, shops sparkUng 
 with pretty faces of industrious milUners, neat semp- 
 stresses, ladies cheapening, gentlemen behind coun- 
 ters lying, authors in the street with spectacles, 
 George Dyers (you may know them by their gait), 
 lamps lit at night, pastry-cooks' and silversmiths' 
 shops, beautiful Quakers of Pentonville, noise of 
 coaches, drowsy cry of mechanic watchman at night, 
 with bucks reeling home drunk ; if you happen to 
 wake at midnight, cries of " Fire ! " and " Stop 
 thief!" inns of court, with their learned air, and 
 halls, and butteries, just like Cambridge colleges ; 
 old book-stalls, Jeremy Taylors, Burtons on Melan- 
 choly, and Religio Medicis on every stall. These 
 are thy pleasures, O London with-the-many-sins ! 
 
 O City abounding in , for these may Keswick 
 
 and her giant brood go hang ! 
 
 C. L. 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 TO MANNING. 
 
 December 27, 1800. 
 At length George Dyer's phrenitis has come to 
 a crisis \ he is raging and furiously mad. I waited 
 upon the Heathen, Thursday was a se'nnight ; the 
 first symptom which struck my eye and gave me in- 
 controvertible proof of the fatal truth was a pair of 
 nankeen pantaloons four times too big for him, 
 which the said Heathen did pertinaciously affirm to 
 be new. 
 
LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 135 
 
 They were absolutely ingrained with the accumu- 
 lated 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 imperti- 
 nents. Then he caught at a proof-sheet, and catched 
 up a laundress's bill instead ; made a dart at Bloom- 
 field'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 de- 
 livery 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 Pre- 
 face must be expunged, although it cost him ;£^30, 
 — the lowest calculation, taking in paper and print- 
 ing ! In vain have his real friends remonstrated 
 against this Midsummer madness ; George is as 
 obstinate as a Primitive Christian, and wards and 
 parries off all our thrusts with one unanswerable 
 
136 LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 
 
 fence, — " Sir, it 's of great consequence that the 
 world is not misled!''^ 
 
 Man of many snipes, I will sup with thee, Deo 
 volente et diabolo nolente, on Monday night the 
 5 th of January, in the new year, and crush a cup to 
 the infant century. 
 
 A word or two of my progress. Embark at six 
 o'clock in the morning, with a fresh gale, on a 
 Cambridge one-decker; very cold till eight at 
 night ; land at St. Mary's lighthouse, muffins and 
 coffee upon table (or any other curious produc- 
 tion of Turkey or both Indies), snipes exactly at 
 nine, punch to commence at ten, with argumejit ; 
 difference of opinion is expected to take place about 
 eleven ; perfect unanimity, with some haziness and 
 dimness, before twelve. N. B. — My single affec- 
 tion 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. 
 
LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 137 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 TO COLERIDGE. 
 
 (End of 1800 ) 
 I SEND you, in this parcel, my play, which I beg 
 you to present in my name, with my respect and 
 love, to Wordsworth and his sister. You blame us 
 for giving your direction to Miss Wesley; the 
 woman has been ten times after us about it, and we 
 gave it her at last, under the idea that no further 
 harm would ensue, but she would once write to you, 
 and you would bite your lips and forget to answer 
 it, and so it would end. You read us a dismal 
 homily upon ''Reahties." We know quite as well 
 as you do what are shadows and what are realities. 
 You, for instance, when you are over your fourth or 
 fifth jorum, chirping about old school occurrences, 
 are the best of realities. Shadows are cold, thin 
 things, that have no warmth or grasp in them. 
 Miss Wesley and her friend, and a tribe of author- 
 esses, that come after you here daily, and, in defect 
 of you, hive and cluster upon us, are the shadows. 
 You encouraged that mopsey. Miss Wesley, to dance 
 after you, in the hope of having her nonsense put 
 into a nonsensical Anthology. We have pretty well 
 shaken her off, by that simple expedient of referring 
 her to you ; but there are more burrs in the wind. 
 I came home t'other day from business, hungry as a 
 hunter, to dinner, with nothing, I am sure, of the 
 author but hunger about me, and whom found I 
 
138 LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 
 
 closeted with Mary but a friend of this Miss Wesley, 
 one Miss Benje, or Bengey/ — I don't know how 
 she spells her name. I just came in time enough, I 
 believe, luckily, to prevent them from exchanging 
 vows of eternal friendship. It seems she is one of 
 your authoresses, that you first foster, and then 
 upbraid us with. But I forgive you. " The rogue 
 has given me potions to make me love him." Well ; 
 go she would not, nor step a step over our threshold, 
 till we had promised to come and drink tea with her 
 next night. I had never seen her before, and could 
 not tell who the devil it was that was so familiar. We 
 went, however, not to be impolite. Her lodgings 
 are up two pairs of stairs in East Street. Tea and 
 coffee and macaroons — a kind of cake — I much 
 love. We sat down. Presently Miss Benje broke 
 the silence by declaring herself quite of a different 
 opinion from DTsraeh, who supposes the differences 
 of human intellect to be the mere effect of organi- 
 zation. She begged to know my opinion. I at- 
 tempted 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 conver- 
 sation about the comparative genius and merits of 
 all modern languages, and concluded with asserting 
 
 1 Miss Elizabeth Benger See " Dictionary of National 
 Biography," iv. 221. 
 
LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 139 
 
 that the Saxon was esteemed the purest dialect in 
 Germany. From thence she passed into the subject 
 of poetry, where I, who had hitherto sat mute and a 
 hearer only, humbly hoped I might now put in a 
 word to some advantage, seeing that it was my own 
 trade in a manner. But I was stopped by a round 
 assertion that no good poetry had appeared since 
 Dr. Johnson's time. It seems the Doctor had sup- 
 pressed many hopeful geniuses that way by the 
 severity of his critical strictures in his " Lives of the 
 Poets." I here ventured to question the fact, and 
 was beginning to appeal to names ; but I was assured 
 ''it was certainly the case." Then we discussed 
 Miss More's book on education, which I had never 
 read. It seems Dr. Gregory, another of Miss Ben- 
 gey's friends, has found fault with one of Miss 
 More's metaphors. Miss More has been at some 
 pains to vindicate herself, — in the opinion of Miss 
 Bengey, not without success. It seems the Doctor 
 is invariably against the use of broken or mixed 
 metaphor, which he reprobates against the authority 
 of Shakspeare himself. We next discussed the 
 question whether Pope was a poet. I find Dr. 
 Gregory is of opinion he was not, though Miss 
 Seward does not at all concur with him in this. We 
 then sat upon the comparative merits of the ten 
 translations of " Pizarro," and Miss Bengey, or 
 Benje, advised Mary to take two of them home ; she 
 thought it might afford her some pleasure to com- 
 pare 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 
 
I40 LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 
 
 again next week, and meet the Miss Porters, who, it 
 seems, have heard much of Mr. Coleridge, and wish 
 to meet us, because we are his friends. I have 
 been preparing for the occasion. I crowd cotton 
 in my ears. I read all the reviews and magazines of 
 the past month against the dreadful meeting, and I 
 hope by these means to cut a tolerable second-rate 
 figure. 
 
 Pray let us have no more complaints about 
 shadows. We are in a fair way, through you, to 
 surfeit sick upon them. 
 
 Our loves and respects to your host and hostess. 
 Our dearest love to Coleridge. 
 
 Take no thought about your proof-sheets; they 
 shall be done as if Woodfall himself did them. Pray 
 send us word of Mrs. Coleridge and httle David 
 Hartley, your little reality. 
 
 Farewell, dear Substance. Take no umbrage at 
 anything I have written. 
 
 C. Lamb, Umbra. 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 TO WORDSWORTH. 
 
 January, i8oi. 
 Thanks for your letter and present. I had al- 
 ready borrowed your second volume.-^ What pleases 
 one most is "The Song of Lucy." Simon's sickly 
 
 ^ Of the " Lyrical Ballads," then just published. For cer- 
 tain results of Lamb's strictures in this letter, see Letter 
 xxxvii. 
 
LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 141 
 
 Daughter, in "The Sexton," made me cry. Next 
 to these are the description of these continuous 
 echoes in the story of "Joanna's Laugh," where the 
 mountains and all the scenery absolutely seem alive ; 
 and that fine Shakspearian character of the " happy 
 man " in the " Brothers," — 
 
 " That creeps about the fields, 
 Following his fancies by the hour, to bring 
 Tears down his cheek, or solitary smiles 
 Into his face, until the setting sun 
 Write Fool upon his forehead! " 
 
 I will mention one more, — the delicate and curi- 
 ous feeling in the wish for the " Cumberland Beg- 
 gar" 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 substi- 
 tuting her own feeling for the Beggar's, and in the 
 same breath detecting the fallacy, will not part with 
 the wish. The " Poet's Epitaph " is disfigured, to 
 my taste, by the common satire upon parsons and 
 lawyers in the beginning, and the coarse epithet of 
 "pin-point," in the sixth stanza. All the rest is 
 eminently good, and your own. I will just add that 
 it appears to me a fault in the " Beggar " that the 
 instructions conveyed in it are too direct, and like 
 a lecture : they don't slide into the mind of the 
 reader while he is imagining no such matter. An 
 intelligent reader finds a sort of insult in being told, 
 " I will teach you how to think upon this subject." 
 This fault, if I am right, is in a ten-thousandth worse 
 degree to be found in Sterne, and in many novelists 
 and modern poets, who continually put a sign-post 
 
142 LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 
 
 up to show where you are to feel. They set out 
 with assuming their readers to be stupid, — very dif- 
 ferent from " Robinson Crusoe," the " Vicar of 
 Wakefield," " Roderick Random," and other beau- 
 tiful, bare narratives. There is implied an un- 
 written compact between author and reader : " I 
 will tell you a story, and I suppose you will under- 
 stand it." Modern novels, "St. Leons " and the 
 like, are full of such flowers as these, — " Let not 
 my reader suppose ; " " Imagine, if you can, mod- 
 est," etc. I will here have done with praise and 
 blame. I have written so much only that you may 
 not think I have passed over your book without 
 observation. ... I am sorry that Coleridge has 
 christened his " Ancient Marinere," a " Poet's Reve- 
 rie ; " it is as bad as Bottom the Weaver's decla- 
 ration that he is not a lion, but only the scenical 
 representation of a lion. What new idea is gained 
 by this title but one subversive of all credit — which 
 the tale should force upon us — of its truth ! 
 
 For me, I was never so affected with any human 
 tale. After first reading it, I was totally possessed 
 with it for many days. I dislike all the miraculous 
 part of it ; but the feelings of the man under the 
 operation of such scenery, dragged me along like 
 Tom Pipe's magic whistle. I totally differ from 
 your idea that the " Marinere " should have had a 
 character and a profession. This is a beauty in 
 " Gulliver's Travels," where the mind is kept in a 
 placid state of little wonderments ; but the " An- 
 cient Marinere " undergoes such trials as overwhelm 
 and bury all individuality or memory of what he 
 
LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 143 
 
 was, — like the state of a man in a bad dream, one 
 terrible peculiarity of which is, that all conscious- 
 ness of personality is gone. Your other observation 
 is, I think as well, a little unfounded : the " Mari- 
 nere," from being conversant in supernatural events, 
 has acquired a supernatural and strange cast of 
 phrase, eye, appearance, etc., which frighten the 
 "wedding guest." You will excuse my remarks, 
 because I am hurt and vexed that you should think 
 it necessary, with a prose apology, to open the eyes 
 of dead men that cannot see. 
 
 To sum up a general opinion of the second vol- 
 ume, I do not feel any one poem in it so forcibly 
 as the " Ancient Marinere " and " The Mad Mother," 
 and the " Lines at Tintern Abbey '' in the first. 
 
 C. L. 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 TO WORDSWORTH. 
 
 January 30, 180 1. 
 I OUGHT before this to have replied to your very 
 kind invitation into Cumberland. With you and 
 your sister I could gang anywhere ; but I am afraid 
 whether I shall ever be able to afford so desperate 
 a journey. Separate from the pleasure of your com- 
 pany, I don't much care if I never see a mountain 
 in my life. 1 have passed all my days in London, 
 until I have formed as many and intense local at- 
 tachments as any of you mountaineers can have 
 done with dead nature. The lighted shops of the 
 Strand and Fleet Street ; the innumerable trades, 
 
144 LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 
 
 tradesmen, and customers ; coaches, wagons, play- 
 houses ; 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 impossi- 
 bihty of being dull in Fleet Street ; the crowds, the 
 very dirt and mud, the sun shining upon houses and 
 pavements ; the print-shops, the old-book stalls, 
 parsons cheapening books ; coffee-houses, steams 
 of soups from kitchens ; the pantomimes, London 
 itself a pantomime and a masquerade, — all these 
 things work themselves into my mind, and feed me 
 without a power of satiating me. The wonder of 
 these sights impels me into night-walks about her 
 crowded streets, and I often shed tears in the mot- 
 ley Strand from fulness of joy at so much life. All 
 these emotions must be strange to you ; so are 
 your rural emotions to me. But consider what must 
 I have been doing all my life, not to have lent great 
 portions of my heart with usury to such scenes? 
 
 My attachments are all local, purely local, — I 
 have no passion (or have had none since I was in 
 love, and then it was the spurious engendering of 
 poetry and books) to groves and valleys. The 
 rooms where I was born, the furniture which has 
 been before my eyes all my life, a bookcase which 
 has followed me about like a faithful dog (only 
 exceeding him in knowledge), wherever I have 
 moved ; old chairs, old tables ; streets, squares, 
 where I have sunned myself; my old school, — 
 these are my mistresses. Have I not enough with- 
 out your mountains? I do not envy you. I should 
 
LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 145 
 
 pity you, did I not know that the mind will make 
 friends with anything. Your sun and moon, and 
 skies and hills and lakes, affect me no more or 
 scarcely come to be in more venerable characters, 
 than as a gilded room with tapestry and tapers, 
 where I might live with handsome visible objects. 
 I consider the clouds above me but as a roof beau- 
 tifully painted, but unable to satisfy the mind, and 
 at last, like the pictures of the apartment of a con- 
 noisseur, 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 j 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 kughed 
 with dear Joanna. 
 
 Give my kindest love and my sister's to D. and 
 yourself. And a kiss from me to little Barbara 
 Lewthwaite.-^ Thank you for liking my play ! 
 
 C.L. 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 TO MANNING. 
 
 February f 1801. 
 
 I AM going to change my lodgings, having re- 
 ceived a hint that it would be agreeable, at our 
 Lady's next feast. I have partly fixed upon most 
 delectable rooms, which look out (when you stand 
 a-tiptoe) over the Thames and Surrey Hills, at the 
 
 1. The child in Wordsworth's " The Pet Lamb." 
 10 
 
146 LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 
 
 Upper end of King's Bench Walks, in the Temple. 
 There I shall have all the privacy of a house without 
 the encumbrance, and shall be able to lock my 
 friends out as often as I desire to hold free converse 
 with my immortal mind ; for my present lodgings 
 resemble a minister's levee, I have so increased my 
 acquaintance (as they call 'em), since I have re- 
 sided in town. Like the country mouse, that had 
 tasted a little of urban manners, I long to be nib- 
 bling my own cheese by my dear self without mouse- 
 traps and time-traps. By my new plan, I shall be 
 as airy, up four pair of stairs, as in the country; 
 and in a garden, in the midst of enchanting, more 
 than Mahometan paradise, London, whose dirtiest 
 drab-frequented alley, and her lowest-bowing trades- 
 man, I would not exchange for Skiddaw, Helvellyn, 
 James, Walter, and the parson into the bargain. 
 Oh, her lamps of a night ; her rich goldsmiths, print- 
 shops, toy-shops, mercers, hardwaremen, pastry- 
 cooks ; St. Paul's Churchyard ; the Strand ; Exeter 
 'Change ; Charing Cross, with a man upon a black 
 horse ! These are thy gods, O London ! Ain't 
 you mightily moped on the banks of the Cam? 
 Had not you better come and set up here ? You 
 can't think what a difference. All the streets and 
 pavements are pure gold, I warrant you, — at least, 
 I know an alchemy that turns her mud into that 
 metal : a mind that loves to be at home in crowds. 
 'T is half-past twelve o'clock, and all sober people 
 ought to be a-bed. Between you and me, the L. 
 Ballads are but drowsy performances. 
 
 C. Lamb (as you may guess) . 
 
LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 147 
 
 XXXVII. 
 
 TO MANNING. 
 
 February 15, 1801. 
 I HAD need be cautious henceforward what opin- 
 ion I give of the " Lyrical Ballads." All the North 
 of England are in a turmoil. Cumberland and 
 Westmoreland have already declared a state of war. 
 I lately received from Wordsworth a copy of the 
 second volume, accompanied by an acknowledg- 
 ment of having received from me many months 
 since a copy of a certain tragedy, with excuses for not 
 having made any acknowledgment sooner, it being 
 owing to an " almost insurmountable aversion from 
 letter-writing." This letter I answered in due form 
 and time, and enumerated several of the passages 
 which had most affected me, adding, unfortunately, 
 that no single piece had moved me so forcibly 
 as the "Ancient Mariner," "The Mad Mother," 
 or the "Lines at Tintern Abbey." The Post did 
 not sleep a moment. I received almost instantane- 
 ously a long letter of four sweating pages from my 
 Reluctant Letter- Writer, the purport of which was 
 that he was sorry his second volume had not given me 
 more pleasure (Devil a hint did I give that it had 
 not pleased me), and "was compelled to wish that 
 my range of sensibility was more extended, being 
 obliged to believe that I should receive large in- 
 fluxes of happiness and happy thoughts" (I suppose 
 
148 LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 
 
 from the L. B.), — with a deal of stuff about a cer- 
 tain Union of Tenderness and Imagination, which, 
 in the sense he used Imagination, was not the char- 
 acteristic of Shakspeare, but which Mihon pos- 
 sessed in a degree far exceeding other Poets ; which 
 union, as the highest species of poetry, and chiefly 
 deserving that name, " he was most proud to aspire 
 to ; " then illustrating the said union by two quota- 
 tions from his own second volume (which I had been 
 so unfortunate as to miss.) First specimen : A father 
 
 addresses his son : — 
 
 " When thou 
 First earnest into the World, as it befalls 
 To new-born infants, thou didst sleep away 
 Two days ; and blessings from thy father^ s tongue 
 The ?i fell upon thee.'' 
 
 The lines were thus undermarked, and then followed, 
 "This passage, as combining in an extraordinary 
 degree that union of tenderness and imagination 
 which I am speaking of, I consider as one of the 
 best I ever wrote." 
 
 Second specimen : A youth, after years of ab- 
 sence, revisits his native place, and thinks (as most 
 people do) that there has been strange alteration in 
 
 his absence, — 
 
 " And that the rocks 
 And everlasting hills themselves were changed." 
 
 You see both these are good poetry ; but after 
 one has been reading Shakspeare twenty of the 
 best years of one's life, to have a fellow start up and 
 prate about some unknown quality which Shak- 
 speare possessed in a degree inferior to Milton and 
 
LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 149 
 
 somebody else I This was not to be all my castiga- 
 tion. Coleridge, who had not written to me for 
 some months before, starts up from his bed of sick- 
 ness to reprove me for my tardy presumption j four 
 long pages, equally sweaty and more tedious, came 
 from him, assuring me that when the works of a 
 man of true genius, such as W. undoubtedly was, 
 do not please me at first sight, I should expect the 
 fault to He " in me, and not in them," etc. What 
 am I to do with such people? I certainly shall 
 write them a very merry letter. Writing to you, I 
 may say that the second volume has no such pieces 
 as the three I enumerated. It is full of original 
 thinking and an observing mind ; but it does not 
 often make you laugh or cry. It too artfully aims 
 at simplicity of expression. And you sometimes 
 doubt if simplicity be not a cover for poverty. The 
 best piece in it I will send you, being short. I 
 have grievously offended my friends in the North 
 by declaring my undue preference \ but I need 
 not fear you. 
 
 " She dwelt among the untrodden ways 
 Beside the Springs of Dove, — 
 A maid whom there were few {sic) to praise, 
 And very few to love. 
 
 " A violet, by a mossy stone 
 Half hidden from the eye, 
 Fair as a star when only one 
 Is shining in the sky. 
 
 " She lived unknown ; and few could know 
 When Lucy ceased to be; 
 But she is in the grave, and oh, 
 The difference to me ! " 
 
150 LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 
 
 This is choice and genuine, and so are many, 
 many more. But one does not Hke to have 'em 
 rammed down one's throat. " Pray take it, — it's 
 very good ; let me help you, — eat faster." 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 
 TO MANNING. 
 
 September 24, 1802 
 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 im- 
 pulse 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 cer- 
 tainly intend some time in my life to see Paris, and 
 .equally certainly never intend to learn the language ; 
 therefore that could be no objection. However, I 
 am very glad I did not go, because you had left 
 Paris (I see) before I could have set out. I be- 
 lieve 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 Der- 
 byshire, where the Devil sits, they say, without 
 breeches. This my purer mind rejected as indeli- 
 cate. And my final resolve was a tour to the Lakes. 
 I set out with Mary to Keswick, without giving Cole- 
 ridge any notice ; for my time, being precious, did 
 not admit of it. He received us with all the hospi- 
 
LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 151 
 
 tality in the world, and gave up his time to show us 
 all the wonders of the country. He dwells upon a 
 small hill by the side of Keswick, in a comfortable 
 house, quite enveloped on all sides by a net of moun- 
 tains, — 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 trans- 
 muted all the mountains into colors, purple, etc. We 
 thought we had got into fairy-land. But that went 
 off (as it never came again ; while we stayed, we had 
 no more fine sunsets) ; and we entered Coleridge's 
 comfortable study just in the dusk, when the moun- 
 tains were all dark, with clouds upon their heads. 
 Such an impression I never received from objects of 
 sight before, nor do I suppose that I can ever again. 
 Glorious creatures, fine old fellows, Skiddaw, etc. 
 I never shall forget ye, how ye lay about that night, 
 like an intrenchment ; gone to bed, as it seemed 
 for the night, but promising that ye were to be seen 
 in the morning. Coleridge had got a blazing fire 
 in his study, which is a large, antique, ill-shaped 
 room, with an old-fashioned organ, never played 
 upon, big enough for a church, shelves of scattered 
 folios, an ^olian harp, and an old sofa, half-bed, 
 etc. ; and all looking out upon the last fading view 
 of Skiddaw and his broad-breasted brethren. What 
 a night ! Here we stayed three full weeks, in which 
 time I visited Wordsworth's cottage, where we stayed 
 a day or two with the Clarksons (good people and 
 most hospitable, at whose house we tarried one day 
 and night), and saw Lloyd. The Wordsworths were 
 
152 LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB, 
 
 gone to Calais. They have since been in London, 
 and passed much time with us : he has now gone 
 into Yorkshire to be married. So we have seen 
 Keswick, Grasmere, Ambleside, Ulswater (where 
 the Clarksons live), and a place at the other end 
 of Ulswater, — I forget the name,i — 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 illumi- 
 nation. Mary was excessively tired when she got 
 about half way up Skiddaw ; but we came to a cold 
 rill (than which nothing can be imagined more cold, 
 running over cold stones), and with the reinforce- 
 ment 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 Scot- 
 land 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 con- 
 ceive the degradation I felt at first, from being ac- 
 customed to wander free as air among mountains, 
 and bathe in rivers without being controlled by any 
 
 1 Patterdale. 
 
LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 153 
 
 one, to come home and work. I felt very little. 
 I had been dreaming I was a very great man. But 
 that is going off, and I find I shall conform in time 
 to that state of life to which it has pleased God to 
 call me. Besides, after all, Fleet Street and the 
 Strand are better places to live in for good and all 
 than amidst Skiddaw. Still, I turn back to those 
 great places where I wandered about, participating 
 in their greatness. After all, I could not live in 
 Skiddaw. I could spend a year, — two, three years 
 among them ; but I must have a prospect of seeing 
 Fleet Street at the end of that time, or I should 
 mope and pine away, I know. Still, Skiddaw is a 
 fine creature. 
 
 My habits are changing, I think, — /. e., from 
 drunk to sober. Whether I shall be happier or 
 not, remains to be proved. I shall certainly be 
 more happy in a morning; but whether I shall 
 not sacrifice the fat and the marrow and the kid- 
 neys, — /. <?., the night, — glorious, care-drowning 
 night, that heals all our wrongs, pours wine into our 
 mortifications, changes the scene from indifferent 
 and fiat to bright and brilliant? O Manning, if I 
 should have formed a diabolical resolution, by the 
 time you come to England, of not admitting any 
 spirituous liquors into my house, will you be my guest 
 on such shameworthy terms ? Is life, with such lim- 
 itations, worth trying ? The truth is, that my liquors 
 bring a nest of friendly harpies about my house, who 
 consume me. This is a pitiful tale to be read at St. 
 Gothard ; but it is just now nearest my heart. 
 
154 LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 TO COLERIDGE. 
 
 October 23, 1802. 
 
 I READ daily your political essays. I was particu- 
 larly pleased with "Once a Jacobin;" though the 
 argument is obvious enough, the style was less swell- 
 ing than your things sometimes are, and it was plaus- 
 ible ad populum. A vessel has just arrived from 
 Jamaica with the news of poor Sam Le Grice's death. 
 He died at Jamaica of the yellow fever. His course 
 was rapid, and he had been very foolish ; but I be- 
 lieve there was more of kindness and warmth in him 
 than in almost any other of our schoolfellows. The 
 annual meeting of the Blues is to-morrow, at the 
 London Tavern, where poor Sammy dined with 
 them two years ago, and attracted the notice of all 
 by the singular foppishness of his dress. When 
 men go off the stage so early, it scarce seems a 
 noticeable thing in their epitaphs, whether they had 
 been wise or silly in their lifetime. 
 
 I am glad the snuff and Pi-pos's books please. 
 " Goody Two Shoes " is almost out of print. Mrs. 
 Barbauld's stuff has banished all the old classics of 
 the nursery ; and the shopman at Newberry's hardly 
 deigned to reach them off an old exploded corner of 
 a shelf, when Mary asked for them. Mrs. B.'s and 
 Mrs. Trimmer's nonsense lay in piles about. Knowl- 
 edge insignificant and vapid as Mrs. B.'s books con- 
 vey, it seems, must come to the child in the shape 
 
LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 155 
 
 of knowledge, and his empty noddle must be turned 
 with conceit of his own powers when he has learned 
 that a horse is an animal, and Billy is better than a 
 horse, and such like ; instead of that beautiful inter- 
 est in wild tales which made the child a man, while 
 all the time he suspected himself to be no bigger 
 than a child. Science has succeeded to poetry no 
 less in the little walks of children than with men. 
 Is there no possibility of averting this sore evil? 
 Think what you would have been now, if instead of 
 being fed with tales and old wives' fables in child- 
 hood, 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 ^50 a year only, in addition to what I 
 have, I should live in affluence. 
 
 Have you anticipated it, or could not you give 
 a parallel of Bonaparte with Cromwell, particularly 
 as to the contrast in their deeds affecting foreign 
 States? Cromwell's interference for the Albigenses, 
 B[onaparte]'s against the Swiss. Then religion 
 would come in ; and Milton and you could rant 
 about our countrymen of that period. This is a 
 hasty suggestion, the more hasty because I want my 
 supper. I have just finished Chapman's Homer. 
 Did you ever read it? It has most the continuous 
 
156 LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 
 
 power of interesting you all along, like a rapid 
 original, of any, and in the uncommon excellence of 
 the more finished parts goes beyond Fairfax or any 
 of 'em. The metre is fourteen syllables, and ca- 
 pable 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 flockers to them, that came forth ; as when of frequent 
 
 bees 
 Swarms rise out of a hollow rock, repairing the degrees 
 Of their egression endlessly, with ever rising new 
 From forth their sweet nest ; as their store, still as it faded, 
 
 grew, 
 And never would cease sending forth her clusters to the spring, 
 They still crowd out so : this flock here, that there, belaboring 
 The loaded flowers. So," etc. 
 
 What endless egression of phrases the dog com- 
 mands ! 
 
 Take another, — Agamemnon, wounded, bearing 
 his wound heroically for the sake of the army (look 
 below) to a woman in labor : — 
 
 "He with his lance, sword, mighty stones, poured his heroic 
 wreak 
 
 On other squadrons of the foe, whiles yet warm blood did 
 break 
 
 Thro' his cleft veins : but when the wound was quite ex- 
 haust and crude. 
 
 The eager anguish did approve his princely fortitude. 
 
 As when most sharp and bitter pangs distract a laboring 
 dame. 
 
 Which the divine Ilithiae, that rule the painful frame 
 
LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 15 7 
 
 Of human childbirth, pour on her ; the Ilithiae that are 
 The daughters of Saturnia ; with whose extreme repair 
 The woman in her travail strives to take the worst it gives ; 
 With thought, it must be, His love's fruit, the end for which 
 
 she lives ; 
 The mean to make herself new born, what comforts will re- 
 dound ! 
 So," etc. 
 
 I will tell you more about Chapman and his pecu- 
 Uarities in my next. I am much interested in him. 
 Yours ever affectionately, and Pi-Pos's, 
 
 C. L. 
 
 XL. 
 
 TO MANNING. 
 
 November, 1802. 
 
 My dear Manning, — I must positively write, or 
 I shall miss you at Toulouse. I sit here like a 
 decayed minute-hand (I lie ; that does not sit), and 
 being myself the exponent of no time, take no 
 heed how the clocks about me are going. You 
 possibly by this time may have explored all Italy, 
 and toppled, unawares, into Etna, while you went 
 too near those rotten-jawed, gap-toothed, old worn- 
 out chaps of hell, — while I am meditating a quies- 
 cent letter to the honest postmaster at Toulouse. 
 But in case you should not have been/^/(? de se, this 
 is to tell you that your letter was quite to my palate ; 
 in particular your just remarks upon Industry, 
 cursed Industry (though indeed you left me to 
 explore the reason), were highly relishing. 
 
 I've often wished I lived in the Golden Age, 
 
158 LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 
 
 before doubt, and propositions, and corollaries, got 
 into the world. Now, as Joseph Cottle, a Bard of 
 Nature, sings, going up Malvern Hills, — 
 
 " How steep, how painful the ascent ! 
 It needs the evidence of close deduction 
 To know that ever I shall gain the top," 
 
 You must know that Joe is lame, so that he had 
 some reason for so singing. These two lines, I 
 assure you, are taken toiide^n Uteris from a very 
 popular poem. Joe is also an epic poet as well as 
 a descriptive, and has written a tragedy, though 
 both his drama and epopoiea are strictly descriptive, 
 and chiefly of the beauties of nature, for Joe thinks 
 man, with all his passions and frailties, not a proper 
 subject of the drama. Joe's tragedy hath the fol- 
 lowing surpassing speech in it. Some king is told 
 that his enemy has engaged twelve archers to come 
 over in a boat from an enemy's country and way-lay 
 him ; he thereupon pathetically exclaims, — 
 
 *' Twelve, dost thou say ? Curse on those dozen villains ! " 
 
 Cottle read two or three acts out to 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. 
 
LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 159 
 
 XLI. 
 
 TO MANNING. 
 
 February 19, 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 '11 never make you their king as long 
 as any branch of that great stock is remaining. I 
 tremble for your Christianity. They will certainly 
 circumcise you. Read Sir John Mandeville's trav- 
 els to cure you, or come over to England. There 
 is a Tartar man now exhibiting at Exeter 'Change. 
 Come and talk with him, and hear what he says 
 first. Indeed, he is no very favorable specimen 
 of his countrymen ! But perhaps the best thing 
 you can do is to try to get the idea out of your 
 head. For this purpose repeat to yourself every 
 night, after you have said your prayers, the words 
 *' Independent Tartary, Independent Tartary," two 
 or three times, and associate with them the idea of 
 oblivion ('tis Hartley's method with obstinate me- 
 mories) ; or say " Independent, Independent, have 
 I not already got an independence ? " That was 
 
 1 Manning had evidently written to Lamb as to his cher- 
 ished project of exploring remoter China and Thibet. 
 
i6o LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 
 
 a clever way of the old Puritans, — pun-divinity. 
 My dear friend, think what a sad pity it would be 
 to bury such pai-ts in heathen countries, among 
 nasty, unconversable, horse-belching, Tartar people ! 
 Some say they are cannibals ; and then conceive 
 a Tartar fellow eating my friend, and adding the 
 cool jiialignity of mustard and vinegar ! I am 
 afraid 't is the reading of Chaucer has misled you ; 
 his foolish stories about Cambuscan and the ring, 
 and the horse of brass. Believe me, there are no 
 such things, — 't is all the poet's invention ; but if 
 there were such darling things as old Chaucer sings, 
 I would up behind you on the horse of brass, and 
 frisk off for Prester John's country. But these are 
 all tales ; a horse of brass never flew, and a king's 
 daughter never talked with birds ! The Tartars 
 really are a cold, insipid, smouchy set. You '11 be 
 sadly moped (if you are not eaten) among them. 
 Pray try and cure yourself. Take hellebore (the 
 counsel is Horace's ; 't was none of my thought 
 originally'). Shave yourself oftener. Eat no saf- 
 fron, for saffron- eaters contract a terrible Tartar- 
 like yellow. Pray to avoid the fiend. Eat nothing 
 that gives the heartburn. Shave the upper lip. Go 
 about like an European. Read no book of voyages 
 (they are nothing but lies) ; only now and then a 
 romance, to keep the fancy under. Above all, 
 don't go to any sights of wild beasts. That has 
 been your ruin. Accustom yourself to write fa- 
 miliar letters on common subjects to your friends in 
 England, such as are of a moderate understanding. 
 And think about common things more. I supped 
 
LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. i6i 
 
 last night with Rickman, and met a merry natural 
 captain, who pleases himself vastly with once having 
 made a pun at Otaheite in the O. language. 'T is 
 the same man who said Shakspeare he liked, be- 
 cause he was so 7nuch 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 '11 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. 
 
 XLII. 
 
 TO MANNING. 
 
 February, 1803. 
 Not a sentence, not a syllable, of Trismegistus 
 shall be lost through my neglect. I am his word- 
 banker, his storekeeper of puns and syllogisms. 
 You cannot conceive (and if Trismegistus cannot, 
 no man can) the strange joy which I felt at the 
 receipt of a letter from Paris. It seemed to give 
 me a learned importance which placed me above 
 
 II 
 
1 62 LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 
 
 all who had not Parisian correspondents. Believe 
 that I shall carefully husband every scrap, which 
 will save you the trouble of memory when you 
 come back. You cannot write things so trifling, 
 let them only be about Paris, which I shall not 
 treasure. In particular, I must have parallels of 
 actors and actresses. I must be told if any build- 
 ing 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 hun- 
 ger has not much taste for the fine arts. Is any 
 night- walk comparable to a walk from St. Paul's 
 to Charing Cross, for lighting and paving, crowds 
 going and coming without respite, the rattle of 
 coaches, and the cheerfulness of shops? Have you 
 seen a man guillotined yet ? is it as good as hang- 
 ing? Are the women all painted, and the men all 
 monkeys? or are there not a few that look like 
 rational of both sexes ? Are you and the First 
 Consul thick ? All this expense of ink I may fairly 
 put you to, as your letters will not be solely for my 
 proper pleasure, but are to serve as memoranda 
 and notices, helps for short memory, a kind of 
 Rumfordizing recollection, for yourself on your re- 
 turn. 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 philo- 
 sophical indolence or indifference stung me. You 
 cannot stir from your rooms till you know the 
 
LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 163 
 
 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 educa- 
 tion upon the abstract idea of men and women ; 
 no similitude nor dissimilitude to Enghsh? 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 plea- 
 sure of the first entrance into life from the womb. 
 I daresay, in a short time, my habits would come 
 back like a " stronger man " armed, and drive out 
 that new pleasure ; and I should soon sicken for 
 known objects. Nothing has transpired here that 
 seems to me of sufficient importance to send dry- 
 shod over the water ; but I suppose you will want 
 to be told some news. The best and the worst 
 to me is, that I have given up two guineas a week 
 at the " Post," and regained my health and spirits, 
 which were upon the wane. I grew sick, and 
 Stuart unsatisfied. Ludisti satis, tempus abire est ; 
 I must cut closer, that 's all. Mister Fell — or as 
 you, with your usual facetiousness and drollery, call 
 him, Mr. F -f- ^ — has stopped short in the middle 
 
1 64 LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 
 
 of his play. Some friend has told him that it has 
 not the least merit in it. Oh that I had the recti- 
 fying of the Litany ! I would put in a Libera nos 
 {Scriptores videlicet) ab amicis ! That 's all the 
 news. A propos (is it pedantry, writing to a 
 Frenchman, to express myself sometimes by a 
 French word, when an English one would not do 
 as well ? Methinks my thoughts fall naturally into 
 
 it)- 
 
 In all this time I have done but one thing which I 
 reckon tolerable, and that I will transcribe, because 
 it may give you pleasure, being a picture of my 
 humors. You will find it in my last page. It 
 absurdly is a first number of a series, thus strangled 
 in its birth. 
 
 More news ! The Professor's Rib ^ has come out 
 to be a disagreeable woman, so much so as to drive 
 me and some more old cronies from his house. 
 He must not wonder if people are shy of coming 
 to see him because of the Snakes. 
 
 C. L. 
 
 XLIII. 
 
 TO WILLIAM GODWIN. 
 
 November \o, 1803. 
 Dear Godwin, — You never made a more unlucky 
 and perverse mistake than to suppose that the rea- 
 son of my not writing that cursed thing was to be 
 found in your book. I assure you most sincerely 
 
 1 Mrs. Godwin. 
 
LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 165 
 
 that I have been greatly delighted with " Chaucer." ^ 
 I may be wrong, but I think there is one consider- 
 able error runs through it, which is a conjecturing 
 spirit, a fondness for filling out the picture by sup- 
 posing what Chaucer did and how he felt, where the 
 materials are scanty. So far from meaning to with- 
 hold from you (out of mistaken tenderness) this 
 opinion of mine, I plainly told Mrs. Godwin that I 
 did find default, which I should reserve naming until 
 I should see you and talk it over. This she may 
 very well remember, and also that I declined nam- 
 ing this fault until she drew it from me by asking 
 me if there was not too much fancy in the work. 
 I then confessed generally what I felt, but refused to 
 go into particulars until I had seen you. I am never 
 very fond of saying things before third persons, be- 
 cause in the relation (such is human nature) some- 
 thing is sure to be dropped. If Mrs. Godwin has 
 been the cause of your misconstruction, I am very 
 angry, tell her ; yet it is not an anger unto death. I 
 remember also telling Mrs. G. (which she may have 
 dropi) that I was by turns considerably more de- 
 lighted than I expected. But I wished to reserve 
 all this until I saw you. I even had conceived an 
 expression to meet you with, which was thanking 
 you for some of the most exquisite pieces of criti- 
 cism I had ever read in my life. In particular, I 
 should have brought forward that on " Troilus and 
 Cressida" and Shakspeare, which, it is little to say, 
 
 ^ Godwin's "Life of Chaucer," — a work, says Canon 
 Ainger, consisting of "four fifths ingenious guessing to one 
 fifth of material having any historic basis." 
 
1 66 LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 
 
 delighted me and instructed me (if not absolutely in- 
 structed va^^ yet put vcilQ full- grown sense many con- 
 ceptions which had arisen in me before in my most 
 discriminating moods) . All these things I was pre- 
 paring to say, and bottling them up till I came, 
 thinking to please my friend and host the author, 
 when lo ! this deadly blight intervened. 
 
 I certainly ought to make great allowances for 
 your misunderstanding me. You, by long habits of 
 composition and a greater command gained over 
 your own powers, cannot conceive of the desultory 
 and uncertain way in which I (an author by fits) 
 sometimes cannot put the thoughts of a common let- 
 ter into sane prose. Any work which I take upon 
 myself as an engagement will act upon me to tor- 
 ment ; e.g.. when I have undertaken, as three or 
 four times I have, a school-boy copy of verses for 
 Merchant Taylors' boys, at a guinea a copy, I have 
 fretted over them in perfect inability to do them, and 
 have made my sister wretched with my wretchedness 
 for a week together. The same, till by habit I have 
 acquired a mechanical command, I have felt in 
 making paragraphs. As to reviewing, in particular, 
 my head is so whimsical a head that I cannot, after 
 reading another man's book, let it have been never 
 so pleasing, give any account of it in any methodical 
 way. I cannot follow his train. Something like this 
 you must have perceived of me in conversation. 
 Ten thousand times I have confessed to you, talking 
 of my talents, my utter inability to remember in any 
 comprehensive way what I read. I can vehemently 
 applaud, or perversely stickle, at pai'ts ; but I can- 
 
LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 167 
 
 not grasp at a whole. This infirmity (which is noth- 
 ing to brag of) may be seen in my two Uttle composi- 
 tions, the tale and my play, in both which no reader, 
 however partial, can find any story. I wrote such 
 stuff about Chaucer, and got into such digressions, 
 quite irreducible into i \ column of a paper, that I 
 was perfectly ashamed to show it you. However, it 
 is become a serious matter that I should convince 
 you I neither slunk from the task through a wilful 
 deserting neglect, or through any (most imaginary 
 on your part) distaste of '* Chaucer ; " and I will try 
 my hand again, — I hope with better luck. My health 
 is bad, and my time taken up ; but all I can spare 
 between this and Sunday shall be employed for you, 
 since you desire it : and if I bring you a crude, 
 wretched paper on Sunday, you must burn it, and 
 forgive me ; if it proves anything better than I pre- 
 dict, may it be a peace-oifering of sweet incense 
 
 between us ! 
 
 C. Lamb. 
 
 XLIV. 
 
 TO MANNING. 
 
 February 24, 1805. 
 Dear Manning, — I have been very unwell since 
 I saw you. A sad depression of spirits, a most un- 
 accountable nervousness ; from which I have been 
 partially relieved by an odd accident. You knew 
 Dick Hopkins, the swearing scullion of Caius? 
 This fellow, by industry and agility, has thrust him- 
 self into the important situations (no sinecures, be- 
 
1 68 LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB, 
 
 lieve me) of cook to Trinity Hall and Caius College ; 
 and the generous creature has contrived, with the 
 greatest delicacy imaginable, to send me a present 
 of Cambridge brawn. What makes it the more 
 extraordinary is, that the man never saw me in his 
 life that I know of. I suppose he has heard of me. 
 I did not immediately recognize the donor ; but one 
 of Richard's cards, which had accidentally fallen into 
 the straw, detected him in a moment. Dick, you 
 know, was always remarkable for flourishing. His 
 card imports that *' orders [to wit, for brawn] from 
 any part of England, Scotland, or Ireland, will be 
 duly executed," etc. At first I thought of declin- 
 ing the present ; but Richard knew my blind side 
 when he pitched upon brawn. 'T is of all my hob- 
 bies the supreme in the eating way. He might have 
 sent sops from the pan, skimmings, crumpets, chips, 
 hog's lard, the tender brown judiciously scalped 
 from a fillet of veal (dexterously replaced by a 
 salamander), the tops of asparagus, fugitive livers, 
 runaway gizzards of fowls, the eyes of martyred pigs, 
 tender effusions of laxative woodcocks, the red 
 spawn of lobsters, leverets' ears, and such pretty 
 filchings common to cooks ; but these had been 
 ordinary presents, the everyday courtesies of dish- 
 washers to their sweethearts. Brawn was a noble 
 thought. It is not every common gullet- fancier that 
 can properly esteem it. It is like a picture of 
 one of the choice old Italian masters. Its gusto is 
 of that hidden sort. As Wordsworth sings of a 
 modest poet, "you must love him, ere to you he 
 will seem worthy of your love," so brawn, you must 
 
LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 169 
 
 taste it, ere to you it will seem to have any taste at 
 all. But 'tis nuts to the adept, — those that will send 
 out their tongues and feelers to find it out. It will 
 be wooed, and not unsought be won. Now, ham- 
 essence, lobsters, turtle, such popular minions, 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 illus- 
 trated 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 oif the business which you may be 
 at present upon, and go immediately to the kitchens 
 of Trinity and Caius, and make my most respectful 
 compliments to Mr. Richard Hopkins, and assure 
 him that his brawn is most excellent, and that I 
 am moreover obliged to him for his innuendo about 
 salt water and bran, which I shall not fail to im- 
 prove. 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 hfe as Mr. R. Hopkins. 
 Crisp the barber, of St. Mary's, was just such an- 
 other. I wonder he never sent me any little token, 
 — some chestnuts, or a puff, or two pound of hair just 
 
170 LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 
 
 to remember him by ; gifts are like nails. Prcesens 
 
 ut absens, that is, your present makes amends for 
 
 your absence. 
 
 Yours, 
 
 C. Lamb. 
 XLV. 
 
 TO MISS WORDSWORTH. 
 
 June 14, 1805. 
 
 My dear Miss Wordsworth, — I have every rea- 
 son to suppose that this illness, like all Mary's 
 former ones, will be but temporary. But I cannot 
 always feel so. Meantime she is dead to me, and 
 I miss a prop. All my strength is gone, and I am 
 like a fool, bereft of her co-operation. I dare not 
 think, lest I should think wrong ; so used am I to 
 look up to her in the least and the biggest perplexity. 
 To say all that I know of her, would be more than 
 I think anybody could believe or ever understand ; 
 and when I hope to have her well again with me, 
 it would be sinning against her feelings to go about 
 to praise her ; for I can conceal nothing that I do 
 from her. She is older and wiser and better than 
 I, and all my wretched imperfections I cover to my- 
 self by resolutely thinking on her goodness. She 
 would share Hfe 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 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 
 
LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB, 171 
 
 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 some- 
 times sharp enough) than express my present ones 
 for I am only flat and stupid. I am sure you will 
 excuse my writing any more, I am so very poorly. 
 
 I cannot resist transcribing three or four lines 
 which poor Mary made upon a picture (a Holy 
 Family) which we saw at an auction only one week 
 before she left home. They are sweet lines, and 
 upon a sweet picture. But I send them only as the 
 last memorial of her. 
 
 VIRGIN AND CHILD, L. DA VINCI. 
 
 « Maternal Lady, with thy virgin-grace. 
 Heaven-born thy Jesus seemeth, sure, 
 And thou a virgin pure. 
 Lady most perfect, when thy angel face 
 Men look upon, they wish to be 
 A Catholic, Madonna fair, to worship thee." 
 
 You had her lines about the "Lady Blanch." 
 You have not had some which she wrote upon a copy 
 of a girl from Titian, which I had hung up where that 
 print of Blanch and the Abbess (as she beautifully 
 interpreted two female figures from L. da Vinci) 
 had hung in our room. 'T is light and pretty. 
 
 " Who art thou, fair one, who usurp'st the place 
 Of Blanch, the lady of the matchless grace ? 
 Come, fair and pretty, tell to me 
 Who in thy lifetime thou mightst be ? 
 Thou pretty art and fair. 
 
 But with the Lady Blanch thou never must compare. 
 No need for Blanch her history to tell, 
 Whoever saw her face, they there did read it well ; 
 
172 LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 
 
 But when I look on thee, I only know 
 
 There lived a pretty maid some hundred years ago." 
 
 This is a little unfair, to tell so much about our- 
 selves, 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 allow- 
 ance. That you may go on gathering strength and 
 peace is my next wish to Mary's recovery. 
 
 I had almost forgot your "repeated invitation. 
 Supposing that Mary will be well and able, there is 
 another ability which you may guess at, which I 
 cannot promise myself. In prudence we ought not 
 to come. This illness will make it still more pru- 
 dential 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 before- 
 hand, which my evil conduct has already encroached 
 upon one-half. My best love, however, to you all, 
 and to that most friendly creature, Mrs. Clarkson, 
 and better health to her, when you see or write 
 
 to her. 
 
 Charles Lamb. 
 
 XLVI.i 
 
 TO MANNING. 
 
 May 10, 1806. 
 
 My dear Manning, — I did n't know what your 
 going was till I shook a last fist with you, and then 
 
 1 Addressed : " Mr. Manning, Passenger on Board the 
 'Thames,' East Indiaman, Portsmouth." Manning had set 
 out for Canton. 
 
LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. '73 
 
 'twas just like having shaken hands with a wretch 
 on the fatal scaffold, and when you are down .he 
 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 m 
 such a case. But she '11 see by your letter you are 
 not quite dead. A little kicking and agony, and 
 then — Martin Burney took me out a walkmg 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 '11 have made 
 vour escape from the Kalmuks, you '11 have stayed 
 so long I shall never be able to bring to your mind 
 who Mary was, who will have died about a year be- 
 fore, nor who the Holcrofts were ! Me perhaps you 
 will mistake for Phillips, or confound me with Mr. 
 Dawe, because you saw us together. Mary (whom 
 you seem to remember yet) is not quite easy that 
 she had not a formal parting from you. I wish it 
 had so happened. But you must bring her a token, 
 a shawl or something, and remember a sprightly 
 little mandarin for our mantelpiece, as a compan- 
 ion to the child I am going to purchase at the mu- 
 seum. She says you saw her writings about the 
 other day, and she wishes you should know what 
 they are. She is doing for Godwin's bookseller 
 twenty of Shakspeare's plays, to be made into chil- 
 
174 LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 
 
 dren's tales. Six are already done by her ; to wit : 
 ''The Tempest," "Winter's Tale," "Midsummer 
 Night's Dream," "Much Ado," "Two Gentlemen 
 of Verona," and " Cymbeline ; " and "The Mer- 
 chant 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 amuse- 
 ments we propose, while you are gone to plant the 
 cross of Christ among barbarous pagan anthro- 
 pophagi. Quam ho7no homini p7'cestat / but then, 
 perhaps, you '11 get murdered, and we shall die in 
 our beds, with a fair literary reputation. Be sure, if 
 you see any of .those people whose heads do grow 
 beneath their shoulders, that you make a draught of 
 them. It will be very curious. Oh, Manning, I 
 am serious to sinking almost, when I think that all 
 those evenings, which you have made so pleasant, 
 are gone perhaps forever. Four years you talk of, 
 maybe ten ; and you may come back and find such 
 alterations ! Some circumstances may grow up to 
 you or to me that may be a bar to the return of any 
 
 1 Miss Lamb has amusingly described the progress of 
 their labors on this volume; "You would like to see us, as 
 we often sit writing on one table (but not on one cushion 
 sitting), like Hermia and Helena, in the 'Midsummer 
 Night's Dream ; ' or rather like an old literary Darby and 
 Joan, I taking snuff, and he groaning all the while, and say- 
 ing he can make nothing of it, which he always says till he 
 has finished, and then he finds out that he has made some- 
 thing of it." 
 
LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 175 
 
 such intimacy. I daresay all this is hum, and that 
 all will come back ; but indeed we die many deaths 
 before we die, and I am almost sick when I think 
 that such a hold as I had of you is gone. I have 
 friends, but some of 'em are changed. Marriage, 
 or some circumstance, rises up to make them not 
 the same. But I felt sure of you. And that last 
 token you gave me of expressing a wish to have my 
 name joined with yours, you know not how it 
 affected me, — like a legacy. 
 
 God bless you in every way you can form a wish ! 
 May He give you health, and safety, and the accom- 
 plishment of all your objects, and return you again to 
 us to gladden some fireside or other (I suppose we 
 shall be moved from the Temple) . I will nurse the 
 remembrance of your steadiness and quiet, which 
 used to infuse something like itself into our nervous 
 minds. Mary called you our ventilator. Farewell ! 
 and take her best wishes and mine. 
 
 Good by. 
 
 C.L. 
 
 XLVII. 
 
 TO WORDSWORTH. 
 
 Jujte, 1806. 
 Dear Wordsworth, — We are pleased, you may 
 be sure, with the good news of Mrs. Wordsworth.^ 
 Hope all is well over by this time. " A fine boy ! 
 Have you any more ? — One more and a girl, — 
 poor copies of me ! " vide " Mr. H.," a farce which 
 
 1 Wordsworth's son Thomas was born June 16, 1806. 
 
176 LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 
 
 the proprietors have done me the honor — But I 
 set down Mr. Wroughton's own words. N. B. — The 
 ensuing letter was sent in answer to one which I 
 wrote, begging to know if my piece had any chance, 
 as I might make alterations, etc. I writing on 
 Monday, there comes this letter on the Wednesday. 
 Attend ! 
 
 \Copy of a letter from Mr. R. Wroughton."] 
 
 Sir, — Your piece of " Mr. H.," I am desired to say, 
 is accepted at Drury Lane Theatre by the proprietors, 
 and if agreeable to you, will be brought forwards when 
 the proper opportunity serves. The piece shall be sent 
 to you for your alterations in the course of a few days, 
 as the same is not in my hands, but with the proprietors. 
 I am, sir, your obedient servant, 
 
 Richard Wroughton. 
 [Dated] 
 66, Gowef Street, 
 
 Wednesday, June nth, 1806. 
 
 On the following Sunday Mr. Tobin comes. The 
 scent of a manager's letter brought him. He would 
 have gone farther any day on such a business. I 
 read the letter to him. He deems it authentic and 
 peremptory. Our conversation naturally fell upon 
 pieces, different sorts of pieces, — what is the best 
 way of offering a piece ; how far the caprice of 
 managers is an obstacle in the way of a piece ; how 
 to judge of the merits of a piece ; how long a piece 
 may remain in the hands of the managers before it 
 is acted ; and my piece, and your piece, and my 
 poor brother's piece, — my poor brother was all his 
 life endeavoring to get a piece accepted. 
 
LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. i^^ 
 
 I wrote that in mere wantonness of triumph. 
 Have nothing more to say about it. The managers, 
 I thank my stars, have decided its merits forever. 
 They are the best judges of pieces, and it would be 
 insensible in me to affect a false modesty, after the 
 very flattering letter which I have received. 
 
 ADMIT 
 
 TO 
 
 BOXES. 
 
 Mr. H. 
 
 Ninth Night. 
 
 Charles Lamb. 
 
 I think this will be as good a pattern for orders as 
 I can think on. A little thin flowery border, round, 
 neat, not gaudy, and the Drury Lane Apollo, with 
 the harp at the top. Or shall I have no Apollo, 
 — simply nothing? Or perhaps the Comic Muse? 
 
 The same form, only I think without the Apollo, 
 will serve for the pit and galleries. I think it will 
 be best to write my name at full length ; but then 
 if I give away a great many, that will be tedious. 
 Perhaps Ch. Lamb will do. 
 
 BOXES, now I think on it, I '11 have in capitals ; 
 the rest, in a neat Italian hand. Or better, perhaps, 
 •^OjCCfii 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 
 
 12 
 
178 LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 
 
 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 Strang- 
 ford, and the principal modern poets, and I hap- 
 pened to mention Epithalamiums, and that I could 
 show him a very fine one of Spenser's. At the 
 mention of this my gentleman, who is a very fine 
 gentleman, pricked up his ears and expressed great 
 pleasure, and begged that I would give him leave to 
 copy it ; he did not care how long it was (for I 
 objected the length), he should be very happy to 
 see anything by him. Then pausing, and looking 
 sad, he ejaculated, " Poor Spencer ! " I begged to 
 know the reason of his ejaculation, thinking that 
 time had by this time softened down any calamities 
 which the bard might have endured. " Why, poor 
 fellow," said he, " he has lost his wife ! " ^' Lost 
 his wife ! " said I, " who are you talking of? " " Why, 
 Spencer!" said he; "I've read the Monody he 
 wrote on the occasion, and a very pj-etty thing it 
 is.^'' This led to an explanation (it could be delayed 
 no longer) that the sound Spensef-, which, when 
 poetry is talked of, generally excites an image of an 
 old bard in a ruff, and sometimes with it dim notions 
 of Sir P. Sidney and perhaps Lord Burleigh, had 
 raised in my gentleman a quite contrary image of 
 the Honorable William Spencer, who has translated 
 some things from the German very prettily, which 
 are published with Lady Di Beauclerk's designs. 
 Nothing like defining of terms when we talk. What 
 blunders might I have fallen into of quite inappli- 
 cable criticism, but for this timely explanation ! 
 
LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 179 
 
 N.B. — At the beginning of Ed?n. Spenser (to pre- 
 vent mistakes) , I have copied from my own copy, 
 and primarily from a book of Chalmers's on Shak- 
 speare, a sonnet of Spenser's never printed among 
 his poems. It is curious, as being manly, and rather 
 Miltonic, and as a sonnet of Spenser's with nothing 
 in it about love or knighthood. I have no room for 
 remembrances, but I hope our doing your commis- 
 sion will prove we do not quite forget you. 
 
 C. L. 
 
 XLVIII. 
 
 TO MANNING 
 
 December 5, 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, Can- 
 ton, — bless us, how it strains the imagination and 
 makes it ache ! I write under another uncertainty 
 whether it can go to-morrow by a ship which I have 
 just learned is going off direct to your part of the 
 world, or whether the despatches may not be sealed 
 up and this have to wait ; for if it is detained here, 
 it will grow staler in a fortnight than in a five 
 months' voyage coming to you. It will be a point 
 of conscience to send you none but bran-new news 
 (the latest edition), which will but grow the better, 
 like oranges, for a sea-voyage. Oh that you should 
 be so many hemispheres off ! — if I speak incorrectly, 
 you can correct me. Why, the simplest death or 
 marriage that takes place here must be important 
 
l8o LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB: 
 
 to you as news in the old Bastile. There 's your 
 friend Tuthill has got away from France — you re- 
 member 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 ro- 
 mantic pretences, as some have done, who never 
 meant to fulfil them, to come home ; and I have 
 seen him here and at Holcroft's. An't you glad 
 about Tuthill? Now then be sorry for Holcroft, 
 whose new play, called " The Vindictive Man," 
 was damned about a fortnight since. It died in 
 part of its own weakness, and in part for being 
 choked up with bad actors. The two principal 
 parts were destined to Mrs. Jordan and Mr. Ban- 
 nister ; 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 dis- 
 pleased 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 stripped of his 
 
LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. l8i 
 
 manner. De Camp was hooted, more than hissed, — 
 hooted and bellowed off the stage before the second 
 act was finished ; so that the remainder of his part 
 was forced to be, with some violence to the play, 
 omitted. In addition to this, a strumpet was an- 
 other principal character, — a most mifortunate 
 choice in this moral day. The audience were as 
 scandalized as if you were to introduce such a per- 
 sonage to their private tea-tables. Besides, her 
 action in the play was gross, — wheedling an old 
 man into marriage. But the mortal blunder of the 
 play was that which, oddly enough, H. took pride 
 in, and exultingly told me of the night before it 
 came out, that there were no less than eleven princi- 
 pal characters in it, and I believe he meant of the 
 men only, for the play-bill expressed as much, not 
 
 reckoning one woman and one ; and true it 
 
 was, for Mr. Powell, Mr. Raymond, Mr. Bartlett, 
 Mr. H. Siddons, Mr. Barrymore, etc., to the num- 
 ber 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 author- 
 ship, rascally booksellers, reviewers, etc. j 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 
 
1 82 LETTERS OE CHARLES LAMB, 
 
 news at Canton. Poor H. I fear will feel the dis- 
 appointment 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 oppo- 
 site as you enter, and the game-piece that hangs 
 in the back drawing-room, and all those Vandykes, 
 etc. ! God should temper the wind to the shorn 
 connoisseur. I hope I need not say to you that I 
 feel for the weather-beaten author and for all his 
 household. I assure you his fate has soured a good 
 deal the pleasure I should have otherwise taken in 
 my own little farce being accepted, and I hope 
 about to be acted, — it is in rehearsal actually, and 
 I expect it to come out next week. It is kept a 
 sort of secret, and the rehearsals have gone on pri- 
 vately, 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 altera- 
 tions, 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 princi- 
 pal part was given to Elliston, who liked it, and 
 only wanted a prologue, which I have since done 
 and sent ; and I had a note the day before yester- 
 day 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 
 
LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 183 
 
 the next, which next was to be yesterday. I had 
 no idea it was so forward. I have had no trouble, 
 attended no reading or rehearsal, made no interest ; 
 what a contrast to the usual parade of authors ! 
 But it is peculiar to modesty to do all things with- 
 out noise or pomp ! I have some suspicion it will 
 appear in public on Wednesday next, for W. says 
 in his note, it is so forward that if wanted it may 
 come out next week, and a new melodrama is an- 
 nounced for every day till then ; and " a new farce 
 is in rehearsal," is put up in the bills. Now, you'd 
 like to know the subject. The title is " Mr. H.," 
 no more ; how simple, how taking ! A great H. 
 sprawling over the play-bill and attracting eyes at 
 every corner. The story is a coxcomb appearing at 
 Bath, vastly rich, all the ladies dying for him, all 
 bursting to know who he is ; but he goes by no 
 other name than Mr. H., — a curiosity like that of 
 the dames of Strasburg about the man with the great 
 nose. But I won't tell you any more about it. Yes, 
 I will, but I can't give you an idea how I have done 
 it. I '11 just tell you that after much vehement ad- 
 miration, when his true name comes out, *' Hogs- 
 flesh," all the women shun him, avoid him, and not 
 one can be found to change their name for him, — 
 that 's the idea, — how flat it is here ; ^ but how 
 whimsical in the farce ! And only think how hard 
 upon me it is that the ship is despatched to-morrow, 
 and my triumph cannot be ascertained till the Wed- 
 nesday after ; but all China will ring of it by and 
 
 ^ It was precisely this flatness, this sHghtness of plot and 
 catastrophe, that doomed '* Mr. H." to failure. See next 
 letter. 
 
1 84 LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 
 
 by. N. B. (But this is a secret.) The Professor ^ 
 has got a tragedy coming out, with the young Ros- 
 cius in it, in January next, as we say, — January last 
 it will be with you ; and though it is a profound 
 secret now, as all his affairs are, it cannot be much 
 of one by the time you read this. However, don't 
 let it go any farther. I understand there are dra- 
 matic exhibitions in China. One would not like to 
 be forestalled. Do you find in all this stuff 1 have 
 written anything like those feelings which one should 
 send my old adventuring friend, that is gone to wan- 
 der among Tartars, and may never come again ? I 
 don't ; but your going away, and all about you, is a 
 threadbare topic. I have worn it out with thinking, 
 it has come to me when I have been dull with 
 anything, till my sadness has seemed more to have 
 come from it than to have introduced it. I want 
 you, you don't know how much ; but if I had you 
 here in my European garret, we should but talk over 
 such stuff as I have written, so — Those " Tales from 
 Shakspeare " are near coming out, and Mary has 
 begun a new work. Mr. Dawe is turned author; 
 he has been in such a way lately, — Dawe the painter, 
 I mean, — he sits and stands about at Holcroft's and 
 says nothing, then sighs, and leans his head on his 
 hand. I took him to be in love, but it seems he 
 was only meditating a work, — " The Life of Mor- 
 land : " the young man is not used to composition. 
 Rickman and Captain Burney are well ; they assem- 
 ble at my house pretty regularly of a Wednesday, — 
 
 1 Godwin. His tragedy of " Faulkner " was published 
 in iSo8. 
 
LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 185 
 
 a new institution. Like other great men, I have a 
 public day, — cribbage and pipes, with PhiUips and 
 noisy Martin Burney. 
 
 Good Heaven, what a bit only I 've got left ! 
 How shall I squeeze all I know into this morsel ! 
 Coleridge is come home, and is going to turn 
 lecturer on taste at the Royal Institution. I shall 
 get ^200 from the theatre if " Mr. H." has a good 
 run, and I hope ;z^ioo 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^ceuvre. How the paper grows less and less ! 
 In less than two minutes I shall cease to talk to 
 you, and you may rave to the Great Wall of China. 
 N. B. — Is there such a wall? Is it as big as' Old 
 London Wall by Bedlam? Have you met with a 
 friend of mine named Ball at Canton ? If you are 
 acquainted, remember me kindly to him. Maybe 
 you '11 think I have not said enough of Tuthill and 
 the Holcrofts. Tuthill is a noble fellow, as far as I 
 can judge. The Holcrofts bear their disappoint- 
 ment pretty well, but indeed they are sadly mor- 
 tified. Mrs. H. is cast down. It was well, if it 
 were but on this account, that Tuthill is come home. 
 N. B. — If my little thing don't succeed, I shall easily 
 survive, having, as it were, compared to H.'s venture, 
 but a sixteenth in the lottery. Mary and I are to 
 sit next the orchestra in the pit, next the tweedle- 
 dees. She remembers you. You are more to us 
 than five hundred farces, clappings, etc. 
 
 Come back one day. C. Lamb. 
 
1 86 LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 
 
 XLIX. 
 
 TO WORDSWORTH. 
 
 December , ii, 1806. 
 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, be- 
 cause it was wanted, and set no great store by ; and 
 " Mr. H." ! The quantity of friends we had in the 
 house — my brother and I being in public offices, 
 etc. — was astonishing ; but they yielded at last 
 to a few hisses. 
 
 A hundred hisses (Damn the word, I write it 
 like kisses, — how different!) — a hundred hisses 
 outweigh a thousand claps.^ The former come more 
 directly from the heart. Well, 't is withdrawn, and 
 there is an end. 
 
 Better luck to us, 
 
 C. Lamb. 
 
 1 Lamb was himself in the audience, and is said to have 
 taken a conspicuous share in the storm of hisses that fol- 
 lowed the dropping of the curtain. 
 
LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 187 
 
 L. 
 
 TO MANNING. 
 
 January 2, 1 810. 
 
 Dear Manning, — When I last wrote to 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 so par excellence, for you may stand, or 
 loll, or lean, or try any posture in them ; but they are 
 best for sitting, — not squatting down Japanese fash- 
 ion, but in the more decorous way which European 
 usage has consecrated. I have two of these rooms 
 on the third floor, and five sleeping, cooking, etc., 
 rooms, on the fourth floor. In my best room is a 
 choice collection of the works of Hogarth, an Eng- 
 lish painter of some humor. In my next best are 
 shelves containing a small, but well-chosen library. 
 My best room commands a court, in which there 
 are trees and a pump, the water of which is excellent, 
 
 cold with brandy, and not very insipid without. 
 
 Here I hope to set up my rest, and not quit till Mr. 
 Powell, the undertaker, gives me notice that I may 
 have possession of my last lodging. He lets lodgings 
 for single gentlemen. I sent you a parcel of books 
 by my last, to give you some idea of the state of 
 European literature. There comes with this two 
 volumes, done up as letters, of minor poetry, a 
 sequel to '' Mrs. Leicester; " the best you may sup- 
 
1 88 LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 
 
 pose mine ; the next best are my coadjutor's. You 
 may amuse yourself in guessing them out ; but I 
 must tell you mine are but one third in quantity of 
 the whole. So much for a very delicate subject. 
 It is hard to speak of one's self, etc. Holcroft had 
 finished his life when I wrote to you, and Hazhtt has 
 since finished his life, — I do not mean his own life, 
 but he has finished a life of Holcroft, which is going 
 to press. Tuthill is Dr. Tuthill. I continue Mr. 
 Lamb. I have published a little book for children 
 on titles of honor ; and to give them some idea of 
 the difference of rank and gradual rising, I have 
 made a little scale, supposing myself to receive the 
 following various accessions of dignity from the king, 
 who is the fountain of honor, — as at first, i, Mr. 
 C. Lamb; 2, C. Lamb, Esq.; 3, SirC. 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 farther, 
 and especially as it is not necessary for children to 
 go beyond the ordinary titles of sub-regal dignity in 
 our own country, otherwise I have sometimes in my 
 dreams imagined myself still advancing, as 9th, King 
 Lamb; loth. Emperor Lamb; nth. Pope Innocent, 
 — higher than which is nothing. Puns I have not 
 made many (nor punch much) since the date of 
 my last ; one I cannot help relating. A constable 
 in Salisbury Cathedral was telling me that eight 
 people dined at the top of the spire of the cathedral ; 
 upon which I remarked that they must be very 
 sharp-set. But in general I cultivate the reasoning 
 part of my mind more than the imaginative. I 
 
LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 189 
 
 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 November; but he did not come, — which 
 makes me think the old fire-worshippers are a sect 
 almost extinct in Persia. The Persian ambassador's 
 name is Shaw Ali Mirza. The common people call 
 him Shaw Nonsense. While I think of it, I have 
 put three letters besides my own three into the 
 India post for you, from your brother, sister, and 
 some gentleman whose name I forget. Will they, 
 have they, did they come safe? The distance you 
 are at, cuts up tenses by the root. I think you said 
 you did not know Kate *********. I express her 
 by nine stars, though she is but one. You must 
 have seen her at her father's. Try and remember 
 her. Coleridge is bringing out a paper in weekly 
 numbers, called the " Friend," which I would send, 
 if I could ; but the difficulty I had in getting the 
 packets of books out to you before deters me ; and 
 you '11 want something new to read when you come 
 home. Except Kate, I have had no vision of excel- 
 lence 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 
 
190 LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 
 
 moping, and sing the old, pathetic ballad I used to 
 like in my youth, — 
 
 " She 's sweet fifteen, 
 I 'm ojie year more.'" 
 
 Mrs. Bland sang it in boy's clothes the first time 
 I heard it. I sometimes think the lower notes in 
 my voice are like Mrs. Bland's. That glorious singer, 
 Braham, one of my lights, is fled. He was for a 
 season. He was a rare composition of the Jew, the 
 gentleman, and the angel, yet all these elements 
 mixed up so kindly in him that you could not tell 
 which predominated; but he is gone, and one Phil- 
 lips is engaged instead. Kate is vanished, but Miss 
 Burrell is always to be met with ! 
 
 " Queens drop away, while blue-legged Maukin thrives, 
 And courtly Mildred dies, while country Madge survives." 
 
 That is not my poetry, but Quarles's ; but have n't 
 you observed that the rarest things are the least 
 obvious? Don't show anybody the names in this 
 letter. I write confidentially, and wish this letter 
 to be considered as private. Hazlitt has written a 
 grammar for Godwin; Godwin sells it bound up 
 with a treatise of his own on language : but the 
 ^7'av 7nare is the better horse. I don't allude to Mrs. 
 Godwin, but to the word grammar, which comes 
 near to gray mare, if you observe, in sound. That 
 figure is called paranomasia in Greek. I am some- 
 times happy in it. An old woman begged of me for 
 charity. " Ah, sir," said she, " I have seen better 
 days ! " " So have I, good woman," I replied ; but 
 
LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 191 
 
 I meant literally, days not so rainy and overcast as 
 that on which begged, — she meant more prosper- 
 ous days. 
 
 LI. 
 
 TO MISS WORDSWORTH. 
 
 August, 1 8 10. 
 Mary has left a little space for me to fill up with 
 nonsense, as the geographers used to cram monsters 
 in the voids of the maps, and call it Terra Incognita. 
 She has told you how she has taken to water like a 
 hungry otter. I too limp after her in lame imita- 
 tion,^ 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 rheu- 
 matisms, 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-vitce, pleasant, jolly 
 fellows? Damn temperance and he that first in- 
 vented it! — some Anti-Noahite. Coleridge has 
 powdered his head, and looks like Bacchus, — 
 Bacchus ever sleek and young. He is going to turn 
 sober, but his clock has not struck yet ; meantime 
 he pours down goblet after goblet, the second to see 
 where the first is gone, the third to see no harm 
 happens to the second, a fourth to say there is an- 
 other coming, and a fifth to say he is not sure he is 
 the last. C. L. 
 
 1 An experiment in total abstinence ; it did not last long. 
 
192 LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 
 
 LII. 
 
 TO WORDSWORTH. 
 
 October 19, 18 10. 
 
 Dear W., — Mary has been very ill, which you 
 have heard, I suppose, from the Montagues. She 
 is very weak and low-spirited now. I was much 
 pleased with your continuation of the " Essay on 
 Epitaphs."^ It is the only sensible thing which has 
 been written on that subject, and it goes to the 
 bottom. In particular I was pleased with your 
 translation of that turgid epitaph into the plain 
 feeling under it. It is perfectly a test. But what 
 is the reason we have no good epitaphs after all? 
 
 A very striking instance of your position might be 
 found in the churchyard of Ditton-upon-Thames, if 
 you know such a place. Ditton-upon-Thames has 
 been blessed by the residence of a poet who, for love 
 or money, I do not well know which, has dignified 
 every gravestone for the last few years with bran- 
 new verses, all different and all ingenious, with the 
 author's name at the bottom of each. This sweet 
 Swan of Thames has so artfully diversified his strains 
 and his rhymes that the same thought never occurs 
 twice, — more justly, perhaps, as no thought ever 
 occurs at all, there was a physical impossibility that 
 the same thought should recur. It is long since I 
 saw and read these inscriptions ; but I remember the 
 
 I Published in Coleridge's " Friend," Feb. 22, 1810. 
 
LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 1 93 
 
 impression was of a smug usher at his desk in the 
 intervals of instruction, levelling his pen. Of death, 
 as it consists of dust and worms, and mourners and 
 uncertainty, he had never thought; but the word 
 "death" he had often seen separate and conjunct 
 with other words, till he had learned to speak of all 
 its attributes as glibly as Unitarian Belsham will dis- 
 cuss you the attributes of the word " God " in a 
 pulpit, and will talk of infinity with a tongue that 
 dangles from a skull that never reached in thought 
 and thorough imagination two inches, or farther than 
 from his hand to his mouth, or from the vestry to 
 the sounding-board of the pulpit. 
 
 But the epitaphs were trim and sprag, and patent, 
 and pleased the survivors of Thames Ditton above 
 the old mumpsimus of "Afflictions sore." ... To 
 do justice, though, it must be owned that even the 
 excellent feeling which dictated this dirge when new, 
 must have suffered something in passing through so 
 many thousand applications, many of them no doubt 
 quite misplaced, as I have seen in Islington church- 
 yard (I think) an Epitaph to an Infant who died 
 ^^ /Etatis four months," with this seasonable inscrip- 
 tion appended, " Honor thy father and thy mother, 
 that thy days may be long in the land," etc. Sin- 
 cerely wishing your children long hfe to honor, etc., 
 I remain, 
 
 C. Lamb. 
 
 13 
 
194 LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 
 
 LIII. 
 
 TO WORDSWORTH. 
 
 August 14, 18 14. 
 
 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 ac- 
 complished that pleasure a second time before I 
 wrote to thank you ; but Martin Burney came in the 
 night (while we were out) and made holy theft of it : 
 but we expect restitution in a day or two. It is the 
 noblest conversational poem ^ I ever read, — a day in 
 heaven. The part (or rather main body) which 
 has left the sweetest odor on my memory (a bad 
 term for the remains of an impression so recent) is 
 the "Tales of the Churchyard," — the only girl 
 among seven brethren, born out of due time, and 
 not duly taken away again ; the deaf man and the 
 blind man ; the Jacobite and the Hanoverian, whom 
 antipathies reconcile ; the Scarron- entry of the 
 rusticating parson upon his solitude, — these were 
 all new to me too. My having known the story of 
 Margaret (at the beginning), a very old acquaint- 
 ance, 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 
 
 1 The Excursion. 
 
LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 195 
 
 gorgeous sunset is famous; I think it must have 
 been the identical one we saw on SaUsbury Plain 
 five years ago, that drew PhiUips from the card- 
 table, where he had sat from rise of that luminary to 
 its unequalled setting. But neither he nor I had 
 gifted eyes to see those symbols of common things 
 glorified, such as the prophets saw them in that sun- 
 set,— the wheel, the potter's clay, the washpot, the 
 wine-press, the almond-tree rod, the baskets of figs, 
 the four-fold-visaged head, the throne, and Him 
 that sat thereon. 
 
 One feeling I was particularly struck with, as 
 what I recognized so very lately at Harrow Church 
 on entering in it after a hot and secular day's pleasure, 
 — the instantaneous coolness and calming, almost 
 transforming, properties of a country church just 
 entered ; a certain fragrance which it has, either 
 from its holiness, or being kept shut all the week, or 
 the air that is let in being pure country, — exactly 
 what you have reduced into words ; but I am feel- 
 ing 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 SaUsbury spire 
 itself almost. 
 
 I shall select a day or two very shortly, when I am 
 coolest in brain, to have a steady second reading, 
 which I feel will lead to many more ; for it will be 
 a stock book with me while eyes or spectacles shall 
 be lent me. There is a great deal of noble matter 
 about mountain scenery, yet not so much as to over- 
 
196 LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 
 
 « 
 
 power and discountenance a poor Londoner, or 
 south- countryman entirely, — though Mary seems 
 to have felt it occasionally a little too powerfully ; for 
 it was her remark, during reading it, that by your 
 system it was doubtful whether a liver in towns had 
 a soul to be saved. She almost trembled for that 
 invisible part of us in her. 
 
 Save for a late excursion to Harrow, and a day or 
 two on the banks of the Thames this summer, rural 
 images were fast fading from my mind, and by the 
 wise provision of the Regent all that was countri- 
 fied 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 Are- 
 nosa), not a vestige or hint of grass ever having 
 grown there ; booths and drinking-places go all 
 round it, for a mile and a half, I am confident, — 
 I might say two miles in circuit ; the stench of 
 liquors, bad tobacco, dirty people and provisions, 
 conquers the air, and we are all stifled and suffo- 
 cated 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 dis- 
 persion of the varlets ; but in vain. The vis unita 
 of all the publicans in London, Westminster, Mary- 
 lebone, and miles round, is too powerful a force 
 to put down. The Regent has raised a phantom 
 which he cannot lay. There they '11 stay probably 
 
 1 Early in i8i4the London parks were thrown open to the 
 public, with fireworks, booths, illuminations, etc., in celebra- 
 tion of the peace between France and England. It was two 
 or three years before they recovered their usual verdure. 
 
LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 197 
 
 • 
 
 forever. The whole beauty of the place is gone, — 
 that lake-look of the Serpentine (it has got foolish 
 ships upon it) ; but something whispers to have 
 confidence in Nature and its revival, — 
 
 " At the coming of the milder day. 
 These monuments shall all be overgrown." 
 
 Meantime I confess to have smoked one delicious 
 pipe in one of the cleanliest and goodliest of the 
 booths, — a tent rather, — 
 
 " Oh, call it not a booth ! " 
 
 erected by the public spirit of Watson, who keeps 
 the "Adam and Eve" at Pancras (the ale-houses 
 have all emigrated, with their train of botdes, mugs, 
 cork-screws, waiters, into Hyde Park, — whole ale- 
 houses, with all their ale !) in company with some of 
 the Guards that had been in France, and a fine 
 French girl, habited like a princess of banditti, 
 which one of the dogs had transported from the 
 Garonne to the Serpentine. The unusual scene in 
 Hyde Park, by candle-light, in open air, — good 
 tobacca, bottled stout, — made it look like an inter- 
 val in a campaign, a repose after battle. I almost 
 fancied scars smarting, and was ready to club a story 
 with my comrades of some of my lying deeds. 
 After all, the fireworks were splendid ; the rockets 
 in clusters, in trees, and all shapes, spreading about 
 like young stars in the making, floundering about in 
 space (like unbroke horses), till some of Newton's 
 calculations should fix them; but then they went 
 out. Any one who could see 'em, and the still finer 
 
198 LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 
 
 showers of gloomy rain-fire that fell sulkily and 
 angrily from 'em, and could go to bed without 
 dreaming of the last day, must be as hardened an 
 atheist as — . 
 
 The conclusion of this epistle getting gloomy, I 
 have chosen this part to desire our kindest loves to 
 Mrs. Wordsworth and to Dorothea. Will none of 
 you ever be in London again? 
 
 Again let me thank you for your present, and 
 assure you that fireworks and triumphs have not dis- 
 tracted me from receiving a calm and noble enjoy- 
 ment 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. 
 
 LIV. 
 
 TO WORDSWORTH. 
 
 (1815.) 
 
 Dear Wordsworth, — You have made me very 
 proud with your successive book presents.-^ I have 
 
 1 In 18 1 5 Wordsworth published a new edition of his 
 poems, with the following title : " Poems by William Words- 
 worth ; including Lyrical Ballads, and the Miscellaneous 
 Pieces of the Author. With Additional Poems, a new 
 Preface, and a Supplementary Essay. In two Volumes." 
 The new poems were " Yarrow Visited," " The Force of 
 Prayer," " The Farmer of Tilsbury Vale," " Laodamia," 
 " Yew-Trees," " A Night Piece," etc., and it was chiefly on 
 these that Lamb made his comments. 
 
LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 199 
 
 been carefully through the two volumes to see that 
 nothing was omitted which used to be there. I think 
 I miss nothing but a character in the antithetic man- 
 ner, 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 stripped shoulders of little Alice Fell, to 
 have atoned all their malice ; I would not have 
 given 'em a red cloak to save their souls. I am 
 afraid lest that substitution of a shell (a flat falsifi- 
 cation of the history) for the household implement, 
 as it stood at first, was a kind of tub thrown out 
 to the beast, or rather thrown out for him. The 
 tub was a good honest tub in its place, and nothing 
 could fairly be said against it. You say you made 
 the alteration for the "friendly reader;" but the 
 "malicious" will take it to himself. Damn 'em ! 
 if you give 'em an inch, etc. The Preface is noble, 
 and such as you should write. I wish I could set 
 my name to it. Imprimatur ; but you have set it 
 there yourself, and I thank you. I had rather be 
 a doorkeeper in your margin than have their proud- 
 est text swelling with my eulogies. The poems in 
 the volumes which are new to me are so much in 
 the old tone that I hardly received them as novel- 
 ties. Of those of which I had no previous knowl- 
 
200 LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 
 
 edge, the " Four Yew-Trees " and the mj^sterious 
 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 noth- 
 ing like it. I should have seen it in a strange 
 place, and greatly admired it, but not suspected its 
 derivation. 
 
 Let me in this place, for I have writ you several 
 letters naming it, mention that my brother, who is 
 a picture-collector, has picked up an undoubtable 
 picture of Milton.^ He gave a few shillings for it, 
 and could get no history with it, but that some old 
 lady had had it for a great many years. Its age is 
 ascertainable from the state of the canvas, and you 
 need only see it to be sure that it is the original 
 of the heads in the Tonson editions, with which we 
 are all so well familiar. Since I saw you, I have 
 had a treat in the reading way which comes not 
 every day, — the Latin poems of V. Bourne, which 
 were quite new to me. What a heart that man 
 had, all laid out upon town scenes ! — a proper 
 counterpoise to some people's rural extravaganzas. 
 Why I mention him is, that your " Power of Music " 
 reminded me of his poem of " The Ballad-singer 
 in the Seven Dials." Do you remember his epi- 
 
 1 John Lamb afterwards gave the picture to Charles, who 
 made it a wedding present to Mrs. Moxon (Emma Isola), 
 It is now in the National Portrait Gallery. 
 
LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 20i 
 
 gram on the old woman who taught Newton the 
 ABC, which, after all, he says, he hesitates not to 
 call Newton's " Principia " ? I was lately fatiguing 
 myself with going through a volume of fine words 
 by Lord Thurlow, — excellent words ; and if the 
 heart could live by words alone, it could desire no 
 better regales. But what an aching vacuum of mat- 
 ter ! I don't stick at the madness of it, for that is 
 only a consequence of shutting his eyes and think- 
 ing he is in the age of the old Elizabeth poets. 
 From thence I turned to Bourne. What a sweet, 
 unpretending, pretty-mannered, matter fill creature, 
 sucking from every flower, making a flower of every- 
 thing, his diction all Latin, and his thoughts all 
 English ! Bless him ! Latin was n't good enough 
 for him. Why wasn't he content with the lan- 
 guage which Gay and Prior wrote in? 
 
 I am almost sorry that you printed extracts from 
 those first poems, or that you did not print them 
 at length. They do not read to me as they do 
 altogether. Besides, they have diminished the 
 value of the original (which I possess) as a curi- 
 osity. I have hitherto kept them distinct in my 
 mind, as referring to a particular period of your life. 
 All the rest of your poems are so much of a piece 
 they might have been written in the same week ; 
 these decidedly speak of an earlier period. They 
 tell more of what you had been reading. We were 
 glad to see the poems "by a female friend."^ The 
 one on the Wind is masterly, but not new to us. 
 Being only three, perhaps you might have clapped 
 
 1 Dorothy Wordsworth. 
 
202 LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 
 
 a D. at the corner, and let it have past as a printer's 
 mark to the uninitiated, as a delightful hint to the 
 better instructed. As it is, expect a formal criti- 
 cism on the poems of your female friend, and she 
 must expect it. I should have written before ; but 
 I am cruelly engaged, and like to be. On Friday 
 I was at office from ten in the morning (two hours 
 dinner excepted) to eleven at night, last night till 
 nine ; my business and office business in general 
 have increased so ; I don't mean I am there every 
 night, but I must expect a great deal of it. I never 
 leave till four, and do not keep a holiday now once 
 in ten times, where I used to keep all red-letter 
 days, and some few days besides, which I used to 
 dub Nature's holidays. I have had my day. I had 
 formerly little to do. So of the little that is left 
 of life I may reckon two thirds as dead, for time 
 that a man may call his own is his life ; and hard 
 work and thinking about it taint even the leisure 
 hours, — stain Sunday with work-day contempla- 
 tions. This is Sunday; and the headache I have 
 is part late hours at work the two preceding nights, 
 and part later hours over a consoling pipe after- 
 wards. But I find stupid acquiescence coming over 
 me. I bend to the yoke, and it is almost with 
 me and my household as with the man and his 
 consort, — 
 
 *' To them each evening had its glittering star, 
 And every sabbath-day its golden sun ! " ^ 
 
 to such Straits am I driven for the life of life. Time ! 
 Oh that from that superfluity of holiday-leisure my 
 
 1 Excursion, book v. 
 
LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 203 
 
 youth wasted, ^'Age might but take some hours youth 
 wanted not " ! N. B. — I have left off spirituous 
 Hquors for four or more months, with a moral cer- 
 tainty of its lasting. Farewell, dear Wordsworth ! 
 
 O happy Paris, seat of idleness and pleasure ! 
 From some returned English I hear that not such 
 a thing as a counting-house is to be seen in her 
 streets, — scarce a desk. Earthquakes swallow up 
 this mercantile city and its " gripple merchants," 
 as Drayton hath it, " born to be the curse of this 
 brave isle " 1 I invoke this, not on account of any 
 parsimonious habits the mercantile interest may 
 have, but, to confess truth, because I am not fit for 
 an office. 
 
 Farewell, in haste, from a head that is too ill 
 to methodize, a stomach to digest, and all out 
 of tune. Better harmonies await you ! 
 
 C. Lamb. 
 
 LV. 
 
 TO WORDSWORTH. 
 
 Excuse this maddish letter; I am too tired to 
 
 write in formd. 
 
 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 busi- 
 
204 LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 
 
 ness, tired with thoughts of it, frightened with fears 
 of it, that when I get a few minutes to sit down and 
 scribble (an action of the hand now seldom natural 
 to me, — I mean voluntary pen-work), I lose all 
 presential memory of what I had intended to say, 
 and say what I can, talk about Vincent Bourne or 
 any casual image, instead of that which I had medi- 
 tated (by the way, I must look out V. B. for you). 
 So I had meant to have mentioned "Yarrow 
 Visited," with that stanza, " But thou that didst 
 appear so fair;"^ than which I think no lovelier 
 stanza can be found in the wide world of poetry. 
 Yet the poem, on the whole, seems condemned to 
 leave behind it a melancholy of imperfect 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 y on, 
 feel it. Else, it is far superior to the other, which 
 has but one exquisite verse in it, — the last but one, 
 or the last two : this is all fine, except, perhaps, that 
 that of " studious ease and generous cares" has a 
 little tinge of the less roma?itic about it. " The Far- 
 mer 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 
 
 1 " But thou, that didst appear so fair 
 To fond imagination, 
 Dost rival in the light of day 
 Her delicate creation." 
 
LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 205 
 
 is the worse for being a repetition ; " Susan " stood 
 for the representative of poor Rus in Urbe. There 
 was quite enough to stamp the moral of the thing 
 never to be forgotten, — " bright volumes of vapor," 
 etc. The last verse of Susan was to be got rid of, at 
 all events. It threw a kind of dubiety upon Susan's 
 moral conduct. Susan is a servant-maid. I see her 
 trundling her mop, and contemplating the whirling 
 phenomenon through blurred optics ; but to term 
 her " a poor outcast " seems as much as to say that 
 poor Susan was no better than she should be, — which 
 I trust was not what you meant to express. Robin 
 Goodfellow supports himself without that stick of a 
 moral which you have thrown away j but how I can 
 be brought in felo de omitiendo for that ending to 
 the Boy- builders ^ is a mystery. I can't say posi- 
 tively now, I only know that no line oftener or 
 readier occurs than that " Light-hearted boys, I will 
 build up a Giant with you." It comes naturally 
 with a warm holiday and the freshness of the blood. 
 It is a perfect summer amulet, that I tie round my 
 legs to quicken their motion when I go out a-may- 
 ing. (N. B.) I don't often go out amaying; 
 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 
 
 1 Better known as " Rural Architecture." 
 
2o6 LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 
 
 stupid and flat, and flattering ; what 's the use of 
 telhng you what good things you have written, or — 
 I hope I may add — that I know them to be good? 
 Apropos,wh&n I first opened upon the just-mentioned 
 poem, m a careless tone I said to Mary, as if putting 
 a riddle, " What is good for a bootless bene? " ^ To 
 which, with infinite presence of mind (as the jest- 
 book has it) she answered, " K shoeless pea." It 
 was the first joke she ever made. Joke the second 
 I make. You distinguish well, in your old preface, 
 between the verses of Dr. Johnson, of the " Man in 
 the Strand," and that from "The Babes in the 
 Wood." I was thinking whether, taking your own 
 glorious lines, — 
 
 " And from the love which was in her soul 
 For her youthful Roinilly," 
 
 which, by the love I bear my own soul, I think have 
 no parallel in any of the best old ballads, and just 
 altering it to, — 
 
 " And from the great respect she felt 
 For Sir Samuel Romilly," 
 
 would not have explained the boundaries of prose 
 expression and poetic feeling nearly as well. Ex- 
 cuse my levity on such an occasion. I never felt 
 deeply in my life if that poem did not make me, 
 both lately and when I read it in MS. No alderman 
 
 1 The first line of the poem on Bolton Abbey : — 
 
 " ' What is good for a bootless bene ? ' 
 
 With these dark words begins my tale ; 
 And their meaning is, whence can comfort spring 
 When Prayer is of no avail ? " 
 
LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 207 
 
 ever longed after a haunch of buck venison more 
 than I for a spiritual taste of that " White Doe " you 
 promise. I am sure it is superlative, or will be when 
 dressed, i. e., printed. All things read raw to me in 
 MS. ; to compare magna parvis, I cannot endure my 
 own writings in that state. The only one which I 
 think would not very much win upon me in print is 
 " Peter Bell ; " but I am not certain. You ask me 
 about your preface. I like both that and the 
 supplement, without an exception. The account of 
 what you mean by imagination is very valuable to 
 me. It will help me to like some things in poetry 
 better, which is a little humiliating in me to confess. 
 I thought I could not be instructed in that science 
 (I mean the critical), as I once heard old ob- 
 scene, beastly Peter Pindar, in a dispute on Milton, 
 say he thought that if he had reason to value him- 
 self 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 {ox petite, how do you spell 
 it ?) querulousness about it ; yet, hang it ! now I re- 
 member 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 
 
2o8 LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 
 
 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 suddenly reading '^ No thoroughfare." 
 Robinson's is entire ; I wish you would write more 
 criticism about Spencer, etc. I think I could say 
 something about him myself; but. Lord bless me ! 
 these " merchants and their spicy drugs," which are 
 so harmonious to sing of, they lime-twig up my poor 
 soul and body till I shall forget I ever thought my- 
 self a bit of a genius ! I can't even put a few 
 thoughts on paper for a newspaper. I engross when 
 I should pen a paragraph. Confusion blast all mer- 
 cantile transactions, all traffic, exchange of commod- 
 ities, intercourse between nations, all the consequent 
 civilization, and wealth, and amity, and link of soci- 
 ety, 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. 
 
 LVI. 
 
 TO SOUTHEY. 
 
 May 6, 1815. 
 
 Dear Southey, — I have received from Longman 
 a copy of "Roderick," with the author's compli- 
 ments, 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 
 
LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 209 
 
 two last volumes, and now " Roderick," have come 
 pouring in upon me like some irruption from Heli- 
 con. The story of the brave Maccabee was already, 
 you may be sure, familiar to me in all its parts. I 
 have, since the receipt of your present, read it quite 
 through again, and with no diminished pleasure. I 
 don't know whether I ought to say that it has given 
 me more pleasure than any of your long poems. 
 " Kehama " is doubtless more powerful, but I don't 
 feel that firm footing in it that I do in " Roderick ; " 
 my imagination goes sinking and floundering in the 
 vast spaces of unopened-before systems and faiths ; 
 I am put out of the pale of my old sympathies ; my 
 moral sense is almost outraged j I can't beUeve, or 
 with horror am made to beheve, 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 are too much 
 types of the intangible prototype to be meddled with 
 without shuddering. One never connects what are 
 called the " attributes " with Jupiter. I mention only 
 what diminishes my delight at the wonder-workings 
 of" Kehama," not what impeaches its power, which 
 I confess with trembling. 
 
 But " Roderick " is a comfortable poem. It re- 
 minds 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 
 
 14 
 
2IO LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 
 
 at home in Spain and Christendom. I have a timid 
 imagination, I am afraid ; I do not wilHngly admit 
 of strange behefs or out-of-the-way creeds or places. 
 I never read books of travel, at least not farther 
 than Paris or Rome. I can just endure Moors, 
 because of their connection as foes with Christians ; 
 but Abyssinians, Ethiops, Esquimaux, Dervises, and 
 all that tribe, I hate ; I believe I fear them in some 
 manner. A Mahometan turban on the stage, though 
 enveloping some well-known face (Mr. Cook or Mr. 
 Maddox, whom I see another day good Christian 
 and English waiters, innkeepers, etc.), does not give 
 me pleasure unalloyed. I am a Christian, English- 
 man, Londoner, Templar. God help me when I 
 come to put off these snug relations, and to get 
 abroad into the world to come ! I shall be like 
 the crow on the sand, as Wordsworth has it ; but I 
 won't think on it, — no need, I hope, yet. 
 
 The parts I have been most pleased with, both on 
 first and second readings, perhaps, are Florinda's 
 palliation of Roderick's crime, confessed to him in 
 his disguise ; the retreat of Pelayo's family first dis- 
 covered ; his being made king, — " For acclamation 
 one form must serve, moi'-e solemn for the breach of 
 old observances.^' Roderick's vow is extremely fine, 
 and his blessing on the vow of Alphonso, — 
 
 " Towards the troop he spread his arms, 
 As if the expanded soul diffused itself, 
 And carried to all spirits, with the act, 
 Its affluent inspiration." 
 
 It Struck me forcibly that the feeling of these last 
 lines might have been suggested to you by the Car- 
 
LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 21 1 
 
 toon of Paul at Athens. Certain it is that a better 
 motto or guide to that famous attitude can nowhere 
 be found. I shall adopt it as explanatory of that 
 violent but dignified motion. 
 
 I must read again Landor's "Julian;" I have 
 not read it some time. I think he must have failed 
 in Roderick, for I remember nothing of him, nor of 
 any distinct character as a character, — only fine- 
 sounding passages. I remember thinking also he 
 had chosen a point of time after the event, as it 
 were, for Roderick survives to no use ; but my 
 memory is weak, and I will not wrong a fine poem 
 by trusting to it. 
 
 The notes to your poem I have not read again ; 
 but it will be a take-downable book on my shelf, and 
 they will serve sometimes at breakfast, or times too 
 light for the text to be duly appreciated, — though 
 some of 'em, one of the serpent Penance, is serious 
 enough, now I think on 't. 
 
 Of Coleridge I hear nothing, nor of the Morgans. 
 I hope to have him like a reappearing star, stand- 
 ing up before me some time when least expected in 
 London, as has been the case whilere. 
 
 I am doing no\\\v[\g (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. 
 
212 LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 
 
 LVII. 
 
 TO MISS HUTCHINSON.i 
 
 October 19, 181 5. 
 
 Dear Miss H., — I am forced to be the replier to 
 your letter, for Mary has been ill, and gone from 
 home these five weeks yesterday. She has left me 
 very lonely and very miserable. I stroll about, but 
 there is no rest but at one's own fireside ; and there 
 is no rest for me there now. I look forward to the 
 worse half being past, and keep up as well as I can. 
 She has begun to show some favorable symptoms. 
 The return of her disorder has been frightfully soon 
 this time, with scarce a six-months' interval. I am 
 almost afraid my worry of spirits about the E. I. 
 House was partly the cause of her illness ; but one 
 always imputes it to the cause next at hand, — more 
 probably it comes from some cause we have no con- 
 trol over or conjecture of. It cuts sad great sHces 
 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 
 
 1 Mrs. Wordsworth's sister. 
 
LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 213 
 
 in. Then we forget we are assailable ; we are 
 strong for the time as rocks, — " the wind is tem- 
 pered to the shorn Lambs." Poor C. Lloyd and 
 poor Priscilla ! I feel I hardly feel enough for him ; 
 my own calamities press about me, and involve me 
 in a thick integument not to be reached at by other 
 folks' misfortunes. But I feel all I can, all the 
 kindness I can, towards you all. God bless you ! 
 I hear nothing from Coleridge. 
 
 Yours truly, 
 
 C. Lamb. 
 
 LVIII. 
 
 TO MANNING. 
 
 December 25, 181 5. 
 Dear old Friend and Absentee, — This is Christ- 
 mas Day, 1 815, with us ; what it may be with you I 
 don't know, — the 1 2th of June next year, perhaps j 
 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 thou- 
 sand firesides. Then what puddings have you? 
 Where will you get holly to stick in your churches, 
 or churches to stick your dried tea-leaves (that 
 must be the substitute) in? What memorials you 
 can have of the holy time, I see not. A chopped 
 missionary or two may keep up the thin idea of 
 Lent and the wilderness ; but what standing evi- 
 
214 LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 
 
 dence have you of the Nativity ? 'T is our rosy- 
 cheeked, homestalled divines, whose faces shine to 
 the tune of tuito us a child was born, — faces fragrant 
 with the mince-pies of half a century, that alone can 
 authenticate the cheerful mystery. I feel, I feel my 
 bowels refreshed with the holy tide; my zeal is 
 great against the unedified heathen. Down with the 
 Pagodas ; down with the idols, — Ching-chong-fo 
 and his foolish priesthood ! Come out of Babylon, 
 oh my friend, for her time is come, and the child 
 that is native, and the Proselyte of her gates, shall 
 kindle and smoke together ! And in sober sense 
 what makes you so long from among us. Manning? 
 You must not expect to see the same England again 
 which you left. 
 
 Empires have been overturned, crowns trodden 
 into dust, the face of the Western world quite 
 changed ; your friends have all got old, those you 
 left blooming, myself (who am one of the few that 
 remember you) — those golden hairs which you rec- 
 ollect my taking a pride in, turned to silvery and 
 gray. Mary has been dead and buried many years ; 
 she desired to be buried in the silk gown you 
 sent her. Rickman, that you remember active and 
 strong, now walks out supported by a servant-maid 
 and a stick. Martin Burney is a very old man. 
 The other day an aged woman knocked at my door 
 and pretended to my acquaintance. It was long be- 
 fore 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, 
 
LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 215 
 
 whose first husband was Holcroft, the dramatic 
 writer of the last century. St. Paul's church is a 
 heap of ruins ; the Monument is n't half so high as 
 you knew it, divers parts being successively taken 
 down which the ravages of time had rendered dan- 
 gerous ; the horse at Charing Cross is gone, no one 
 knows whither, — and all this has taken place while 
 you have been settling whether Ho-hing-tong should 
 
 be spelled with a or a . For aught I see, 
 
 you had almost as well remain where you are, and 
 not come, like a Struldbrug, into a world where few 
 were born when you went away. Scarce here and 
 there one will be able to make out your face \ all 
 your opinions will be out of date, your jokes 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 be- 
 lieve, the old doctrine of Maclaurin new-vamped up 
 with what he borrowed of the negative quantity of 
 fluxions from Euler. 
 
 Poor Godwin ! I was passing his tomb the other 
 day in Cripplegate churchyard. There are some 
 
 verses upon it, written by Miss , which if I 
 
 thought good enough I would send you. He was 
 one of those who would have hailed your return, not 
 with boisterous shouts and clamors, but with the 
 complacent gratulations of a philosopher anxious to 
 promote knowledge, as leading to happiness ; but 
 his systems and his theories are ten feet deep in 
 Cripplegate mould. Coleridge is just dead, having 
 lived just long enough to close the eyes of Words- 
 worth, who paid the debt to nature but a week or 
 
2l6 LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 
 
 two before. Poor Col., but two days before he 
 died he wrote to a bookseller proposing an epic 
 poem on the *' Wandering of Cain/' in twenty-four 
 books. It is said he has left behind him more than 
 forty thousand treatises in criticism, metaphysics, 
 and divinity ; but few of them in a state of comple- 
 tion. They are now destined, perhaps, to wrap up 
 spices. You see what mutation the busy hand of 
 Time has produced, while you have consumed in 
 foolish, voluntary exile that time which might have 
 gladdened your friends, benefited your country — 
 But reproaches are useless. Gather up the wretched 
 relics, my friend, as fast as you can, and come to 
 your old home. I will rub my eyes and try to 
 recognize you. We will shake withered hands to- 
 gether, and talk of old things, — of St. Mary's church 
 and the barber's opposite, where the young students 
 in mathematics used to assemble. Poor Crisp, that 
 kept it afterwards, set up a fruiterer's shop in 
 Trumpington Street, and for aught I know resides 
 there still \ for I saw the name up in the last journey 
 I took there with my sister just before she died. I 
 suppose you heard that I had left the India House 
 and gone into the Fishmongers' Almshouses over the 
 bridge. I have a little cabin there, small and 
 homely ; but you shall be welcome to it. You like 
 oysters, and to open them yourself; I '11 get you 
 some if you come in oyster time. Marshall, God- 
 win's old friend, is still alive, and talks of the faces 
 you used to make.^ 
 
 Come as soon as you can. C. Lamb. 
 
 1 The reversal of this serio-humorous mingling of fiction 
 and forecast will be found in the next letter. 
 
LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 217 
 
 LIX. 
 
 TO MANNING. 
 
 December 26, 181 5. 
 Dear Manning, — Following your brother's exam- 
 ple, 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 roman- 
 tic fictions, fitting the remoteness of the mission it 
 goes upon ; in the present I mean to confine myself 
 nearer to truth as you come nearer home. A cor- 
 respondence with the uttermost parts of the earth 
 necessarily involves in it some heat of fancy ; it sets 
 the brain agoing ; but I can think on the half-way 
 house tranquillyo Your friends, then, are not all 
 dead or grown forgetful of you through old age, — 
 as that lying letter asserted, anticipating rather what 
 must happen if you keep tarrying on forever on the 
 skirts of creation, as there seemed a danger of your 
 doing, — but they are all tolerably well, and in full 
 and perfect comprehension of what is meant by 
 Manning's coming home again. Mrs. Kenney never 
 let her tongue run riot more than in remembrances 
 of you. Fanny expends herself in phrases that can 
 only be justified by her romantic nature. Mary re- 
 serves a portion of your silk, not to be buried in (as 
 the false nuncio asserts), but to make up spick and 
 span into a bran-new gown to wear when you come. 
 I am the same as when you knew me, almost to a 
 surfeiting identity. This very night I am going to 
 
2l8 LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 
 
 leave off tobacco / Surely there must be some other 
 world in which this unconquerable purpose shall be 
 realized. The soul hath not her generous aspirings 
 implanted in her in vain. One that you knew, and 
 I think the only one of those friends we knew much 
 of in common, has died in earnest. Poor Priscilla ! 
 Her brother Robert is also dead, and several of the 
 grown-up brothers and sisters, in the compass of a 
 very few years. Death has not otherwise meddled 
 much in families that I know. Not but he has 
 his horrid eye upon us, and is whetting his infernal 
 feathered dart every instant, as you see him truly 
 pictured in that impressive moral picture, " The 
 good man at the hour of death." I have in trust 
 to put in the post four letters from Diss, and one 
 from Lynn, to St. Helena, which I hope will accom- 
 pany this safe, and one from Lynn, and the one be- 
 fore spoken of from me, to Canton. But we all hope 
 that these letters may be waste paper. I don't know 
 why I have foreborne writing so long ; but it is such 
 a forlorn hope to send a scrap of paper straggling 
 over wide oceans. And yet I know when you come 
 home, I shall have you sitting before me at our 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 '11 promise you good oysters. Cory 
 is dead, that kept the shop opposite St. Dunstan's, 
 but the tougher materials of the shop survive the 
 perishing frame of its keeper. Oysters continue to 
 flourish there under as good auspices. Poor Cory ! 
 But if you will absent yourself twenty years together, 
 
LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 219 
 
 you must not expect numerically the same population 
 to congratulate your return which wetted the sea- 
 beach with their tears when you went away. Have 
 you recovered the breathless stone-staring astonish- 
 ment into which you must have been thrown upon 
 learning at landing that an Emperor of France was 
 living at St. Helena? What an event in the solitude 
 of the seas, — like finding a fish's bone at the top 
 of Plinlimmon; but these things are nothing in 
 our Western world. Novelties cease to affect. 
 Come and try what your presence can. 
 God bless you ! Your old friend, 
 
 C. Lamb* 
 
 LX. 
 
 TO WORDSWORTH 
 
 April 9, 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 have 
 done borrowing them. I think I shall get a chain 
 and chain them to my shelves, more Bodleiano, and 
 people may come and read them at chain's length. 
 For of those who borrow, some read slow; some 
 mean to read but don't read ; and some neither 
 read nor meant to read, but borrow to leave you an 
 opinion of their sagacity. I must do my money- 
 borrowing friends the justice to say that there is 
 nothing of this caprice or wantonness of alienation in 
 
220 LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 
 
 them ; when they borrow my money they never fail 
 to make use of it. Coleridge has been here about a 
 fortnight. His health is tolerable at present, though 
 beset with temptations. In the first place, the Cov- 
 ent Garden Manager has declined accepting his 
 Tragedy/ though (having read it) I see no reason 
 upon earth why it might not have run a very fair 
 chance, though it certainly wants a prominent part 
 for a Miss O'Neil or a Mr. Kean. However, he is 
 going to write to-day to Lord Byron to get it to 
 Drury. Should you see Mrs. C, who has just writ- 
 ten 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 com- 
 position goes ; the latter containing his fugitive 
 poems, the former his Literary Life. Nature, who 
 conducts every creature by instinct to its best end, 
 has skilfully directed C. to take up his abode at a 
 Chemist's Laboratory in Norfolk Street. She might 
 as well have sent a Helliio Librorum for cure to the 
 Vatican. God keep him inviolate among the traps 
 and pitfalls ! He has done pretty well as yet.^ 
 
 Tell Miss Hutchinson my sister is every day wish- 
 ing to be quietly sitting down to answer her very kind 
 letter ; but while C. stays she can hardly find a quiet 
 time. God bless him ! 
 
 Tell Mrs. Wordsworth her postscripts are always 
 agreeable. They are legible too. Your manual- 
 graphy is terrible, — dark as Lycophron. " Likeli- 
 
 1 Zapolya. 
 
 2 Lamb alludes, of course, to Coleridge's opium habit. 
 
LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 221 
 
 hood," for instance, is thus typified. ... 1 should 
 not wonder if the constant making out of such para- 
 graphs is the cause of that weakness in Mrs. W.'s 
 eyes, as she is tenderly pleased to express it. Dor- 
 othy, I hear, has mounted spectacles ; so you have 
 deoculated two of your dearest relations in Ufe. 
 Well, God bless you, and continue to give you 
 power to write with a finger of power upon our 
 hearts what you fail to impress, in corresponding 
 lucidness, upon our outward eyesight ! 
 
 Mary's love to all ; she is quite well. 
 
 I am called off" to do the deposits on Cotton 
 Wool. But why do I relate this to you, who want 
 faculties to comprehend the great mystery of de- 
 posits, of interest, of warehouse rent, and contingent 
 
 fund? Adieu! 
 
 C. Lamb. 
 
 LXI. 
 
 TO WORDSWORTH. 
 
 April 26, 18 16. 
 
 Dear W., — I have just finished the pleasing task 
 
 of correcting the revise of the poems and letter.^ I 
 
 hope they will come out faultless. One blunder I 
 
 saw and shuddered at. The hallucinating rascal had 
 
 1 Wordsworth's " Letter to a Friend of Burns " (London, 
 
 1816). 
 
 " Wordsworth had been consulted by a friend of Burns as 
 to the best mode of vindicating the reputation of the poet, 
 which, it was alleged, had been much injured by the publica- 
 tion of Dr. Currie's * Life and Correspondence of Burns.' " — 
 
 AiNGER. 
 
222 LETTEBS OF CHARLES LAMB. 
 
 printed battered for battened, this last not conveying 
 any distinct sense to his gaping soul. The Reader 
 (as they call 'em) had discovered it, and given it the 
 marginal brand ; but the substitutory n had not yet 
 appeared. I accompanied his notice with a most 
 pathetic address to the printer not to neglect the 
 correction. I know how such a blunder would 
 " batter at your peace." With regard to the works, 
 the Letter I read with unabated satisfaction. Such 
 a thing was wanted, called for. The parallel of 
 Cotton with Burns I heartily approve. Iz. Walton 
 hallows any page in which his reverend name ap- 
 pears. " Duty archly bending to purposes of general 
 benevolence " is exquisite. The poems I endeav- 
 ored not to understand, but to read them with my 
 eye alone ; and I think I succeeded. (Some people 
 will do that when they come out, you '11 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. Cole- 
 ridge is printing " Christabel," by Lord Byron's 
 recommendation to Murray, with what he calls a 
 vision, " Kubla Khan," which said vision he repeats 
 so enchantingly that it irradiates and brings heaven 
 and elysian bowers into my parlor while he sings or 
 says it ; but there is an observation, " Never tell thy 
 dreams," and I am almost afraid that " Kubla 
 Khan " is an owl that won't bear daylight. I fear 
 
LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 223 
 
 lest it should be discovered, by the lantern of typog- 
 raphy and clear reducting to letters, no better than 
 nonsense or no sense. When I was young, I used 
 to chant with ecstasy " Mild Arcadians ever bloom- 
 ing," till somebody told me it was meant to be non- 
 sense. Even yet I have a lingering attachment to 
 it, and I think it better than " Windsor Forest," 
 " Dying Christian's Address," etc. Coleridge has 
 sent his tragedy to D. L. T. ; it cannot be acted this 
 season, and by their manner of receiving I hope he 
 will be able to alter it to make them accept it for 
 next. He is at present under the medical care of 
 a Mr. Oilman (Killman?) at Highgate, where he 
 plays at leaving off laud — m. I think his essentials 
 not touched ; he is very bad, but then he wonder- 
 fully 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 neighborhood of 
 such a man is as exciting as the presence of fifty 
 ordinary persons. 'Tis enough to be within the 
 whiff and wind of his genius for us not to possess 
 our souls in quiet. If I lived with him or the Au- 
 thor 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 matei^alf 
 There is not as much metaphysics in thirty-six of 
 
224 LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 
 
 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 Hnes of the '' Pleasures 
 of Hope," or more natural " Beggar's Petition." I 
 never entangle myself in any of their speculations. 
 Interruptions, if I try to write a letter even, I have 
 dreadful. Just now, within four lines, I was called 
 off for ten minutes to consult dusty old books for the 
 settlement of obsolete errors. I hold you a guinea 
 you don't find the chasm where I left off, so excel- 
 lently the wounded sense closed again and was 
 healed. 
 
 N. B. — Nothing said above to the contrary, but 
 that I hold the personal presence of the two men- 
 tioned potent spirits at a rate as high as any ; but I 
 pay dearer : what amuses others robs me of myself ; 
 my mind is positively discharged into their greater 
 currents, but flows with a willing violence. As to 
 your question about work, it is far less oppressive to 
 me than it was, from circumstances ; it takes all the 
 golden part of the day away, a solid lump, from ten 
 to four : but it does not kill my peace, as before. 
 Some day or other I shall be in a taking again. My 
 head aches, and you have had enough. God bless 
 you ! 
 
 C. Lamb. 
 
LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 225 
 
 LXII. 
 
 TO H. DODWELL.1 
 
 July, 1 81 6. 
 
 My dear Fellow, — I have been in a lethargy 
 this long while, and forgotten London, Westminster, 
 Marybone, Paddington, — they all went clean out of 
 my head, till happening to go to a neighbor's in this 
 good borough of Calne, for want of whist-players we 
 fell upon Commerce: the word awoke me to a re- 
 membrance of my professional avocations and the 
 long-continued strife which I have been these twenty- 
 four years endeavoring to compose between those 
 grand Irreconcilables, Cash and Commerce ; I in- 
 stantly called for an almanac, which with some diffi- 
 culty was procured at a fortune-teller's in the vicinity 
 (for happy hohday people here, having nothing to 
 do, keep no account of time), and found that by dint 
 of duty I must attend in Leadenhall on Wednesy. 
 morning next ; and shall attend accordingly. Does 
 Master Hannah give maccaroons still, and does he 
 fetch the Cobbetts from my attic? Perhaps it 
 would n't be too much trouble for him to drop the 
 enclosed up at my aforesaid chamber, and any let- 
 ters, etc., with it ; but the enclosed should go with- 
 out delay. N. B. — He isn't to fetch Monday's 
 Cobbett, but it is to wait my reading when I come 
 
 1 A fellow-clerk in the India House. This charming 
 letter, written evidently during a vacation trip, was first pub- 
 lished entire in Canon Ainger's edition (1887) of Lamb's 
 Letters. 
 
 15 
 
226 LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 
 
 back. Heigh-ho ! Lord have mercy upon me, 
 how many does two and two make ? I am afraid I 
 shall make a poor clerk in future, I am spoiled with 
 rambling among haycocks and cows and pigs. Bless 
 me ! I had like to have forgot (the air is so tem- 
 perate and oblivious here) to say I have seen your 
 brother, and hope he is doing well in the finest spot 
 of the world. More of these things when I return. 
 Remember me to the gentlemen, — I forget names. 
 Shall I find all my letters at my rooms on Tuesday? 
 If you forget to send 'em never mind, for I don't 
 much care for reading and writing now; I shall 
 come back again by degrees, I suppose, into my 
 former habits. How is Bruce de Ponthieu, and 
 Porcher and Co.? — the tears come into my eyes 
 when I think how long I have neglected — . 
 
 Adieu ! ye fields, ye shepherds and — herdesses, 
 and dairies and cream-pots, and fairies and dances 
 upon the green. 
 
 I come, I come. Don't drag me so hard by the 
 hair of my head, Genius of British India ! I know 
 my hour is come, Faustus must give up his soul, O 
 Lucifer, O Mephistopheles ! Can you make out 
 what all this letter is about? I am afraid to look 
 it over. 
 
 Ch. Lamb. 
 
 LXIII. 
 
 TO MRS. WORDSWORTH. 
 
 February i?>, i8i8. 
 
 My dear Mrs. Wordsworth, — I have repeat- 
 edly taken pen in hand to answer your kind 
 
LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 227 
 
 letter. My sister should more properly have done 
 it ; but she having failed, I consider myself answer- 
 able for her debts. I am now trying to do it in the 
 midst of commercial noises, and with a quill which 
 seems more ready to ghde into arithmetical figures 
 and names of gourds, cassia, cardamoms, aloes, gin- 
 ger, or tea, than into kindly responses and friendly 
 recollections. The reason why I cannot write letters 
 at home is that I am never alone. Plato's — (I 
 write to W. W. now) — Plato's double-animal parted 
 never longed more to be reciprocally re-united in 
 the system of its first creation than I sometimes do 
 to be but for a moment single and separate. Except 
 my morning's walk to the office, which is like tread- 
 ing on sands of gold for that reason, I am never so. 
 I cannot walk home from office, but some officious 
 friend offers his unwelcome courtesies to accompany 
 me. All the morning I am pestered. I could sit 
 and gravely cast up sums in great books, or compare 
 sum with sum, and write " paid " against this, and 
 "unpaid" against t'other, and yet reserve in some 
 corner of my mind " some darling thoughts all my 
 own," — faint memory of some passage in a book, 
 or the tone of an absent friend's voice, — a snatch 
 of Miss Burrell's singing, or a gleam of Fanny Kelly's 
 divine plain face. The two operations might be 
 going on at the same time without thwarting, as the 
 sun's two motions (earth's I mean) ; or as I some- 
 times turn round till I am giddy, in my back parlor, 
 while my sister is walking longitudinally in the front ; 
 or as the shoulder of veal twists round with the spit, 
 while the smoke wreathes up the chimney. But 
 
2 28 LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 
 
 there are a set of amateurs of the Belles Lettres, — 
 the gay science, — who come to me as a sort of 
 rendezvous, putting questions of criticism, of British 
 Institutions, Lalla Rookhs, etc., — what Coleridge 
 said at the lecture last night, — who have the form 
 of reading men, but, for any possible use reading 
 can be to them but to talk of, might as well have 
 been Ante-Cadmeans born, or have lain sucking out 
 the sense of an Egyptian hieroglyph as long as the 
 pyramids will last, before they should find it. These 
 pests worrit me at business and in all its intervals, 
 perplexing my accounts, poisoning my little salutary 
 warming-time at the fire, puzzling my paragraphs if 
 I take a newspaper, cramming in between my own 
 free thoughts and a column of figures, which had 
 come to an amicable compromise but for them. 
 Their noise ended, one of them, as I said, accom- 
 panies 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 hun- 
 ter, hope to forget my cares and bury them in the 
 agreeable abstraction of mastication ; knock at the 
 door ! In comes Mr. Hazlitt, or Martin Burney, or 
 Morgan Demi-gorgon,^ or my brother, or somebody, 
 to prevent my eating alone, — a process absolutely 
 necessary to my poor wretched digestion. Oh, the 
 pleasure of eating alone ! Eating my dinner alone, 
 — let me think of it ! But in they come, and make 
 it absolutely necessary that I should open a bottle 
 of orange ; for my meat turns into stone when any 
 one dines with me, if I have not wine. Wine can 
 ^ John Morgan. 
 
LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 229 
 
 mollify stones ; then that wine turns into acidity, 
 acerbity, misanthropy, a hatred of my interrupters 
 (God bless 'em ! I love some of 'em dearly) j and 
 with the hatred, a still greater aversion to their going 
 away. Bad is the dead sea they bring upon me, 
 choking and deadening; but worse is the deader 
 dry sand they leave me on, if they go before bed- 
 time. Come never, I would say to these spoilers of 
 my dinner ; but if you come, never go ! The fact 
 is, this interruption does not happen very often; 
 but every time it comes by surprise, that present 
 bane of my life, orange wine, with all its dreary 
 stifling consequences, follows. Evening company 
 I should always like, had I any mornings ; but I am 
 saturated with human faces {divine forsooth !) and 
 voices all the golden morning ; and five evenings in 
 a week would be as much as I should covet to be 
 in company; but I assure you that is a wonderful 
 week in which I can get two, or one, to myself. I 
 am never C. L., but always C. L. & Co. He who 
 thought it not good for man to be alone, preserve 
 me from the more prodigious monstrosity of being 
 never by myself! I forget bed-time; but even 
 there these sociable frogs clamber up to annoy me. 
 Once a week, generally some singular evening that, 
 being alone, I go to bed at the hour I ought always 
 to be a-bed, just close to my bed-room window is 
 the club-room of a public-house, where a set of 
 singers — I take them to be chorus-singers of the two 
 theatres (it must be both of them) — begin their 
 orgies. They are a set of fellows (as I conceive) 
 who, being limited by their talents to the burden 
 
230 LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 
 
 of the song at the playhouses, in revenge have got 
 the common popular airs by Bishop or some cheap 
 composer, arranged for choruses, that is, to be sung 
 all in chorus, — at least, I never can catch any of the 
 text of the plain song, nothing but the Babylonish 
 choral howl at the tail on 't. " That fiiry being 
 quenched," — the howl I mean, -^ a burden suc- 
 ceeds of shouts and clapping and knocking of the 
 table. At length over-tasked nature drops under it, 
 and escapes for a few hours into the society of the 
 sweet silent creatures of dreams, which go away with 
 mocks and mows at cockcrow. And then I think 
 of the words Christabel's father used (bless me ! I 
 have dipt in the wrong ink) to say every morning 
 by way of variety when he awoke, — 
 
 " Every knell, the Baron saith. 
 Wakes us up to a world of death," — 
 
 or something like it. All I mean by this senseless 
 interrupted tale is, that by my central situation I am 
 a little over-companied. Not that I have any ani- 
 mosity against the good creatures that are so anxious 
 to drive away the harpy Solitude from me. I like 'em, 
 and cards, and a cheerful glass ; but I mean merely 
 to give you an idea, between office confinement and 
 after- office society, how little time I can call my own. 
 I mean only to draw a picture, not to make an in- 
 ference. I would not, that I know of, have it other- 
 wise. 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 car- 
 ried away, leaving regret, but more pleasure, — even 
 
LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 231 
 
 a kind of gratitude, — at being so often favored with 
 that kind northern visitation. My London faces and 
 noises don't hear me, — I mean no disrespect, or I 
 should explain myself, that instead of their return 
 220 times a year, and the return of W. W., etc., 
 seven 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. 
 
 W. H[aziitt]. goes on lecturing against W. W., 
 and making copious use of quotations from said W. 
 W. to give a zest to said lectures. S. T. C. is lectur- 
 ing with success. I have not heard either him or 
 H. ; but I dined with S. T. C. at Oilman's a Sunday 
 or two since ; and he was well and in good spirits. 
 I mean to hear some of the course ; but lectures are 
 not much to my taste, whatever the lecturer may be. 
 If read, they are dismal flat, and you can't think 
 why you are brought together to hear a man read 
 his works, which you could read so much better at 
 leisure yourself ; if delivered extempore, I am always 
 in pain lest the gift of utterance should suddenly 
 fail the orator in the middle, as it. did me at the 
 dinner given in honor of me at the London Tavern. 
 "Gentlemen," said I, and there I stopped; the rest 
 my feelings were under the necessity of supplying. 
 Mrs. Wordsworth will go on, kindly haunting us with 
 visions of seeing the lakes once more, which never 
 can be reahzed. 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 
 
232 LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 
 
 gentleman concerned in the stamp-office that I so 
 strangely recoiled from at Haydon's. I think I had 
 an instinct that he v/as the head of an office. I hate 
 all such people, — accountants' deputy accountants. 
 The mere abstract notion of the East India Com- 
 pany, as long as she is unseen, is pretty, rather 
 poetical ; but as she makes herself manifest by the 
 persons of such beasts, I loathe and detest her as 
 the scarlet what-do-you-call-her of Babylon. I 
 thought, after abridging us of all our red-letter days, 
 they had done their worst ; but I was deceived in 
 the length to which heads of offices, those true 
 liberty-haters, can go, — they are the tyrants, not 
 Ferdinand, nor Nero. By a decree passed this 
 week, they have abridged us of the immemorially 
 observed custom of going at one o'clock of a Satur- 
 day, — the little shadow of a holiday left us. Dear 
 W. W,, be thankful for liberty. 
 
 LXIV. 
 
 TO WORDSWORTH. 
 
 May, 18 19. 
 
 Dear Wordsworth, — I received a copy of " Peter 
 Bell " 1 a week ago, and I hope the author will not 
 
 1 Lamb alludes to a parody, ridiculing Wordsworth, by 
 J. Hamilton Reynolds. The verses were entitled " Peter 
 Bell : A Lyrical Ballad ; " and their drift and spirit may be 
 inferred from the following lines from the preface : " It is 
 now a period of one-and-twenty years since I first wrote 
 some of tlie most perfect compositions (except certain pieces 
 I have written in my later days) that ever dropped from 
 
LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 233 
 
 be offended if I say I do not much relish it. The 
 humor, if it is meant for humor, is forced ; and then 
 the price, — sixpence would have been dear for it. 
 Mind, I do not m&^x\your " Peter Bell," but a " Peter 
 Bell," which preceded it about a week, and is in 
 every bookseller's shop-window in London, the type 
 and paper nothing differing from the true one, the 
 preface signed W. W., and the supplementary pre- 
 face quoting as the author's words an extract from 
 the supplementary preface to the " Lyrical Ballads." 
 Is there no law against these rascals ? I would have 
 this Lambert Simnel whipped at the cart's tail. Who 
 started the spurious " P. B." I have not heard. I 
 should guess, one of the sneering brothers, the vile 
 Smiths; but I have heard no name mentioned. 
 "Peter Bell" (not the mock one) is excellent, — 
 for its matter, I mean. I cannot say the style of it 
 quite satisfies me. It is too lyrical. The auditors, 
 to whom it is feigned to be told, do not arride me. 
 I had rather it had been told me, the reader, at once. 
 " Hart-leap Well " is the tale for me ; in matter as 
 good as this, in manner infinitely before it, in my 
 poor judgment. Why did you not add "• The Wag- 
 oner"? Have I thanked you, though, yet for 
 " Peter Bell " ? I would not not have it for a good 
 deal of money. Coleridge is very foolish to scribble 
 about books. Neither his tongue nor fingers are very 
 
 poetical pen. My heart hath been right and powerful all 
 its years. I never thought an evil or a weak thought in my 
 life. It has been my aim and my achievement to deduce 
 moral thunder from buttercups, daisies, celandines, and (as a 
 poet scarcely inferior to myself hath it) ' such small deer,' " 
 etc. 
 
234 LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 
 
 retentive. But I shall not say anything to him about 
 it. He would only begin a very long story with a 
 very long face, and I see him far too seldom to tease 
 him with affairs of business or conscience when I do 
 see him. He never comes near our house, and when 
 we go to see him he is generally writing or thinking ; 
 he is writing in his study till the dinner comes, and 
 that is scarce over before the stage summons us 
 away. The mock " P. B." had only this effect on 
 me, that after twice reading it over in hopes to find 
 something diverting in it, I reached your two books 
 off the shelf, and set into a steady reading of them, 
 till I had nearly finished both before I went to bed, — 
 the two of your last edition, of course, I mean. 
 And in the morning I awoke determined to take 
 down the " Excursion." I wish the scoundrel imi- 
 tator could know this. But why waste a wish on 
 him ? I do not believe that paddling about with a 
 stick in a pond, and fishing up a dead author, whom 
 his intolerable wrongs had driven to that deed of 
 desperation, would turn the heart of one of these 
 obtuse literary Bells. There is no Cock for such 
 Peters, damn 'em ! I am glad this aspiration came 
 upon the red-ink line.^ It is more of a bloody 
 curse. I have delivered over your other presents 
 to Alsager and G. Dyer. A., I am sure, will value 
 it, and be proud of the hand from which it came. 
 To G. D. a poem is a poem, — his own as good as 
 anybody's, and, God bless him ! anybody's as good 
 as his own ; for I do not think h? has the most dis- 
 
 1 The original letter is actually written in two inks, — 
 alternate black and red. 
 
LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 235 
 
 tant guess of the possibility of one poem being better 
 than another. The gods, by denying him the very 
 faculty itself of discrimination, have effectually cut 
 off every seed of envy in his bosom. But with envy 
 they excited curiosity also ; and if you wish the copy 
 again, which you destined for him, I think I shall be 
 able to find it again for you on his third shelf, where 
 he stuffs his presentation copies, uncut, in shape and 
 matter resembling a lump of dry dust ; but on care- 
 fully removing that stratum, a thing like a pamphlet 
 will emerge. I have tried this with fifty different 
 poetical works that have been given G. D. in return 
 for as many of his own performances ; and I confess 
 I never had any scruple in taking my own again, 
 wherever I found it, shaking the adherences off; 
 and by this means one copy of ^ my works ' served 
 for G. D., — and, with a little dusting, was made over 
 to my good friend Dr. Geddes, who little thought 
 whose leavings he was taking when he made me 
 that graceful bow. By the way, the Doctor is the 
 only one of my acquaintance who bows gracefully, 
 — my town acquaintance, I mean. How do you 
 like my way of writing with two inks ? I think it is 
 pretty and motley. Suppose Mrs. W. adopts it, the 
 next time she holds the pen for you. My dinner 
 waits. I have no time to indulge any longer in these 
 laborious curiosities. God bless you, and cause to 
 thrive and burgeon whatsoever you write, and fear 
 no inks of miserable poetasters. 
 Yours truly, 
 
 Charles Lamb. 
 Mary's love. 
 
236 LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 
 
 LXV. 
 
 TO MANNING. 
 
 May 28, 18 1 9. 
 My dear M., — I want to know how your brother 
 is, if you have heard lately. I want to know about 
 you. I wish you were nearer. How are my cousins, 
 the Gladmans of Wheathampstead, and Farmer 
 Bruton? Mrs. Bruton is a glorious woman. 
 " Hail, Mackery End ! " 1 
 
 This is a fragment of a blank-verse poem which I 
 once meditated, but got no farther. The E. I. H. 
 has been thrown into a quandary by the strange 
 phenomenon of poor Tommy Bye, whom I have 
 known, man and madman, twenty-seven years, he 
 being elder here than myself by nine years and 
 more. He was always a pleasant, gossiping, half- 
 headed, muzzy, dozing, dreaming, walk-about, in- 
 offensive chap, a little too fond of the creature, — 
 who isn't at times? But Tommy had not brains to 
 work off an overnight's surfeit by ten o'clock next 
 morning, and unfortunately, in he wandered the 
 other morning drunk with last night and with a 
 superfoetation of drink taken in since he set out 
 from bed. He came staggering under his double 
 burden, like trees in Java, bearing at once blossom, 
 fruit, and falling fruit, as I have heard you or some 
 other traveller tell, with his face literally as blue as 
 the bluest firmament. Some wretched calico that he 
 
 ^ See the Elia essay, " Mackery End, in H — shire." 
 
LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 237 
 
 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 laugh- 
 ing, or the Goblin Page. He imagined afterwards 
 that the whole office had been laughing at him, so 
 strange did his own sounds strike upon his /^^;/sen- 
 sorium. But Tommy has laughed his last laugh, 
 and awoke the next day to find himself reduced 
 from an abused income of ;£6oo per annum to one 
 sixth of the sum, after thirty-six years' tolerably 
 good service. The quahty of mercy was not strained 
 in his behalf; the gentle dews dropped not on him 
 from heaven. It just came across me that I was 
 writing to Canton. Will you drop in to-morrow 
 night? Fanny Kelly is coming, if she does not 
 cheat us. Mrs. Gold is well, but proves " un- 
 coined," as the lovers about Wheathampstead 
 would say. 
 
 I have not had such a quiet half hour to sit down 
 to a quiet letter for many years. I have not been 
 interrupted above four times. I wrote a letter the 
 other day in alternate lines, black ink and red, and 
 you cannot think how it chilled the flow of ideas. 
 Next Monday is Whit-Monday. What a reflection ! 
 Twelve years ago, and I should have kept that and 
 the following holiday in the fields a-maying. All of 
 those pretty pastoral delights are over. This dead, 
 everlasting dead desk, — how it weighs the spirit of 
 a gentleman down ! This dead wood of the desk in- 
 
238 LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 
 
 Stead of your living trees ! But then, again, I hate the 
 Joskins, a name for Hertfordshire biDnpkins. Each 
 state of hfe 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 have n't a 
 word to add. I don't know why I send this letter, 
 but I have had a hankering to hear about you some 
 days. Perhaps it will go off before your reply 
 comes. If it don't, I assure you no letter was ever 
 welcomer from you, from Paris or Macao. 
 
 C. Lamb. 
 
 LXVI. 
 
 TO MISS WORDSWORTH. 
 
 November 25, 18 19. 
 Dear Miss Wordsworth, — You will think me 
 negligent, but I wanted to see more of Willy ^ be- 
 fore I ventured to express a prediction. Till yester- 
 day I had barely seen him, — Virgilium tantum 
 vidi ; but yesterday he gave us his small company to 
 a bullock's heart, and I can pronounce him a lad of 
 promise. He is no pedant nor bookworm ; so far 
 I can answer. Perhaps he has hitherto paid too 
 little attention to other men's inventions, preferring, 
 
 1 Wordsworth's third son. He was at the Charter-house 
 School in London, and the Lambs had invited him to spend 
 a half holiday with them. 
 
LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 239 
 
 like Lord Foppington, the " natural sprouts of his 
 own." But he has observation, and seems thoroughly 
 awak^ I am ill at remembering other people's bon 
 mots, but the following are a few. Being taken over 
 Waterloo Bridge, he remarked that if we had no 
 mountains, we had a fine river, at least, — which was 
 a touch of the comparative ; but then he added in 
 a strain which augured less for his future abilities as 
 a political economist, that he supposed they must 
 take at least a pound a week toll. Like a curious 
 naturalist, he inquired if the tide did not come up 
 a httle 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 HaUey ! The lion in the 
 'Change by no means came up to his ideal standard, 
 — so impossible is it for Nature, in any of her works, 
 to come up to the standard of a child's imagination ! 
 The whelps (lionets) he was sorry to find were 
 dead ; and on particular inquiry, his old friend the 
 orang-outang had gone the way of all flesh also. 
 The grand tiger was also sick, and expected in no 
 short time to exchange this transitory world for an- 
 other or none. But, again, there was a golden eagle 
 (I do not mean that of Charing) which did much 
 arride and console him. William's genius, I take 
 it, leans a little to the figurative ; for being at play 
 at tricktrack (a kind of minor billiard-table which 
 
240 LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 
 
 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 ^t, he 
 cried out, " I cannot hit that beast." Now, the 
 balls are usually called men, but he felicitously hit 
 upon a middle term, — a term of approximation and 
 imaginative reconciliation ; a something where the 
 two ends of the brute matter (ivory) and their 
 human and rather violent personification into men 
 might meet, as I take it, — illustrative of that excel- 
 lent 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 t7'aduce. Rather he seemeth to keep aloof 
 from any source of imitation, and purposely to 
 remain ignorant of what mighty poets have done in 
 this kind before him ; for being asked if his father 
 had ever been on Westminster Bridge,^ he answered 
 that he did not know ! 
 
 It is hard to discern the oak in the acorn, or 
 a temple like St. Paul's in the first stone which 
 is laid ; nor can I quite prefigure what destination 
 the genius of William Minor hath to take. Some 
 few hints I have set down, to guide my future 
 observations. He hath the power of calculation 
 in no ordinary degree for a chit. He combineth 
 figures, after the first boggle, rapidly; as in the 
 tricktrack board, where the hits are figured, at first 
 he did not perceive that 15 and 7 made 22 ; but by 
 
 1 " William Minor " was evidently forgetful of the exqui- 
 site sonnet, " Composed Upon Westminster Bridge." 
 
LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 241 
 
 a little use he could combine 8 with 25, and ^iZ 
 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 occasion, — as when 
 he was asked if London were as big as Ambleside ; 
 and indeed no other answer was given, or proper 
 to be given, to so ensnaring and provoking a ques- 
 tion. In the contour of skull certainly I discern 
 something paternal ; but whether in all respects 
 the future man shall transcend his father's fame, 
 Time, the trier of Geniuses, must decide. Be it 
 pronounced peremptorily at present that Willy is 
 a well-mannered child, and though no great student, 
 hath yet a lively eye for things that lie before him. 
 Given in haste from my desk at Leadenhall. 
 Yours, and yours most sincerely, 
 
 C. Lamb. 
 
 LXVII. 
 
 TO COLERIDGE. 
 
 March 9, 1822. 
 Dear C., — It gives me great satisfaction to hear 
 that the pig turned out so well,^ — they are inter- 
 esting creatures at a certain age ; what a pity such 
 buds should blow out into the maturity of rank 
 
 1 Some one had sent Coleridge a pig, and the gift was 
 erroneously credited to Lamb. 
 
 16 
 
242 LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 
 
 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 
 color of the ripe pomegranate? Had you no 
 cursed complement of boiled neck of mutton be- 
 fore it, to blunt the edge of delicate desire? Did 
 you flesh maiden teeth in it? Not that I sent the 
 pig, or can form the remotest guess what part Owen 
 could play in the business. I never knew him give 
 anything away in my life. He would not begin 
 with strangers. I suspect the pig, after all, was 
 meant for me ; but at the unlucky juncture of time 
 being absent, the present somehow went round to 
 Highgate. To confess an honest truth, a pig is one 
 of those things I could never think of sending away. 
 Teals, widgeons, snipes, barn-door fowl, ducks, 
 geese, — your tame villatic things, — Welsh mutton, 
 collars of brawn, sturgeon, fresh or pickled, your 
 potted char, Swiss cheeses, French pies, early 
 grapes, muscadines, I impart as freely unto my 
 friends as to myself. They are but self-extended ; 
 but pardon me if I stop somewhere. Where the 
 fine feeling of benevolence giveth a higher smack 
 than the sensual rarity, there my friends (or any 
 good man) may command me ; but pigs are pigs, 
 and I myself therein am nearest to myself. Nay, 
 I should think it an affront, an undervaluing done 
 to Nature, who bestowed such a boon upon me, if 
 in a churlish mood I parted with the precious gift. 
 One of the bitterest pangs I ever felt of remorse 
 
LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 243 
 
 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 mendi- 
 cant, but thereabouts, — a look -beggar, not a verbal 
 petitionist ; and in the coxcombry of taught-charity, 
 I gave away the cake to him. I walked on a little 
 in all the pride of an Evangelical peacock, when 
 of a sudden my old aunt's kindness crossed me, — 
 the sum it was to her ; the pleasure she had a right 
 to expect that I — not the old impostor — should 
 take in eating her cake ; the cursed ingratitude by 
 which, under the color of a Christian virtue, 1 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 masti- 
 cated, consigned to dunghill with the ashes of that 
 unseasonable pauper. • 
 
 But when Providence, who is better to us all than 
 our aunts, gives me a pig, remembering my tempta- 
 tion and my fall, I shall endeavor to act towards 
 it more in the spirit of the donor's purpose. 
 
 Yours (short of pig) to command in everything, 
 
 C. L. 
 
 1 Elia: "Christ's Hospital Five-and-Thirty Years Ago." 
 
244 LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 
 
 LXVIIL 
 
 TO WORDSWORTH. 
 
 March 20, 1822. 
 
 My dear Wordsworth, — A letter from you is 
 very grateful ; I have not seen a Kendal postmark 
 so long. We are pretty well, save colds and rheu- 
 matics, and a certain deadness to everything, which 
 I think I may date from poor John's loss, and an- 
 other accident or two at the same time, that has 
 made me almost bury m.yself at Dalston, where yet 
 I see more faces than I could wish. Deaths over- 
 set one and put one out long after the recent grief. 
 Two or three have died within this last two twelve- 
 months, and so many parts of me have been numbed. 
 One sees a picture, reads an anecdote, starts a cas- 
 ual fancy, and thinks to tell of it to this person in 
 preference to every other : the person is gone whom 
 it would have peculiarly ^ited. It won't do for 
 another. Every departure destroys a class of sym- 
 pathies. There 's Captain Burney gone ! What fun 
 has whist now ? What matters it what you lead, if you 
 can no longer fancy him looking over you ? ^ One 
 never hears anything, but the image of the particular 
 person occurs with whom alone almost you would 
 care to share the intelligence, — thus one distributes 
 oneself about; and now for so many parts of me 
 I have lost the market. Common natures do not 
 
 ^ Martin Burney was the grimy-fisted whist-player to whom 
 Lamb once observed, "Martin, if dirt was trumps, what hands 
 you would hold ! " 
 
LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 245 
 
 suffice me. Good people, as they are called, won't 
 serve ; I want individuals. I am made up of queer 
 points, and I want so many answering needles. 
 The going-away of friends does not make the re- 
 mainder more precious. It takes so much from 
 them, as there was a common link. A, B, and C 
 make a party. A dies. B not only loses A, but 
 all A's part in C. C loses A's part in B, and so 
 the alphabet sickens by subtraction of interchange- 
 ables. I express myself muddily, capite dolente. I 
 have a dulling cold. My theory is to enjoy life ; 
 but my practice is against it. I grow ominously 
 tired of official confinement. Thirty years have I 
 served the Phihstines, 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 be- 
 tween ten and four, without ease or interposition. 
 TcBdet me haruni qiioiidianarum formartun, these 
 pestilential clerk-faces always in one's dish. Oh for 
 a few years between the grave and the desk ! they 
 are the same, save that at the latter you are the 
 outside machine. The foul enchanter [Nick?], 
 " letters four do form his name," — Busirane^ is his 
 name in hell, — that has curtailed you of some do- 
 mestic 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 incapacita- 
 tion and infirmity, till years have sucked me dry, — 
 Otium cum indignitate. I had thought in a green old 
 ^ The enchanter in "The Faerie Queene" 
 
246 LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 
 
 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 be- 
 tween it and Cheshunt, anon stretching, on some 
 fine Izaak Walton morning, to Hoddesdon or Am- 
 well, careless as a beggar ; but walking, walking ever, 
 till I fairly walked myself off my legs, — dying walk- 
 ing ! 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 pul- 
 monary affliction may relieve me. Vide Lord Pal- 
 merston's report of the clerks in the War-office 
 (Debates in this morning's *' Times "), by which it 
 appears, in twenty years as many clerks have been 
 coughed and catarrhed out • of it into their freer 
 graves. Thank you for asking about the pictures. 
 Milton hangs over my fire-side in Covent Garden 
 (when I am there) ; the rest have been sold for an 
 old song, wanting the eloquent tongue that should 
 have set them off! You have gratified me with 
 liking my meeting with Dodd. For the Malvolio 
 story, — the thing is become in verity a sad task, and 
 I eke it out with anything. If I could slip out of it 
 I should be happy ; but our chief- reputed assistants 
 have forsaken us. The Opium- Eater crossed us 
 once with a dazzling path, and hath as suddenly 
 left us darkling ; and, in short, I shall go on from 
 dull to worse, because I cannot resist the book- 
 sellers' importunity, — the old plea, you know, of 
 authors ; but I beheve on my part sincere. Hartley 
 I do not so often see, but I never see him in unwel- 
 
LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 247 
 
 come hour. I thoroughly love and honor him. I 
 send you a frozen epistle ; but it is winter and dead 
 time of the year with me. May Heaven keep 
 something like spring and summer up with you, 
 strengthen your eyes, and make mine a little lighter 
 to encounter with them, as I hope they shall yet and 
 again, before all are closed ! 
 
 Yours, with every kind remembrance, 
 
 C. L. 
 
 LXIX. 
 
 TO JOHN CLARE.i 
 
 August 31, 1822. 
 Dear Clare, — I thank you heartily for your 
 present. I am an inveterate old Londoner, but 
 while I am among your choice collections I seem to 
 be native to them and free of the country. The 
 quality of your observation has astonished me. 
 What have most pleased me have been " Recollec- 
 tions after a Ramble," and those " Grongar Hill " 
 kind of pieces in eight- syllable lines, my favourite 
 measure, such as " Cooper Hill " and " SoUtude." 
 In some of your story-telUng Ballads the provincial 
 phrases sometimes startle me. I think you are too 
 profuse with them. In poetry slang of every kind 
 is to be avoided. There is a rustic Cockneyism, as 
 little pleasing as ours of London. Transplant Arca- 
 dia to Helpstone. The true rustic style I think is 
 
 1 The Northamptonshire peasant poet. He had sent 
 Lamb his "The Village Minstrel, and other Poems" 
 
248 LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 
 
 to be found in Shenstone. Would his " School-mis- 
 tress," the prettiest of poems, have been better if he 
 had used quite the Goody's own language? Now 
 and then a home rusticism is fresh and startling ; 
 but when nothing is gained in expression, it is out of 
 tenor. It may make folks smile and stare ; but the 
 ungenial coaHtion of barbarous with refined phrases 
 will prevent you in the end from being so generally 
 tasted as you desire to be. Excuse my freedom, 
 and take the same hberty with my puns. 
 
 I send you two little volumes of my spare hours. 
 They are of all sorts ; there is a Methodist hymn for 
 Sundays, and a farce for Saturday night. Pray give 
 them a place on your shelf. Pray accept a little 
 volume, of which I have a duplicate, that I may 
 return in equal number to your welcome presents. 
 I think I am indebted to you for a sonnet in the 
 " London " for August. 
 
 Since I saw you I have been in France, and have 
 eaten frogs. The nicest little rabbity things you 
 ever tasted. Do look about for them. Make Mrs. 
 Clare pick oif the hind-quarters, boil them plain, 
 with parsley and butter. The fore-quarters are not 
 so good. She may let them hop off by them.selves. 
 
 Yours sincerely, 
 
 Chas. Lamb. 
 
LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 249 
 
 LXX. 
 
 TO MR. BARRON FIELD. 
 
 September 22, 1822. 
 
 My dear F.,- — I scribble hastily at office. Frank 
 wants my letter presently. I and sister are just re- 
 turned from Paris ! ^ We have eaten frogs. It 
 has been such a treat ! You know our monotonous 
 general tenor. Frogs are the nicest little delicate 
 things, — rabbity flavored. Imagine a Lilliputian 
 rabbit ! They fricassee them ; but in my mind, 
 dressed seethed, plain, with parsley and butter, would 
 have been the decision of Apicius. . . . Paris is a 
 glorious, picturesque old city. London looks mean 
 and new to it, as the town of Washington would, 
 seen after //. But they have no St. Paul's or West- 
 minster Abbey. The Seine, so much despised by 
 Cockneys, is exactly the size to run through a mag- 
 nificent street ; palaces a mile long on one side, lofty 
 Edinburgh stone (oh, the glorious antiques !) houses 
 on the other. The Thames disunites London and 
 Southwark. I had Talma to supper with me. He 
 has picked up, as I believe, an authentic portrait of 
 Shakspeare. He paid a broker about ^40 Eng- 
 lish 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 
 
 1 The Lambs had visited Paris on the invitation of James 
 Kenney, the dramatist, who had married a Frenchwoman, 
 and was living at Versailles. 
 
250 LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 
 
 round it, and round the visnomy is inscribed, as 
 near as I remember, not divided into rhyme, — I 
 found out the rhyme, — 
 
 " Whom have we here 
 Stuck on this bellows, 
 But the Prince of good fellows, 
 Willy Shakspere ? " 
 
 At top, — 
 
 " O base and coward luck, 
 To be here stuck ! " 
 
 POINS. 
 
 At bottom, — 
 
 " Nay ! rather a glorious lot is to him assign'd, 
 Who, like the Almighty, rides upon the wind. " 
 
 Pistol. 
 
 This is all in old carved wooden letters. The 
 countenance smiling, sweet, and intellectual beyond 
 measure, even as he was immeasurable. It may be 
 a forgery. They laugh at me, and tell me Ireland 
 is in Paris, and has been putting oif a portrait of 
 the Black Prince. How far old wood may be imi- 
 tated I cannot say. Ireland was not found out by 
 his parchments, but by his poetry. I am confident 
 no painter on either side the Channel could have 
 painted anything near like the face I saw. Again, 
 would such a painter and forger have taken £,^0 
 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. 
 
LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 251 
 
 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. 
 
 LXXI. 
 
 TO WALTER WILSON. 
 
 December 16, 1822. 
 
 Dear Wilson, — Lightning I was going to call 
 you. You must have thought me negligent in not 
 answering your letter sooner. But I have a habit of 
 never writing letters but at the office ; 't is so much 
 time cribbed out of the Company ; and I am but 
 just got out of the thick of a tea-sale, in which most 
 of the entry of notes, deposits, etc., usually falls to 
 my share. 
 
 I have nothing of De Foe's but two or three nov- 
 els and the " Plague History." ^ I can give you no 
 information about him. As a slight general charac- 
 ter of what I remember of them (for I have not 
 looked into them latterly) , I would say that in the 
 appearance oi truth, in all the incidents and conver- 
 sations that occur in them, they exceed any works 
 of fiction I am acquainted with. It is perfect illu- 
 sion: The author W-tY^x appears in these self-narra- 
 tives (for so they ought to be called, or rather 
 auto-biographies) , but the naj^i^ator chains us down 
 to an implicit belief in everything he says. There 
 
 1 Wilson was preparing a Life of De Foe, and had writ- 
 ten to Lamb for guidance. 
 
252 LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 
 
 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 clear- 
 ly comprehended that when he has told us a matter 
 of fact or a motive, in a line or two farther down 
 he repeats it with his favorite figure of speech, *' I 
 say " so and so, though he had made it abundantly 
 plain before. This is in imitation of the common 
 people's way of speaking, or rather of the way in 
 which they are addressed by a master or mistress 
 who wishes to impress something upon their memo- 
 ries, 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 writ- 
 ten in phraseology peculiarly adapted to the lower 
 conditions of readers, — hence it is an especial favor- 
 ite with seafaring men, poor boys, servant-maids, etc. 
 His novels are capital kitchen- reading, while they 
 are worthy, from their deep interest, to find a shelf 
 in the libraries of the wealthiest and the most 
 learned. His passion for matter-of-fact 7iar7'ative 
 sometimes betrayed him into a long relation of com- 
 mon incidents, which might happen to any man, 
 and have no interest but the intense appearance of 
 truth in them, to recommend them. The whole 
 latter half or two -thirds of "Colonel Jack" is of 
 this description. The beginning of " Colonel Jack " 
 
LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 253 
 
 is the most affecting natural pic<^ure of a young thief 
 that was ever drawn. His losing the stolen money 
 in the hollow of a tree, and finding it again when 
 he was in despair, and then being in equal distress 
 at not knowing how to dispose of it, and several 
 similar touches in the early history of the Colonel, 
 evince a deep knowledge of human nature, and 
 putting out of question the superior romantic inter- 
 est of the latter, in my mind very much exceed 
 "Crusoe." " Roxana " (first edition) is the next in 
 interest, though he left out the best part of it in 
 subsequent editions from a foolish hypercriticism of 
 his friend Southerne. But " Moll Flanders," the 
 *' Account of the Plague," etc., are all of one family, 
 and have the same stamp of character. Believe 
 me, with friendly recollections — Brother (as I used 
 to call you), Yours, 
 
 C. Lamb. 
 
 LXXII. 
 
 TO BERNARD BARTON. 
 
 December 2-^, 1822. 
 Dear Sir, — I have been so distracted with busi- 
 ness and one thing or other, I have not had a quiet 
 quarter of an hour for epistolary purposes. Christ- 
 mas, too, is come, which always puts a rattle into 
 my morning skull. It is a visiting, unquiet, un- 
 quakerish season. I get more and more in love 
 with solitude, and proportionately hampered with 
 company. I hope you have some holidays at this 
 period. I have one day, — Christmas Day; alas! 
 
254 LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 
 
 too few to commemorate the season. All work and 
 no play dulls me. Company is not play, but many 
 times hard work. To play, is for a man to do what 
 he pleases, or to do nothing, — to go about soothing 
 his particular fancies. I have lived to a time of life 
 to have outlived the good hours, the nine-o'clock 
 suppers, with a bright hour or two to clear up in 
 afterwards. Now you cannot get tea before that 
 hour, and then sit gaping, music-bothered perhaps, 
 till half- past twelve brings up the tray ; and what 
 you steal of convivial enjoyment after, is heavily 
 paid for in the disquiet of to-morrow's head. 
 
 I am pleased with your liking " John Woodvil," 
 and amused with your knowledge of our drama 
 being confined to Shakspeare and Miss Baillie. 
 What a world of fine territory between Land's End 
 and Johnny Groat's have you missed traversing 1 I 
 could almost envy you to have so much to read. I 
 feel as if I had read all the books I want to read. 
 Oh, to forget Fielding, Steele, etc., and read 'em 
 new ! 
 
 Can you tell me a likely place where I could pick 
 up cheap Fox's Journal? There are no Quaker 
 circulating libraries ? Elwood, too, I must have. I 
 rather grudge that Southey has taken up the history 
 of your people ; I am afraid he will put in some 
 levity. I am afraid I am not quite exempt from 
 that fault in certain magazine articles, where I have 
 introduced mention of them. Were they to do 
 again, I would reform them. Why should not you 
 write a poetical account of your old worthies, de- 
 ducing them from Fox to Woolman? But I remem- 
 
LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 255 
 
 ber you did talk of something of that kind, as a 
 counterpart to the " Ecclesiastical Sketches." But 
 would not a poem be more consecutive than a 
 string of sonnets? You have no martyrs quite to the 
 fire, I think, among you, but plenty of heroic con- 
 fessors, spirit-martyrs, lamb-Hons. Think of it ; it 
 would be better than a series of sonnets on " Emi- 
 nent Bankers." I like a hit at our way of hfe, 
 though it does well for me, — better than anything 
 short of all one's time to one's self; for which alone 
 I rankle with envy at the rich. Books are good, 
 and pictures are good, and money to buy them 
 therefore good ; but to buy time, — in other words, 
 
 life ! 
 
 The " compliments of the time " to you, should 
 end my letter ; to a Friend, I suppose, I must say 
 the "sincerity of the season:" I hope they both 
 mean the same. With excuses for this hastily 
 penned note, beheve me, with great respect, 
 
 C. Lamb. 
 
 LXXIII. 
 
 TO MISS WORDSWORTH. 
 
 Mary perfectly approves of the appropriation of 
 the feathers, and wishes them peacock's for your 
 
 fair niece's sake. 
 
 Christmas, 1822. 
 
 Dear Miss Wordsworth, — I had just written the 
 above endearing words when Monkhouse tapped me 
 on the shoulder with an invitation to cold goose pie, 
 which I was not bird of that sort enough to decline. 
 
256 LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 
 
 Mrs. Monkhouse, I am most happy to say, is better. 
 Mary has been tormented with a rheumatism, which 
 is leaving her. I am suffering from the festivities 
 of the season. I wonder how my misused carcase 
 holds it out. I have played the experimental phi- 
 losopher on it, that 's certain. Willy shall be wel- 
 come to a mince-pie and a bout at commerce 
 whenever he comes. He was in our eye. I am 
 glad you liked my new year's speculations ; every- 
 body likes them, except the author of the " Pleas- 
 ures of Hope." Disappointment attend him ! How 
 I like to be liked, and ivhat I do to be liked ! They 
 flatter me in magazines, newspapers, and all the 
 minor reviews ; the Quarterlies hold aloof. But 
 they must come into it in time, or their leaves be 
 waste paper. Salute Trinity Library in my name. 
 Two special things are worth seeing at Cambridge, — 
 a portrait of Cromwell at Sidney, and a better of 
 Dr. Harvey (who found out that blood was red) at 
 Dr. Davy's ; you should see them. Coleridge is 
 pretty well ; I have not seen him, but hear often 
 of him from Allsop, who sends me hares and pheas- 
 ants twice a week ; I can hardly take so fast as he 
 gives. I have almost forgotten butcher's meat as 
 plebeian. Are you not glad the cold is gone? I 
 find winters not so agreeable as they used to be 
 "when winter bleak had charms for me." I cannot 
 conjure up a kind similitude for those snowy flakes. 
 Let them keep to twelfth-cakes ! 
 
 Mrs. Paris, our Cambridge friend, has been in 
 town. You do not know the Watfords in Trumping- 
 ton Street. They are capital people. Ask anybody 
 
LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 257 
 
 you meet, who is the biggest woman in Cambridge, 
 and I '11 hold you a wager they '11 say Mrs. Smith ; 
 she broke down two benches in Trinity Gardens, — 
 one on the confines of St. John's, which occasioned a 
 litigation between the Societies as to repairing it. 
 In warm weather, she retires into an ice-cellar (Hte- 
 rally !), and dates the returns of the years from a hot 
 Thursday some twenty years back. She sits in a 
 room with opposite doors and windows, to let in 
 a thorough draught, which gives her slenderer 
 friends tooth-aches. She is to be seen in the mar- 
 ket every morning at ten cheapening fowls, which 
 I observe the Cambridge poulterers are not suffi- 
 ciently careful to stump. 
 
 Having now answered most of the points con- 
 tained in your letter, let me end with assuring you 
 of our very best kindness, and excuse Mary for not 
 handhng the pen on this occasion, especially as it 
 has fallen into so much better hands ! Will Dr. W. 
 accept of my respects at the end of a fooUsh letter ? 
 
 e. L. 
 
 LXXIV. 
 
 TO MR. AND MRS. BRUTON.i 
 
 January 6, 1823. 
 The pig was above my feeble praise. It was a 
 dear pigmy. There was some contention as to who 
 should have the ears ; but in spite of his obstinacy 
 
 1 Hertfordshire connections of the Lambs. 
 17 
 
258 LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 
 
 (deaf as these little creatures are to advice), I con- 
 trived to get at one of them. 
 
 It came in boots, too, which I took as a favor. 
 Generally these petty-toes, pretty toes ! are missing ; 
 but I suppose he wore them to look taller. 
 
 He must have been the least of his race. His 
 little foots would have gone into the silver slipper. 
 I take him to have been a Chinese and a female. 
 
 If Evelyn could have seen him, he would never 
 have farrowed two such prodigious volumes, seeing 
 how much good can be contained in — how small a 
 compass ! 
 
 He crackled delicately. 
 
 I left a blank at the top of my letter, not being 
 determined which to address it to ; so farmer and 
 farmer's wife will please to divide our thanks. May 
 your granaries be full, and your rats empty, and 
 your chickens plump, and your envious neighbors 
 lean, and your laborers busy, and you as idle and 
 as happy as the day is long ! 
 
 VIVE l'agriculture ! 
 
 How do you make your pigs so little ? 
 They are vastly engaging at the age : 
 
 I was so myself. 
 Now I am a disagreeable old hog, 
 A middle-aged gentleman-and-a-half ; 
 My faculties (thank God !) are not much impaired. 
 
 I have my sight, hearing, taste, pretty perfect, and 
 can read the Lord's Prayer in common type, by the 
 help of a candle, without making many mistakes. 
 
 Many happy returns, not of the pig, but of the 
 
LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 259 
 
 New Year, to both. Mary, for her share of the pig 
 and the memoirs, desires to send the same. 
 Yours truly, 
 
 C. Lamb. 
 
 LXXV. 
 
 TO BERNARD BARTON.i 
 
 Jafjuary 9, 1823. 
 
 Throw yourself on the world without any rational 
 plan of support beyond what the chance employ of 
 booksellers would afford you ! 
 
 Throw yourself, rather, my dear sir, from the 
 steep Tarpeian rock slap-dash headlong upon iron 
 spikes. If you had but five consolatory minutes 
 between the desk and the bed, make much of them, 
 and live a century in them, rather than turn slave to 
 the booksellers. They are Turks and Tartars when 
 they have poor authors at their beck. Hitherto 
 you have been at arm's length from them. Come 
 not within their grasp. I have known many authors 
 want for bread, some repining, others envying the 
 blessed security of a counting-house,, all agreeing 
 they had rather have been tailors, weavers, — what 
 not, — rather than the things they were. I have 
 known some starved, some to go mad, one dear 
 friend literally dying in a workhouse. You know 
 not what a rapacious, dishonest set these book- 
 
 1 The Quaker poet. Mr. Barton was a clerk in the bank 
 of the Messrs. Alexander, of Woodbridge, in Suffolk. En- 
 couraged by his literary success, he thought of throwing up 
 his clerkship and trusting to his pen for a livelihood, — a 
 design from which he was happily diverted by his friends. 
 
26o LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 
 
 sellers 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 author- 
 ship. 'T is a pretty appendage to a situation like 
 yours or mine, but a slavery, worse than all slavery, 
 to be a bookseller's dependant, to drudge your 
 brains for pots of ale and breasts of mutton, to 
 change your free thoughts and voluntary numbers 
 for ungracious task-work. Those fellows hate us. 
 The reason I take to be that, contrary to other 
 trades, in which the master gets all the credit (a 
 jeweller or silversmith for instance), and the jour- 
 neyman, who really does the fine work, is in the 
 background, in our work the world gives all the 
 credit to us, whom they consider as their journeymen, 
 and therefore do they hate us, and cheat us, and 
 oppress us, and would wring the blood of us out, 
 to put another sixpence in their mechanic pouches ! 
 I contend that a bookseller has a relative hofiesty 
 towards authors, not like his honesty to the rest of 
 the world. Baldwin, who first engaged me as Elia, 
 has not paid me up yet (nor any of us without re- 
 peated mortifying appeals). Yet how the knave 
 fawned when I was of service to him ! Yet I daresay 
 the fellow is punctual in settling his railk-score, etc. 
 Keep to your bank, and the bank will keep you. 
 Trust not to the public ; you may hang, starve, 
 drown yourself, for anything that worthy personage 
 cares. I bless every star that Providence, not see- 
 ing good to make me independent, has seen it next 
 good to settle me upon the stable foundation of 
 
LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 
 
 261 
 
 Leadenhall. Sit down, good B. B., in the banking- 
 office ; what ! is there not from six to e even p. m 
 six days in the week, and is there not all Sunday? 
 Fie ' what a superfluity of man's time, if you could 
 think so, -enough for relaxation, mirth converse, 
 poetry, good thoughts, quiet thoughts. Oh, the cor- 
 roding, torturing, tormenting thoughts that disturb 
 the brain of the unlucky wight who must draw upon 
 it for daily sustenance ! Henceforth I retract a 1 
 my foul complaints of mercantile employment; look 
 upon them as lovers' quarrels. I was but half m 
 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 1 
 approve and embrace this our close, but unharass- 
 ing, 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 obhge 
 
 me by this kindness. 
 
 Yours truly, 
 
 C. Lamb. 
 
 LXXVI. 
 
 TO MISS HUTCHINSON. 
 
 April 25, 1823. 
 Dear Miss H., - Mary has such an invincible re- 
 luctance to any epistolary exertion that I am spar- 
 ing her a mortification by taking the pen from her. 
 The plain truth is, she writes such a mean, detest- 
 able hand that she is ashamed of the formation of 
 
262 LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 
 
 her letters. There is an essential poverty and ab- 
 jectness in the frame of them. They look like beg- 
 ging 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, i, 2, 3, 4, 
 etc., 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 perpetu- 
 ally threatening to meet, — which, you know, is quite 
 contrary to Euclid. Her very blots are not bold, 
 like this \he7'e a large blot is inserted^ but poor 
 smears, half left in and half scratched out, with 
 another smear left in their place. I like a clear 
 letter; a bold, free hand and a fearless flourish. 
 Then she has always to go through them (a second 
 operation) to dot her z's and cross her /s. I don't 
 think she could make a corkscrew if she tried, — 
 which has such a fine effect at the end or middle 
 of an epistle, and fills up. 
 
 There is a corkscrew ! One of the best I ever 
 drew.-^ By the way, what incomparable whiskey 
 that was of Monkhouse's ! But if I am to write a 
 letter, let me begin, and not stand flourishing like 
 a fencer at a fair. 
 
 1 Lamb was fond of this flourish, and it is frequently found 
 in his letters. 
 
LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 263 
 
 April 25, 1823. 
 
 Dear Miss H., — It gives me great pleasure [the 
 letter now begins] to hear that you got down so 
 smoothly, and that Mrs. Monkhouse's spirits are so 
 good and enterprising.^ It shows, whatever her pos- 
 ture may be, that her mind at least is not supine. I 
 hope the excursion will enable the former to keep 
 pace with its outstripping neighbor. Pray present 
 our kindest wishes to her and all (that sentence 
 should properly have come into the postscript ; but 
 we airy, mercurial spirits, there is no keeping us in). 
 " Time " (as was said of one of us) " toils after 
 us in vain." I am afraid our co-visit with Cole- 
 ridge was a dream. I shall not get away before the 
 end or middle of June, and then you will be frog- 
 hopping at Boulogne. And besides, I think the 
 Gilmans would scarce trust him with us; I have 
 a malicious knack at cutting of apron-strings. The 
 saints' days you speak of have long since fled to 
 heaven with Astraea, and the cold piety of the age 
 lacks fervor to recall them ; only Peter left his key, 
 — the iron one of the two that " shuts amain," — 
 and that is the reason I am locked up. Meanwhile, 
 of afternoons we pick up primroses at Dalston, and 
 Mary corrects me when I call 'em cowslips. God 
 bless you all, and pray remember me euphoniously 
 to Mr. Gruvellegan. That Lee Priory must be a 
 dainty bower. Is it built of flints? and does it 
 stand at Kingsgate? 
 
 1 Miss Hutchinson's invalid relative. 
 
264 LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 
 
 LXXVII. 
 
 TO BERNARD Bj^RTON. 
 
 September 2, 1823. 
 
 Dear B. B., — What will you not say to my not 
 writing ? You cannot say I do not write now. Hes- 
 sey has not used your kind sonnet, nor have I seen 
 it. Pray send me a copy. Neither have I heard any 
 more of your friend's MS., which I will reclaim 
 whenever you please. When you come London- 
 ward, you will find me no longer in Covent Garden ; 
 I have a cottage in Colebrook Row, Islington, — 
 a cottage, for it is detached ; a white house, with 
 six good rooms. The New River (rather elderly 
 by this time) runs (if a moderate walking pace can 
 be so termed) close to the foot of the house ; and 
 behind is a spacious garden with vines (I assure 
 you), pears, strawberries, parsnips, leeks, carrots, 
 cabbages, to delight the heart of old Alcinous. 
 You enter without passage into a cheerful dining- 
 room, all studded over and rough with old books ; 
 and above is a lightsome drawing-room, three win- 
 dows, full of choice prints. I feel like a great lord, 
 never having had a house before. 
 
 The " London," I fear, falls off. I linger among 
 its creaking rafters, like the last rat ; it will topple 
 down if they don't get some buttresses. They 
 have pulled down three, — Hazlitt, Procter, and 
 their best stay, kind, light-hearted Wainewright, their 
 
LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 265 
 
 Janus.^ The best is, neither of our fortunes is con- 
 cerned in it. 
 
 I heard of you from Mr. Pulham this morning, 
 and that gave a filHp to my laziness, which has been 
 intolerable ; but I am so taken up with pruning and 
 ■gardening, — quite a new sort of occupation to me. 
 I have gathered my jargonels ; but my Windsor 
 pears are backward. The former were of exquisite 
 raciness. I do now sit under my own vine, and 
 contemplate the growth of vegetable nature. I can 
 now understand in what sense they speak of father 
 Adam. I recognize the paternity while I watch my 
 tuhps. I almost fell with him, for the first day I 
 turned a drunken gardener (as he let in the ser- 
 pent) into my Eden ; and he laid about him, lop- 
 ping off some choice boughs, etc., which hung over 
 from a neighbor's garden, and in his blind zeal laid 
 waste a shade which had sheltered their window 
 from the gaze of passers-by. The old gentlewoman 
 (fury made her not handsome) could scarcely be 
 reconciled by all my fine words. There was no 
 buttering her parsnips. She talked of the law. 
 What a lapse to commit on the first day of my 
 happy " garden state " ! 
 
 I hope you transmitted the Fox- Journal to its 
 owner, with suitable thanks. Mr. Gary, the Dante 
 man, dines with me to-day. He is a mode of a 
 country parson, lean (as a curate ought to be), 
 modest, sensible, no obtruder of church dogmas, 
 
 1 Wainewright, the notorious poisoner, who, under the 
 name of "Janus Weathercock," contributed various frothy 
 papers on art and literature to the " London Magazine." 
 
266 LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 
 
 quite a different man from Southey. You would 
 like him. Pray accept this for a letter, and believe 
 me, with sincere regards, yours, 
 
 C. L. 
 
 LXXVIII. 
 
 TO MRS. HAZLITT. 
 
 November, 1823. 
 Dear Mrs. H., — Sitting down to write a let- 
 ter is such a painful operation to Mary that you 
 must accept me as her proxy. You have seen our 
 house. What I now tell you is literally true. Yes- 
 terday week, George Dyer called upon us, at one 
 o'clock {bright noonday^, on his way to dine with 
 Mrs. Barbauld at Newington. He sat with Mary 
 about half an hour, and took leave. The maid saw 
 him go out from her kitchen window, but suddenly 
 losing sight of him, ran up in a fright to Mary. 
 G. D., instead of keeping the slip that leads to the 
 gate, had deliberately, staff in hand, in broad, open 
 day, marched into the New River.^ He had not 
 his spectacles on, and you know his absence. Who 
 helped him out, they can hardly tell ; but between 
 'em they got him out, drenched thro' and thro'. 
 A mob collected by that time, and accompanied 
 him in. " Send for the doctor ! " they said ; and 
 a one-eyed fellow, dirty and drunk, was fetched 
 from the public-house at the end, where it seem 
 he lurks for the sake of picking up water-practice, 
 
 1 See Elia-essay, "Amicus Redivivus." 
 
LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 267 
 
 having formerly had a medal from the Humane 
 Society for some rescue. By his advice the patient 
 was put between blankets ; and when I came 
 home at four to dinner, I found G. D. a-bed, and 
 raving, light-headed with the brandy- and- water 
 which the doctor had administered. He sang, 
 laughed, whimpered, screamed, babbled of guardian 
 angels, would get up and go home ; but we kept 
 him there by force ; and by next morning he 
 departed sobered, and seems to have received no 
 injury.^ All my friends are open-mouthed about 
 having paling before the river ; but I cannot see 
 that because a . . . lunatic chooses to walk into 
 a river, with his eyes open, at mid-day, I am any 
 the more likely to be drowned in it, coming home 
 at midnight. 
 
 1 In the "Athenaeum" for 1835 Procter says: "I hap- 
 pened to call at Lamb's house about ten mhiutes after this 
 accident ; I saw before me a train of water running from 
 the door to the river. Lamb had gone for a surgeon ; the 
 maid was running about distraught, with dry clothes on one 
 arm, and the dripping habiliments of the involuntary bather 
 in the other. Miss Lamb, agitated, and whimpering forth 
 ' Poor Mr. Dyer! ' in the most forlorn voice, stood plunging 
 her hands into the wet pockets of his trousers, to fish up the 
 wet coin. Dyer himself, an amiable little old man, who took 
 water zVzternally and eschewed strong liquors, lay on his 
 host's bed, hidden by blankets ; his head, on which was his 
 short gray hair, alone peered out ; and this, having been 
 rubbed dry by a resolute hand, — by the maid's, I believe, 
 who assisted at the rescue, — looked as if bristling with a 
 thousand needles. Lamb, moreover, in his anxiety, had 
 administered a formidable dose of cognac and water to the 
 sufferer, and he (used only to the simple element) babbled 
 without cessation." 
 
268 LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 
 
 LXXIX. 
 
 TO BERNARD BARTON. 
 
 yanuary 9, 1824. 
 Dear B. B., — Do you know what it is to suc- 
 cumb under an insurmountable day- mare, — "a 
 whoreson lethargy," Falstaff calls it, — an indispo- 
 sition to do anything or to be anything ; a total 
 deadness and distaste j a suspension of vitality ; 
 an indifference to locality; a numb, soporifical 
 good-for-nothingness ; an ossification all over ; an 
 oyster-like insensibility to the passing events ; a 
 mind-stupor ; a brawny defiance to the needles 
 of a thrusting-in conscience? Did you ever have 
 a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to sub- 
 mit to water-gruel processes? This has been for 
 many weeks my lot and my excuse. JMy fingers 
 drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking 
 it is three-and-twenty furlongs from here to the end 
 of this demi-sheet. I have not a thing to say; 
 nothing is of more importance than another. I am 
 flatter than a denial or a pancake ; emptier than 
 Judge Parke's wig when the head is in it; duller 
 than a country stage when the actors are off it, — 
 a cipher, an o ! I acknowledge life at all only by 
 an occasional convulsional cough and a permanent 
 phlegmatic pain in the chest. I am weary of the 
 world ; life is weary of me. My day is gone into 
 twilight, and I don't think it worth the expense 
 of candles. My wick hath a thief in it, but I can't 
 
LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 269 
 
 muster courage to snuff it. I inhale suffocation ; 
 I can't distinguish veal from mutton ; nothing inter- 
 ests me. 'T is twelve o'clock, and Thurtell ^ is just 
 now coming out upon the new drop, Jack Ketch 
 alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last 
 office of mortality ; yet cannot I elicit a groan or 
 a moral reflection. If you told me the world will 
 be at an end to-morrow, I should just say, " Will 
 it? " I have not volition enough left to dot my /'s, 
 much less to comb my eyebrows ; my eyes are set 
 in my head ; my brains are gone out to see a poor 
 relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when 
 they 'd come back again ; my skull is a Grub Street 
 attic to let, — not so much as a joint-stool left 
 in it ; my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chick- 
 ens run about a little when their heads are off. Oh 
 for a vigorous fit of gout, colic, toothache, — an 
 earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs ; 
 pain is life, — the sharper the more evidence of 
 life ; but this apathy, this death ! Did you ever 
 have an obstinate cold, — a six or seven weeks' 
 unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, 
 conscience, and everything? Yet do I try all I can 
 to cure it. I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, 
 and snuff in unsparing quantities ; but they all only 
 seem to make me worse, instead of better. I sleep 
 in a damp room, but it does me no good ; I come 
 home late o' nights, but do not find any visible 
 amendment ! Who shall deliver me from the body 
 of this death ? 
 
 It is just fifteen minutes after twelve. Thurtell is 
 1 Hanged that day for the murder of Weare. 
 
270 LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 
 
 by this time a good way on his journey, baiting at 
 Scorpion, perhaps. Ketch is bargaining for his cast 
 coat and waistcoat ; and the Jew demurs at first at 
 three half-crowns, but on consideration that he may 
 get somewhat by showing 'em in the town, finally 
 
 closes. 
 
 C. L. 
 
 LXXX. 
 
 TO BERNARD BARTON. 
 
 January 23, 1824. 
 
 My dear Sir, — That peevish letter of mine,^ 
 which was meant to convey an apology for my 
 incapacity to write, seems to have been taken by 
 you in too serious a light, — it was only my way of 
 telling you I had a severe cold. The fact is, I have 
 been insuperably dull and lethargic for many weeks, 
 and cannot rise to the vigor of a letter, much less 
 an essay. The '' London " must do without me for 
 a time, for I have lost all interest about it; and 
 whether I shall recover it again I know not. I will 
 bridle my pen another time, and not tease and 
 puzzle you with my aridities. I shall begin to feel 
 a little more alive with the spring. 
 
 Winter is to me (mild or harsh) always a great 
 trial of the spirits. I am ashamed not to have 
 noticed your tribute to Woolman, whom we love so 
 much ; it is done in your good manner. Your 
 friend Tayler called upon me some time since, and 
 seems a very amiable man. His last story is pain- 
 
 1 Letter LXXIX. 
 
LETTERS OE CHARLES LAMB. 271 
 
 fully fine. His book I " like ; " it is only too stuffed 
 with Scripture, too parsonish. The best thing in it 
 is the boy's own story. When I say it is too full of 
 Scripture, I mean it is too full of direct quotations ; 
 no book can have too much of silent Scripture in it. 
 But the natural power of a story is diminished when 
 the uppermost purpose in the writer seems to be to re- 
 commend something else, — namely, Religion. You 
 know what Horace says of the Deus inter sit ? I am 
 not able to explain myself, — you must do it for me. 
 My sister's part in the " Leicester School " (about 
 two thirds) was purely her own ; as it was (to the 
 same quantity) in the " Shakspeare Tales " which 
 bear my name. I wrote only the " Witch Aunt," 
 the '' First Going to Church," and the final story 
 about " A little Indian girl " in a ship. Your account 
 of my black-balling amused me. / think, as Quakers, 
 they did right. There are some things hard to be 
 understood. The more I think, the more I am 
 vexed at having puzzled you with that letter ; but I 
 have been so out of letter-writing of late years that 
 it is a sore effort to sit down to it ; and I felt in 
 your debt, and sat down waywardly to pay you in 
 bad money. Never mind my dulness ; I am used 
 to long intervals of it. The heavens seem brass to 
 me ; then again comes the refreshing shower, — 
 
 " I have been merry twice and once ere now." 
 
 You said something about Mr. Mitford in a late 
 letter, which I beUeve I did not advert to. I shall 
 be happy to show him my Milton (it is all the show 
 things I have) at any time he will take the trouble 
 
272 LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 
 
 of a jaunt to Islington. I do also hope to see Mr. 
 Tayler there some day. Pray say so to both. Cole- 
 ridge's book is in good part printed, but sticks a 
 little for more copy. It bears an unsalable title, — 
 " Extracts from Bishop Leighton ; " but I am con- 
 fident there will be plenty of good notes in it, — 
 more of Bishop Coleridge than Leighton in it, I 
 hope ; for what is Leighton ? Do you trouble your- 
 self about libel cases? The decision against Hunt 
 for the " Vision of Judgment " made me sick. What 
 is to become of the good old talk about our good 
 old king, — his personal virtues saving us from a 
 revolution, etc.? Why, none that think can ut- 
 ter it now. It must stink. And the "Vision " is as 
 to himward such a tolerant, good-humored thing ! 
 What a wretched thing a Lord Chief Justice is, 
 always was, and will be ! 
 
 Keep your good spirits up, dear B. B., mine will 
 return ; they are at present in abeyance, but I am 
 rather lethargic than miserable. I don't know but 
 a good horsewhip would be more beneficial to me 
 than physic. My head, without aching, will teach 
 yours to ache. It is well I am getting to the con- 
 clusion. I will send a better letter when I am a 
 better man. Let me thank you for your kind con- 
 cern for me (which I trust will have reason soon 
 to be dissipated), and assure you that it gives me 
 pleasure to hear from you. 
 
 Yours truly, 
 
 C.L. 
 
LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 273 
 
 LXXXI. 
 
 TO BERNARD BARTON 
 
 April, 1824. 
 
 Dear B. B., — I am sure I cannot fill a letter, 
 though I should disfurnish my skull to fill it ; but you 
 expect something, and shall have a notelet. Is Sun- 
 day, not divinely speaking, but humanly and holiday- 
 sically, a blessing? Without its institution, would 
 our rugged taskmasters have given us a leisure day so 
 often, think you, as once in a month? or, if it had 
 not been instituted, might they not have given us 
 every sixth day ? Solve me this problem. If we are 
 to go three times a-day to church, why has Sunday 
 slipped into the notion of a ^^//day ? A HoLY-day, I 
 grant it. The Puritans, I have read in Southey's 
 book, knew the distinction. They made people ob- 
 serve 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 holi- 
 day from all sorts of work every second Tuesday. 
 This was giving to the two Caesars that which was 
 his respective. Wise, beautiful, thoughtful, generous 
 legislators ! Would Wilberforce give us our Tues- 
 days ? 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 un- 
 
2 74 LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 
 
 pleasant, — to me, at least. What is the reason we 
 do not sympathize with pain, short of some terrible 
 surgical operation? HazHtt, who boldly says all he 
 feels, avows that not only he does not pity sick 
 people, but he hates them. I obscurely recognize 
 his meaning. Pain is probably too selfish a con- 
 sideration, too simply a consideration of self-atten- 
 tion. We pity poverty, loss of friends, etc., — more 
 complex things, in which the sufferer's feelings are 
 associated with others. This is a rough thought 
 suggested by the presence of gout ; I want head to 
 extricate it and plane it. What is all this to your 
 letter? I felt it to be a good one, but my turn, 
 when I write at all^ is perversely to travel out of 
 the record, so that my letters are anything but 
 answers. So you still want a motto? You must 
 not take my ironical one, because your book, I take 
 it, is too serious for it. Bickerstaff might have used 
 it for his lucubrations. What do you think of (for 
 a title) Religio Tremuli? or Tremebundi? There 
 is Religio Medici and Laici. But perhaps the 
 volume is not quite Quakerish enough, or exclusively 
 so, for it. Your own " Vigils " is perhaps the best. 
 While I have space, let me congratulate with you 
 the return of spring, — what a summery spring too ! 
 All those qualms about the dog and cray-fish^ melt 
 before it. I am going to be happy and vain again. 
 A hasty farewell, 
 
 C. Lamb. 
 
 1 Lamb had confessed, in a previous letter to Barton, to 
 having once wantonly set a dog upon a cray-fish. 
 
LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 275 
 
 LXXXII. 
 
 TO BERNARD BARTON. 
 
 May 15, 1824. 
 Dear B. B., — I am oppressed with business all 
 day, and company all night. But I will snatch a 
 quarter of an hour. Your recent acquisitions of the 
 picture and the letter are greatly to be congratulated. 
 I too have a picture of my father and the copy of 
 his first love-verses ; but they have been mine long. 
 Blake is a real name, I assure you, and a most ex- 
 traordinary man, if he is still living. He is the 
 Robert [William] Blake whose wild designs accom- 
 pany a splendid folio edition of the "Night Thoughts," 
 which you may have seen, in one of which he pic- 
 tures the parting of soul and body by a solid mass of 
 human form floating off, God knows how, from a 
 lumpish mass (fac-simile to itself) left behind on 
 the dying bed. He paints in water-colors marvellous 
 strange pictures, visions of his brain, which he asserts 
 that he has seen ; they have great merit. He has 
 seen the old Welsh bards on Snowdon, — he has seen 
 the beautifullest, the strongest, and the ugliest man, 
 left alone from the massacre of the Britons by the 
 Romans, and has painted them from memory (I 
 have seen his paintings), and asserts them to be as 
 good as the figures of Raphael and Angelo, but not 
 better, as they had precisely the same retro -visions 
 and prophetic visions with themself [himself] . The 
 painters in oil (which he will have it that neither of 
 them practised) he affirms to have been the ruin of 
 
276 LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 
 
 art, and affirms that all the while he was engaged in 
 
 his Welsh paintings, Titian was disturbing him, — 
 
 Titian the 111 Genius of Oil Painting. His pictures — 
 
 one in particular, the Canterbury Pilgrims, far above 
 
 Stothard — have great merit, but hard, dry, yet with 
 
 grace. He has written a Catalogue of them, with a 
 
 most spirited criticism on Chaucer, but mystical and 
 
 full of vision. His poems have been sold hitherto 
 
 only in manuscript. I never read them ; but a 
 
 friend at my desire procured the "Sweep Song." 
 
 There is one to a tiger, which I have heard recited, 
 
 beginning, — 
 
 " Tiger, Tiger, burning bright, 
 Thro' the deserts of the night," 
 
 which is glorious, but, alas ! I have not the book ; 
 for the man is flown, whither I know not, — to 
 Hades or a madhouse. But I must look on him 
 as one of the most extraordinary persons of the age. 
 Montgomery's book^ I have not much hope from, 
 and the society with the affected name ^ has been 
 laboring at it for these twenty years, and made few 
 converts. I think it was injudicious to mix stories, 
 avowedly colored by fiction, with the sad, true state- 
 ments from the parliamentary records, etc. But I 
 wish the little negroes all the good that can come 
 from it. I battered my brains (not buttered them, 
 — but it is a bad a) for a few verses for them, but 
 
 1 " The Chimney-Sweeper's Friend, and Climbing-Boy's 
 Album," — a book, by James Montgomery, setting forth the 
 wrongs of the little chimney-sweepers, for whose relief a 
 society had been started. 
 
 2 The Society for Ameliorating the Condition of Infant 
 Chimney-Sweepers. 
 
LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 277 
 
 I could make nothing of it. You have been luckier. 
 But Blake's are the flower of the set, you will, I am 
 sure, agree ; though some of Montgomery's at the 
 end are pretty, but the Dream awkwardly para- 
 phrased from B. 
 
 With the exception of an Epilogue for a Private 
 Theatrical, I have written nothing new for near six 
 months. It is in vain to spur me on. I must wait. 
 I cannot write without a genial impulse, and I have 
 none. 'T is barren all and dearth. No matter; 
 life is something without scribbUng. I have got 
 rid of my bad spirits, and hold up pretty well this 
 rain- damned May. 
 
 So we have lost another poet.^ I never much 
 relished his Lordship's mind, and shall be sorry if 
 the Greeks have cause to miss him. He was to me 
 offensive, and I never can make out his real power, 
 which his admirers talk of. Why, a line of Words- 
 worth's is a lever to hft the immortal spirit ; Byron 
 can only move the spleen. He was at best a satir- 
 ist. In any other way, he was mean enough. I 
 daresay I do him injustice ; but I cannot love him, 
 nor squeeze a tear to his memory. He did not like 
 the world, and he has left it, as Alderman Curtis 
 advised the Radicals, '' if they don't like their coun- 
 try, damn 'em, let 'em leave it," they possessing no 
 rood of ground in England, and he ten thousand 
 acres. Byron was better than many Curtises. 
 
 Farewell, and accept this apology for a letter from 
 one who owes you so much in that kind. 
 
 Yours ever truly, C. L. 
 
 1 Byron had died on April 19. 
 
278 LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 
 
 LXXXIII. 
 
 TO BERNARD BARTON. 
 
 August, 1824. 
 
 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 ad- 
 dressed to one who hated him, but who could not 
 persuade him to hate hi77i again. His coyness to 
 the other's passion — for hate demands a return as 
 much as love, and starves without it — is most arch 
 and pleasant. Pray, like it very much. For his 
 theories and nostrums, they are oracular enough, but 
 I either comprehend 'em not, or there is " miching 
 malice " and mischief in 'em, but, for the most part, 
 ringing with their own emptiness. Hazlitt said well 
 of 'em : " Many are the wiser and better for read- 
 ing 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 shiv- 
 ering up in the candle flame, like parching martyrs. 
 The same indisposition to write it is has stopped my 
 "Elias ; " but you will see a futile effort in the next 
 number,^ "wrung from me with slow pain." The 
 
 1 The essay " Blakesmoor in Hertfordshire," in the "Lon- 
 don Magazine " for September, 1824. 
 
LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 279 
 
 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 my- 
 self on your mercy. Wishing peace in thy new 
 dwelling, 
 
 C. Lamb. 
 
 LXXXIV. 
 
 TO BERNARD BARTON. 
 
 December i, 1824. 
 
 Taylor and Hessey, finding their magazine ^ goes 
 off very heavily at 2s. 6d., are prudently going to 
 raise their price another shilling; and having al- 
 ready more authors than they want, intend to in- 
 crease the number of them. If they set up against 
 the " New Monthly," they must change their present 
 hands. It is not tying the dead carcase of a review 
 to a half-dead magazine will do their business. It 
 is like George Dyer multiplying his volumes to make 
 'em sell better. When he finds one will not go off, 
 he pubHshes two ; two stick, he tries three ; three 
 hang fire, he is confident that four will have a better 
 chance. 
 
 1 Taylor and Hessey succeeded John Scott as editors of 
 the " London Magazine " (of which they were also publishers), 
 and it was to this periodical that most of Lamb's Elia 
 Essays were contributed. 
 
28o LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 
 
 And now, my dear sir, trifling apart, the gloomy 
 catastrophe of yesterday morning prompts a sadder 
 vein. The fate of the unfortunate Fauntleroy^ 
 makes me, whether I will or no, to cast reflecting 
 eyes around on such of my friends as, by a parity 
 of situation, are exposed to a similarity of 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 others' property ; 
 you think it impossible that you could ever commit 
 so heinous an offence. But so thought Fauntleroy 
 once ; so have thought many besides him, who at 
 last have expiated as he hath done. You are as yet 
 upright ; but you are a banker, — at least, the next 
 thing to it. I feel the delicacy of the subject; but 
 cash must pass through your hands, sometimes to a 
 great amount. If in an unguarded hour — But I will 
 hope better. Consider the scandal it will bring upon 
 those of your persuasion. Thousands would go to 
 see a Quaker hanged, that would be indifferent to 
 the fate of a Presbyterian or an Anabaptist. Think 
 of the effect it would have on the sale of your poems 
 alone, not to mention higher considerations ! I trem- 
 ble, 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 pre- 
 sumption, am too ready to do myself. What are we 
 better than they? Do we come into the world with 
 
 1 The forger, hanged Nov. 30, 1824. This was the last 
 execution for this offence. 
 
LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 281 
 
 different necks? Is there any distinctive mark un- 
 der 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 pur- 
 poses of picking fingering, etc. No one that is so 
 framed, I maintain it, but should tremble. 
 
 C. L. 
 
 LXXXV. 
 
 TO BERNARD BARTON. 
 
 March 23, 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 will turn up nothing. I have a glimpse of free- 
 dom, of becoming a gentleman at large ; but I am 
 put off from day to day. I have offered my resigna- 
 tion, 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 con- 
 scious 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 fin- 
 gers ; I rub 'em against paper, and write to you, 
 rather than not allay this scorbuta. 
 
282 LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 
 
 While I can write, let me adjure you to have no 
 doubts of Irving. Let Mr. Mitford drop his disre- 
 spect. Irving has prefixed a dedication (of a mis- 
 sionary subject, first part) to Coleridge, the most 
 beautiful, cordial, and sincere. He there acknowl- 
 edges his obligation to S. T. C. for his knowledge of 
 Gospel truths, the nature of a Christian Church, 
 etc., — to the talk of Samuel Taylor Coleridge (at 
 whose Gamaliel feet he sits weekly), rather than to 
 that of all the men living. This from him, the great 
 dandled and petted sectarian, to a religious char- 
 acter so equivocal in the world's eye as that of 
 S. T. C, so foreign to the Kirk's estimate, — can 
 this man be a quack ? The language is as affecting 
 as the spirit of the dedication. Some friend told 
 him, " This dedication will do you no good," — /. <?., 
 not in the world's repute, or with your own people. 
 " That is a reason for doing it," quoth Ir\Wng. 
 
 I am thoroughly pleased with him. He is firm, 
 out-speaking, intrepid, and docile as a pupil of 
 Pythagoras. You must like him. 
 
 Yours, in tremors of painful hope, 
 
 C. Lamb. 
 
 LXXXVI. 
 
 TO WORDSWORTH 
 
 April d, 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 
 
LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 283 
 
 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 par- 
 ticipators ; 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 ;^44i a year for the remainder of 
 my life, live I as long as John Dennis, who outlived 
 his annuity and starved at ninety: ^441; /. <?., 
 ;^45o, with a deduction of ^9 for a provision se- 
 cured to my sister, she being survivor, the pension 
 guaranteed by Act Georgii Tertii, etc. 
 
 I came home forever on Tuesday in last week. 
 The incomprehensibleness of my condition over- 
 whelmed me ; it was like passing from life into 
 eternity. Every year to be as long as three, /. 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 tumul- 
 tuousness is passing off, and I begin to understand 
 the nature of the gift. Holidays, even the annual 
 month, were always uneasy joys, — their conscious 
 fugitiveness ; the craving after making the most 
 of them. Now, when all is holiday, there are no 
 holidays. I can sit at home, in rain or shine, with- 
 out a restless impulse for walkings. I am daily 
 steadying, and shall soon find it as natural to me 
 to be my own master as it has been irksome to 
 have had a master. Mary wakes every morning 
 
 ^ Wordsworth's cousin, who was ill of consumption in 
 Devonshire. He died the following year. 
 
284 LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 
 
 with an obscure feeling that some good has happened 
 to us. 
 
 Leigh Hunt and Montgomery, after their release- 
 ments, describe the shock of their emancipation 
 much as I feel mine. But it hurt their frames. I 
 eat, drink, and sleep sound as ever. I lay no anx- 
 ious schemes for going hither and thither, but take 
 things as they occur. Yesterday I excursioned 
 twenty miles ; to-day I write a few letters. Pleas- 
 uring 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 gratula- 
 tion, I am ashamed to advert to that melancholy 
 event. Monkhouse was a character I learned to 
 love slowly ; but it grew upon me yearly, monthly, 
 daily. What a chasm has it made in our pleasant 
 parties ! His noble, friendly face was always coming 
 before me, till this hurrying event in my life came, 
 and for the time has absorbed all interest ; in fact, 
 it has shaken me a little. My old desk companions, 
 with whom I have had such merry hours, seem to 
 reproach me for removing my lot from among them. 
 They were pleasant creatures ; but to the anxieties 
 of business, and a weight of possible worse ever 
 impending, I was not equal. Tuthill and Oilman 
 gave me my certificates ; I laughed at the friendly 
 lie implied in them. But my sister shook her head, 
 and said it was all true. Indeed, this last winter I 
 was jaded out; winters were always worse than 
 other parts of the year, because the spirits are 
 worse, and I had no daylight. In summer I had 
 
LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 285 
 
 daylight evenings. The rehef was hinted to me 
 from a superior power when I, poor slave, had not 
 a hope but that I must wait another seven years 
 with Jacob ; and lo ! the Rachel which I coveted 
 is brought to me. 
 
 LXXXVII. 
 
 TO BERNARD BARTON. 
 
 April 6, 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 forever ! 
 
 I have been describing my feelings as well as I 
 can to Wordsworth in a long letter, and don't care 
 to repeat. Take it, briefly, that for a few days I 
 was painfully oppressed by so mighty a change ; but 
 it is becoming daily more natural to me. I went 
 and sat among 'em all at my old thirty-three-years' 
 desk yester- morning ; and, deuce take me, if I had 
 not yearnings at leaving all my old pen-and-ink 
 fellows, merry, sociable lads, — at leaving them in 
 
 1 " The birds that wanton in the air 
 Know no such liberty," 
 
 Lovelace. 
 
286 LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 
 
 the lurch, fag, fag, fag ! The comparison of my 
 own superior feUcity gave me anything but pleasure. 
 B. B., I would not serve another seven years for 
 seven hundred thousand pounds ! I have got-^441 
 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, 
 
 — /. e., the time that is a man's own. Tell me how 
 you like " Barbara S. ; " ^ will it be received in atone- 
 ment for the foolish '' Vision," — I mean by the 
 lady? A propos, I never saw Mrs. Crawford in my 
 life ; nevertheless, it 's all true of somebody. 
 
 Address me, in future, Colebrooke Cottage, Isling- 
 ton. I am really nervous (but that will wear off) ; 
 so take this brief announcement. 
 Yours truly, 
 
 C. L. 
 
 LXXXVIII. 
 
 TO BERNARD BARTON. 
 
 July 2, 1825. 
 
 I AM hardly able to appreciate your volume 
 now ; ^ but I liked the dedication much, and the 
 apology for your bald burying grounds. To Shelley 
 
 — but that is not new. To the young Vesper- 
 singer, Great Bealings, Playford, and what not. 
 
 If there be a cavil, it is that the topics of religious 
 consolation, however beautiful, are repeated till a 
 
 1 The Elia essay. Fanny Kelly was the original of 
 "Barbara S." 
 
 '^ Barton's volume of Poems. 
 
LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 287 
 
 sort of triteness attends them. It seems as if you 
 were forever losing Friends' children by death, and 
 reminding their parents of the Resurrection. Do 
 children die so often and so good in your parts? 
 The topic taken from the consideration that they 
 are snatched away from possible vanities seems 
 hardly sound ; for to an Omniscient eye their con- 
 ditional failings must be one with their actual. But 
 I am too unwell for theology. 
 
 Such as I am, 
 I am yours and A. K.'s truly, 
 
 C. Lamb. 
 
 LXXXIX. 
 
 TO BERNARD BARTON. 
 
 August 10, 1825. 
 We shall be soon again at Colebrooke. 
 
 Dear B. B., — You must excuse my not writing 
 before, when I tell you we are on a visit at Enfield, 
 where I do not feel it natural to sit down to a letter. 
 It is at all times an exertion. I had rather talk 
 with you and Anne Knight quietly at Colebrooke 
 Lodge over the matter of your last. You mistake 
 me when you express misgivings about my relishing 
 a series of Scriptural poems. I wrote confusedly ; 
 what I meant to say was, that one or two consola- 
 tory poems on deaths would have had a more 
 condensed effect than many. Scriptural, devo- 
 tional topics, admit of infinite variety. So far 
 from poetry tiring me because religious, I can read, 
 
288 LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 
 
 and I say it seriously, the homely old version of the 
 Psalms in our Prayer-books for an hour or two 
 together sometimes, without sense of weariness. 
 
 I did not express myself clearly about what I 
 think a false topic, insisted on so frequently in con- 
 solatory addresses on the death of infants. I know 
 something like it is in Scripture, but I think hu- 
 manly spoken. It is a natural thought, a sweet 
 fallacy, to the survivors, but still a fallacy. If it 
 stands on the doctrine of this being a probationary 
 state, it is liable to this dilemma. Omniscience, to 
 whom possibility must be clear as act, must know of 
 the child what it would hereafter turn out : if good, 
 then the topic is false to say it is secured from fall- 
 ing into future wilfulness, vice, etc. If bad, I do 
 not see how its exemption from certain future overt 
 acts by being snatched away at all tells in its favor. 
 You stop the arm of a murderer, or arrest the finger 
 of a pickpurse ; but is not the guilt incurred as 
 much by the intent as if never so much acted? 
 Why children are hurried off, and old reprobates of a 
 hundred left, whose trial humanly we may think was 
 complete at fifty, is among the obscurities of provi- 
 dence. The very notion of a state of probation has 
 darkness in it. The All-knower has no need of 
 satisfying his eyes by seeing what we will do, when 
 he knows before what we will do. Methinks we 
 might be condemned before commission. In these 
 things we grope and flounder ; and if we can pick 
 up a little human comfort that the child taken is 
 snatched from vice (no great compliment to it, by 
 the by) , let us take it. And as to where an untried 
 
LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 289 
 
 child goes, whether to join the assembly of its elders 
 who have borne the heat of the day, — fire- purified 
 martyrs and torment-sifted confessors, — what know 
 we? We promise heaven, methinks, too cheaply, 
 and assign large revenues to minors incompetent to 
 manage them. Epitaphs run upon this topic of 
 consolation till the very frequency induces a cheap- 
 ness. Tickets for admission into paradise are sculp- 
 tured out a penny a letter, twopence a syllable, etc. 
 It is all a mystery ; and the more I try to express 
 my meaning (having none that is clear), the more I 
 flounder. Finally, write what your own conscience, 
 which to you is the unerring judge, deems best, and 
 be careless about the whimsies of such a half-baked 
 notionist as I am. We are here in a most pleasant 
 country, full of walks, and idle to our heart's desire. 
 Taylor has dropped the "London." It was indeed 
 a dead weight. It had got in the Slough of De- 
 spond. I shuffle off my part of the pack, and stand, 
 like Christian, with light and merry shoulders. It 
 had got silly, indecorous, pert, and everything that 
 is bad. Both our kind remeful^rances to Mrs. K. 
 and yourself, and strangers'-greeting to Lucy, — is it 
 Lucy, or Ruth ? — that gathers wise sayings in a 
 Book. 
 
 C. Lamb. 
 
 XC. 
 
 TO SOUTHEY. 
 
 August 19, 1S25. 
 
 Dear Southey, — You 'U know whom this letter 
 comes from by opening slap-dash upon the text, as 
 
 19 
 
290 LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 
 
 in the good old times. I never could come into the 
 custom of envelopes, — 't is a modern foppery ; the 
 Plinian correspondence gives no hint of such. In 
 singleness of sheet and. meaning, then, I thank you 
 for your little book. I am ashamed to add a codicil 
 of thanks for your " Book of the Church." I scarce 
 feel competent to give an opinion of the latter ; I 
 have not reading enough of that kind to venture at 
 it. I can only say the fact, that I have read it with 
 attention and interest. Being, as you know, not 
 quite a Churchman, I felt a jealousy at the Church 
 taking to herself the whole deserts of Christianity, 
 Catholic and Protestant, from Druid extirpation 
 downwards. I call all good Christians the Church, 
 Capillarians and all. But I am in too light a humor 
 to touch these matters. May all our churches 
 flourish ! Two things staggered me in the poem 
 (and one of them staggered both of us) : I cannot 
 away with a beautiful series of verses, as I protest 
 they are, commencing " Jenner." 'T is 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 up- 
 wards. We suppose you have only chosen the round 
 number for the metre. Or poem and dedication 
 may be both older than they pretend to, — but then 
 some hint might have been given ; for, as it stands, 
 it may only serve some day to puzzle the parish 
 reckoning. But without inquiring further (for 't is 
 ungracious to look into a lady's years), the dedica- 
 tion is eminently pleasing and tender, and we wish 
 
LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 291 
 
 Edith May Southey joy of it. Something, too, 
 struck us as if we had heard of the death of John 
 May. A John May's death was a few years since in 
 the papers. We think the tale one of the quietest, 
 prettiest things we have seen. You have been tem- 
 perate in the use of locahties, 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, etc. — Can I but like 
 the truly Catholic spirit? "Blame as thou mayest 
 the Papist's erring creed," — which and other pass- 
 ages brought me back to the old Anthology days 
 and the admonitory lesson to " Dear George " on 
 "The Vesper Bell," a little poem which retains its 
 first hold upon me strangely. 
 
 The compliment to the translatress is daintily 
 conceived. Nothing is choicer in that sort of writ- 
 ing than to bring in some remote, impossible paral- 
 lel^ — as between a great empress and the inobtrusive, 
 quiet soul who digged her noiseless way so persever- 
 ingly through that rugged Paraguay mine. How 
 she Dobrizhoffered it all out, it puzzles my slender 
 Latinity to conjecture. Why do you seem to sanc- 
 tion Landor's unfeeling allegorizing away of honest 
 Quixote? He may as well say Strap is meant to 
 symbolize the Scottish nation before the Union, and 
 Random since that Act of dubious issue ; or that Part- 
 ridge means the Mystical Man, and Lady Bellaston 
 typifies the Woman upon Many Waters. Gebir, in- 
 deed, may mean the state of the hop markets last 
 month, for anything I know to ihe contrary. That 
 all Spain overflowed with romancical books (as 
 
292 LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 
 
 Madge Newcastle calls them) was no reason that 
 Cervantes should not smile at the matter of them ; 
 nor even a reason that, in another mood, he might 
 not multiply them, deeply as he was tinctured with 
 the essence of them. Quixote is the father of gentle 
 ridicule, and at the same time the very depository 
 and treasury of chivalry and highest notions. Marry, 
 when somebody persuaded Cervantes that he meant 
 only fun, and put him upon writing that unfortunate 
 Second Part, with the confederacies of that unworthy 
 duke and most contemptible duchess, Cervantes 
 sacrificed his instinct to his understanding. 
 
 We got your little book but last night, being at 
 Enfield, to which place we came about a month 
 since, and are having quiet holidays. Mary walks 
 her twelve miles a day some days, and I my twenty 
 on others. '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 non- 
 sense for the playhouses, to eke out a something 
 contracted income. Tempus erat. There was a 
 time, my dear Cornwallis, when the muse, etc. But 
 I am now in Mac Flecknoe's predicament, — 
 
 " Promised a play, and dwindled to a farce." 
 
 1 Probably "The Pawnbroker's Daughter," which happily 
 was not destined to be performed. — Ainger. 
 
LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 293 
 
 Coleridge is better (was, at least, a few weeks 
 since) than he has been for years. His accomplish- 
 ing his book at last has been a source of vigor to 
 him. We are on a half visit to his friend Allsop, at 
 a Mrs. Leishman's, Enfield, but expect to be at 
 Colebrooke Cottage in a week or so, where, or 
 anywhere, I shall be always most happy to receive 
 tidings from you. G. Dyer is in the height of an 
 uxorious paradise. His honeymoon will not wane 
 till he wax cold. Never was a more happy pair, 
 since Acme and Septimius, and longer. Farewell, 
 with many thanks, dear S. Our loves to all round 
 
 your Wrekin. 
 
 Your old friend, 
 
 C. Lamb. 
 
 XCI. 
 
 TO BERNARD BARTON. 
 
 March 20, 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 pothooks and 
 hangers. Sealing-wax I have none on my estabhsh- 
 ment ; wafers of the coarsest bran supply its place. 
 When my epistles come to be weighed with Pliny's, 
 however superior to the Roman in delicate irony, 
 judicious reflections, etc., his gilt post will bribe 
 
294 LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 
 
 over the judges to him. All the time I was at the 
 E. I. H. I never mended a pen ; I now cut 'em to 
 the stumps, marring rather than mending the primi- 
 tive 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 Meso- 
 potamos, I think it went hard with him, reflecting 
 upon his old goodly orchard, where he had so* many 
 for nothing. When I write to a great man at the 
 court end, he opens with surprise upon a naked 
 note, such as Whitechapel people interchange, with 
 no sweet degrees of envelope. I never enclosed 
 one bit of paper in another, nor understood the 
 rationale of it. Once only I sealed with borrowed 
 wax, to set Walter Scott a-wondering, signed with 
 the imperial quartered arms of England, which my 
 friend Field bears in compliment to his descent, in 
 the female line, from Oliver Cromwell. It must 
 have set his antiquarian curiosity upon watering. 
 To your questions upon the currency, I refer you to 
 Mr. Robinson's last speech, where, if you can find a 
 solution, I cannot. I think this, though, — the best 
 ministry we ever stumbled upon, — gin reduced four 
 shillings in the gallon, wine two shillings in the 
 quart ! This comes home to men's minds and 
 bosoms. My tirade against visitors was not meant 
 particularly at you or Anne Knight. I scarce know 
 what I meant, for I do not just now feel the griev- 
 ance. I wanted to make an article. So in another 
 thing I talked of somebody's insipid wife without a 
 correspondent object in my head ; and a good lady, 
 a friend's wife, whom I really love (don't startle, I 
 
LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 295 
 
 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 " con- 
 tinued." I do not know how it got stuffed in there. A 
 little thing without name will also be printed on the 
 ReHgion of the Actors ; but it is out of your way, so 
 I recommend you, with true author's hypocrisy, to 
 skip it. We are about to sit down to roast beef, at 
 which we could wish A. K., B. B., and B. B.'s 
 pleasant daughter to be humble partakers. So much 
 for my hint at visitors, which was scarcely calculated 
 for droppers-in from Woodbridge ; the sky does not 
 drop such larks every day. My very kindest wishes 
 to you all three, with my sister's best love. 
 
 C. Lamb. 
 
 XCII. 
 
 TO J. B. DIBDIN. 
 
 June, 1826. 
 
 Dear D., — My first impulse upon seeing your 
 
 letter was pleasure at seeing your old neat hand, 
 
 nine parts gentlemanly, with a modest dash of the 
 
 clerical ; my second, a thought natural enough this 
 
 hot weather : Am I to answer all this ? Why, 't is as 
 
 long as those to the Ephesians and Galatians put 
 
 together : I have counted the words, for curiosity. 
 
 ... I never knew an enemy to puns who was not 
 
 an ill-natured man. Your fair critic in the coach 
 
296 LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 
 
 reminds me of a Scotchman who assured me he did 
 not see much in Shakspeare. I rephed, I daresay not. 
 He felt the equivoke, looked awkward and reddish, 
 but soon returned to the attack by saying that he 
 thought Burns was as good as Shakspeare. I said 
 that I had no doubt he was, — to a Scotchman. We 
 exchanged no more words that day. . . . Let me 
 hear that you have clambered up to Lover's Seat ; it 
 is as fine in that neighborhood as Juan Fernandez, — 
 as lonely, too, when the fishing-boats are not out ; I 
 have sat for hours staring upon a shipless sea. The 
 salt sea is never as grand as when it is left to itself. 
 One cock-boat spoils it ; a seamew or two improves 
 it. And go to the little church, which is a very Prot- 
 estant Loretto, and seems dropped by some angel 
 for the use of a hermit who was at once parishioner 
 and a whole parish. It is not too big. Go in the night, 
 bring it away in your portmanteau, and I will plant 
 it in my garden. It must have been erected, in the 
 very infancy of British Christianity, for the two or 
 three first converts, yet with all the appurtenances 
 of a church of the first magnitude, — its pulpit, its 
 pews, its baptismal font ; a cathedral in a nutshell. 
 The minister that divides the Word there must give 
 lumping pennyworths. It is built to the text of 
 "two or three assembled in my name." It reminds 
 me of the grain of mustard-seed. If the glebe-land 
 is proportionate, it may yield two potatoes. Tithes 
 out of it could be no more split than a hair. Its 
 First fruits must be its Last, for 't would never pro- 
 duce a couple. It is truly the strait and narrow way, 
 and few there be (of London visitants) that find it. 
 
LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 297 
 
 The still small voice is surely to be found there, if 
 anywhere. A sounding-board is merely there for 
 ceremony. It is secure from earthquakes, not more 
 from sanctity than size, for 't would feel a mountain 
 thrown upon it no more than a taper-worm would. 
 Go and see, but not without your spectacles. 
 
 XCIII. 
 
 TO HENRY CRABB ROBINSON. 
 
 January 20, 1827. 
 Dear Robinson, — I called upon you this morn- 
 ing, and found that you had gone to visit a dying 
 friend. I had been upon a like errand. Poor 
 Norris ^ has been lying dying for now almost a week, 
 — such is the penalty we pay for having enjoyed a 
 strong constitution ! Whether he knew me or not, 
 I know not, or whether he saw me through his poor 
 glazed eyes ; but the group I saw about him I shall 
 not forget. Upon the bed, or about it, were assem- 
 bled his wife and two daughters, and poor deaf 
 Richard, his son, looking doubly stupefied. There 
 they were, and seemed to have been sitting all the 
 week. I could only reach out a hand to Mrs. 
 Norris. Speaking was impossible in that mute 
 chamber. By this time I hope it is all over with 
 him. In him I have a loss the world cannot make 
 up. He was my friend and my father's friend all 
 the life I can remember. I seem to have made 
 foolish friendships ever since. Those are friend- 
 
 1 Randal Norris, sub-treasurer of the Inner Temple, an 
 early friend of the Lambs. 
 
298 LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 
 
 ships which outUve a second generation. Old as I 
 am waxing, in his eyes 1 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 plain- 
 ness of manners and singleness of heart. Letters he 
 knew nothing of, nor did his reading extend beyond 
 the pages of the " Gentleman's Magazine." Yet 
 there was a pride of literature about him from being 
 amongst books (he was librarian), and from some 
 scraps of doubtful Latin which he had picked up in 
 his office of entering students, that gave him very 
 diverting airs of pedantry. Can I forget the eru- 
 dite look with which, when he had been in vain 
 trying to make out a black-letter text of Chaucer in 
 the Temple Library, he laid it down and told me that 
 *' in those old books, Charley, there is sometimes 
 a deal of very indiiferent spelling ; " and seemed to 
 console himself in the reflection ! His jokes — for 
 he had his jokes — are now ended ; but they were old 
 trusty perennials, staples that pleased after decies 
 repetita, and were always as good as new. One 
 song he had, which was reserved for the night of 
 Christmas Day, which we always spent in the Temple. 
 It was an old thing, and spoke of the flat-bottoms 
 of our foes and the possibility of their coming over 
 in darkness, and alluded to threats of an invasion 
 many years blown over; and when he came to 
 the part — 
 
 " We '11 still make 'em run; and we '11 still make 'em sweat, 
 In spite of the devil and 'Brussels Gazette,'" — 
 
LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 299 
 
 his eyes would sparkle as with the freshness of an 
 impending event. And what is the "Brussels 
 Gazette " now? I cry while I enumerate these 
 trifles. " How shall we tell them in a stranger's 
 ear? " His poor good girls will now have to receive 
 their afflicted mother in an inaccessible hovel in an 
 obscure village in Herts, where they have been long 
 struggling to make a school without effect ; and 
 poor deaf Richard — and the more helpless for 
 being so — is thrown on the wide world. 
 
 My first motive in writing, and, indeed, in calling 
 on you, was to ask if you were enough acquainted 
 with any of the Benchers to lay a plain statement 
 before them of the circumstances of the family. I 
 almost fear not, for you are of another hall. But if 
 you can oblige me and my poor friend, who is now 
 insensible to any favors, pray exert yourself. You 
 cannot say too much good of poor Norris and his 
 poor wife. Yours ever, 
 
 Charles Lamb. 
 
 XCIV. 
 
 TO PETER GEORGE PATMORE. 
 
 LONDRES,yz///V IQif/z, 1827. 
 
 Dear P., — I am so poorly. I have been to a 
 funeral, where I made a pun, to the consternation of 
 the rest of the mourners. And we had wine. I 
 can't describe to you the howl which the widow set 
 up at proper intervals. Dash ^ could ; for it was not 
 unlike what he makes. 
 
 1 A dog given to Lamb by Thomas Hood. See letter to 
 Pattrrre dated September, 1827. 
 
300 LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 
 
 The letter I sent you was one directed to the 
 care of Edward White, India House, for Mrs. Haz- 
 litt. Which Mrs. H. I don't yet know ; but Allsop 
 has taken it to France on speculation. Really it 
 is embarrassing. There is Mrs. present H., Mrs. 
 late H., and Mrs. John H. ; and to which of the 
 three Mrs. Wigginses it appertains, I know not. I 
 wanted to open it, but 'tis transportation. 
 
 I am sorry you are plagued about your book. I 
 would strongly recommend you to take for one story 
 Massinger's "Old Law." It is exquisite. I can 
 think of no other. 
 
 Dash is frightful this morning. He whines and 
 stands up on his hind legs. He misses Becky, who 
 is gone to town. I took him to Barnet the other 
 day, and he could n't eat his vittles after it. Pray 
 God his intellectuals be not slipping. 
 
 Mary is gone out for some soles. I suppose 't is 
 no use to ask you to come and partake of ^ 'em ; 
 else there is a steam vessel. 
 
 I am doing a tragi-comedy in two acts, and have 
 got on tolerably ; but it will be refused, or worse. I 
 never had luck with anything my name was put to. 
 
 Oh, I am so poorly ! I waked it at my cousin's 
 the bookbinder, who is now with God ; or if he is 
 not, 'tis no fault of mine. 
 
 We hope the Frank wines do not disagree with 
 Mrs. Patmore. By the way, I like her. 
 
 Did you ever taste frogs? Get them if you can. 
 They are like little Lilliput rabbits, only a thought 
 nicer. 
 
 How sick I am ! — not of the world, but of the 
 Widow Shrub. She 's sworn under ;^6,ooo ; but I 
 
LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. ZO\ 
 
 think she perjured herself. She howls in E la, and 
 I comfort her in B flat. You understand music? 
 
 If you haven't got Massinger, you have nothing to 
 do but go to the first Bibhotheque you can hght 
 upon at Boulogne, and ask for it (Gifford's edition) ; 
 and if they haven't got it, you can have '^ Athalie," 
 par Monsieur Racine, and make the best of it. But 
 that "Old Law" is delicious. 
 
 " No shrimps ! " (that 's in answer to Mary's ques- 
 tion about how the soles are to be done.) 
 
 I am uncertain where this wandering letter may 
 reach you. What you mean by Poste Restante, God 
 knows. Do you mean I must pay the postage ? So 
 I do, — to Dover. 
 
 We had a merry passage with the widow at the 
 Commons. She was howling, — part howling, and 
 part giving directions to the proctor, — when crash ! 
 down went my sister through a crazy chair, and 
 made the clerks grin, and I grinned, and the widow 
 tittered, and then I knew that she was not inconso- 
 lable. Mary was more frightened than hurt. 
 
 She 'd make a good match for anybody (by she, 
 I mean the widow). 
 
 " If he bring but a relict away, 
 He is happy, nor heard to complain." 
 
 Shenstone. 
 
 Procter has got a wen growing out at the nape of 
 his neck, which his wife wants him to have cut off; 
 but I think it rather an agreeable excrescence, — 
 like his poetry, redundant. Hone has hanged him- 
 self for debt. Godwin was taken up for picking 
 
302 LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 
 
 pockets. Moxon has fallen in love with Emma, our 
 nut-brown maid. Becky takes to bad courses. Her 
 father was blown up in a steam machine. The 
 coroner found it " insanity." I should not like him 
 to sit on my letter. 
 
 Do you observe my direction? Is it Gallic, 
 classical? Do try and get some frogs. You must 
 ask for " grenouilles " (green eels). They don't 
 understand "frogs," though 'tis a common phrase 
 with us. 
 
 If you go through Bulloign (Boulogne), inquire 
 if Old Godfrey is living, and how he got home from 
 the Crusades. He must be a very old man. 
 
 xcv. 
 
 TO BERNARD BARTON. 
 
 August 10, 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 im- 
 portation 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, toss- 
 ing cocoa-nuts about, grinning and grinned at ! 
 
 Mitford was hoaxing you surely about my engrav- 
 ing ; 't is a little sixpenny thing,^ too like by half, in 
 
 1 An etching of Lamb, by Brooke Pulham, which is said 
 to be the most characteristic likeness of him extant. 
 
LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 303 
 
 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 under- 
 stand it) at Enfield Chase. We have been here 
 near three months, and shall stay two more, if 
 people will let us alone ; but they persecute us from 
 village to village. So don't direct to Islington 
 again till further notice. I am trying my hand at a 
 drama, in two acts, founded on Crabbe's " Con- 
 fidant," 7niitatis mutandis. You like the Odyssey : 
 did you ever read my " Adventures of Ulysses," 
 founded on Chapman's old translation of it? For 
 children or men. Chapman is divine, and my 
 abridgment has not quite emptied him of his divin- 
 ity. When you come to town I '11 show it you. 
 You have well described your old-fashioned grand 
 paternal hall. Is it not odd that every one's ear- 
 liest 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 em- 
 perors, they seemed as if they were to stand for- 
 ever, as they had stood from the living days of 
 Rome, in that old marble hall, and I too partake of 
 
304 LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 
 
 their permanency. Eternity was, while I tliought 
 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, es- 
 caped the scythe only by my littleness. Even now 
 he is whetting one of his smallest razors to clean 
 wipe me out, perhaps. Well ! 
 
 XCVI. 
 
 TO THOMAS HOOD. 
 
 September i8, 1827. 
 
 Dear Hood, — If I have anything in my head, I 
 will send it to Mr. Watts. Strictly speaking, he 
 should have all my album-verses ; but a very inti- 
 mate friend importuned me for the trifles, and I be- 
 lieve I forgot Mr. W^atts, or lost sight at the time of 
 his similar " Souvenir." Jamieson conveyed the 
 farce from me to Mrs. C. Kemble ; he will not be 
 in town before the 27th. 
 
 Give our kind loves to all at Highgate, and tell 
 them that we have finally torn ourselves outright 
 away from Colebrooke, where I had no health, and 
 are about to domiciliate for good at Enfield, where 
 I have experienced good. 
 
 " Lord, what good hours do we keep ! 
 How quietly we sleep ! " 1 
 
 See the rest in the " Compleat Angler." 
 1 By Charles Cotton. 
 
LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 305 
 
 We have got our books into our new house. I 
 am a dray-horse if I was not ashamed of the in- 
 digested, dirty lumber, as I toppled 'em out of the 
 cart, and blessed Becky that came with 'em for her 
 having an unstuffed brain with such rubbish. We 
 shall get in by Michael's Mass. 'T was with some 
 pain we were evulsed from Colebrooke. 
 
 You may find some of our flesh sticking to the 
 doorposts. To change habitations is to die to 
 them ; and in my time I have died seven deaths. 
 But I don't know whether every such change does 
 not bring with it a rejuvenescence. 'T is an enter- 
 prise, and shoves back the sense of death's approxi- 
 mating, which, though not terrible to me, is at all 
 times particularly distasteful. My house-deaths 
 have generally been periodical, recurring after seven 
 years j but this last is premature by half that time. 
 Cut off in the flower of Colebrooke ! The Middle- 
 tonian stream and all its echoes mourn. Even 
 minnows dwindle. A parvis Jiujtt minimi / 
 
 I fear to invite Mrs. Hood to our new mansion, 
 lest she should envy it, and hate us. But when we 
 are fairly in, I hope she will come and try it. I 
 heard she and you were made uncomfortable by 
 some unworthy-to-be-cared-for attacks, and have 
 tried to set up a feeble counteraction through the 
 " Table Book " of last Saturday. Has it not reached 
 you, that you are silent about it? Our new domi- 
 cile is no manor-house, but new, and externally not 
 inviting, but furnished within with every conve- 
 nience, — capital new locks to every door, capital 
 grates in every room, with nothing to pay for in- 
 
 20 
 
3o6 LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 
 
 coming, and the rent £^\o less than the IsUngton 
 one. 
 
 It was built, a few years since, at ;2^i,.too ex- 
 pense, they tell me, and I perfectly believe it. 
 And I get it for ;£35, exclusive of moderate taxes. 
 We think ourselves most lucky. 
 
 It is not our intention to abandon Regent Street 
 and West End perambulations (monastic and terrible 
 thought!), but occasionally to breathe the fresher 
 air of the metropolis. We shall put up a bedroom 
 or two (all we want) for occasional ex- rustication, 
 where we shall visit, — not be visited. Plays, too, 
 we '11 see, — perhaps our own ; Urbani Sylvani and 
 Sylvan Urbanuses in turns ; courtiers for a sport, 
 then philosophers ; old, homely tell-truths and 
 learn-truths in the virtuous shades of Enfield, liars 
 again and mocking gibers in the coffee-houses and 
 resorts of London. What can a mortal desire more 
 for his bi-parted nature? 
 
 Oh, the curds-and-cream you shall eat with us 
 here ! 
 
 Oh, the turtle- soup and lobster-salads we shall 
 devour with you there ! 
 
 Oh, the old books we shall peruse here ! 
 
 Oh, the new nonsense we shall trifle over there ! 
 
 Oh, Sir T. Browne, here ! 
 
 Oh, Mr. Hood and Mr. Jerdan, there ! 
 
 Thine, 
 C. (URBANUS) L. (SYLVANUs) — (Elia ambo) . 
 
LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 307 
 
 XCVII. 
 
 TO P. G. PATMORE. 
 
 September, 1827. 
 
 Dear P., — Excuse my anxiety, but how is Dash ? 
 I should have asked if Mrs. Patmore kept her rules 
 and was improving; but Dash came uppermost. 
 The order of our thoughts should be the order of 
 our writing. Goes he muzzled, or aperto ore ? Are 
 his intellects sound, or does he wander a little in 
 his conversation. You cannot be too careful to 
 watch the first symptoms of incoherence. The 
 first illogical snarl he makes, to St. Luke's with him ! 
 All the dogs here are going mad, if you believe the 
 overseers ; but I protest they seem to me very 
 rational and collected. But nothing is so deceitful 
 as mad people, to those who are not used to them. 
 Try him with hot water ; if he won't lick it up, it 's 
 a sign he does not like it. Does his tail wag 
 horizontally or perpendicularly? That has decided 
 the fate of many dogs in Enfield. Is his general 
 deportment cheerful? I mean when he is pleased, 
 for otherwise there is no judging. You can't be 
 too careful. Has he bit any of the children yet? 
 If he has, have them shot, and keep him for curi- 
 osity, to see if it was the hydrophobia. They say 
 all our army in India had it at one time ; but that 
 was in Hyde7^-K\\Ys time. Do you get paunch for 
 him? Take care the sheep was sane. You might 
 pull his teeth out (if he would let you), and then you 
 need not mind if he were as mad as a Bedlamite. 
 
3oS LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 
 
 It would be rather fun to see his odd ways. It 
 might amuse Mrs. P. and the children. They'd 
 have more sense than he. He 'd be like a fool 
 kept in a family, to keep the household in good 
 humor with their own understanding. You might 
 teach him the mad dance, set to the mad howl. 
 Madge Owlet would be nothing to him. " My, how 
 he capers ! " {^In the margin is written " One of 
 the children speaks this^) . . . What I scratch out 
 is a German quotation, from Lessing, on the bite of 
 rabid animals ; but I remember you don't read 
 German. But Mrs. P. may, so I wish I had let it 
 stand. The meaning in English is : " Avoid to 
 approach an animal suspected of madness, as you 
 would avoid fire or a precipice," — which I think is 
 a sensible observation. The Germans are certainly 
 profounder than we. If the slightest suspicion 
 arises in your breast that all is not right with him, 
 muzzle him and lead him in a string (common 
 packthread will do ; he don't care for twist) to 
 Mr. Hood's, his quondam master, and he '11 take 
 him in at any time. You may mention your sus- 
 picion, or not, as you like, or as you think it may 
 wound, or not, Mr. H.'s feeHngs. Hood, I know, 
 will wink at a few follies in Dash, in consideration 
 of his former sense. Besides, Hood is deaf, and if 
 you hinted anything, ten to one he would not hear 
 you. Besides, you will have discharged your con- 
 science, and laid the child at the right door, as 
 they say. 
 
 We are dawdling our time away very idly and 
 pleasantly at a Mrs. Leishman's, Chase, Enfield, 
 
LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 309 
 
 where, if you come a-hunting, we can give you cold 
 meat and a tankard. Her husband is a tailor ; but 
 that, you know, does not make her one. I know a 
 jailor (which rhymes), but his wife was a fine lady. 
 Let us hear from you respecting Mrs. P.'s regi- 
 men. I send my love in a to Dash. 
 
 C. La]mb. 
 
 XCVIII. 
 
 TO BERNARD BARTON. 
 
 October 11, 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 
 cocked beaver and a jemmy cane ; his amice gray 
 to the last Regent Street cut; and his painful 
 palmer's pace to the modern swagger ! Stop thy 
 friend's sacrilegious hand. Nothing can be done 
 for B. but to reprint the old cuts in as homely but 
 good a style as possible, — the Vanity Fair and the 
 Pilgrims there ; the silly-soothness in his setting- 
 out countenance ; the Christian idiocy (in a good 
 sense) of his admiration of the shepherds on the 
 Delectable mountains ; the lions so truly allegorical, 
 and remote from any similitude to Pidcock's ; the 
 great head (the author's), capacious of dreams and 
 similitudes, dreaming in the dungeon. Perhaps you 
 don't know my edition, what I had when a child. 
 
 1 An edition de luxe, illustrated by John Martin, and 
 with an Introduction by Southey. See Macaulay's review 
 of it. 
 
3IO LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 
 
 If you do, can you bear new designs from Martin, 
 enamelled into copper or silver plate by Heath, 
 accompanied with verses from Mrs. Hemans's pen? 
 Oh, how unlike his own ! 
 
 " Wouldst thou divert thyself from melancholy? 
 Wouldst thou be pleasant, yet be far from folly ? 
 Wouldst thou read riddles and their explanation ? 
 Or else be drowned in thy contemplation ? 
 Dost thou love picking meat ? or wouldst thou see 
 A man i' the clouds, and hear him speak to thee ? 
 Wouldst thou be in a dream, and yet not sleep ? 
 Or wouldst thou in a moment laugh and weep ? 
 Or wouldst thou lose thyself, and catch no harm, 
 And find thyself again without a charm ? 
 Wouldst read thyself, and read thou knowest not what, 
 And yet know whether thou art blest or not 
 By reading the same lines ? Oh, then come hither. 
 And lay my book, thy head, and heart together." 
 
 Show me any such poetry in any one of the fifteen 
 forthcoming combinations of show and emptiness 
 'yclept " Annuals." So there 's verses for thy 
 verses ; and now let me tell you that the sight of 
 your hand gladdened me. I have been daily trying 
 to write to you, but [have been] paralyzed. You 
 have spurred me on this tiny effort, and at intervals 
 I hope to hear from and talk to you. But my spirits 
 have been in an oppressed way for a long time, and 
 they are things which must be to you of faith, for 
 who can explain depression? Yes, I am hooked 
 into the "Gem," but only for some lines written on 
 a dead infant of the editor's,^ which being, as it 
 were, his property, I could not refuse their ap- 
 pearing ; but I hate the paper, the type, the gloss, 
 
 1 Hood's. 
 
LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 311 
 
 the dandy plates, the names of contributors poked 
 up into your eyes in first page, and whisked through 
 all the covers of magazines, the barefaced sort of 
 emulation, the immodest candidateship. Brought 
 into so little space, — in those old " Londons," a 
 signature was lost in the wood of matter, the paper 
 coarse (till latterly, which spoiled them), — in short, 
 I detest to appear in an Annual. What a fertile 
 genius (and a quiet good soul withal) is Hood ! 
 He has fifty things in hand, — farces to supply the 
 Adelphi for the season ; a comedy for one of the 
 great theatres, just ready; a whole entertainment 
 by himself for Mathews and Yates to figure in ; a 
 meditated Comic Annual for next year, to be nearly 
 done by himself. You 'd like him very much. 
 
 Wordsworth, I see, has a good many pieces an- 
 nounced 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-gentle- 
 manly right notions. Don't think I set up for being 
 proud on this point ; I like a bit of flattery, tickling 
 my vanity, as well as any one. But these pompous 
 masquerades without masks (naked names or faces) 
 I hate. So there 's a bit of my mind. Besides, 
 they infallibly cheat you, — I mean the booksellers. 
 If I get but a copy, I only expect it from Hood's 
 being my friend. Goleridge has lately been here. 
 He too is deep among the prophets, the year-ser- 
 vers, — the mob of gentleman annuals. But they '11 
 cheat him, I know. And now, dear B. B., the sun 
 1 The translator of Dante. 
 
312 • LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 
 
 shining out merrily, and the dirty clouds we had 
 yesterday having washed their own faces clean with 
 their own rain, tempts me to wander up Winchmore 
 Hill, or into some of the delightful vicinages of En- 
 field, which I hope to show you at some time when 
 you can get a few days up to the great town. Be- 
 lieve 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 redivivtis. 
 
 XCIX. 
 
 TO PROCTER. 
 
 yanuary 22, 1829. 
 Don't trouble yourself about the verses. Take 
 'em coolly as they come. Any day between this and 
 midsummer will do. Ten lines the extreme. There 
 is no mystery in my incognita. She has often seen 
 you, though you may not have observed a silent 
 brown girl, who for the last twelve years has ram- 
 bled about our house in her Christmas holidays. 
 She is Italian by name and extraction.^ Ten lines 
 about the blue sky of her country will do, as it 's her 
 foible to be proud of it. Item, I have made her 
 a tolerable Latinist. She is called Emmalsola. I 
 shall, I think, be in town in a few weeks, when I 
 will assuredly see you. I will put in here loves to 
 
 1 Emma Isola, Lamb's ward, daughter of one of the Esquire 
 Bedells of Cambridge University, and granddaughter of an 
 Italian refugee. The Lambs had met her during one of their 
 Cambridge visits, and finally adopted her. 
 
LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 313 
 
 Mrs. Procter and the Anti-Capulets [Montagus], 
 because Mary tells me I omitted them in my last. 
 I like to see my friends here. I have put my law- 
 suit into the hands of an Enfield practitioner, — a 
 plain man, who seems perfectly to understand it, 
 and gives me hopes of a favorable result. 
 
 Rumor tells us that Miss Holcroft is married. 
 Who is Baddams? Have I seen him at Montacute's? 
 I hear he is a great chemist. I am sometimes 
 chemical myself. A thought strikes me with horror. 
 Pray Heaven he may not have done it for the sake 
 of trying chemical experiments upon her, — young 
 female subjects are so scarce ! An't you glad about 
 Burke's case? We may set off the Scotch mur- 
 ders against the Scotch novels, — Hare the Great 
 Unhanged.-^ 
 
 Martin Burney is richly worth your knowing. He 
 is on the top scale of my friendship ladder, on which 
 an angel or two is still climbing, and some, alas ! 
 descending. I am out of the literary world at pres- 
 ent. Pray, is there anything new from the admired 
 pen of the author of "The Pleasures of Hope"? 
 Has Mrs. He-mans (double masculine) done any- 
 thing pretty lately? Why sleeps the lyre of Hervey 
 and of Alaric Watts ? Is the muse of L. E. L. silent ? 
 Did you see a sonnet of mine in Blackwood's last ? ^ 
 Curious construction ! Elaborata facilitas / And 
 now I '11 tell. 'Twas written for "The Gem ; " but 
 the editors declined it, on the plea that it would 
 shock all mothers ; so they published " The Widow " 
 
 1 Burke and Hare, the Edinburgh resurrection-men. 
 '2 The Gypsy's Malison. 
 
314 LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 
 
 instead. I am born out of time. I have no con- 
 jecture about what the present world calls delicacy. 
 I thought "Rosamund Gray" was a pretty modest 
 thing. Hessey assures me that the world would not 
 bear it. I have lived to grow into an indecent char- 
 acter. When my sonnet was rejected, I exclaimed, 
 " Damn the age ; I will write for Antiquity 1 " 
 
 EjTatum in sonnet. Last line but something, for 
 "tender" read "tend." The Scotch do not know 
 our law terms, but I find some remains of honest, 
 plain old writing lurking there still. They were not 
 so mealy mouthed as to refuse my verses. Maybe, 
 't is their oatmeal. 
 
 Blackwood sent me £,20 for the drama. Some- 
 body cheated me out of it next day ; and my new 
 pair of breeches, just sent home, cracking at first 
 putting on, I exclaimed, in my wrath, " All tailors 
 are cheats, and all men are tailors." Then I was 
 better. 
 
 C. L. 
 
 C. 
 
 TO BERNARD BARTON. 
 
 Enfield Chase Side, 
 Saturday, z^th of July, A. D. 1829, 1 1 A. M. 
 
 There ! a fuller, plumper, juicier date never 
 
 dropped from Idumean palm. Am I in the date- 
 
 ive case now ? If not, a fig for dates, — which is 
 
 more than a date is worth. I never stood much 
 
 affected to these limitary specialities, — least of all, 
 
 since the date of my superannuation. 
 
 " What have I with time to do ? 
 Slaves of desks, 'twas meant for you." 
 
LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 3^5 
 
 Dear B B.,— Your handwriting has conveyed 
 much pleasure to me in respect of Lucy's restora- 
 tion. Would I could send you as good news of my 
 poor Lucy ' ^ But some wearisome weeks I must 
 remain lonely yet. I have had the loneliest time 
 near ten weeks, broken by a short apparition of 
 Emma for her holidays, whose departure only deep- 
 ened the returning solitude, and by ten days I have 
 passed in town. But town, with all my native han- 
 kering after it, is not what it was. The streets, the 
 shops, are left, but all old friends are gone. And 
 in London I was frightfully convinced of this as 
 I passed houses and places, empty caskets now. 
 I have ceased to care almost about anybody. The 
 bodies I cared for are in graves, or dispersed. 
 My old clubs, that lived so long and flourished so 
 steadily, are crumbled away. When I took leave of 
 our adopted young friend at Charing Cross, 'twas 
 heavy unfeeling rain, and I had nowhere to go. 
 Home have I none, and not a sympathizing house 
 to turn to in the great city. Never did the waters 
 of heaven pour down on a forlorner head. Yet I 
 tried ten days at a sort of a friend's house ; but it was 
 large and straggling, — one of the individuals of my 
 old long knot of friends, card-players, pleasant com- 
 panions, that have tumbled to pieces, into dust and 
 other things ; and I got home on Thursday, con- 
 vinced that I was better to get home to my hole at 
 Enfield, and hide like a sick cat in my corner. 
 Less than a month, I hope, will bring home Mary. 
 She is at Fulham, looking better in her health than 
 1 Mary Lamb. 
 
3i6 LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 
 
 ever, but sadly rambling, and scarce showing any 
 pleasure in seeing me, or curiosity when I should 
 come again. But the old feelings will come back 
 again, and we shall drown old sorrows over a game 
 of piquet again. But 't is a tedious cut out of a 
 life of fifty- four, to lose twelve or thirteen weeks 
 every year or two. And to make me more alone, our 
 ill-tempered maid is gone, who, with all her airs, was 
 yet a home-piece of furniture, a record of better 
 days ; the young thing that has succeeded her is 
 good and attentive, but she is nothing. And I have 
 no one here to talk over old matters with. Scolding 
 and quarrelling have something of familiarity and a 
 community of interest ; they imply acquaintance ; 
 they are of resentment, which is of the family 
 of dearness. 
 
 I bragged formerly that I could not have too 
 much time ; I have now a surfeit. With few years 
 to come, the days are wearisome. But weariness is 
 not eternal. Something will shine out to take the 
 load off that flags me, which is at present intoler- 
 able. I have killed an hour or two in this poor 
 scrawl. I am a sanguinary murderer of time, and 
 would kill him inch-meal just now. But the snake 
 is vital. Well, I shall write merrier anon. 'T is 
 the present copy of my countenance I send, and to 
 complain is a little to alleviate. May you enjoy 
 yourself as far as the wicked world will let you, and 
 think that you are not quite alone, as I am ! Health 
 to Lucia and to Anna, and kind remembrances. 
 
 Your forlorn C. L. 
 
LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 317 
 
 CI. 
 
 TO MR. GILLMAN. 
 
 November 30, 1829. 
 Dear G., — The excursionists reached home and 
 the good town of Enfield a Httle after four, without 
 sUp or dislocation. Little has transpired concern- 
 ing the events of the back- journey, save that on 
 passing the house of 'Squire Melhsh, situate a stone 
 bow's cast from the hamlet, Father Westwood,^ with 
 a good-natured wonderment, exclaimed, " I cannot 
 think what is gone of Mr. Mellish's rooks. I fancy 
 they have taken flight somewhere; but I have 
 missed them two or three years past." All this 
 while, according to his fellow-traveller's report, the 
 rookery was darkening the air above with undimin- 
 ished population, and deafening all ears but his with 
 their cawings. But nature has been gently with- 
 drawing such phenomena from the notice of Thomas 
 Westwood's senses, from the time he began to miss 
 the rooks. T. Westwood has passed a retired life 
 in this hamlet of thirty or forty years, living upon the 
 minimum which is consistent with gentihty, yet a 
 star among the minor gentry, receiving the bows of 
 the tradespeople and courtesies of the alms-women 
 daily. Children venerate him not less for his exter- 
 nal show of gentry than they wonder at him for a 
 
 1 Lamb's landlord. He had driven Mary Lamb over to see 
 Coleridge at Highgate. The Lambs had been compelled, by 
 the frequent illnesses of Mary Lamb, to give up their house- 
 keeping at Enfield and to take lodgings with the Westwoods. 
 
3l8 LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 
 
 gentle rising endorsation of the person, not amount- 
 ing to a hump, or if a hump, innocuous as the hump 
 of the buffalo, and coronative of as mild qualities. 
 'T is a throne on which patience seems to sit, — the 
 proud perch of a self-respecting humility, stooping 
 with condescension. Thereupon the cares of life 
 have sat, and rid him easily. For he has thrid the 
 angusticE dojuiis with dexterity. Life opened upon 
 him with comparative brilliancy. He set out as a 
 rider or traveller for a wholesale house, in which ca- 
 pacity he tells of many hair-breadth escapes that be- 
 fell him, — one especially, how he rode a mad horse 
 into the town of Devizes ; how horse and rider ar- 
 rived in a foam, to the utter consternation of the 
 expostulating hostlers, inn-keepers, etc. It seems 
 it was sultry weather, piping-hot ; the steed tor- 
 mented into frenzy with gad-flies, long past being 
 roadworthy : but safety and the interest of the house 
 he rode for were incompatible things ; a fall in serge 
 cloth was expected ; and a mad entrance they made 
 of it. Whether the exploit was purely voluntary, or 
 partially ; or whether a certain personal defiguration 
 in the man part of this extraordinary centaur (non- 
 assistive to partition of natures) might not enforce 
 the conjunction, I stand not to inquire. I look not 
 with 'skew eyes into the deeds of heroes. The 
 hosier that was burned with his shop in Field Lane, 
 on Tuesday night, shall have passed to heaven for 
 me like a Marian Martyr, provided always that he 
 consecrated the fortuitous incremation with a short 
 ejaculation in the exit, as much as if he had taken 
 his state degrees of martyrdom in fof-md in the 
 
LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB 3^9 
 
 market vicinage. There is adoptive as well as 
 acquisitive sacrifice. Be the animus what it might, 
 the fact is indisputable, that this composition was 
 seen flying all abroad, and mine host of Daintry 
 may yet remember its passing through his town, if 
 his scores are not more faithful than his memory. 
 
 To come from his heroic character, all the amia- 
 ble qualities of domestic life concentre in this tamed 
 Bellerophon. He is excellent over a glass of grog ; 
 just as pleasant without it ; laughs when he hears a 
 joke, and when (which is much oftener) he hears it 
 not ; sings glorious old sea-songs on festival nights ; 
 and but upon a slight acquaintance of two years, 
 Coleridge, is as dear a deaf old man to us as old 
 Norris, rest his soul ! was after fifty. To him and 
 his scanty literature (what there is of it, soimd) have 
 we flown from the metropoHs and its cursed annual- 
 ists, reviewers, authors, and the whole muddy ink 
 press of that stagnant pool. 
 
 CII. 
 
 TO WORDSWORTH. 
 
 January 22, 1830. 
 And is it a year since we parted from you at the 
 steps of Edmonton stage ? There are not now the 
 years that there used to be. The tale of the dwindled 
 age of men, reported of successional mankind, is 
 true of the same man only. We do not live a year 
 in a year now. 'T is a punctiim stans. The seasons 
 
320 LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 
 
 pass us with indifference. Spring cheers not, nor 
 winter heightens our gloom ; autumn hath foregone 
 its moraUties, — they are " heypass repass," as in a 
 show-box. Yet, as far as last year, occurs back — 
 for they scarce show a reflex now, they make no 
 memory as heretofore — 't was sufficiently gloomy. 
 Let the sullen nothing pass. Suffice it that after sad 
 spirits, prolonged through many of its months, as it 
 called them, we have cast our skins, have taken a 
 farewell of the pompous, troublesome trifle called 
 housekeeping, and are settled down into poor board- 
 ers and lodgers at next door with an old couple, the 
 Baucis and Baucida of dull Enfield. Here we have 
 nothing to do with our victuals but to eat them, with 
 the garden but to see it grow, with the tax-gatherer 
 but to hear him knock, with the maid but to hear 
 her scolded. Scot and lot, butcher, baker, are 
 things unknown to us, save as spectators of the pa- 
 geant. We are fed we know not how, — quietists, 
 confiding ravens. We have the otium pro digni- 
 tate, a respectable insignificance. Yet in the self- 
 condemned obliviousness, in the stagnation, some 
 molesting yearnings of hfe not quite killed rise, 
 prompting me that there was a London, and that I 
 was of that old Jerusalem. In dreams I am in Fleet 
 Market ; but I wake and cry to sleep again. I die 
 hard, a stubborn Eloisa in this detestable Paraclete. 
 What have I gained by health? Intolerable dulness. 
 What by early hours and moderate meals? A total 
 blank. Oh, never let the lying poets be believed 
 who 'tice men from the cheerful haunts of streets, 
 or think they mean it not of a country village. In 
 
LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 32 1 
 
 the ruins of Palmyra I could gird myself up to soli- 
 tude, or muse to the snorings of the Seven Sleepers ; 
 but to have a little teasing image of a town about 
 one, country folks that do not look like country 
 folks, shops two yards square, half-a-dozen apples 
 and two penn'orth of over-looked gingerbread for 
 the lofty fruiterers of Oxford Street, and for the im- 
 mortal book and print stalls a circulating library that 
 stands still, where the show-picture is a last year's 
 Valentine, and whither the fame of the last ten 
 Scotch novels has not yet travelled (marry, they 
 just begin to be conscious of the " Redgauntlet "), to 
 have a new plastered flat church, and to be wishing 
 that it was but a cathedral ! The very blackguards 
 here are degenerate, the topping gentry stock- 
 brokers ; the passengers too many to insure your 
 quiet, or let you go about whistling or gaping, — too 
 few to be the fine indifferent pageants of Fleet 
 Street. Confining, room-keeping, thickest winter is 
 yet more bearable here than the gaudy months. 
 Among one's books at one's fire by candle, one is 
 soothed into an oblivion that one is not in the 
 country ; but with the light the green fields return, 
 till I gaze, and in a calenture can plunge myself into 
 St. Giles's. Oh, let no native Londoner imagine 
 that health and rest and innocent occupation, inter- 
 change of converse sweet and recreative study, can~ 
 make the country anything better than altogether 
 odious and detestable. A garden was the primi- 
 tive prison, till man with Promethean felicity and 
 boldness luckily sinned himself out of it. Thence 
 followed Babylon, Nineveh, Venice, London ; haber- 
 
 21 
 
322 LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 
 
 dashers, goldsmiths, taverns, playhouses, satires, epi- 
 grams, puns, — these all came in on the town part 
 and the thither side of innocence. Man found out 
 inventions. From my den I return you condolence 
 for your decaying sight, — not for anything there is 
 to see in the country, but for the miss of the pleasure 
 of reading a London newspaper. The poets are as 
 well to listen to ; anything high may — nay, must 
 be read out ; you read it to yourself with an imagi- 
 nary auditor : but the light paragraphs must be glid 
 over by the proper eye ; mouthing mumbles their 
 gossamery substance. 'Tis these trifles I should 
 mourn in fading sight. A newspaper is the single 
 gleam of comfort I receive here ; it comes from rich 
 Cathay with tidings of mankind. Yet I could not 
 attend to it, read out by the most beloved voice. 
 But your eyes do not get worse, I gather. Oh, for 
 the coUyriura of Tobias enclosed in a whiting's liver, 
 to send you, with no apocryphal good wishes ! The 
 last long time I heard from you, you had knocked 
 your head against something. Do not do so ; for 
 your head (I do not flatter) is not a knob, or the 
 top of a brass nail, or the end of a ninepin, — un- 
 less a Vulcanian hammer could fairly batter a " Re- 
 cluse " out of it ; then would I bid the smirched god 
 knock, and knock lustily, the two-handed skinker ! 
 Mary must squeeze out a line propria inami ; but 
 indeed her fingers have been incorrigibly nervous to 
 letter- writing for a long interval. 'Twill please you 
 all to hear that, though I fret like a lion in a net, 
 her present health and spirits are better than they 
 have been for some time past ; she is absolutely 
 
LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 323 
 
 three years and a half younger, as I tell her, since 
 we have adopted this boarding plan. 
 
 Our providers are an honest pair, Dame Westwood 
 and her husband, — he, when the light of prosperity 
 shined on them, a moderately thriving haberdasher 
 within Bow bells, retired since with something under 
 a competence; writes himself parcel-gentleman; 
 hath borne parish offices ; sings fine old sea-songs at 
 threescore and ten ; sighs only now and then when 
 he thinks that he has a son on his hands about 
 fifteen, whom he finds a difficulty in getting out 
 into the world, and then checks a sigh with mutter- 
 ing, as I once heard him prettily, not meaning to be 
 heard, '•' I have married my daughter, however;" 
 takes the weather as it comes ; outsides it to town in 
 severest season; and o' winter nights tells old stories 
 not tending to literature (how comfortable to au- 
 thor-rid folks !), and has one ancedote, upon which 
 and about forty pounds a year he seems to have 
 retired in green old age. It was how he was a rider 
 in his youth, travelling for shops, and once (not to 
 balk his employer's bargain) on a sweltering day in 
 August, rode foaming into Dunstable ^ upon a mad 
 horse, to the dismay and expostulatory wonderment 
 of inn-keepers, ostlers, etc., who declared they would 
 not have bestrid the beast to win the Derby. Un- 
 derstand the creature galled to death and despera- 
 tion by gad-flies, cormorant-winged, worse than 
 beset Inachus's daughter. This he tells, this he 
 brindles and burnishes, on a winter's eve ; 't is his 
 star of set glory, his rejuvenescence to descant 
 1 See preceding letter. 
 
324 LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 
 
 upon. Far from me be it {dii avertant !) to look a 
 gift-story in the mouth, or cruelly to surmise (as 
 those who doubt the plunge of Curtius) that the 
 inseparate conjuncture of man and beast, the cen- 
 taur-phenomenon that staggered all Dunstable, might 
 have been the effect of unromantic necessity; that 
 the horse-part carried the reasoning willy-nilly; 
 that needs must when such a devil drove ; that cer- 
 tain spiral configurations in the frame of Thomas 
 Westwood, unfriendly to alighting, made the alliance 
 more forcible than voluntary. Let him enjoy his 
 fame for me, nor let me hint a whisper that shall 
 dismount Bellerophon. But in case he was an in- 
 voluntary martyr, yet if in the fiery conflict he 
 buckled the soul of a constant haberdasher to him, 
 and adopted his flames, let accident and him share 
 the glory. You would all like Thomas Westwood. 
 [ ] ^ How weak is painting to describe a 
 
 man ! Say that he stands four feet and a nail high 
 by his own yard-measure, which, Hke the sceptre of 
 Agamemnon, shall never sprout again, still, you have 
 no adequate idea ; nor when I tell you that his dear 
 hump, which I have favored in the picture, seems 
 to me of the buffalo, — indicative and repository of 
 mild qualities, a budget of kindnesses, — still, you 
 have not the man. Knew you old Norris of the 
 Temple, sixty years ours and our father's friend? 
 He was not more natural to us than this old West- 
 wood, the acquaintance of scarce more weeks. 
 Under his roof now ought I to take my rest, but 
 that back-looking ambition tells me I might yet be a 
 
 1 Here was inserted a sketch answering to the description. 
 
LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 325 
 
 Londoner ! Well, if we ever do move, we have 
 encumbrances the less to impede us ; all our furni- 
 ture has faded under the auctioneer's hammer, going 
 for nothing, like the tarnished frippery of the prodi- 
 gal, and we have only a spoon or two left to bless 
 us. Clothed we came into Enfield, and naked we 
 must go out of it. I would live in London shirtless, 
 bookless. Henry Crabb is at Rome ; advices to 
 that effect have reached Bury. But by solemn 
 legacy he bequeathed at parting (whether he should 
 live or die) a turkey of Suffolk to be sent every 
 succeeding Christmas to us and divers other friends. 
 What a genuine old bachelor's action ! I fear he 
 will find the air of Italy too classic. His station is 
 in the Hartz forest ; his soul is be-Goethed. Miss 
 Kelly we never see, — Talfourd not this half year; 
 the latter flourishes, but the exact number of his 
 children, God forgive me, I have utterly forgotten : 
 we single people are often out in our count there. 
 Shall I say two? We see scarce anybody. Can 
 I cram loves enough to you all in this little O? 
 Excuse particularizing. 
 
 C. L. 
 
 CIH. 
 
 TO MRS. HAZLITT. 
 
 May 24, 1830. 
 
 Mary's love ? Yes. Mary Lamb quite well. 
 
 Dear Sarah, — I found my way to Northaw on 
 Thursday and a very good woman behind a coun- 
 ter, who says also that you are a very good lady, 
 but that the woman who was with you was naught. 
 
326 LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 
 
 We travelled with one of those troublesome 
 fellow- passengers in a stage-coach that is called 
 a well-informed man. For twenty miles we dis- 
 coursed about the properties of steam, probabilities 
 of carriages by ditto, till all my science, and more 
 than all, was exhausted, and I was thinking of es- 
 caping my torment by getting up on the outside, 
 when, getting into Bishops Stortford, my gentleman, 
 spying some farming land, put an unlucky question 
 to me, — What sort of a crop of turnips I thought 
 we should have this year? Emma's eyes turned to 
 me to know what in the world I could have to say ; 
 and she burst into a violent fit of laughter, maugre 
 her pale, serious cheeks, when, with the greatest 
 gravity, I replied that it depended, I believed, upon 
 boiled legs of mutton. This clenched our conver- 
 sation ; and my gentleman, with a face half wise, 
 half in scorn, troubled us with no more conversa- 
 tion, scientific or philosophical, for the remainder 
 of the journey. 
 
 Ayrton was here yesterday, and as learned to 
 the full as my fellow-traveller. What a pity that 
 he will spoil a wit and a devilish pleasant fellow (as 
 he is) by wisdom ! He talked on Music \ and 
 by having read Hawkins and Burney recently I was 
 enabled to talk of names, and show more knowl- 
 edge than he had suspected I possessed ; and in 
 the end he begged me to shape my thoughts upon 
 paper, which I did after he was gone, and sent him 
 " Free Thoughts on Some Eminent Composers." 
 
 " Some cry up Haydn, some Mozart, 
 Just as the whim bites. For my part, 
 
LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 327 
 
 I do not care a farthing candle 
 
 For either of them, or for Handel/' etc. 
 
 Martin Burney ^ is as odd as ever. We had a dis- 
 pute about the word " heir," which I contended 
 was pronounced Uke " air." He said that might 
 be in common parlance, or that we might so use 
 it speaking of the " Heir-at-Law," a comedy ; but 
 that in the law-courts it was necessary to give it 
 a full aspiration, and to say Hayer ; he thought 
 it might even vitiate a cause if a counsel pro- 
 nounced it otherwise. In conclusion, he "would 
 consult Serjeant Wilde," who gave it against him. 
 Sometimes he falleth into the water, sometimes 
 into the fire. He came down here, and insisted 
 on reading Virgil's " y^neid " all through with me 
 (which he did), because a counsel must know 
 Latin. Another time he read out all the Gospel 
 of St. John, because Biblical quotations are very 
 emphatic in a court of justice. A third time he 
 would carve a fowl, which he did very ill favoredly, 
 because we did not know how indispensable it 
 was for a barrister to do all those sort of things 
 well. Those httle things were of more conse- 
 quence than we supposed. So he goes on, har- 
 assing about the way to prosperity, and losing it. 
 With a long head, but somewhat a wrong one, — 
 harum-scarum. Why does not his guardian angel 
 look to him? He deserves one, — maybe he has 
 tired him out. 
 
 I am tired with this long scrawl; but I thought 
 
 1 Martin Burney, originally a solicitor, had lately been 
 called to the Bar. 
 
328 LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 
 
 in your exile you might like a letter. Commend 
 me to all the wonders in Derbyshire, and tell the 
 devil I humbly kiss my hand to him. 
 
 Yours ever, C. Lamb. 
 
 CIV. 
 
 TO GEORGE DYER. 
 
 December 20, 1830. 
 Dear Dyer, — I would have written before to 
 thank you for your kind letter, written with your 
 own hand. It glads us to see your writing. It will 
 give you pleasure to hear that, after so much illness, 
 we are in tolerable health and spirits once more. 
 Miss Isola intended to call upon you after her 
 night's lodging at Miss Buffam's, but found she was 
 too late for the stage. If she comes to town before 
 she goes home, she will not miss paying her re- 
 spects to Mrs. Dyer and you, to whom she desires 
 best love. Poor Enfield, that has been so peace- 
 able hitherto, that has caught an inflammatory fever, 
 the tokens are upon her ; and a great fire was blaz- 
 ing last night in the barns and haystacks of a farmer 
 about half a mile from us. Where will these things 
 end? There is no doubt of its being the work 
 of some ill-disposed rustic ; but how is he to be 
 discovered? They go to work in the dark with 
 strange chemical preparations unknown to our fore- 
 fathers. There is not even a dark lantern to have 
 a chance of detecting these Guy Fauxes. We are 
 past the iron age, and are got into the fiery age, 
 undream'd of by Ovid. You are lucky in Clifford's 
 
LETTERS OE CHARLES LAMB. 329 
 
 Inn, where, I think, you have few ricks or stacks 
 worth the burning. Pray keep as Uttle corn by you 
 as you can, for fear of the worst. 
 
 It was never good times in England since the 
 poor began to speculate upon their condition. 
 Formerly they jogged on with as little reflection 
 as horses ; the whistling ploughman went cheek by 
 jowl with his brother that neighed. Now the biped 
 carries a box of phosphorus in his leather breeches ; 
 and in the dead of night the half-illuminated beast 
 steals his magic potion into a cleft in a barn, and 
 half the country is grinning with new fires. Farmer 
 Graystock said something to the touchy rustic that 
 he did not relish, and he writes his distaste in 
 flames. What a power to intoxicate his crude 
 brains, just muddlingly awake, to perceive that 
 something is wrong in the social system ; what a 
 hellish faculty above gunpowder ! 
 
 Now the rich and poor are fairly pitted, we shall 
 see who can hang or burn fastest. It is not always 
 revenge that stimulates these kindlings. There is 
 a love of exerting mischief. Think of a disre- 
 spected clod that was trod into earth, that was 
 nothing, on a sudden by damned arts refined into 
 an exterminating angel, devouring the fruits of the 
 earth and their growers in a mass of fire ! What 
 a new existence; what a temptation above Luci- 
 fer's ! Would clod be anything but a clod if he 
 could resist it? Why, here was a spectacle last 
 night for a whole country, — a bonfire visible to 
 London, alarming her guilty towers, and shaking 
 the Monument with an ague fit : all done by a 
 
33° LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 
 
 little vial of phosphor in a clown's fob ! How he 
 must grin, and shake his empty noddle in clouds, 
 the Vulcanian epicure ! Can we ring the bells 
 backward? Gan we unlearn the arts that pretend 
 to civilize, and then burn the world? There is a 
 march of Science : but who shall beat the drums 
 for its retreat? Who shall persuade the boor that 
 phosphor will not ignite? 
 
 Seven goodly stacks of hay, with corn-barns pro- 
 portionable, lie smoking ashes and chaff, which man 
 and beast would sputter out and reject like those 
 apples of asphaltes and bitumen. The food for the 
 inhabitants of earth will quickly disappear. Hot 
 rolls may say, " Fuimus panes, fuit quartern-loaf, 
 et ingens gloria Apple-pasty-orum." That the good 
 old munching system may last thy time and mine, 
 good un-incendiary George, is the devout prayer 
 
 of thine, to the last crust, 
 
 Ch. Lamb. 
 
 GV. 
 
 TO DYER. 
 
 February 22, 1831. 
 
 Dear Dyer, — Mr. Rogers and Mr. Rogers's 
 friends are perfectly assured that you never in- 
 tended any harm by an innocent couplet, and that 
 in the revivification of it by blundering Barker you 
 had no hand whatever. To imagine that, at this 
 time of day, Rogers broods over a fantastic expres- 
 sion of more than thirty years' standing, would be 
 to suppose him indulging his " Pleasures of Memory " 
 
LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 33^ 
 
 with a vengeance. You never penned a line which 
 for its own sake you need, dying, wish to blot. 
 You mistake your heart if you think you can write 
 a lampoon. Your whips are rods of roses.' Your 
 spleen has ever had for its objects vices, not the 
 vicious, — abstract offences, not the concrete sinner. 
 But you are sensitive, and wince as much at the 
 consciousness of having committed a compliment 
 as another man would at the perpetration of an 
 affront. But do not lug me into the same soreness 
 of conscience with yourself. I maintain, and will 
 to the last hour, that I never writ of you but con 
 amore; that if any allusion was made to your near- 
 sightedness, it was not for the purpose of mocking 
 an infirmity, but of connecting it with scholar-like 
 habits, — for is it not erudite and scholarly to be 
 somewhat near of sight before age naturally brings 
 on the malady? You could not then plead the 
 obrepens senectus. Did I not, moreover, make it an 
 apology for a certain absence, which some of your 
 friends may have experienced, when you have not 
 on a sudden made recognition of them in a casual 
 street-meeting ; and did I not strengthen your excuse 
 for this slowness of recognition by further account- 
 
 1 Talfourd relates an amusing instance of the universal 
 charity of the kindly Dyer. Lamb once suddenly asked him 
 what he thought of the murderer Williams,- a wretch who 
 had destroyed two families in Ratcliff Highway, and then 
 cheated the gallows by committing suicide. " The desperate 
 attempt," savs Talfourd, "to compel the gentle optnnist 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.' " 
 
332 LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 
 
 ing morally for the present engagement of your mind 
 in worthy objects? Did I not, in your person, make 
 the handsomest apology for absent-of-mind people 
 that was ever made ? If these things be not so, I 
 never knew what I wrote or meant by my writing, 
 and have been penning libels all my life without 
 being aware of it. Does it follow that I should have 
 expressed myself exactly in the same way of those 
 dear old eyes of yours now, — now that Father 
 Time has conspired with a hard taskmaster to put a 
 last extinguisher upon them ? I should as soon have 
 insulted the Answerer of Salmasius when he awoke 
 up from his ended task, and saw no more with 
 mortal vision. But you are many films removed 
 yet from Milton's calamity. You write perfectly 
 intelligibly. Marry, the letters are not all of the 
 same size or tallness ; but that only shows your pro- 
 ficiency in the hands, — text, german-hand, court- 
 hand, sometimes law-hand, and affords variety. You 
 pen better than you did a twelvemonth ago ; and if 
 you continue to improve, you bid fair to win the 
 golden pen which is the prize at your young gentle- 
 men's academy. 
 
 But don't gb and lay this to your eyes. You 
 always wrote hieroglyphically, yet not to come up 
 to the mystical notations and conjuring characters 
 of Dr. Parr. You never wrote what I call a school- 
 master's hand, like Mrs. Clarke ; nor a woman's 
 hand, like Southey ; nor a missal hand, like Porson ; 
 nor an all-on-the-wrong-side sloping hand, like Miss 
 Hayes ; nor a dogmatic, Mede-and- Persian, peremp- 
 
LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 333 
 
 tory hand, like Rickman : but you wrote what I call 
 a Grecian's hand, — what the Grecians write (or 
 wrote) at Christ's Hospital ; such as Whalley would 
 have admired, and Boyer ^ have applauded, but Smith 
 or Atwood [writing-masters] would have horsed you 
 for. Your boy- of- genius hand and your mercantile 
 hand are various. By your flourishes, I should think 
 you never learned to make eagles or cork-screws, or 
 flourish the governor's names in the writing-school ; 
 and by the tenor and cut of your letters, I suspect 
 you were never in it at all. By the length of this 
 scrawl you will think I have a design upon your 
 optics ; but I have writ as large as I could, out of 
 respect to them, — too large, indeed, for beauty. 
 Mine is a sort of Deputy-Grecian's hand, — a little 
 better, and more of a worldly hand, than a Grecian's, 
 but still remote from the mercantile. I don't know 
 how it is, but I keep my rank in fancy still since 
 school-days ; I can never forget I was a Deputy- 
 Grecian. And writing to you, or to Coleridge, 
 besides affection, I feel a reverential deference as 
 to Grecians still.^ I keep my soaring way above 
 the Great Erasmians, yet far beneath the other. 
 Alas ! what am I now ? What is a Leadenhall clerk 
 or India pensioner to a Deputy-Grecian? How art 
 thou fallen, O Lucifer ! Just room for our loves to 
 
 Mrs. D., etc. 
 
 C. Lamb. 
 
 ^ Whalley and Boyer were masters at Christ's Hospital. 
 2 " Deputy-Grecian,V " Grecian," etc., were of course forms, 
 or grades, at Christ's Hospital. 
 
334 LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 
 
 CVI. 
 
 TO MR. MOXON.^ 
 
 February^ 1832. 
 Dear Moxon, — The snows are ankle-deep, slush, 
 and mire, that 't is hard to get to the post-office, and 
 cruel to send the maid out. 'Tis a slough of de- 
 spair, or I should sooner have thanked you for your 
 offer of the " Life," which we shall very much like 
 to have, and will return duly. I do not know when 
 I shall be in town, but in a week or two at farthest, 
 when I will come as far as you, if I can. We are 
 moped to death with confinement within doors. I 
 send you a curiosity of G. Dyer's tender conscience. 
 Between thirty and forty years since, George pub- 
 Hshed 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 George has been 
 worrying about them ever since ; if I have heard 
 him once, I have heard him a hundred times ex- 
 press a remorse proportioned to a consciousness of 
 having been guilty of an atrocious libel. As the 
 devil would have it, a fool they call Barker, in his 
 " Parriana " has quoted the identical two lines as 
 they stood in some obscure edition anterior to 1801, 
 and the withers of poor George are again wrung, 
 His letter is a gem ; with his poor blind eyes it has 
 
 1 Lamb's future publisher. He afterwards became the 
 husband of \.-3iXdki's protegee, Emma Isola. 
 
LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 335 
 
 been labored out at six sittings. The history of the 
 couplet is in page 3 of this irregular production, in 
 which every variety of shape and size that letters 
 can be twisted into is to be found. Do show his 
 part of it to Mr. Rogers some day. If he has 
 bowels, they must melt at the contrition so queerly 
 charactered of a contrite sinner. G. was born, I 
 verily think, without original sin, but chooses to 
 have a conscience, as every Christian gentleman 
 should have ; his dear old face is insusceptible of 
 the twist they call a sneer, yet he is apprehensive of 
 being suspected of that ugly appearance. When he 
 makes a compliment, he thinks he has given an 
 affront, — a name is personality. But show (no hur- 
 ry) this unique recantation to Mr. Rogers : 't is like a 
 dirty pocket-handerchief mucked with tears of some 
 indigent Magdalen. There is the impress of sin- 
 cerity m every pot-hook and hanger ; and then the 
 gilt frame to such a pauper picture ! It should go 
 into the Museum. 
 
 evil. 
 
 TO MR. MOXON. 
 
 July 24, 1833. 
 
 For God's sake give Emma no more watches ; 
 one has turned her head. She is arrogant and in- 
 sulting. 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 
 
33^ LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB. 
 
 takes it out every instant to look at the moment- 
 hand. She lugs us out into the fields, because 
 there the bird-boys ask you, " Pray, sir, can you tell 
 us what 's o'clock?" and she answers them punc- 
 tually. She loses all her time looking to see '' what 
 the time is." I overheard her whispering, '"Just so 
 many hours, minutes, etc., to Tuesday ; I think St. 
 George's goes too slow." This little present of 
 Time, — why, 't is Eternity to her ! 
 
 What can make her so fond of a gingerbread 
 watch ? 
 
 She has spoiled some of the movements. Be- 
 tween ourselves, she has kissed away " half-past 
 twelve," which I suppose to be the canonical hour 
 in Hanover Square. 
 
 Well, if " love me, love my watch," answers, she 
 will keep time to you. 
 
 It goes right by the Horse-Guards. 
 
 Dearest M., — Never mind opposite nonsense. 
 She does not love you for the watch, but the watch 
 for you. I will be at the wedding, and keep the 
 30th July, as long as my poor months last me, as a 
 festival gloriously. 
 
 Yours ever, 
 
 Elia. 
 
 THE END. 
 

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