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Drawri' bi/ J: Wa^errujbn/. liJ LAJEKJ"'^: ^ J.JhMM LITERARY SKETCHES AID LETTEES: BEING THE FINAL MEMORIALS OF CHARLES LAMB, NEVER BEFORE PUBLISHED. BY THOMAS NOON TALFOURR ONE OF HIS EXECUTOKS. NEW-YORK: D. APPLETON & COMPANY, 200 BROADWAY. rHILADELPHIA : GEO. S. APPLETON, 148 CIIESNUT-STREET. MDCCCXLVIII. 'to TO WILLIAM WORDSWORTH, Esq., D.C.L., POET LAUREATE, THESE FINAL MEMORIALS OF ONE WHO CHERISHED HIS FRIENDSHIP AS A COMFORT AMIDST GRIEFS, AND A GLORY AMIDST DEPRESSIONS, ARE, WITH AFFECTION AND RESPECT, Knscribetr BY ONE AVHOSE PRIDE IS TO HAVE BEEN IN OLD TIME HIS EARNEST ADMIRER, AND ONE OF WHOSE FONDEST WISHES IS THAT HE MAY BE LONG SPARED TO ENJOY FAME, RARELY ACCORDED TO THE LIVING. PREFACE. Nearly twelve years have elapsed since the Letters of Charles Lamb, accompanied by such slight sketches of his Life as might link them together, and explain the circum- stances to which they refer, were given to the world. In the Preface to that work, reference was made to letters yet remaining unpublished, and to a period when a more com- plete estimate might be formed of the singular and delight- ful character of the writer than was there presented. That period has arrived. Several of his friends, who might pos- sibly have felt a moment's pain at the publication of some of those effusions of kindness, in which they are sportively mentioned, have been removed by death ; and the dismissal of the last, and to him the dearest of all, his sister, while it has brought to her the repose she sighed for ever since she lost him, has released his biographer from a difficulty which has hitherto prevented a due appreciation of some of his noblest qualities. Her most lamentable, but most innocent agency in the event which consigned her for life to his pro- tection, forbade the introduction of any letter, or allusion to any incident, which might ever, in the long and dismal 8 PREFACE. twilight of consciousness which she endured, shock her by the recurrence of long past and terrible sorrows ; and the same consideration for her induced the suppression of e very- passage which referred to the malady with which she was through life at intervals afflicted. Although her death had removed the objection to a reference to her intermittent suf- fering, it still left a momentous question, whether even then, when no relative remained to be affected by the disclosure, it would be right to unveil the dreadful calamity which marked one of its earliest visitations, and which, though known to most of those who were intimate with the surviv- ing sufferers, had never been publicly associated with their history. When, however, I reflected that the truth, while in no wise affecting the gentle excellence of one of them, casts new and solemn lights on the character of the other ; that while his frailties have received an ample share of that in- dulgence which he extended to all human weaknesses, their chief exciting cause has been hidden ; that his moral strength and the extent of his self-sacrifice have been hitherto un- known to the world ; I felt that to develope all which is es- sential to the just appreciation of his rare excellence, was due both to him and to the public. While I still hesitated as to the extent of disclosure needful for this purpose, my lino-er- ing doubts were removed by the appearance of a full state- ment of the melancholy event, with all the details capable of being collected from the newspapers of the time, in the " British Quarterly Review," and the diffusion of the pas- sage, extracted thence, through several other journals. After this publication, no doubt could remain as to the propriety of PREFACE. 9 publishing the letters of Lamb on this event, eminently ex- alting the characters of himself and his sister, and enabling the reader to judge of the sacrifice which followed it. I have also availed myself of the opportunity of introduc- ing some letters, the objection to publishing which has been ob- viated by the same great healer, Time ; and of adding others which I deemed too trivial for the public eye, when the whole of his letters lay before me, collected by Mr. Moxon from the distinguished correspondents of Lamb, who kindly responded to his request for permission to make the public sharers in their choice epistolary treasures. The appre- ciation which the letters already published, both in this country and America — perhaps even more remarkable in America than in England — have attained, and the interest which the lightest fragments of Lamb's correspondence, which have accidentally appeared in other quarters, have excited, convince me that some letters which I withheld, as doubting their worthiness of the public eye, will not now be unwelcome. There is, indeed, scarcely a note — a notelet — (as he used to call his very little letters) Lamb ever wrote, which has not some tinge of that quaint sweetness, some hint of that peculiar union of kindness and whim, which distin- o-uish him from all other poets and humorists. I do not think the reader will complain that — with some very slight exceptions, which personal considerations still render neces- sary I have made him a partaker of all the epistolary trea- sures which the generosity of Lamb's correspondents placed at Mr. Moxon's disposal. When I first considered the materials of this work, I pur- 1* 10 PREFACE. posed to combine them with a new edition of the former volumes; but the consideration that such a course would be unjust to the possessors of those volumes induced me to pre- sent them to the public in a separate form. In accomplish- ing that object, I have felt the difficulty of connecting the letters so as to render their attendant circumstances intelli- gible, without falling into repetition of passages in the pre- vious biography. My attempt has been to make these volumes subsidiary to the former, and yet complete in them- selves; but I fear its imperfection will require much indul- gence from the reader. The italics and capitals used in printing the letters are always those of the writer ; and the little passages sometimes prefixed to letters, have been print- ed as in the originals. In venturing to introduce some notices of Lamb's de- ceased companions, I have been impelled partly by a desire to explain any allusion in the letters which might be misun- derstood by those who are not familiar with the fine vagaries of Lamb's affection, and partly by the hope of giving some faint notion of the entire circle with which Lamb is associ- ated in the recollection of a few survivors. T. N. T. London, Juhj, 1848. FINAL MEMORIALS OF CHARLES LAMB. CHAPTER L LETTERS OF LAMIP TO COLERIDGE, IN THE SPRING AND SUMMER OF 1796. In the year 1795, Charles Lamb resided with his father, mother, and sister, in lodgings at No. 7, Little Queen Street, Holborn. The father was rapidly sinking into dotage ; the mother suffered under an infirmity which deprived her of the use of her limbs ; and the sister not only undertook the office of daily and nightly attendance on her mother, but sought to add by needlework to their slender resources. Their income then consisted of an annuity which Mr. Lamb the elder derived from the old Bencher, Mr. Salt, whom he had faithfully served for many years ; Charles's salary, which, being that of a clerk of three years' standing in the India House, could have been but scanty ; and a small payment made for board by an old maiden aunt, who resided with them. In this year Lamb, being just twenty years of age, began to write verses, — partly incited by the example of his 1^ FINaL memorials of CHARLES LAMB. only friend, Coleridge, whom he regarded with as much reverence as affection, and partly inspired by an attachment to a young lady residing in the neighborhood of Islington, who is commemorated in his early verses as " the fair-haired maid." How his love prospered we cannot ascertain ; but we know how nobly that love, and all hope of the earthly blessings attendant on such an affection, were resigned on the catastrophe which darkened the following year. In the meantime, his youth was lonely — rendered more so by the recollection of the society of Coleridge, who had just left London— of Coleridge in the first bloom of life and genius, unshaded by the mysiicism which it afterwards glorified — full of boundless ambition, love, and hope ! There was a tendency to insanity in his family, which had been more than once developed in his sister ; and it was no matter of surprise that in the dreariness of his solitude it fell upon him ; and that, at the close of the year, he was subjected for a few weeks to the restraint of the insane. The wonder is that, amidst all the difficulties, the sorrows, and the excite- ments of his succeeding forty years, it never recurred. Per- haps the true cause of this remarkable exemption— an ex- emption the more remarkable when his afflictions are con- sidered in association with one single frailty— will be found in the sudden claim made on his moral and intellectual na- ture by a terrible exigency, and by his generous answer to that claim ; so that a life of self-sacrifice was rewarded by the reservation of unclouded reason. The following letter to Coleridge, then residing at Bristol, which is undated, but which is proved by circumstances to have been written in the spring of 1796, and which is pro- bably the earliest of Lamb's letters which have been preserv- ed, contains his own account of this seizure. Allusion to the same event will be perceived in two letters of the same year, after which no reference to it appears in his corres- LETTERS TO COLERIDGE. 13 pondence, nor can any be remembered in his conversations with his dearest friends. TO MR. COLERIDGE. Dear C , make yourself perfectly easy about May. I paid his bill when I sent your clothes. I was flush of money, and I am so still to all the purposes of a single life ; so give yourself no further concern about it. The money would be superfluous to me if I had it. When Southey becomes as modest as his predecessor Milton, and publishes his Epics in duodecimo, I will read ^em ; a guinea a book is somewhat exorbitant, nor have J the opportunity of borrowing the work. The extracts from it in the Monthly Reviews, and the short passages in your Watchman, seem to me much superior to any thing in his partnership account with Lovell. Your poems I shall pro- cure forthwith. There were noble lines in what you insert- ed 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, unpro- fitable, and of dissonant mood to your disposition. I wish you success in all your undertakings, and am glad to hear you are employed about the '^ Evidences of Religion." There is need of multiplying such books a hundredfold in this philosophical age, to prevent converts to atheism, for they seem too tough disputants to meddle with afterwards. Le Grice is gone to make puns in Cornwall. He has got a tutorship to a young boy living with his mother, a widow-lady. He will, of course, initiate him quickly in '^ whatsoever things are lovely, honorable, and of good report." 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 14 FINAL MEMORIALS OF CHARLES LAMB. this, your very humble servant spent very agreeably in a madhouse, at Hoxton. I am got somewhat rational now, and don't bite any one. But mad I was ! And many a vagary my imagination played with me, enough to make a volume, if all were told. My sonnets I have extended to the number of nine since I saw you, and will some day communicate to you. I am beginning a poem in blank verse, which, if I finish, I publish. White is on the eve of publishing (he took the hint from Vortigern) '' Original Letters of FalstafF, Shallow," &c., a copy you shall have when it comes out. They are without exception the best 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 al- most as on another person, who I am inclined to think was the more immediate cause of my temporary frenzy. The Sonnet I send you has small merit as poetry ; but you will be curious to read it when I tell you it was written in my prison-house in one of my lucid intervals. TO MY SISTER. If from my lips some angry accents fell, Peevish complaint, or harsh reproof unkind, 'Twas but the error of a sickly mind And troubled thoughts, clouding the purer well, And waters clear, of Reason ; and for me Let this my verse the poor atonement be — My verse, v^hich thou to praise wert e'er inclined Too highly, and v^^ith a paital eye to see No blemish. Thou to me didst ever show Kindest affection ; and wouldst oft-times lend An ear to the despondmg 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. LETTERS TO COLERIDGE. 15 With these lines, and with that sister's kindest remem- brances to C , I conclude. Yours sincerely, Lamb. Your " Conciones ad Populum" are the most eloquent po- litics that ever came in my way. Write when convenient — not as a task, for there is nothing in this letter to answer. We cannot send our remembrances to Mrs. C, not hav- ing seen her, but, believe me, our best good wishes attend you both. My civic and poetic compliments to Southey if at Bris- tol ; — why, he is a very Leviathan of Bards — the small min- now, 1 ! In the spring of this year, Coleridge proposed the as- sociation of those first efforts of the young clerk in the India House, which he had prompted and praised, with his own, in a new edition of his Poems, to which Mr. Charles Lloyd also proposed to contribute. The following letter comprises Sonnets transmitted to Coleridge for this purpose, accompanied by remarks so characteristic as to induce the hope that the reader will forgive the introduction of these small gems of verse which were published in due course, for the sake of the original setting. TO MR. COLERIDGE. I am in such violent pain with the headache, that I am fit for nothing but transcribing, scarce for that. When I get your poems, and the ''Joan of Arc," I will exercise my pre- sumption in giving you my opinion of 'em. The mail does not come in before to-morrow (Wednesday) morning. The 16 FINAL MEMORIALS OF CHARLES LAMB. following Sonnet was composed during a walk down into Hertfordshire early in last summer : — The Lord of Light shakes off his drovvsyhed,* Fresh from his couch up springs the lusty sun, And girds himself his mighty race to run ; Meantime, by truant love of rambling led I turn my back on thy detested walls. Proud city, and thy sons I leave behind A selfish, sordid, money-getting kind. Who shut their ears w^hen holy Freedom calls. I pass not thee so lightly, humble spire. That mindest me of many a pleasure gone, Of merriest days of Love and Islington, Kindling anew the Hames of past desire ; And I shall muse on thee, slow journeying on. To the green plains of pleasant Hertfordshire. The last line is a copy of Bowles's, " To the green ham- let in the peaceful plain. '^ Your ears are not so very fasti- dious ; many people would not like words so prosaic and fa- miliar in a Sonnet as Islino-ton and Hertfordshire. The next was written within a day or two of the last, on revisiting a spot where the scene was laid of my first Sonnet ^' that mocked my step with many a lonely glade." When last I roved these winding wood-walks green. Green winding walks, and shady pathwaj^s sweet ; Oft-times would Anna seek the silent scene, Shrouding her beauties in the lone retreat. No more I hear her footsteps in the shade ; Her image only in these pleasant ways Meets me self-wandering, where in happier days I held free converse with my fair-haired maid. I passed the little cottage which she loved, * " Drowsyhed" I have met with, I think, in Spenser. 'Tis an old thing, but it rhymes with led, and rhyming covers a multitude of licenses. — C. Lamb's Manuscripts. LETTERS TO COLERIDGE. 17 The cottage which did once my all contain ; It spake of days that ne'er must come again ; Spake to my heart, and much my heart was moved. Now " Fair befall thee, gentle maid," said I ; And from the cottage turned me with a sigh. The next retains a few lines from a Sonnet of mine which you once remarked had no " body of thought" in it. I agree with you, but have preserved a part of it, and it runs thus. I flatter myself you will like it : — A timid grace sits trembling in her eye, As loth to meet the rudeness of men's sight ; Yet shedding a delicious lunar light, That steeps in kind oblivion's ecstasy The care-crazed mind, like some still melody : Speaking most plain the thoughts which do possess Her gentle sprite, peace and meek quietness. And innocent loves, ^ and maiden purity : A look whereof might heal the cruel smart Of changed friends ; or Fortune's wrongs unkind ; Might to sweet deeds of mercy move the heart Of him who hates his brethren of mankind : Turned are those lights from me, who fondly yet Past joys, vain loves, and buried hopes regret. The next and last I value most of all. ^Tvvas composed close upon the heels of the last, in that very wood I had in mind when I wrote — " Methinks how dainty sweet. ^' We were two pretty babes, the youngest she, The youngest, and the loveliest far, I ween, And Innocence her name. The time has been We two did love each other's company ; Time was, we two had wept to have been apart : But when, with show of seeming good beguil'd, I left the garb and manners of a child, * Cowley uses this phrase with a somewhat different meaning. I meant, loves of relatives, friends, &c. — C. Lamb's Manuscripts. 18 FINAL MEMORIALS OF CHARLES LAMB. And my first love for man's society, Defiling with the world my virgin heart — My loved companion dropt a tear, and fled, And hid in deepest shades her awful head. Beloved ! who shall tell me where thou art — In what delicious tCden to be found — That I may seek thee the wide world around ? Since writing it, I have found in a poem by Hamilton of Bangor, these two lines to '' Happiness.'' Nun, sober and devout, where art thou fled To hide in shades thy meek contented head ? Lines eminently beautiful ; but I do not remember having read them previously, for the credit of my ten and eleven lines. Parnell has two lines (which probably suggested the above) to " Contentment." Whither, ah ! whither art thou fled To hide thy meek contented* head ? Cowley's exquisite '' Elegy on the death of his friend Harvey," suggested the phrase of " we two." Was there a tree that did not know The love betwixt us two ? So much for acknowledged plagiarisms, the confession of which I know not whether it has more of vanity or modesty in it. As to my blank verse, I am so dismally slow and sterile of ideas (I speak from my heart) that I much ques- tion if it will ever come to any issue. I have hitherto only hammered out a few independent, unconnected snatches, not in a capacity to be sent. I am very thankful. I have one more favor to beg of you, that you never mention Mr. May's affair in any sort, much less think of repaying. Are we not * An odd epithet for Contentment in a poet so poetical as Parnell. C. Lamb's Manuscripts. LETTERS TO COLERIDGE. 19 flocci-nauci-what-d'ye-call-'em-ists ? We have just learned that my poor brother has had a sad accident, a large stone blown down by yesterday's high wind has bruised his leg in a most shocking manner ; he is under the care of Cruik- shanks. Coleridge ! there are 10,000 objections against my paying you a visit at Bristol ; it cannot be else ; but in this world it's better not to think too much of pleasant possibles, that we may not be out of humor with present insipids. Should any thing bring you to London, you will recollect No. 7, Little Queen Street, Holborn. I shall be too ill to call on Wordsworth myself, but will take care to transmit him his poem, when I have read it. I saw Le Grice the day before his departure, and mentioned incidentally his " teaching the young idea how to shoot." Knowing the proBability there is of people having a pro- pensity to pun in his company, you will not wonder that we both stumbled on the same pun at once, he eagerly anticipating me, — " he would teach him to shoot." Poor Le Grice ! if wit alone could entitle a man to respect, &c., he has written a very witty little pamphlet lately, satirical upon college declamations. When I send White's book, I will add that. I am sorry there should be any difference between you and Southey. " Between you two there should be peace," tho' I must say I have borne him no good will since he spirited you away from among us. What is become of Moschus ? You've sported some of his sublimities, I see, in your Watchman. Very decent things. So much for to-night, from your afflicted, head-achey, sore-throatey, humble servant, C. Lamb. Tuesday night. — Of your Watchman, the Review of Burke was the best prose. I augured great things from the first number. There is some exquisite poetry interspersed. 20 FINAL MEMORIALS OF CHARLES LAMB. I have re-read the extract from the ^^ Religious Musings/' and retract whatever invidious there was in my censure of it as elaborate. There are times when one is not in a disposi- tion thoroughly to relish good writing. I have re-read it in a more favorable moment, and hesitate not to pronounce it sublime. If there be any thing in it approaching to tumidity (which I meant not to infer ; by elaborate I meant simply labored,) it is the gigantic hyperbole by which you describe the evils of existing society ; '' Snakes, lions, hyenas, and behemoths," is carrying your resentment beyond bounds. The pictures of '^ The Simoom," of '' Frenzy and Ruin," of " The Whore of Babylon," and " The Cry of Foul Spirits disherited of Earth," and " the strange beatitude " which the good man shall recognize in heaven, as well as the particularizing of the children of wretchedness (I have unconsciously included every part of it), form a variety of uniform excellence. I hunger and thirst to read the poem complete. That is a capital line in your sixth number — " This dark, frieze-coated, hoarse, teeth-chattering month." They are exactly such epithets as Burns would have stum- bled on, whose poem on the ploughed-up daisy you seem to have had in mind. Your complaint that of your readers some thought there was too much, some too little original matter in your numbers, reminds me of poor dead Parsons in the '^ Critic." '^ Too little incident! Give me leave to tell you, sir, there is too much incident. '' I had like to have forgot thanking you for that exquisite little morsel, the first Sclavonian Song. The expression in the second, — " more happy to be unhappy in hell;" is it not very quaint? Ac- cept 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 LETTERS TO COLERIDGE. 21 you will rejoice to hear that Cowper is recovered from his lunacy, and is employed on his translation of the Italian, &c. poems of Milton for an edition where Fuseli presides as designer. Coleridge ! to an idler like myself, to write and receive letters are both very pleasant, but I wish not to break in upon your valuable time by expecting to hear very frequently from you. Reserve that obligation for your moments of lassitude, when you have nothing else to do ; for your loco-restive and all your idle propensities, of course, have given way to the duties of providing for a family. The mail is come in, but no parcel ; yet this is Tuesday. Fare- well, then, till to-morrow, for a niche and a nook I must leave for criticisms. By the way I hope you do not send your own only copy of Joan of Arc ; I will in that case return it immediately. Your parcel is come ; you have been lavish of your presents. Wordsworth's poem I have hurried through, not without delight. Poor Lovell ! my heart almost accuses me for the light manner I spoke of him above, not dreaming of his death. My heart bleeds for your accumulated troubles; God send you through 'em with patience. I conjure you dream not that 1 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 admira- tion. You may safely rest your fame on it. The best re- maining things are what I have before read, and they lose nothing by recollection of your manner of reciting them, 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 onChatterton concluding as it did abruptly. It had 22 FINAL MEMORIALS OF CHARLES LABIB. more of unity. The conclusion of your " Religious Mu- sings" I fear will entitle you to the reproof of your beloved woman, who wisely will not suffer your fancy to run not, but bids you walk humbly wiih your God. The very last words, " I exercise my young noviciate 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," &c. I have read your lines at the beginning of second book : they are worthy of Milton ; but in my mind yield to your '' Reli- gious Musings." I shall read the whole carefully, and in some future letter take the liberty to particularize my opin- ions 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 convey- ing a pleasing picture of Mrs. C. checking your wild wan- derings, which we were so fond of hearing you indulge when among us. It has endeared us more than any thing to your good lady, and your own self-reproof that follows delighted us. 'Tis a charming poem throughout (you have well re- marked that charming, admirable, exquisite are the words expressive of feelings more than conveying of ideas, else I might plead very well want of room in my paper as excuse for generalizing). I want room to tell you how we are charmed with your verses in the manner of Spenser, &c., &c., &c., &c., &c. I am glad you resume the Watchman. Change the name ; leave out all articles of news, and what- ever things are peculiar to newspapers, and confine yourself to ethics, verse, criticism — or rather do not confine yourself. Let your plan be as diff^use as the '' Spectator," and I'll answer for it the work prospers. If I am vain enough to think I can be a contributor, rely on my inclinations. Cole- ridge ! in reading your " Religious Musings," I felt a tran- LETTERS TO COLERIDGE. 23 sient superiority over you. I have seen Priestly. I love to see his name repeated in your writings. I love and honor him almost profanely. You would be charmed with his Sermons^ if you never read them. You have doubtless read his books illustrative of the doctrine of Necessity. Prefixed to a late work of his in answer to Paine, there is a preface giving an account of the man, of his services to men, writ- ten 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. Labib. The parcel mentioned in the last letter, brought the '' Joan of Arc," and a request from Coleridge, that Lamb would freely criticise his poems with a view to their selec- tion and correction for the contemplated volume. The reply is contained in the following letter which, written on several days, begins at the extreme top of the first page, without any ceremony of introduction, and is comprised in three sheets and a bit of foolscap. TO MR. COLERIDGE. With '' Joan of Acre" I have been delighted, amazed; I had not presumed to expect any thing of such excellence from Southey. Why the poem is alone sufficient to redeem the character of the age we live in from the imputation of degenerating in Poetry, were there no such beings extant as Burns, and Bowles, Cowper, and ; fill up the blank how you please ; I say nothing. The subject is well chosen. It opens well. To become more particular, I will notice in their order a few passages that chiefly struck me on perusal. 24 FINAL MEMORIALS OF CHARLES LAMB. Page 26, " Fierce and terrible Benevolence !" is a phrase full of grandeur and originality. The whole context made me feel possessed, even like Joan herself. Page 28, " It is most horrible with the keen sword to gore the finely-fibred human frame," and what follows, pleased me mightily. In the 2nd Book, the first forty lines in particular are majestic and hio-h-soundino;. Indeed the whole vision of the Palace of Ambition and what follows are supremely excellent. Your simile of the Laplander, " By Niemi lake, or Balda Zliiok, or the mossy stone of Solfar-Kapper/* * will bear comparison with any in Milton for fullness of circumstance and lofty- pacedness of versification. Southey's similes, though many of them are capital, are all inferior. In one of his books, the simile of the oak in the storm occurs, I think, four times. To return ; the light in which you view the heathen deities, is accurate and beautiful. Southey's personifications in this book are so many fine and faultless pictures. I was much pleased with your manner of accounting for the reason why monarchs take delight in war. At the 447th line you have placed Prophets and Enthusiasts cheek by jowl, on too inti- mate a footing for the dignity of the former. Necessarian- like speaking, it is correct. Page 98, " Dead is the Douglas • cold their warrior frame, illustrious Buchan," &c., are of kindred excellence with Gray's '' Cold is Cadwallo's tongue," &c. How famously the maid baffles the Doctors, Seraphic and Irrefragable, " with all their trumpery !" The pro- cession, the appearance of the Maid, of the Bastard Son of Orleans and of Tremouille, are full of fire and fancy, and exquisite melody of versification. The personifications from line 303 to 309, in the heat of the battle, had better been omitted ; they are not very striking, and only encumber. * Lapland mountains. The verses referred to are published in Mr. Coleridge's Poem entitled " The Destiny of Nations : a Vision.'' LETTERS TO COLERIDGE. 25 The converse which Joan and Conrade hold on the banks of the Loire is altogether beautiful. Page 313, the conjecture that in dreams '^ all things are that seem/^ is one of those conceits which the Poet delights to admit into his creed — a creed, by the vvay, more marvelous 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 V^ T^hey are good imitative lines, ^' he toiled and toiled, of toil to reap no end, but endless toil and never-ending wo ;" 347 page. 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 pre- serving 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 w^hole, consider- ino- 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 anec- dotes interspersed among the battles refresh the mind very ao-reeably, and I am delighted with the many passages of sipmle pathos abounding throughout the poem, passages which the author of '' Crazy Kate" might have written. Has not Master Southey spoke very slightingly, in his preface, and disparagingly of Cowper's Homer ? What makes him reluctant to give Cowper his fame ? And does not Southey use too often the expletives '' did,*' and " does ?" They have a good effect at times, but are too inconsiderable, or rather become blemishes, when they mark a style. On the whole, I expect Southey one day to rival Milton : I already deem him equal to Cowper, and superior to all living poets S 26 FINAL MEMORIALS OF CHARLES LAMB besides. What says Coleridge ? The " Monody on Hen- derson'' is immensely good, the rest of that little volume is readah/e and above mediocrity. I proceed to a more plea- sant 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 sis- ter's name, for your invitations ; nothing could give us more pleasure than to come, but (were there no other reasons) while my brother's leg is so bad it is out of the question. Poor fellow ! he is very feverish and light-headed, but Cruikshanks has pronounced the symptoms favorable, and gives us every hope that there will be no need of amputation : God send not ! We are necessarily confined with him all the afternoon and evening till Yery late, so that I am stealing a minute to write to you^ Thank you for your frequent letters ; you are the only correspondent, and, I might add, the only friend I have in the world. I go nowhere, and have no acquaintance. Slow of speech, and reserved of manners, no one seeks or cares for my society ; and I am left alone. A calls only oc- casionally, as though it were a duty rather, and seldom stays ten minutes. Then judge how thankful I am for your let- ters ! Do not, how^ever, burthen yourself with the corres- pondence. I trouble you again so soon, only in obedience to your injunctions. Complaints apart, proceed we to our task. I am called away to tea ; thence must wait upon my brother; so must delay till to-morrow. Farewell. Wednesday. Thursday.— 1 will first notice what is new to me. Thir- teenth page : " The thrilling tones that concentrate the soul'' is a nervous line, and the six first lines of page fourteen are very pretty ; the twenty-first effusion a perfect thing. That m the manner of Spenser is very sweet, particularly at the LETTERS TO COLERIDGE. 27 close : the thirty-fiflh effusion is most exquisite ; that line in particular, ''And, tranquil, muse upon tranquillity.'' It is the very reflex pleasure that distinguishes the tranquillity of a thinking being from that of a shepherd, a modern one I would be understood to mean, a Damsetas, one that keeps other people's sheep. Certainly, Coleridge, your letter from Shurton Bars has less merit than most things in your volume ; personally it may chime in 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," &c., &c. " Murmurs sweet unisons 'mid jasmin bowers" is a sweet line, and so are the three next. The concluding simile is far-fetched — '' tempest-honored" is a quaintish phrase. Yours is a poetical family. I was much surprised and pleased to see the signature of Sara to that elegant composi- tion, the fifth epistle. I dared not criticise the " Religious Musings ;" I like not to select any part, where all is excel- lent. I can only admire, and thank you for it in the name of a Christian, as well as a lover of good poetry ; only let me ask, is not that thought and those words in Young, " stands in the sun," — oris it only such as Young, in one of his letter moments^ might have writ ? — *• Believe thou, O my soul, Life is a vision shadowy of truth ; And vice, and anguish, and the wormy grave, Shapes of a dream !" I thank you for these lines in the name of a necessarian, and for what follows in next paragraph, in the name of a child of fancy. After all, you cannot, nor ever will, write any thing with which I shall be so delighted as what I have hear'cl yourself repeat. You came to town, and I saw you 28 FINAL MEMORIALS OF CHARLES LAMB. at a time when your heart was yet bleeding with recent Wounds, Like yourself, I was sore galled with disappointed hope ; you had -" many an holy lay That, mourning, soothed the mourner on his way ;" I had ears of sympathy to drink them in, and they yet vibrate pleasant on the sense. When I read in your little volume, your nineteenth effusion, or the twenty-eighth, or twenty-ninth, or what you call the "Sigh," I think I hear you again. I imagine to myself the little smoky room at the Salutation and Cat, where we have sat together through the winter nights, beguiling the cares of life with Poesy. 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 V" In your conversation you had blended so many pleasant fancies that they cheated "me of my grief. But in your absence the tide of melancholy rushed in again and did its worst mischief by overwhelming my reason. I have recovered, but feel a stupor that makes me indifferent to the hopes and fears of this life. I some- times wish to introduce a religious turn of mind, but habits are strong things, and my religious fervors are confined, alas ! to some fleeting moments of occasional solitary devotion. A correspondence, opening with you, has roused me a little from my lethargy and made me conscious of existence. In- dulge me m it : I will not be very troublesome ! At some future tmie I will amuse you with an account, as full as mv memory will permit, of the strange turns my phrensy took. I look back upon it at times with a gloomy kind of 'envy • for while it lasted, I had many, many hours of pure happi! ness. Dream not, Coleridge, of having tasted all the o-ran deur and wildness of fancy till you have gone mad''' All LETTERS TO COLERIDGE. 29 now seems to me vapid, comparatively so. Excuse this self- ish digression. Your '' Monody'Ms so superlatively excel- lent, that I can only wish it perfect, which I can't help feel- ing it is not quite. Indulge me in a few conjectures ; what I am going to propose would make it more compressed, and, I think, more energetic, though I am sensible at the expense of many beautiful lines. Let it begin '' Is this the land of song-ennobled line?" and proceed to '^ Otway's famished form;" then, '' The 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 Ids poor unsheltered head Did Penury her sickly mildevv shed ; And soon are fled the charms of early 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, sug- gested by the Monody, rather than a part of it. They are, indeed, in themselves very sweet. '' And we, at sober eve, would round thee throng. Hanging enraptured on thy stately song !" in particular, perhaps. If I am obscure, you may understand me by counting lines : I have proposed omittihg twenty-four lines : I feel that thus compressed it would gain energy, but think it most likely you will not agree with me ; for who shall o-o about to bring opinions to the bed of Procrustes, and introduce among the sons of men a monotony of identical feelino-s ? 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. 30 FINAL MEMORIALS OF CHARLES LAMB. " The " Pixies" is a perfect thing, and so are the " Lines on Spring," page 28. The '^ Epitaph on an Infant," like a Jack-oManthorn, has danced about (or like Dr. Forster's scholars) out of the Morning Chronicle into the Watchman, and thence back into your collection. It is very pretty, and you seem to think so, but, may be, overlooked its chief merit, that of filling up a whole page. I had once deemed Sonnets of unrivalled use that way, but your Epitaphs, I find, are the more diffuse. '' Edmund" still holds its place among your best verses. '^ Ah ! fair delights" to " roses round," in your Poem called '^ Absence," recall (none more forcibly) to my mind the tones in which you recited it. I will not no- tice, in this tedious (to you) manner, verses which have been so long delightful to me, and which you already know my opinion of. Of this kind are Bowles, Priestly, and that most exquisite and most Bowles-like of all, the nineteenth effusion. It would have better ended with '^ agony of care :" the two last lines are obvious and unnecessary, and you need not now make fourteen lines of it ; now it is rechristened from a Sonnet to an Effusion. Schiller mio;ht have written the twentieth effusion : 'tis worthy of him in anj^ sense. I was glad to meet with those lines you sent me when my sister was so ill ; I had lost the copy, and felt not a lit tie proud at seeing my name in your verse. The complaint of Nina- thoma (first stanza in particular) is the best, or only good imitation, of Ossian I ever saw — your '' Restless Gale" ex- cepted. ''To an Infant" is most sweet; is not '' foodful," though, very harsh ? Would not " dulcet" fruit be less harsh, or some other friendly bi-syllable ? In " Edmund," ^' Frenzy ! fierce-eyed child" is not so well as '' frantic," though that is an epithet adding nothing to the meaning. Slander couching was better than " squatting." In the '' Man of Ross" it was a better line thus : LETTERS TO COLERIDGE. 31 *' If 'neath this roof thy wine-cheered moments pass/' than as it stands now. Time nor nothing can reconcile me to the concluding five lines of ^' Kosciusko :" call it an)^ thing you will but sublime. In my twelfth effusion I had rather have seen what I wrote myself, though they bear no comparison with your exquisite lines — C( On rose-leaf-beds amid your faery bowers," &c. I love my sonnets because they are the reflected images of my own feelings at different times. To instance, in the thirteenth — " How reason reeled," &c., are good lines, but must spoil the whole with me, who know it is only a fiction of yours, and that the ^' rude dashings'' in fact did not " rock me to repose.'' I grant the same ob- jection applies not to the former sonnet ; but still I love my own feelings 5 they are dear to memory, though they now and then wake a sigh or a tear. " Thinking on divers things fbredone,'' 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 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- ei^th, however, and in the " Sigh," and that composed at Clevedon; things that come from the heart direct, not by the medium of the flmcy, I would not suggest an alteration. When my blank verse is finished, or any long fancy poem, " propono tibi alterandum, cut-up-andum, abridgandum/' 82 FINAL MEMORIALS OF CHARLES LAMB 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 ; but I say unto you again, Coleridge, spare my ewe-lambs ! I must confess, were they mine, I should omit, in edUlonc secundd, effusions two and three, because satiric, and below the dignity of the poet of " Religious Mu» sings," fifth, seventh, half of the eighth, that " Written in early youth," as far as '^ tl>ousand eyes," — though I part not unreluctantly with that lively line — " Chaste joyance dancing in her bright-blue eyes," and one or two just thereabouts. But T would substitute for it that sweet poem called " Recollection," in the fifth number of the Watchman, better, I think, than the remainder of this poem, though not differing materially : as the poem now stands it looks altogether confused ; and do not omit those lines upon the ^^ Early Blossom," in your sixth number of the Watchman ; and I would omit the tenth effusion, or what would do better, alter and improve the last four lines. In fact, I suppose, if they were mine, I should 7wt omit 'em ; but your verse is, for the most part, so exquisite, tliat 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 Avas to include the " Conciones ad Populum" in my remarks on your poems. They are not unfrequently sublime, and I think you could not do better than to turn 'em into verse— if you have nothing else to do. A , I am sorry to say, is a confmned Atheist; S' , a cold-hearted, well-bred, conceited disciple of Godwin, does him no good. How I sympathize with you on the dull duty of a reviewer. LETTERS TO COLERIDGE. 33 and heartily damn with you Ned E and the Prosodist. I shall, however, wait impatiently for the articles in the Criti- cal Review, next month, hecause they are yours. Young E. (W. Evans, a branch of a family you were once so inti- mate 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. It is a selfish, but natural wish for me, cast as I am ''on life's wide plain, friendless." Are you acquainted with Bowles ? I see, by his last Elegy, (written at Rath,) you are near neighbors. Thursday. I do not 'know that I entirely agree with you in your stricture upon my sonnet " To Innocence." To men whose hearts are not quite deadened by their commerce with the world, innocence (no longer familiar) becomes an awful idea. So I felt when I wrote it. Your other censures (qualified and sweetened, though, with praises somewhat extravagant) I perfectly coincide with ; yet I choose to retain the word " lunar " — indulge a '• lunatic " in his loyalty to his mistress the moon ! I have just been reading a most pathetic copy of verses on Sophia Pringle, who was hanged and burnt for coinini^. One of the strokes of pathos (which are very many, all somewhat obscure,) is, '' She lifted up her guilty forger to heaven." A note explains, by " forger," her right hand, with which she forged or coined the base metal. For pathos read bathos. You have put me out of conceit with my blank verses by your " Religious Musings." I think they will come to nothing. I do not like 'em enough to send them. 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 recom- mend it to you ; — it is Izaak Walton's ''Complete Angler." All the scientific part you may omit in reading. The dia- loo-ue is very simple, full of pastoral beauties, and will charm 2* y4 FINAL MEMORIALS OF CHARLES LAMB. you. Many pretty old verses are inserted. This letter, which would be a week's work reading only, I do not wish you to answer it in less than a nnonth. I shall be richly content with a letter from you some day early in July ; though, if you get any how settled before then, pray let me know it immediately ; it would give me much satisfaction. Concerning the Unitarian chapel, the salary is the only scru- ple that the most rigid moralist would admit as valid. Con- cerning the tutorage, is not the salary low, and absence from your family unavoidable ? London is the only 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 wilder- ness of words they have by this time painfully traveled 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. Friday y \Qth June, 1796. Coleridge, settled in his melancholy cottage, invited Lamb to visit him. The hope — the expectation — the disap- pointment, are depicted in the following letter, written in the summer of the eventful year 1796. TO MR. COLERIDGE. The first moment I can come, I will ; but my hopes of coming yet a while, hang on a ticklish thread. The coach I come by is immaterial, as I shall so easily, by your direc- tion, find ye out. My mother is grown so entirely helpless (not having any use of her limbs) that Mary is necessarily confined from ever sleeping out, she being her bed-fellow. LETTERS TO COLERIDGE. 35 She thanks you though, and will accompany me in spirit. Most exquisite are the lines from Withers. Your own lines, introductory to your poem on '^ Self/' run smoothly and pleasurably, and I exhort you to continue 'em. What shall I say to your " Dactyls V They are what you would call good per se, but a parody on some of 'em is just now sug- gesting itself, and you shall have it rough and unlicked ; I mark with figures the lines parodied : — 4. — Sorely your Dactyls do drag along limp-footed. 5. — Sad is the measure that hangs a clog round 'em so. 6. — Meagre and languid, proclaiming its wretchedness, 1. — Weary, unsatisfied, not a little sick of 'em. il. — Cold is my tired heart, I have no charity. 2. — Painfully traveling thus over the rugged road. 7. — O begone, measure, half Latin, half English, then, 12. — Dismal your Dactyls are, God help ye, rhyming ones! I possibly may not come this fortnight ; therefore, all thou hast to do is not to look for me any particular day, only to write word immediately, if at any time you quit Bristol, lest I come and Taffy be not at home. I hope I can come in a day or two ; but young S , of my office, is suddenly taken ill in this very nick of time, and I must officiate for him till he can come to work again : had the knave gone i sick, and died, and been buried at any other lime, philosophy might have afforded one comfort, but just now I have no patience with him. Quarles i am as great a stranger to as I was to Withers. I wish you would try and do something to bring our elder bards into more general fame. I writhe with indignation when, in books of criticism, where common- place quotation is heaped upon quotation, I find no mention of such men as Massinger, or Beaumont and Fletcher, men with whom succeeding dramatic writers (Otway alone ex^ 36 FINAL MEMORIALS OF CHARLES LAMB. cepted)* can bear no manner of comparison. Stupid Knox hath noticed none of 'em among his extracts. Thursday.— Mrs. C can scarcely guess how she has gratified me by her very kind letter and sweet little poem. I feel that I sliouJd thank her in rhyme, but she must take my acknowledgment, at present, in plain honest prose. The uncertainty in which I yet stand, whether I can come or no, damps my spirits, reduces me a degree below prosaical, and keeps me in a suspense that fluctuates between hope and fear. Hope is a charming, lively, blue-eyed wench, and I am always glad of her company, but could dispense with the visitor she brings with her — her younger sister. Fear, a white-livered, lily-cheeked, bashful, palpitating, awkward hussy, that hangs, like a green girl, at her sister's apron- strings, and Will go with her wherever she goes. For the life and soul of me, I could not improve those lines in your poem on the Prince and Princess, so I changed them to what you bid me, and left them at Perry's. t I think them alto- gether good, and do not see why you were solicitous about any alteration. I have not yet seen, but will make it my business to see, to-day's Chronicle, for your verses on Home * An exception he certainly would not have made a few years after- wards ; for he used to mention two pretty lines in the '' Orphan," " Sweet as the shepherd's pipe upon the mountains, With all his fleecy flock at feed beside him," as a redeeming passage amidst mere stage trickeries. The great merit which lies in the construction of '' Venice Preserved,'* was not in his line of appreciation ; and he thought Thompson's reference to Otway's ladies — '' poor Monimia mourns, And Belvidera pours her soul in love," worth both heroines. t Some '' occasional " verses of Coleridge's written to order for the Morning Chronicle, LETTERS TO COLERIDGE. 37 Tooke. Dyer stanza'd him in one of the papers of this day, but, I think, unsuccessfully. Tooke's friends meeting was, I suppose, a dinner of condolence.^ I am not sorry to find you (for all Sara) immersed in clouds of smoke and meta- physics. You know I had a sneaking kindness for this last noble science, and you taught me some smattering of it. I look to become no mean proficient under your tuition. Cole- ridge, what do you mean by saying you wrote to me about Plutarch and Porphyry ? I received no such letter, nor remember a syllable of the matter, yet am not apt to forget any part of your epistles, least of all, an injunction like that. I will cast about for ^em tho'. I am a sad hand to know what books are worth, and both these worthy gentlemen are alike out of my line. To-morrow I shall be less suspensive, and in better cue to write, so good bye at present. Friday Evening. — That execrable aristocrat and knave R has given me an absolute refusal of leave. The poor man cannot guess at my disappointment. Is it not hard, "this dread dependance on the low-bred mind '?" Continue to write to me tho', and I must be content. Our loves and best good wishes attend upon you both. Lamb. S did return, but there are two or three more ill and absent, which was the plea for refusing me. I shall never have heart to ask for holidays again. The man next him in office, C — — , furnished him with the objections. C. Lamb. The little copy of verses in which Lamb commemorated and softened his disappointment, bearing date (a most unusual circumstance with Lamb), 5th July, 1796, was inclosed in a * This was just after the Westminster Election, in which Mr. Tooke was defeated. 38 FINAL MEMORIALS OF CHARLES LAMB. letter of the following day, which refers to a scheme Cole- ridge had formed of settling in London on an invitation to share the Editorship of the Morning Chronicle. The poem includes a lamentation over a fantastical loss — that of a draught of the Avon ^^ which Shakespeare drank;" some- what strangely confounding the Avon of Stratford with that of Bristol. It may be doubted whether Shakespeare knew the taste of one Avon more than of the other, or whether Lamb would not have found more kindred with the world's poet in a glass of sack, than in the water of either stream. Cole- ridge must have enjoyed the misplaced sentiment of his friend, for he was singularly destitute of sympathy with local associations, which he regarded as interfering with the pure and simple impression of great deeds or thoughts ; denied a special interest to the Pass of Thermopylae ; and instead of subscribing to purchase " Shakespeare's House,'' would scarcely have admitted the peculiar sanctity of the spot which enshrines his ashes. TO SARA AND HER SAMUEL. Was it so hard a thing ?— I did but ask A fleeting holiday. One little week, Or haply two, had bounded my request. What if the jaded steer, who all day long Had borne the heat and labor of the plough, When evening came, and her sweet cooling hour, Should seek to trespass on a neighbor copse. Where greener herbage waved, or clearer streams Invited him to slake his burning thirst ? That man were crabbed, who should say him nay ; That man were churlish, who should drive him thence ! A blessing light upon your heads, ye good. Ye hospitable pair ! 1 may not come LETTERS TO COLERIDGE. 39 To catch on Clifden's heights the summer gale ; I may not come a pilgnm to the vales Of Avon, lucid stream, to taste the waves Which Shakspeare drank, our British Helicon : Or with mine eye inient on Redcliffe towers, To muse in tears on that mysterious youth. Cruelly slighted, who to London walls, In evil hour, shaped his disastrous course. With better hopes, I trust, from Avon's vales, Another '' minstrel " cometh ! Youth endear'd, God and good angels guide thee on thy road. And gentler fortunes wait the friends I love. C. L. The letter accompanying these verses begins cheerfully thus : What can I do till you send word what priced and placed house you should like ? Islington, possibly, you would not like ; to me 'tis classical ground. Knightsbridge is a desira- ble situation for the air of the parks ; St. George's Fields is convenient for its contiguity to the Bench. Choose ! But are you really coming to town ? The hope of it has entirely disarmed my petty disappointment of its nettles, yet I rejoice so much on my own account, that I fear I do not feel enough pure satisfaction on yours. Why. surely, the joint editorship of the Chronicle must be very comfortable and secure living for a man. But should you not read French, or do you ? and can you write with sufficient moderation, as 'tis called, when one suppresses the one-half of what one feels or could say on a subject, to chime in the better with popular lukewarm- ness ? White's " Letters " are near publication ; could you review 'em or get 'em reviewed ? Are you not connected with the Critical Review ? His frontispiece is a good con- ceit — Sir John learning to dance to please Madame Page, a dress of doublet, &c., invests his upper half, and modern 40 FINAL MEMORIALS OF CHARLES LAMB pantaloons with shoes, &c., of the eighteenth century, his lower half; and the whole work is full of goodly quips and rare fancies, 'Vail deftly masqued like hoar antiquity " — much superior to Dr. Kenrick's '' FalstafF's Wedding,'' which you may have seen. A sometimes laughs at superstition, and religion, and the like. A living fell vacant lately in the gift of the hospital : White informed him that he stood a fair chance for it. He scrupled and scrupled about it, and at last, to use his own words, " tampered '' with Godwin to know whether the thing was honest or not. God- win said nay to it, and A rejected the living ! Could the blindest poor papist have bowed more servilely to his priest or casuist ? Why sleep the Watchman's answers to that Godwin ? I beg you will not delay to alter, if you mean to keep those last lines I sent you. Do that, and read these for your pains : — TO THE POET COWPER. Covvper, I thank my God that thou art heal'd ! Thine was the sorest malady of all ; And I am sad to think that it should light Upon the worthy head ! But thou art heal'd, And thou art yet, we trust, the destined man. Born to reanimate the lyre, whose chords Have slumber'd, and have idle lain so long ; To the immortal soundinor of whose strino-s Did Milton frame the stately-paced verse ; Among whose verses with light finger playing, Our elder bard, Spenser, a gentle name, The lady Muses' dearest darling child. Elicited the deftest tunes yet heard In hall or boM^er, taking the delicate ear Of Sidney and his peerless Maiden Queen. Thou, then, take up the mighty epic strain, Cowper, of England's Bards, the wisest and the best. 1796. LETTERS TO COLERIDGE. 41 I have read your climax of praises in those three Re- views. These mighty spouters out of panegyric waters have, two of them, scattered their spray even upon me, and the waters are cooling and refreshing. Prosaically, the Monthly reviewers have made indeed a large article of it, and done you justice. The Critical have, in their wisdom, selected not the very best specimens, and notice not, except as one name on the muster-roll, the " Religious Musings." I suspect Master D to have been the writer of that arti- cle, as the substance of it was the very remarks and the very language he used to me one day. 1 fear you will not accord entirely with my sentiments of Cowper, as expressed above (perhaps scarcely just); but the poor gentleman has just recovered from his lunacies, and that begets pity, and pity love, and love admiration ; and then it goes hard with people but they lie ! Have you read the Ballad called "- Leonora," in the second number of the Monthly Magazine? If you have ! ! ! ! There is another fine song, from the same author (Burger), in the third number, of scarce inferior merit ; and (vastly below these) there are some happy specimens of English hexameters, in an imitation of Ossian, in the fifth number. For your Dactyls — I am sorry you are so sore about 'em — a very Sir Fretful ! In good troth, the Dactyls are good Dactyls, but their measure is naught. Be not your- self half anger, half agony," if I pronounce your darling lines not to be the best you ever wrote in all your life — you have written much. Have a care, good Master Poet, of the Statute de Contu- melid. What do you mean by calling Madame Maras, — harlots, and naughty things ?* The goodness of the verse * " I detest These scented rooms, where, to a gaudy throng, Heaves the proud harlot her distended breast In intricacies of laborious song/' Lines composed in a Concert Room hij S. T. C. 42 FINAL MEMORIALS OF CHARLES LaMB. would not save you in a court of justice. But are you really coming to town, Coleridge '? A gentleman called in London lately, from Bristol, and inquired whether there were any of the family of a Mr. Chambers living : this Mr. Chambers, he said, had been the making of a friend's fortune, who wished to make some return for it. He went away without seeing her. Now, a Mrs. Reynolds, a very intimate friend of ours, whom you have seen at our house, is the only daughter, and all that survives, of Mr. Chambers ; and a very little supply would be of service to her, for she married very unfortunate- ly, and has parted with her husband. Pray find out this Mr. Pember (for that was the gentleman's name) ; he is an attor- ney, and lives at Jristol. Find him out, and acquaint him with the circumstances of the case, and offer to be the medium of supply to Mrs. Reynolds, if he chooses to make her a present. She is in very distressed circumstances. Mr. Pember, attor- ney, Bristol. Mr. Chambers lived in the Temple; Mrs. Reynolds, his daughter, was my schoolmistress, and is in the room at this present writing. This last circumstance in- duced me to write so soon again. I have not further to add. Our loves to Sara. Thursday. C. Labib. CHAPTER II. LETTERS OF LAMB TO COLERIDGE, CHIEFLY RELATING TO THE DEATH OF MRS. LAMB, AND MISS LAMB's SUBSEQUENT CONDITION. The autumn of 1796 found Lamb engaored all the morn- ing in task-work at the India House^ and all the evening in attempting to amuse his father by playing cribbage ; some- times snatching a few minutes for his only pleasure, writing to Coleridge ; while Miss Lamb was worn down to a state of extreme nervous misery, by attention to needlework by day, and to her mother by night, until the insanity, which had been manifested more than once, broke out into frenzy, which, on Thursday, 22nd of September, proved fatal to her mother. The followino; account of the proceedino-s on the inquest, copied from the Times of Monday, 26th September, 1796, supplies the details of this terrible calamity, doubtless with accuracy, except that it would seem, from Lamb's en- suing letter to Coleridge, that he^ and not the landlord, took the knife from the unconscious hand. '' On Friday afternoon, the coroner and a jury sat on the body of a lady in the neighborhood of Holborn, who died in consequence of a wound from her daughter tl:ie 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 44 FINAL BIEMORIALS OF CHARLES LAMB. first object, and, with loud shrieks, approached her parent. The child, by her cries, quickly brought up the landlord of the house, but too late. The dreadful scene presented to him the mother lifeless, pierced to the heart, on a chair, her daughter yet wildly standing over her with the fatal knife, and the 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 Wednesday evening, that her brother, early the next morning, went to Dr. Pitcairn, but that gentleman was not at home. " It seems the young lady had been once before de- ranged. '' The jury, of course, brought in their verdict — Lu- The fbllowinfir is Lamb's account of the event to Cole- ridge : — My deakest Friend, White, or some of my friends, or the public papers, by this time may have informed you of the terrible * A statement nearly similar to this will be found in several other journals of the day, and in the Annual Register for the year. The *' True Briton" adds: — '' It appears she had been before, in the earlier part of her life, deranged, from the harassing fatigues of too much bu- siness. As her carriage towards her mother had always been affection- ate in the extreme, it is believed her increased attachment to her, as her infirmities called for it by day and by night, caused her loss of reason at this time. It has been stated in some of the morning papers that she has an insane brother in confinement ; but this is with- out foundation.^' None of the accounts give the names of the sufferers ; but in the index to the Annual Register, the anonymous account is re- ferred to with Mrs. Lamb's name. LETTERS TO COLERIDGE. 45 calamities that have fallen on our family. I will only give you the outlines : — My poor dear, dearest sister, in a fit of insanity, has been the death of her own mother. I was at hand only time enough to snatch the knife out of her grasp. She is at present in a madhouse, from whence I fear she must be removed to an hospital. God has preserved me my senses, — I eat, and drink, and sleep, and have my judgment I believe, very sound. My poor father was slightly wound- ed, and I am left to take care of him and my aunt. Mr. Norris, of the Blue-coat School, has been very very kind to us, and we have no other friend ; but, thank God, I am very calm and composed, and able to do the best that remains to do. Write as religious a letter as possible, but no mention of what is gone and done with. With me '' the former things are passed away," and I have something more to do than to feel. God Almighty have us well in His keeping. C. Labib. Mention nothing of poetry. I have destroyed every ves- ticre of past vanities of that kind. Do as you please, but if you publish, publish mine ([ 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 vou and all of us. C. Lamb. After the inquest, Miss Lamb was placed in an Asylum, where she was, in a short time, restored to reason. The foU lowincr is Lamb's next letter. 46 FINAL MEMORIALS OF CHARLES LAMB. to mr. coleridge. My dearest Friend, Your letter was an inestimable treasure to me. It will be a comfort to you, I know, to know that our prospects are somewhat brighter. My poor dear, dearest sister, the unhappy and unconscious instrument of the Almighty's judg- ments on our house, is restored to her senses ; to a dreadful sense and recollection of what has past, awful to her mind and impressive (as it must be to the end of life), but tem- pered with religious resignation and the reasonings of a sound judgment, which, in this early stage, knows how to distin- guish between a deed committed in a transient fit of frenzy, and the terrible guilt of a mother's murderer. I have seen her. I found her, this morning, calm and serene ; far, very far from an indecent forgetful serenity ; she has a most af- fectionate and tender concern for what has happened. In- deed, from the beginning, frightful and hopeless as her dis- order seemed, I had confidence enouoh in her strenMh of mind, and religious principle, to look forward to a time when even she might recover tranquillity. God be praised, Cole- ridge, wonderful as it is to tell, I have never once been otherwise than collected and calm ; even on the dreadfu} day, and in the midst of the terrible scene, I preserved a tranquillity which bystanders may have construed into indif- ference — a tranquillity not of despair. Is it folly or sin in me to say that it was a religious principle that most supported me ? I allow much to other favorable circumstances. I felt that I had something else to do than to regret. On that first evening, my aunt was lying insensible, to all appearance like one dying,— my father, with his poor forehead plastered over, from a wound he had received from a daughter dearly loved by him, and who loved him no less dearly, — my mo- ther a dead and murdered corpse in the next room — yet was LETTERS TO COLERIDGE. 47 I wonderfully supported. I closed not my eyes in sleep that night, but lay without terrors and without despair. I have lost no sleep since. I had been long used not to rest in things of sense, — had endeavored after a comprehension of mind, unsatisfied with the " ignorant present time," and this kept me up. I had the whole weight of the family thrown on me ; for my brother, little disposed (I speak not without tenderness for him) at any time to take care of old age and infirmities, had now, with his bad leg, an exemption from such duties, and I was now left alone. One little incident may serve to make you understand my way of managing my mind. Within a day or two after the fatal one, we dressed for dinner a tongue which we had had salted for some weeks in the house. As I sat down, a feeling like re- morse struck me ; — this tongue poor Mary got for me, and I can partake of it now, when she is far away ! A thought occurred and relieved me, — if I give into 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 weak- nesses. I hope this was not want of true feeling. I did not let this carry me, though, too far. On the very second day (I date from the day of horrors), as is usual in such cases, there were a matter of twenty people, I do think, supping in our room ; they prevailed with me to eat ivith them (for to eat I never refused). They were all making merry in the room ! Some had come from friendship, some from busy cu- riosity, and some from interest ; I was going to partake with them ; when my recollection came that my poor dead mo- ther was lying in the next room — the very next room ; — a mother who, through life, wished nothing but her children's welfare. Indignation, the rage of grief, something like re- morse, rushed upon my mind. In an agony of emotion I found my way mechanically to the adjoining room, and fell on my knees by the side of her coffin, asking forgiveness of 48 FINAL MEMORIALS OF CHARLES LAMB heaven, and sometimes of lier, for forgetting her so soon. Tranquillity returned, and it was the only violent emotion that mastered me, and I think it did me good. I mention these things because I hate concealment, and love to give a faithful journal of what passes within me. Our friends have been very good. Sam Le Grice, who was then in town, was with me the three or four first days, and was a brother to me, gave up every hour of his time, to the very hurting of his health and spirits, in constant attendance and humoring my poor father ; talked with him, read to him, played at cribbage with him (for so short is the old man's recollection, that he was playing at cards, as though nothing had happened, while the coroner's inquest was sitting over the way) ! Samuel wept tenderly when he went away, for his mother wrote him a very severe letter on his loitering so long in town, and he was forced to go. Mr. Norris, of Christ's Hospital, has been as a father to me — Mrs. Norris as a mother ; though we had few claims on them. A gentle- man, brother to my godmother, from whom v/e 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 pleas- ed 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, 170Z. or rather 180/. a-year, out of which we can spare 50Z. or 60Z. at least for Mary while she stays at Islington, where she must and shall stay during her father's lif(S, for his and her comfort. I know John will LETTERS TO COLERIDGE. 49 make speeches about it, but she shall not go into an hospital. The good lady of the madhouse, and her daughter, an elegant sweet-behaved young lady, love her, and are taken with her amazingly ; and I knew 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 Beth- lem thought it likely, " here it may be my fate to end my days," conscious of a certain flightiness in her poor head oftentimes, and mindful of more than one severe illness of that nature before. A legacy of 100/., which my father will have at Christmas, and this 20/. I 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 120Z. a-year, we ought to burn by slow fires; and I almost would, that Mary might not go into an hospital. Let me not leave an unfavorable impression on your mind respecting my brother. Since this has happened^ he has been very kind and brotherly ; but 1 fear for his mind, — he has taken his ease in the worlr^, and is not fit himself to struggle with difficulties, nor has much accustomed him^ self to throw himself into their wav ; and i know his Ian- guage is already, ''Charles, you must take care of yourself, you must not abridge yourself of a single pleasure you have been used to,'' &c., &c., in that style of talking. But you, a necessarian, can respect a difference of mind, and love what is amiable in a character not perfect. He has been very ^"^ood, — 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 we. The lady at this madhouse assure^ 3 50 FINAL MEMORIALS OF CHARLES LAMB. me that I may dismiss immediately both doctor and apothe- cary, retaining occasionally a composing draught or so for a while ; and there is a less expensive establishment in her house, where she will only not have a room and nurse to herself, for 50/. or guineas a-year — the outside would be 60Z. — 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 1 ever saw in the world, my poor sister was most and thoroughly devoid of the least tinc- ture of selfishness. I will enlarge upon her qualities, poor dear, dearest soul, in a future letter, for my own comfort, for I understand her thoroughly ; and, if I mistake not, in the most trying situation that a human being can be found in, she will be found (I speak not with sufficient humility, I fear, but humanly and foolishly speaking), she will be found, I trust, uniformly great and amiable. God keep her in her present mind, to whom be thanks and praise for all His dis- ^pensations 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 impression, of what has happened than I have now. It 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 LETTERS TO COLERIDGE. 51 means may hotli of us escape madness in future, if it so please the Almighty ! Send me word how it fares with Sam. I repeat it, your letter was, and will be, an inestimable treasure to me. You have a view of what my situation demands of me, like my own view, and I trust a just one. Coleridge, continue to write ; but do not for ever offend me by talking of sending me cash. Sincerely, and on my soul, we do not want it. God love you both. I will write again very soon. Do you write directly. As Lamb recovered from the shock of his own calamity, he found comfort in gently admonishing his friend on that imbecility of purpose which attended the development of his mighty genius. His next letter, commencing with this office of friendship, soon reverts to the condition of that sufferer, who was endeared to him the more because others shrank from and forsook her. TO MR. COLERIDGE. 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 hu- manly) that does this for you — a stubborn, irresistible con- currence of events— or lies the fault, as I fear it does, in your own mind ? You seem to be taking up splendid schemes of fortune only to lay them down again ; and your fortunes are an ignis fatuus that has been conducting you, in thought, from Lancaster-court, Strand, to somewhere near Matlock ; then jumping across to Dr. Somebody's, whose son's tutor you 52 FINAL MEMORIALS OF CHARLES LAMB. were likely to be ; and, would to God, the dancing demon may conduct you at last, in peace and comfort, to the " life and labors of a cottager." You see, from the above awk- ward playfulness of fancy, that my spirits are not quite de- pressed. I should ill deserve God's blessings, which, since the late terrible event, have come down in mercy upon us, if I indulged regret or querulousness. Mary continues serene and cheerful. 1 have not by me a little letter she wrote to me ; for, though I see her almost everyday, yet we delight to write to one another, for we can scarce see each other but in company with some of the people of the house. I have not the letter by me, but will quote from memory what she wrote in it : ^' I have no bad terrifying dreams. At midnight, when I happen to awake, the nurse sleeping by the side of me, with the noise of the poor mad people around me, I have no fear. The spirit of my mother seems to de- scend and smile upon me, and bid me live to enjoy the life and reason which the Almighty has given me. I shall see her again in heaven ; she will then understand me better. My grandmother, too, will understand me better, and will then say no more, as she used to do, ' Polly, what are those poor crazy moythered brains of yours thinking of always V " Poor Mary ! my mother indeed never understood her right. She loved her, as she loved us all, with a mother's love ; but in opinion, in feeling, and sentiment, and disposition, bore so distant a resemblance to her daughter, that she never under- stood her right ; never could believe how much she loved her ; but met her caresses, her protestations of filial affection, too frequently with coldness and repulse. Still she was a good mother. God forbid I should think of her but most res- pectfully, 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 LETTERS TO COLERIDGE. 53 of love she could pay, every kindness, (and I speak true, when I say to the hurting of her health, and most probably in great part to the derangement of her senses,) through a long course of infirmities and sickness, she could show her, she ever did. I will, some day, as I promised, enlarge to you upon my sister's excellences ; it will seem like exaggeration, but I will do it. At present, short letters suit my state of mind best. So take my kindest wishes for your comfort and establishment in life, and for Sara's welfare and comfort with you. God love you. God love us all. C. Lamb. Two months, though passed by Lamb in anxiety and labor, but cheered by Miss Lamb's continued possession of reason, so far restored the tone of his mind, that his interest in the vol- ume which had been contemplated to introduce his first verses to the world, in association with those of his friend, was enkindled anew. While cherishing the hope of reunion with his sister, and painfully wresting his leisure hours from poetry and Coleridge to amuse the dotage of his father, he watched over his own returning sense of enjoyment with a sortof holy jealousy, apprehensive lest he should forget too soon the terrible visitation of Heaven. At this time he thus writes : — TO MR. COLERIDGE. I have delayed writing thus long, not having by me my copy of your poems, which I had lent. I am not satisfied with all your intended omissions. Why omit 40, 63, 84 ? above all, let me protest strongly against your rejecting the ^^ Complaint of Ninathoma," 86. The words, I acknow- ledo-e, are Ossian's, but you have added to them the " music of Caril." If a vicarious substitute be wanting, sacrifice (and 'twill be a piece of self-denial too) the " Epitaph on an 54 FINAL MEMORIALS OF CHARLES LAMB, Infant/' of which its author seems so proud, so tenacious. Or, if your heart be set on perpetuating the four-line wonder, rU tell you what do ; sell the copyright o^ it at once to a country statuary ; commence in this manner Death's prime poet-laureate ; and let your verses be adopted in every vil- lage round, instead of those hitherto famous ones : — ** Afflictions sore long time I bore, Physicians were in vain." * I have seen your last very beautiful poem in the Monthly Magazine : write thus, and you most generally have v/ritten thus, and I shall never quarrel with you about simplicity. With regard to my lines — " Laugh all that weep," &c., I would willingly sacrifice them ; but my portion of the vol- ume is so ridiculously little, that, in honest truth, I can't spare them : as things are, I have very slight pretensions to participate in the title-page. White's book is at length re- viewed in the Monthly; was it your doing, or Dyer's, to whom I sent him — or, rather, do you not write in the Critical ? — for I observed, in an article of this month's, a line quoted out of that sonnet on Mrs. Siddons, " With eager wondering, and perturb'd delight." And a line from that sonnet would not readily have occurred * This epitaph, which, notwithstanding Lamb's gentle banter, occu- pied an entire page in the book, is curious—'^ a miracle instead of wit" —for it is a common-place of Coleridge, who, investing ordinary things with a dreamy splendor, or weighing them down with accumulated thought, has rarely if ever written a stanza so smoothly vapid- so de- void of merit or offence— (unless it be an offence to make fade do duty as a verb active) as the following : — '' Ere sin could blight or sorrow fade, Death came with friendly care ; The opening bud to Heaven conveyed. And bade it blossom there." LETTERS TO COLERIDGE. 55 to a stranger. That sonnet, Coleridge, brings afresh to my niind the time when you wrote those on Bowles, Priestly, Burke ; — 'twas two Christmases ago, and in that nice little smoky room at the Salutation, which is ever now continually presenting itself to my recollection, with all its associate train of pipes, tobacco, egg-hot. welsh-rabbits, metaphysics, and poetry. — Are we nei')er to meet again ? How differently I am circumstanced now ! I have never met with any one — never shall meet with any one — who could or can compen- sate me for the loss of your society. I have no one to talk all these matters about to ; I lack friends, I lack books to suplpy their absence: but these complaints ill become me. Let me compare my present situation, prospects, and state of mind, with what they were but two months back — but two months ! O my friend, I am in danger of for- getting the awful lessons then presented to me ! Remind me of them ; remind me of my duty ! Talk seriously with me when you do write! I thank you, from my heart I thank you, for your solicitude about my sister. She is quite well, but must not, I fear, come to live with us yet a good while. In the first place, because, at present, it would hurt her, and hurt my father, for them to be together: secondly, from a regard to the world's good report, fDr, I fear, tongues will be busy whenever that event takes place. Some have hinted, one man has pressed it on me, that she should be in perpetual confinement ; what she has done to deserve, or where is the necessity of such hardship, I see not ; do you ? I am starving at the India House, — near seven o'clock without my dinner, and so it has been, and will be, almost all the week. I get home at night o'erwearied, quite faint, and then to cards with my father, who will not let me enjoy a meal in peace ; but I must conform to my situation, and I hope I am, for the most part, not unthankful. I am got home at last, and, after repeated games at 56 FINAL MEMORIALS OF CHARLES LABIB, cribbage, have got my father's leave to v^rite awhile; with difficulty got it, for when [ expostulated about playing any more, he aptly replied, '' If you won't play with me, you might as well not come home at all." The argument was unanswerable, and I set to afresh. I told you I do not ap- prove of your omissions, neither do I quite coincide with you in your arrangements. I have not time to point out a better^ and I suppose some self-associations of your own have deter- mined their place as they nov/ stand. Your beginning, in- deed, with the " Joan of Are" lines I coincide entirely with, I love a splendid outset — a magnificent po rtico, — and the dia- pason is grand. When I read the " Religious Musings." I think how poor, how unelevated, unoriginal, my blank verse is — " Laugh all that weep," especially where the sub- ject demanded a grandeur of conception ; and i ask what business they have among yours ? but friendship covereth a multitude of defects. I want some loppings made in the ^' Chatterton ;" it wants but a little to make it rank among the finest irregular lyrics I ever read. Have you time and inclination to go to work upon it — or is it too late — or do you think it needs none ? Don't reject those verses in one of your Watchmen, " Dear native brook," &c. ; nor I think those last lines you sent me, in which " all effortless" is without doubt to be preferred to " inactive." If I am writing more than ordinarily dully, 'tis that I am stupefied with a tooth- ache. Hang it ! do not omit 48, 52, and 53 : what you do retain, though, call .^onnets, for heaven's Sake, and not effu- sions. Spite of your ingenious anticipations of ri(h*cule in your preface, the five last lines of 50 are too good to be lost, the rest is not much worth. My tooth becomes importunate < — I must finish. Pray, pray, write to me : if you knew with what an anxiety of joy I open such a long packet as you last sent me, you would not grudge giving a few minutes now and then to this intercourse (the only intercourse I fear LETTERS TO COLERIDGE. 57 we two shall ever have) — this conversation with your friend — such I boast to be called. God love you and yours ! Write me when you move, lest I direct wrong. Has Sara no poems to publish ? Those lines, 129, are probably too light for the volume where the '' Religious Musings" are, but I remem- ber some very beautiful lines, addressed by somebody at Bristol to somebody in London. God bless you once more. Thursday -night. C. Lamb. In another letter, about this time (December, 1796), Lamb transmitted to Coleridge two poems for the volume — one a copy of verses " To a Young Lady going out to India,'' which were not inserted, and are not worthy of preservation ; the other, entitled, " The Tomb of Douglas," which was inserted, and which he chiefly valued as a memorial of his impres^sion of Mrs. Siddons' acting in Lady Randolph. The following passage closes the sheet. At length I have done with verse-making ; not that I relish other people's poetry less ; theirs comes from 'em without effort, mine is the difficult operation of a brain scanty of ideas, made more difficult by disuse. I have been read- ing '' 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 Gowper." Write to me. God love you and yours. C. L. An addition to Lamb's household-cares is thus mentioned in a letter to Mr. Coleridge. In truth, Coleridge, I am perplexed, and at times almost cast down. I am beset with perplexities. The old hag of a wealthy relation, who took my aunt oflf our hands in the be- ginning of trouble, has found out that she is " indolent and 3* 58 FINAL MEMORIALS OF CHARLES LAMB. mulish," I quote her own words, and that her attachment to us is so strong that she can never be happy apart. The lady, with delicate irony, remarks, that if I am not an hypocrite, I shall rejoice to receive her again ; and that it will be a means of making me more fond of home to have so dear a friend to come home to ! The fact is, she is jealous of my aunt's bestowing any kind recollections on us, v/hile she en- joys the patronage of her roof. She says she finds it incon- sistent with her own '' ease and tranquillity," to keep her any longer ; and, in fine, summons me to fetch her home. Now, much as I should rejoice to transplant the poor old creature from the chilling air of such patronage, yet I know how straitened we are already, how unable already to answer any demand which sickness or any extraordinary expense may create. I know this, and all unused as I am to struggle with perplexities, I am somewhat nonplussed, to say no worse. This prevents me from a thorough relish of what Lloyd's kindness and yours have furnished me with. I thank you though from my heart, and feel myself not quite alone in the earth. The following long letter, bearing date on the outside, 7th January, 1797, is addressed to Mr. Coleridge at Stowey, near Bridgewater, whither he had removed from Bristol, to enjoy the society and protection of his friend Mr. Poole. The original is a curious specimen of clear compressed penman- ship ; being contained in three sides of a sheet of foolscap. TO MR. COLERIDGE. Sunday morning, — You cannot surely mean to degrade the Joan of Arc into a pot-girl. You are not going, I hope, to annex to that most splendid ornament of Southey's poem all his cock-and-a-bull story of Joan, the publican's daughter LETTERS TO COLERIDGE. 59 of Neufchatel, with the lamentable episode of a wagonerj his wife, and six children. The texture will be nnost lamen- tably 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 visible world Unseeing, saw the shapes of holy phantasy ;" I see nothing in your description of the maid equal to those. 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 would 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 be- fore written, (strains of a far higher mood,) are but such as Madame Fancy loves in some of her more familiar moods, at such times as she has met Noll Goldsmith, and walked and talked with him, calling him " old acquaintance." Southey certainly has no pretensions to vie with you in the sublime of poetry ; but he tells a plain tale better than you- I will enumerate some woeful blemishes, some of them sad 60 FINAL b:'emorials of chakles lamb. deviations from that simplicity which was your aim. " Hailed who might be near" (the " canvas-coverture moving," by the bye, 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-manijled wretch" : " green putridity" : '' hailed him immortal" (rather ludicrous again): "voiced a sad and simple tale" (abominable !) : '^ improvendered" : " such his tale" : " Ah ! suffering to the height of what was suffered'' (a most insufferable line): " amazenient of affright" : '-the hot sore brain attributes its own hues of ghastliness and tor- ture" (what shocking confusion of ideas) ! In these delineations of common and natural feelings, in the familiar walks of poetry, you seem to resemble Montau- ban dancing with Roubigne's tenants, " much of his native loftiness remained in the executioji.^^ I was reading your " Religious Musings" the other day, and sincerely think it the noblest poem in the language, next after the " Paradise Lost," and even that was not made the vehicle of such grand truths. '' There is one mind,"* &c. down to " Almighty's throne," are without a rival in the whole compass of my poetical reading. " Stands in the sun, and with no partial gaze. Views all creation." I wish I could have written those lines. I rejoice that I am able to relish them. The loftier walks of Pindus are your proper region. There you have no compeer in modern times. Leave the lowlands, unenvied, in possession of such men as Covvper 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" — LETTERS TO COLERIDGE. 61 " There were those Who formed high hopes and flattering ones of thee, Young Robert !" " Spirit of Spenser ! — was the wanderer wrong ?" Fairfax I have been in quest of a long time. Johnson, in his " Life of Waller," gives a most delicious specimen of him, and adds, in the true manner of that delicate critic, as well as amiable man, " It may be pronounced that this old version will not be much read after the elegant translation of my friend, Mr. Hoole." I endeavored — I wished to gain some idea of Tasso from this Mr. Hoole, the great boast and ornament of the India House, but soon desisted. I found him more vapid than smallest small beer ^' sun-vinegared." Your '' Dream,'' down to that exquisite line — " I can't tell half his adventures," is a most happy resemblance of Chaucer. The remainder is so so. The best line, I think, is, " He belongeth, I believe, to the witch Melancholy." By the way, when will our vo- lume come out ? Don't delay it till you have written a new Joan of Arc. Send what 5^ou please by me, in any way you choose, single or double. The India Company is better adapted to answer the cost than the generality of my friend's correspondents — such poor and honest dogs as John Thel- wall, particularly. I cannot say I know Colson, at least in- timately ; I once supped with him and Allen ; I think his manners very pleasing. I will not tell you what I think of Lloyd, for he may by chance come to see this letter, and that thouo-ht 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 no- 62 FINAL MEMORIALS OF CHARLES LAMB. viciate soul.'' I grow dull ; I'll go walk myself out of my dullness. 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 sub- mit 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 ; she used to toddle there to bring me good things, when I, school-boy like, only despised her for it, and used to be ashamed to see her come and sit herself down on the old coal-hole steps as you went into the old grammar-school, and open her apron, and bring out her bason, with some nice thing she had caused to be saved for me ; the good old creature is now lying on her death-bed. I cannot bear to think on her deplorable state. To the shock she received on that our evil day, from which she never completely recovered, 1 impute her illness. She says, poor thing, she is glad she is come home to die with me. I was always her favorite : " No after friendship e'er can raise The endearments of our early days ; Nor e'er the heart such fondness prove, As when it first began to love/' Lloyd has kindly left me, for a keep-sake, " John Wool- man." You have read it, he says, and like it. Will you excuse one short extract ? I think it could not have escaped you. " Small treasure to a resigned mind is sufficient. How happy is it to be content with a little, to live in humility, and feel that in us which breathes out this language — Abba, Father !" I am almost ashamed to patch up a letter in LETTERS TO COLERIDGE. 63 this miscellaneous sort — but I please myself in the thought, that any thing from me will be acceptable to you. I am rather impatient, childishly so, to see our names affixed to the same common volume. Send me two when it does come out ; two will be enough — or indeed one — but two better. I have a dim recollection that, when in town, you were talk- ing of the Origin of Evil as a most prolific subject for a long poem ; — why not adopt it, Coleridge ? — there would be room for imagination. Or the description (from a Vision or Dream, suppose) of a Utopia in one of the planets (the moon for in- stance). Or a Five Days' Dream, which shall illustrate, in sensible imagery. Hartley's five Motives for Conduct: — 1. Sensation; 2. Imagination ; 3. A^mbition ; 4. Sympathy ; 5. Theopathy : — First. Banquets, music, &c., effeminacy, — and their insufficiency. Second. '^ Beds of hyacinths and roses, where young Adonis oft reposes;" "- Fortunate Isles ;'^ " The pagan Elysium," &c. ; poetical pictures ; antiquity as pleasing to the fancy; — their emptiness; madness, &c. Third. Warriors, Poets ; some famous, yet more forgotten ; their fame or oblivion now alike indifTerent ; pride, vanity, &c. Fourth. All manner of pitiable stories, in Spenser-like verse ; love ; friendship, relationship, &c. Fifth. Hermits ; Christ and his apostles; martyrs; heaven, &c. And an imaginanon like yours, from these scanty hints, may expand into a thousand great ideas, if indeed you at all comprehend my scheme, which I scarce do myself. Monday morn. — '' A London letter — Nine-pence half- penny !" Look you, master poet, I have remorse as well as another man, and my bowels can sound upon occasion. But I must put you to this charge, for I cannot keep back my pro- test, however ineffectual, against the annexing your latter lines to those former — this putting of new wine into old bottles. This my duty done, I will cease from writing till you invent some more reasonable mode of conveyance. Well may the 64 FINAL MEMORIALS OF CHARLES LAMB. " ragged followers of the Nine !" set up for flocci-nauci-what- do-you-call-'em-ists ! and I do not wonder that in their splen- did visions of Utopias in America, they protest against the admission of those ?/e//oz^^-complexioned, copjoer-colored, white- livered gentlemen, who never prove themselves their friends! Don't you think your verses on a '' Young Ass" too trivial a companion for the ''Religious Musings?" — ''scoundrel monarchs," alter that ; and the " Man of Ross" is scarce admirable, as it now stands, curtailed of its fairer half: re- claim its property from the " Chatterton," which it does but encumber, and it will be a rich little poem. I hope you ex- punge great part of the old notes in the new edition : that, in particular, most barefaced, unfounded, impudent assertion, that Rogers is indebted for his story to Locke and a poem by Bruce ! I have read the letter. I scarce think you have. Scarce any thing is common to them both. The author of the " Pleasures of Memory" was sorely hurt, Dyer says, by the accusation of unoriginality ; he never saw the poem. I long to read your poem on Burns — I retain so indistinct a memory of it. In what shape and how does it come into public ? Do you leave off' writing poetry till you finish your Hymns ? I suppose you print, now, all you have got by you. You have scarce enough unprinted to make a second volume with Lloyd ? What is become of Cowper ? Lloyd told me of some verses on his mother. If you have them by you, pray send 'em me. I do so love him ! Never mind their merit. May be / may like 'em, as your taste and mine do not always exactly identify. Yours, C. Lamb. Soon after the date of this letter, death released the father from his state of imbecility, and the son from his wearisome duties. With his life, the annuity he had derived from the old bencher he had served so faithfully, ceased ; while the LETTERS TO COLERIDGE. 65 aunt continued to linger still with Lamb in his cheerless lodging. His sister still remained in confinement in the asylum to which she liad been consigned on her mother's death — perfectly sensible and calm, — and he was passion- ately desirous of obtaining her liberty. The surviving mem- bers of the family, especially his brother John, who enjoyed a fair income in the South Sea House, opposed her discharge ; and painful doubts were suggested by the authorities of the parish where the terrible occurrence happened, whether they were not bound to institute proceedings, which must have placed her for life at the disposition of the Crown, especially as no medical assurance could be given against the probable recurrence of dangerous frenzy. But Charles came to her deliverance ; he satisfied all the parties who had power to oppose her release, by his solemn engagement that he would take her under his care for life ; and he kept his word. Whether any communication with the Home Secre- tary occurred before her release, 1 have been unable to as- certain ; it was the impression of Mr. Lloyd, from whom my own knowledge of the circumstances, which the letters do not ascertain, was derived, that a communication took place, on which a similar pledge was given ; at all events, the result was, that she left the asylum and took up her abode for life with her brother Charles. For her sake, at the same time, he abandoned all thoughts of love and marriage ; and with an income of scarcely more than 1007. a-year, derived from his clerkship, aided for a little while by the old aunt's small annuity, set out on the journey of life at twenty-two years of age, cheerfully, with his beloved companion, en- deared to him the more by her strange calamity, and the constant apprehension of a recurrence of the malady which had caused it ! The illnrss of the poor old aunt brought on the confirma- tion of Lamb's fears respecting his sister's malady. After 66 FINAL MEMORIALS OF CHARLES LAMB. lingering a short time, she died ; but before this. Miss Lannb's incessant attendance upon her produced a recurrence of in- sanity ; Lamb was obliged to place her under medical care ; and, left alone, wrote the following short and miserable letter : TO MR. COLERIDGE. My DEAR Coleridge, I don't know why I write, except from the propen- sity misery has to tell her griefs. Hetty died on Friday night, about eleven o'clock, after her long illness ; Mary, in consequence of fatigue and anxiety, is fallen ill again, and I was obliged to remove her yesterday. I am left alone in a house with nothing but Hetty's dead body to keep me com- pany. 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 re- lapses 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. 1 wslept out last night, not being able to endure the change and the stillness. But I did not sleep well, and I must come back to my own bed. I am going to try and get a friend to come and be with me to-mor- row. 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. CHAPTER III. LETTERS TO COLERIDGE AND MANNING IN LAMB's FIRST YEARS OF LIFE WITH HIS SISTER. 1797 TO 1800. The anxieties of Lamb's new position were assuaged during the spring of 1797, by frequent communications with Coleridge respecting the anticipated volume, and by some additions to his own share in its pages. He was also cheered by the company of Lloyd, who, having resided for a few months with Coleridge, at Stowey, came to London in some perplexity as to his future course. Of this visit Lamb speaks in the following letter, probably written in March. It contains some verses expressive of his delight at Lloyd's visit, which, although afterwards inserted in the volume, are so well fitted to their frame-work of prose, and so indicative of the feelings of the writer at this crisis of his life, that I may be excused for presenting them with the context. to mr. coleridge. Dear Col, You have learned by this time, with surprise, no doubt, that Lloyd is with me in town. The emotions I felt on his coming so unlocked for, are not ill expressed in what follows, and what, if you do not object to them as too personal, and to the world obscure, or otherwise wanting in worth, I should wish to make a part of our little volume. I shall be sorry if that volume comes out, as it necessarily must do^ 68 FINAL MEMORIALS OF CHAHLES LABIB. unless you print those very school-boyish verses I sent you on not getting leave to come down to Bristol last summer. I shall be sorry that I have addressed you in nothing which can appear in our joint volume ; so frequently, so habitually, as you dwell in my thoughts, 'tis some wonder those thoughts came never yet in contact with a poetical mood. But you dwell in my heart of hearts ; I love you in all the naked honesty of prose. God bless you, and all your little domestic circle — my tenderest remembrances to your beloved Sara, and a smile and a kiss from me to our dear, dear little Hart- ley. The verses I refer to above, slightly amended, I have sent (forgetting to ask your leave, tho' indeed I gave them only your initials), to the Monthly Magazine, where they may possibly appear next month, and where T hope to recog- nise your poem on Burns. TO CHARLES LLOYD, AN UNEXPECTED VISITOR. Alone, obscure, without a friend, A cheerless solitary thing, Why seeks my Lloyd the stranger out ? What offering can the stranger bring, Of social scenes, home-bred delights. That him in aught compensate may For Stowey's pleasant winter nights, For loves and friendships far away. In brief oblivion to forego Friends, such as thine, so justly dear. And be awhile with me content To stay, a kindly loiterer, here ? For this a gleam of random joy Hath flush'd my unaccustomed cheek ; And, with an o'er-charged bursting heart, I feel the thanks, I cannot speak. LETTERS TO COLERIDGE. 69 O ! sweet are all the Muse's lays. And sweet the charm of matin bird — 'Twas long since these estrang^ed ears The sweeter voice of friend had heard. The voice hath spoke : the pleasant sounds, Tn memory's ear, in after time Shall live, to sometimes rouse a tear, And sometimes prompt an honest rhyme. For when the transient charm is fled. And when the little week is o'er. To cheerless, friendless solitude When I return, as heretofore — Long, long, within my aching heart The grateful sense shall cherish'd be ; I'll think less meanly of myself, That Lloyd will sometimes think on me. O Coleridge, would to God you were in London with us, or we two at Stowey with you all. Lloyd takes up his abode at the Bull and Mouth Inn ; the Cat and Salutation would have had a charm more forcible for me. O nodes C(2nc£que Deum f Anglice — Welch rabbits, punch, and poesy. Should you be induced to publish those very schooL boy-ish verses, print them as they will occur, if at all, in the Monthly Magazine ; yet I should feel ashamed that to you I wrote nothing better : but they are too personal, and almost triflino- and obscure withal. Some lines of mine to Cowper were in last Monthly Magazine; they have not body of thought enough to plead for the retaining of them. My sister's kind love to you all. C. Lamb. The next letter to Coleridge, apparently the following April, begins with a transcript of Lamb's Poem, entitled ^^ A Vision of Repentance/' which was inserted in the Addenda 70 FINAL MEMORIALS OF CHARLES LAMB. to the volume, and is preserved among his collected poems, and thus proceeds : The above you will please to print immediately before the blank verse fragments. Tell me if you like it. I fear the latter half is unequal to the former, in parts of which I think you will discover a delicacy of pencilling not quite un- Spenser-like. The latter half aims at the measure^ but has failed to attain the poetry of Milton in his ^'Comus," and of Fletcher in that exquisite thing ycleped the "- Faithful Shep- herdess,'^ where they both use eight-syllable lines. But this latter half was finished in great haste, and as a task, not from that impulse which affects the name of inspiration. By the way, I have lit upon Fairfax's " Godfrey of Bul- len," for half-a-crown. Rejoice with me. Poor dear Lloyd ! I had a letter from him yesterday ; his state of mind is truly alarming. He has, by his own confession, kept a letter of mine unopened three weeks, afraid, he says, to open it, lest I should speak upbraidingly to him ; and yet this very letter of mine was in answer to one, wherein he informed me that an alarming illness had alone prevented him from writing. You will pray with me, I know, for his recovery, for surely, Coleridge, an exquisiteness of feeling like this must border on derangement. But I love him more and more, and will not give up the hope of his speedy re- covery, as he tells me he is under Dr. Darwin's regimen.* * Poor Charles Lloyd ! These apprehensions were sadly realized. Delusions of the most melancholy kind thickened over his latter days — yet left his admirable intellect free for the finest processes of severe rea- soning. At a time when, like Cowper, he believed himself the especial subject of Divine wrath, he could bear his part in the most subtle disquisi- tion on questions of religion, morals, and poetry, with the nicest accuracy of perception and the most exemplary candor ; and, after an argument of hours, revert, with a faint smile, to his own despair ! . LETTERS TO COLERIDGE. 71 God bless us all, and shield us from insanity, which is '' the sorest malady of all." My kind love to your wife and child. C. Lamb. Pray write soon. As summer advanced, Lamb discerned a hope of com- pensation for the disappointment of last year, by a visit to Coleridge, and thus expressed his wishes. TO MR. COLERIDGE. I discern a possibility of my paying you a visit next week. May I, can 1, shall I, come as soon ? Have you room for me, leisure for me, and are you all pretty well ? Tell me all this honestly — immediately. And by what cZa?/-coach could I come soonest and nearest to Stowey ? A few months hence may suit you better; certainly me, as well. If so, say so. I long, I yearn, with all the longings of a child do I desire to see you — to come among you — to see the young philoso- pher, to thank Sara for her last year's invitation in person — • to read your tragedy — to read over together our little book — to breathe fresh air — to revive in me vivid images of '' Salu- tation scenery.'' There is a sort of sacrilege in my letting «uch ideas slip out of my mind and memory. Still that R remaineth — a thorn in the side of Hope, when she would lean towards Stowey. Here I will leave off, for I dis^ like to fill up this paper, which involves a question so con« nected with my heart and soul, with meaner matter or sub- jects to me less interesting. 1 can talk, as I can think, nothing else. Thursday. C. Lamb. The visit was enjoyed ; the book was published ; and Lamb was once more left to the daily labors of the India 72 FINAL MEMORIALS OF CHARLES LAMB. House and the unceasing: anxieties of his home. His feel- ings, on the recurrence of the season, which had, last year, been darkened by his terrible calamity, will be understood from the first of two pieces of blank verse, which fill the two first sheets of a letter to Coleridge, written under an appre- hension of some neglect on the part of his friend, which had its cause in no estrangement of Coleridge's affections, but in the vicissitudes of the imaginative philosopher's fortune and the constancy of his day-dreamings. WRITTEN A TWELVEMONTH AFTER THE EVENTS. [Friday next, Coleridge, is the day on which my mother died.] Alas ! how am I changed ! where be the tears. The sobs, and forc'd suspensions of the breath, And all the dull desertions of the heart With which I hung o'er my dear mother's corse? Where be the blest subsidings of the storm Within ; the sweet resignedness of hope Drawn heavenward, and strength of filial love, In which I bow'd me to my Father's will 1 My God and my Redeemer, keep not thou My heart in brute and sensual thanklessness Seal'd up, oblivious ever of that dear grace. And health restored to my long-loved friend. Long lov'd, and worthy known ! Thou didst not keep Her soul in d^ath. keep not now, my Lord, Thy servant's in far worse — in spiritual death And darkness — blacker than those feared shadows Of the valley all must tread. Lend us thy balms, Thou dear Physician of the sin-sick soul. And heal our cleansed bosoms of the wounds With which the world hath pierc'd us thro' and thro' ! Give us new flesh, new birth ; elect of heaven May we become, in thine election sure LETTERS TO COLERIDGE. 73 Contnin'd, and to our purpose steadfast drawn — Our souls' salvation. Thou and T, dear friend, With filial recognition sweet, shall know One day the face of our dear mother in heaven. And her remember'd looks of love shall greet With answering looks of love, her placid smiles Meet with a smile as placid, and her hand With drops of fondness wet, nor fear repulse.* Be witness for me. Lord, I do not ask Those days of vanity to return again, (Nor fitting me to ask, nor thee to give,) Vain loves, and " wanderings with a fair-hair'd maid :** (Child of the dust as I am,) who so long My foolish heart steep'd in idolatry, And creature-loves. Forgive it, my Maker ! If in a mood of grief, I sin almost In sometimes brooding on the days long past, (And from the grave of time wishing thrm back,) Days of a mother's fondness to her child — Her little one ! Oh, where be now those sports And infant plny-games? Where the joyous tioops Of children, and the haunts I did so love ? my companions ! O ye loved names Of fiend, or playmate dear, gone are ye now. Gone diveis ways ; to honor and credit some ; And some, I fear, to ignominy and shame It 1 only am left, with unavailing g-ief Am left, with a fevv friends, and one above The rest found faithful in a length of years, Contented as I may to bear m.- on, r the not u!ipeaceful evening of a day Made black by morning storms. * [Note in the margin of MS.] ''' This is almost literal from a let« ter of my sister's— less than a year ago.' t [Note in the margin of MS ] ** Alluding to some of my ol J play, fellovxs being, literally, * on the town/ and some otherwise wretchedo" 4 74 FINAL MEMORIALS OF CHARLES LAMB. The following I wrote when I had returned from C. Lloyd, leaving him behind at Burton, with Southey. To understand some of it, you must remember that at that time he was very much perplexed in mind. A stranger, and alone, I past those scenes We past so late together ; and my heart Felt something like desertion, as I look'd Around me, and the pleasant voice of friend Was absent, and the cordial look was there No more to smile on me. I thought on Lloyd — All he had been to me ! And now I go Again to mingle with a world impure ; With men who make a mock of holy things^ Mistaken, and on man's best hope think scorn. The world does much to warp the heart of man ; And I may sometimes join its idiot laugh : Of this I now complain not. Deal with me. Omniscient Father, as thou judgest best. And in thy season soften thou my heart. I pray not for myself : I pray for him Whose soul is sore perplexed. Shine thou on him^ Father of lights ! and in the difficult paths Make plain his way before him : his own thoughts May he not think — his own ends not pursue — So shall he best perform thy will on earth. Greatest and Best, Thy will be ever ours ! The former of these poems I wrote with unusual celerity t'other morning at office. I expect you to like it better than any thing of mine ; Lloyd does, and I do myself. You use Lloyd very ill, never writing to him. I tell you again that his is not a mind with which you should play tricks. He deserves more tenderness from you. For myself, I must spoil a little passage of Beaumont and Fletcher to adapt it to my feelings : — " I am prouder That I was once your friend, tho' now forgot. Than to have had another true to me.". LETTERS TO COLERIDGE. 75 If you don't write to me now, as I told Lloyd, I shall get angry, and call you hard names — Manchineel and I don't know what else. I wish you would send me my great-coat. The snow and the rain season is at hand, and I have but a wretched old coat, once my father's, to keep 'em off, and that is transitory. ** When time drives flocks from field to fold, When ways grow foul and blood gets cold," I shall remember where I left my coat. Meet emblem wilt thou be, old Winter, of a friend's neglect — cold, cold, cold • C. Lamb. At this time, the only literary man whom Lamb knew in London was George Dyer, who had been noted as an accom- plished scholar, in Lamb's early childhood, at Christ's Hos- pital. For him Lamb cherished all the esteem that his guileless simplicity of character and gentleness of nature could inspire ; in these qualities the friends were akin ; but no two men could be more opposite than they were to each other, in intellectual qualifications and tastes — Lamb, in all things original, and rejoicing in the quaint, the strange, the extravagant ; Dyer, the quintessence of learned common- place ; Lamb wildly catching the most evanescent spirit of wit and poetry ; Dyer, the wondering disciple of their esta- blished forms. Dyer officiated as a revering High Priest at the Altar of the Muses — such as they were in the staid, an- tiquated trim of the closing years of the eighteenth century, before they formed sentimental attachments in Germany, or flirted with revolutionary France, or renewed their youth by drinking the Spirit of the Lakes. Lamb esteemed and loved him so well, that he felt himself entitled to make sport v^ith his peculiarities ; but it was as Fielding might sport with his own idea of Parson Adams ; or Goldsmith with his Dr. Prim- 76 FINAL MEMORIALS OF CHARLES LAMB. rose. The following passage occurs in a letter of Novemben 1798, addressed — TO MR. SOUTHEY. I showed my '' Witch/' and " Dying Lover/' to Dyer last night, but George could not comprehend how that could be poetry which did not go upon ten feet, as George and his predecessors had taught it to do ; so George read me some lectures on the distinguishing qualities of the Ode, the Epi- gram, and the Epic, and went home to illustrate his doc- trine, by correcting a proof sheet of his own Lyrics. George writes odes where the rhymes, like fashionable man and wife, keep a comfortable distance of six or eight lines apart, and calls that " observing the laws of verse." George tells you, before he recites, that you must listen with great attention, or you '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 be- sides, and suggested to him, " 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. The following passage on the same subject occurs in a letter about the same time, addressed TO MR. COLERIDGE. Now I am on the subject of poetry, I must announce to you, who, doubtless, in your remote part of the island, have not heard tidings of so great a blessing, that George Dyer hath prepared two ponderous volumes full of poetry and criti- cism. They impend over the town and are threatened to fall in the winter. The first volume contains every sort of LETTERS TO COLERIDGE. 77 poetry, except personal satire, which George, in his truly- original prospectus, renounceth for ever, whimsically foisting the intention in between the price of his book and the pro- posed number of subscribers. (If I can, I will get you a copy of his handbill.) He has tried his verse in every species besides — the Spenserian, Thomsonian, Masonic and Aken- sidish more especially. The second volume is all criticism ; wherein he demonstrates to the entire satisfaction of the lite- rary world, in a way that must silence all reply for ever, that the Pa-toral was introduced by Theocritus and polished by Virgil and Pope — that Gray and Mason (who always hunt in couples in George's brain) have a good deal of poeti- cal fire and true lyric genius — that Cowley was ruined by excess of wit (a warning to all moderns) — that Charles Lloyd, Charles Lamb, and William Wordsworth, in later days, have struck the true chords of poesy. O George, George ! w^ith a head uniformly wrong, and a heart uni- formly 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 prospec- tus-trumpet, and crowding who should be first to stand on 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 wasted ? 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 aftected.'' In 1799, Coleridge seemed to attain a settled home by acceptini^ an invitation to become the minister of a Unitarian cono-regation at Shrewsbury ; a hope of short duration. The following letter was addressed by Lamb to him at this time, as '' S. T. Coleridge" — as if the Mr. were dropped 78 FINAL MEMORIALS OF CHARLES LAMB. and the " Reverend" not quite adopted — " at the Reverend A. Rowe's, Shrewsbury, Shropshire." The tables are turned here ; — Lamb, instead of accusing Coleridge of neg- lect, takes the charge to himself in deep humility of spirit, and regards the effect of Miss Lamb's renewed illnesses on his mind as inducing indifference, with an affectino; self- jealousy. TO MR. COLERIDGE. You have writ me many kind letters, and I have answered none of them. 1 don't deserve your attentions. An unnatu- ral indifference has been creeping on me since my last mis- fortunes, or I should have seized the first opening of a cor- respondence with you. To you I owe much, under God. In my brief acquaintance with you in London, your conversa- tions 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 feelings, tho' when I view myself in the light of divine truth, and not according to the common measures of human judgment, I am alto- gether corrupt and sinful. This is no cant. I am very sincere. These last afflictions, Coleridge, have failed to soften and bend my will. They found me unprepared. My former calamities produced in me a spirit of humility and a spirit of prayer. I thought they had sufficiently disciplined me ; but the event ought to humble me ; if Goal's judgments now fail to take away from me the heart of stone, what more grievous trials ought I not to expect ? I have been very querulous, impatient under the rod — full of little jealousies and heart burnings. — I had well nigh quarreled with Charles Lloyd — and for no other reason, I believe, than that the good LETTERS TO COLERIDGE, 79 creature did all he could to make me happy. The truth is, 1 thought he tried to force my mind from its natural and proper bent ; he continually wished me to be from home, he was drawing me from the consideration of my poor dear Mary's situation, rather than assisting me to gain a proper view of it with religious consolations. I wanted to be left to the tendency of my own mind, in a solitary state, which, in times past, I knew had led to a quietness and a patient bearing of the yoke,. He was hurt that I was not more con- stantly with him, but he was living with White, a man to whom I had never been accustomed to impart my dearest feelings^ tho' from long habits of friendliness, and many a social and good quality, I loved him very much, I met company there sometimes — indiscriminate company. Any society almost, when I am in affliction, is sorely painful to me. I seem to breathe more freely, to think more collect- edly, to feel more properly and calmly, when alonCo All these things the good creature did with the kindest intentions in the world, but the)' produced in me nothing but soreness and discontent- I became, as he complained, '^ jaundiced" towards him . . . but he has forgiven me — and his smile, I hope, will draw all such humors from me, I am recover- ing, 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 last settle you ! — You have had many and painful trials; humanly speaking, they are going to end ; but we should rather pray that discipline may attend us thro' the whole of our lives A careless and a dissolute spirit has advanced upon me with large strides — pray God that my present afflictions may be sanctified to me ! Marv is recovering : but I see no opening yet of a situation for us or her ; your invitation went to my very heart, but you have a power of exciting interest, leading all hearts FINAL MEMORIALS OF CHARLES LAMB. captive, too forcible to admit of Mary's being with you. I consider her as perpetually on the brink of madness. I think, you would almost make her dance wiihin an inch of the precipice ; she must be with duller fancies, and cooler intellects. In answc r to your su^grgestions of occupation for me, T must Sijy that I do not think my ca[)acity altogether suited fur disquisitions of thai kind. ... I have read little, I have a very weak memory, and retain little of what I reid ; am unused to compositions in which any methodizing is re- quired ; but I thank you sincerely for the hint, and shall re- ceive it as far as I am able, that is, crideavor to engage my mind in some constant and innocent pursuit. I know my capaciciv:S bc^ttrr than you do. Accept my kindest love, and bi licve me yours, as ever. The prospect of obtaining a residence^ more suited to the peculiar exigencies of his situation tlian tliat which he then occupied at Pentonville, gave Lamb comfort, wliich he ex- pressed in the following sliort letter : — to mr. manniing, Dear Manning, I feel myself unable to thank you sufficiently for your kind letter. It w^as doubly acceptable to me, both for the choice poetry and the kind honest prose which it con- tained. It was just such a letter as 1 should have expected from Manning. I am in much better spirits than when I wn^ote last. I have had a very eligible offer to lodge w^ith a friend in town. He will have rooms to let at midsummer, by w^hich 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 a neighborhood where poor LETTERS TO COLERIDGE. 81 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 whom we visit very frequently ; only my landlord and I have not yet come to a conclusion. He has a partner to consult. I am still on the tremble, for I do not know where we could go into lodgings that would not be, in many respects, highly exceptionable. Only God send Mary well again, and I hope all will be v/ell ! The prospect, such as it is, has made me quite happy. I have just time to tell you of it, as I know it will give you pleasure. — Farewell. C. Lamb. This hope was accomplished, as appears from the follow- ing letter : — to mr. coleridge. Dear Coleridge, Soon after I wrote to you last, an offer Vas made me by G (you must remember him, at Christ's, — you saw him, slightly, one day with Thomson at our house — 10 come and lodge with him, at his house in Southamp- ton Buildings, Chancery-lane. This was a very comfort- able offer to me, the rooms being at a reasonable rent, and including the use of an old servant, besides being infi- nitely preferable to ordinary lodgings in our case, as you must perceive. As G knew all our story, and the per- petual liability to a recurrence in my sister's disorder, pro- bably to the end of her life, I certainly think the offer very generous and very friendly. I have got three rooms (in- cluding servant) under 34Z. a-year. Here I soon found my- self at home ; and here, in six weeks after, Mary was well enough to join me. So we are once more settled. I am afraid we are not placed out of the reach of future interrup- 4* 82 FINAL MEMORIALS OF CHARLES LaMB. tions. But I am determined to take what snatches of plea- sure we can between the acts of our distressful drama . . . I have passed two days at Oxford, on a visit which I have long put off, to G 's family. The sight of the Bodleian Library, and, above all, a fine bust of Bishop Taylor, at All Souls', were particularly gratifying to me ; unluckily, it was not a family where I could take Mary with me, and I am afraid there is something of dishonesty in any pleasures 1 take without her. She never goes any where. I do not know what I can add to this letter. I hope you are better by this time ; and I desire to be affectionately remembered to Sara and Hartley. 1 expected before this to have had tidings of another little philosopher. Lloyd's wife is on the point of favoring the world. Have you seen the new edition of Burns ? his posthu- mous works and letters ? I have only been able to procure the first volume, which contains his life — very confusedly and badly wriften, and interspersed with dull pathological and med- zcaZ discussions. It is written by a Dr. Currie. Do you know the well-meaning doctor ? Alas, ne sutor ultra crepidam! I hope to hear again from you very soon. Godwin is gone to Ireland on a visit to Grattan. Before he went I passed much time with him, and he has showed me particu- lar attention : N. B. A thing I much like. Your books are all safe ; only I have not thought it necessary to fetch away your last batch, which I understand are at Johnson's, the bookseller, who has got quite as much room, and will take as much care of them as myself— and you can send for them immediately from him. I wish you would advert to a letter I sent you at Grass- mere about Christabel, and comply with my request con- tained therein. Love to all friends round Skiddaw. C. Lamb. CHAPTER IV. MISCELLANEOUS LETTERS TO MANNING, COLERIDGE, AND WORDSWORTH, FROM 1800 TO 1805. It would seem from the letters of 1800, that the natural determination of Lamb ^^ to take what pleasure he could be- tween the acts of his distressful drama/' had led him into a wider circle of companionship, and had prompted sallies of wilder and broader mirth, which afterwards softened into deli- cacy, retaining all its whim. The following passage, which concludes a letter to Manning, else occupied with merely- personal details, proves that his apprehensions for the diminu» tion of his reverence for sacred things were not wholly un- founded ; while, amidst its grotesque expressions, may be discerned the repugnance to the philosophical infidelity of some of his companions he retained through life. The pas- sage, may, perhaps, be regarded as a sort of desperate com- promise between a wild gaiety and religious impressions ob- scured but not effaced ; and intimating his disapprobation of infidelity, with a melancholy sense of his own unworthiness seriously to express it. TO MR. MANNING. Coleridge inquires after you pretty often. I wish to be the pander to bring you together again once before I die. When we die, you and I must part ; the sheep, you know, take the right hand, and the goats the left. Stripped 6f its 84 FINAL BIEMORIALS OF CHARLES LAMB. allegory, you must know, the sheep are /, and the Apostles and the Martyrs, and the Popes, and Bishop Taylor and Bishop Horsely, and Coleridge, &c. &c. ; the goats are the Atheists and the Adulterers, and dumb dogs, and Godwin and M g, and that Thyestsean crew— yaw ! how my saintship sickens at the idea ! You shall have my play and the FalstafF letters in a day or two. I will write to Lloyd by this day's post. God bles:^ you, Munning. Take my trifling as trifling — and believe me seriously and deeply your well-wisher and friend, C. Lamb. In the following letter. Lamb's fantastic spirits find scope freely, though in all kindness, in the peculiarities of the learned and good George Dyer. TO MR. manning. Dear Manning, You needed not imngine any apdogy necessary. Your fine h >.re and fine birds (which jnst now are dangling by our kitchv n blaze), discourse most eloquent music in your justi- fication. You just nicked my palate. For, with all due de- corum and leave may it be spoken, my worship hath taken physic to-day, and being low and pulin^^, rcquireth to be pam- pered. Fob! how beautiful and strong those buttered onions come to my nose. Fur you must know we extract a divine spirit of gravy from those mat( rials, which, duly compounded with a consistence of bread and cream (y'clept bread-sauce), each to each, giving double grace, do mutually illustrate and set oflr(as skillful gold foils to rare jewels) your partridge, pheasant, woodcock, snipe, teal, widgeon, and the other lesser daughters of the ark. Mrs. Friendship, struggling with my carnal and fleshly prudence (which suggests that a bird or LETTERS TO MANNING. 85 man is the proper allotment in such cases), yearneth some- times to have thee here to pick a wing or so. I question if your Norfolk sauces match our London cookery. George Dyer has introduced me to the table of an agree- able old gentleman. Dr. A , who gives hot legs of mutton and grape pies at his sylvan lodge at Isleworth ; where, in the middle of a street, he has shot up a wall most preposter- ously before his small dwelling, which, with the circumstance of his taking seven panes of glass out of bedroom windows (for air), causeth his neighbors to speculate strangely on the state of the good man's pericranicks. Plainly, he lives un- der the reputation of being deranged. George does not mind this circumstance ; he rather likes him the better for it. The Doctor, in his pursuits, joins agricultural to poetical science, and has sot George's brains mad about the old Scotch writers, Barbour, Douglas's ^neid, Blind Harry, &c. We returned home in return postchaise (having dined with the Doctor), and George kept wondering and wondering, for eight or nine turnpike miles, v^•hat was the name, and striving to recollect the name of a poet anterior to Bai'bour. I begged to know what was remaining of his works. '-' There is nothing extant of his woi'ks, Sir, but by all accounts, he seems to have been a fine genius !" This fine genius, without anything to show for ir, or any title beyond George's courtesy, without even a ' name; and Barbour, and Douglas, and Blind Harry, now are predominant sounds in George's pia mater, and their buz- zings exclude politics, criiicism, and algebra— the late lords of that illustrious lumber-room. M.irk, he has never read any of these bucks, but is impatient till he reads them all at tlie Doctor's suggestion. Poor Dyer ! his friends should be careful what speeches they let fall into such inflammable matter. Could I have my will of the heathen, I would lock him up from all access of new ideas ; I would exclude all critics 86 FINAL MEMORIALS OF CHARLES LAMB. that would not swear 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 pos- sible, 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. In the following letter, the exciting subjects of Dr. A and Dyer are further played on. TO MR. COLERIDGE. 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 calcu- late the precise date of his death, I would write a novel on purpose to make George the hero. T could hit him off to a hair.* George brought a Dr. A to see me. The Doc- tor is a very pleasant old man, a great genius for agricul- ture, one that ties his breeches-knees with a packthread, and boasts of having had disappointments from ministers. The Doctor happened to mention an epic poem by one Wilkie, called the " Epigoniad," in which he assured us there is not one tolerable line from beginning to end, but all the charac- ters, incidents, &c., verbally copied from Homer. George, who had been sitting quite inattentive to the Doctor's criti- * This passage, thus far, is printed in the former volumes ; the re- mainder was ihen suppressed (with other passages now for the first time pubUshed) relating to Mr. Dyer, lest they should give pain to that ex- cellent person then living. LETTERS TO MANNING. 87 cism, no soonei' felt the sound of Homer strike his pericran- icks, than up he gets, and declares he must see that poem immediately : where was it to be had ? An epic poem of 8000 lines, and he not hear of it ! There must be some things good in it, and it was necessary he should see it, for he had touched pretty deeply upon that subject in his criti- cism on the Epic. George has touched pretty deeply upon the Lyric, I find ; he has also prepared a dissertation upon the Drama and the comparison of the English and German theatres. As I rather doubted his competency to do the lat- ter, knowing that his peculiar turn lies in the lyric species of composition, I questioned George what English plays he had read. 1 found that he had read Shakspeare (whom he calls an original, but irregular, genius) ; but it was a good while ago; and he has dipped into Rowe and Otway, I sup- pose having found their verses in " Johnson's Lives" at full length ; and upon this slender ground he has undertaken the task. He never seemed even to have heard of Fletcher, Ford, Marlowe, Massinger, and the worthies of Dodsley's Collection ; but he is to read all these, to prepare him for brino-ins: out his '^ Parallel" in the winter. I find he is also determined to vindicate Poetry from the shackles which Aris- totle and some others have imposed upon it, which is very good-natured of him, and very necessary just now. Now I am touching so deeply upon poetry, can I forget that I have just received from D a magnificent copy of his Guinea Epic. Four-and-twenty books to read in the dog-days ! I got as far as the Mad Monk the first day, and fainted. Mr. Y) 's genius strongly points him to the Pastoral, but his inclinations divert him perpetually from his calling. He imitates Southey, as Rowe did Shakspeare, with his " Good morrow to ye ; good master Lieutenant." Instead of a man, a woman, a daughter, he constantly writes one a man, one a woman, one his daughter. Instead of the king, the hero, he 88 FINAL MEMORIALS OF CHARLES LAMB. constantly writes, he the king, he the hero ; two flowers of rhetoric, palpably from the '^Joan.'' But Mr. D soars a higher pitch ; and when he is original, it is in a most original way indeed. His terrific scenes are indefatigable. Serpents, asps, spiders, ghosts, dead bodies, staircases made of nothing, with adders' tongues for bannisters — Good Hea- ven ! what a brain he must have. He puts as many plums in his pudding as my grandmother used to do ; — and then his emerging from Hell's horrors into light, and treading on pure flats of this earth — for twenty-three Books together! C. L. The following letter, obviously written about the same time, pursues the same theme. There is some iteration in it ; but even that is curious enough to prevent the excision of the reproduced passages. to mr. manning. Dear Manning, lam going to ask a favor of you, and am at a loss how to do it in the most delicate manner. For this pur- pose 1 have been looking into Pliny's Letters, who is noted to have hid 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 con- -i strained to beg in my own barbarian way. To come to the point then, and hasten into the middle of things ; have you a copy of your Algebra to give away ? I do not ask it for mvself : I have too much reverence for the Black Arts, ever to approach thy circle, illustrious Trismegist ! But that worthy man, and excellent poet, George Dyer, made me a visit yesternight, on purpose to borrow one, supposing, ration- LETTERS TO MANNING. 89 ally enough, I must say, that you had made me a present of one before this ; the omission of which I take to have pro- ceeded only from negligence ; but it is a fault. I could lend him no assistance. You must know he is just now diverted from the pursuit of the Bell Letteks by a paradox, which he has heard his friend,* (that learned mathematician) main- tain, that the negative quantities of mathematicians were mercE nugcE, things scarcely in rerum naiurd, 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 pericranicks ; and it is necessary for I. is health that he should speedily come to a res(;lution of his doubts. He goes about teasing his friends with his new mathem.itics ; he even frantically talks of pur- chasing 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, on this trembling suspense of his reason, and he should find on Saturday morning, lying for him at the Porter's Lodge, Clifford's Irm, — his safest address — Manning's Algebra, with a neat manuscription in the blank leaf, running thus, '- Fkom 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 covers, smeared leaves, and dog's ears, will be rather a recommen- dation 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 w^e see him * Mr FrencI, many years the Actuary of the Rock Insurance Office, in early life the champion of Unitarianism at Cambridge ; the object of a great University's displeasure ; in short, the ** village Hampden" of the day. 90 FINAL MEMORIALS OF CHARLES LAMB. 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 has gone pretty deeply into the laws of blank verse and rhyme^ — epic poetry, dramatic and pastoral ditto — all which is to come out before Christmas. But above all he has touched most deeply upon the Drama, comparing the English with the modern German stage, their merits and defects. Apprehending that his studies (not to mention his tiirn^ which I take to be chiefly towards the lyrical poetry) hardly qualified him for these disquisitions, I modestly in- quired what plays he had read ? I found George's reply was that he had read Shakspeare, but that was a good while since: he calls him a great, irregular genius, which I think to be an original and just remark. Beaumont and Fletcher, Massinger, Ben Jonson, Shirley, Marlowe, Ford, and the worthies of Dodsley's Collection — he confessed he had read none of them, but professed his intention of looking through them all, so as to be able to touch upon them in his book. So Shakspeare, Otway, and I believe Rowe, to whom he was naturally directed by Johnson's Lives, and these not read lately, are to stand him instead of a general knowledge of the subject. God bless his dear absurd head ! By the by, did I not write you a letter with something about an invitation in it ? — but let that pass ; I suppose it is not agreeable. LETTERS TO MANNING. 91 N.B. It would not be amiss if you were to accompany your present with a dissertation on negative quantities. C. L. The " Algebra^' arrived ; and Lamb wrote the following invitation, in hope to bring the author and the presentee together. TO MR. MANNING. George Dyer is an Archimedes and an Archimagus, and a Tycho Brahe, and a Copernicus ; and thou art the darling of the Nine, and midwife to their wandering babe also ! We take tea with that learned poet and critic on Tuesday night, at half-past five, in his neat library ; the repast will be light and Attic, with criticism. If thou couldst contrive to wheel up thy dear carcase on the Monday, and after dining with us on tripe, 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 wouldst restore light to his eyes, and him to his friends and the public ; Parnassus should shower her civic crowns on thee for saving the wits of a citizen ! I thought I saw a lucid interval in George the other night — he broke in upon my studies just at tea-time, and brought with him Dr. A , an old gentleman who ties his breeches' knees with packthread, and boasts that he has been disappointed by ministers. The Doctor wanted to see 92 FINAL MEBIORIALS OF CHARLES LAMB. me ; for 1 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 M^hich there is not one tolerable line all through, but every incident and speech borrowed from Homer. George had been silting inattentive, seemingly, to what was going on — hatching of negative quantities — when, suddenly, the name of his old friend, Homer, stung his pericranicks, and, jumping up, he begged to know where he could meet with Wilkie's works. " It was a curious fact that there should be such an epic poem and he not know of it ; and he miisi get a copy of it, as he was going to touch pretty deeply upon the subject of the Epic — and he was sure there must be some things good in a poem of 8000 lines!" I was pleased with this transient return of his reason and recurrence to his old ways of think- ing : it gave me great hopes of a recovery, which nothing but your book can completely insure. Pray come on Mon- day, 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 night, and dream of Spheroids. I hope you will understand by the nonsense of this letter that 1 am not melancholy at the thoughts of thy coming : 1 thought it necessary to add this, because you love precision. Take notice that our stay at Dyer's will not exceed eight o'clock, after which our pursuits will be our own. But, indeed, I think a little recreation among the Bell Letters and poetry will do vou some service in the interval of severer studies. I hope w^e shall fully discuss with George Dyer what I have never yet heard done to my satisfaction, the reason of Dr. Johnson's malevolent strictures on the higher species of the Ode. Manning could not come : and Dyer's subsequent symp< toms are described in the following letter — LETTERS TO MANNING. 93 TO MR. BIANNING. At length George Dyer's phrenesis has come to a crisis ; he is raging and furiously mad. I waited upon the heathen, Thursday se'nnight ; the first symptom which struck my eye, and gave me incontrovertible proof of the fatal truth, was a pair of nankeen pantaloons, four times too big for him, which the said heathen did pertinaciously affirm to be new. They were absolutely ingrained with the accumulated dirt of ages ; but he affirmed them to be clean. He was going to visit a lady that was nice about those things, and that's the reason he wore nankeen that day. And 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 in- sinuated their tiny bodies through every crevice, door, win- dow, or wainscot, expressly formed for the exclusion of such impertinents. Then he caught at a proof sheet, and catched up a laundress's bill instead — made a dart at Bloomfield's Poems, and threw them in agony aside. I could not bring him to one direct reply; he could not maintain his jumping mind in a right line for the tithe of a moment by Clifford's Inn clock. He must go to the printer's immediately — the most unlucky accident — he had struck off* five hundred im- pressions of his Poems, which were ready for delivery to subscribers, and the Preface must all be expunged ; there were eio-hty pages of Preface, and not till that morning had he discovered, that in the very first page of the said Preface he had set out with a principle of Criticism fundamentally wrono-, which vitiated all his following reasoning ; the Pre- face must be expunged, although it cost him £30, the lowest calculation, taking in paper and printing ! In vain have his real friends remonstrated against this Midsummer madness. George is as sturdy in his resolution as a Primitive Chrisiian 94 FINAL MEMORIALS OF CHARLES LAMB. — and wards and parries off all our thrusts with one un- answerable fence; — ''Sir, it's of great consequence that the world is not misled !^^ I've often wished I lived in the Golden Age, before doubt, and propositions, and corollaries got into the world. ISow^ as Joseph D , 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 saying. These two lines, I assure you, are taken totidem Uteris from a very popular poem. Joe is also an Epic poet as well as a Descriptive, and has written a tragedy, though both his drama and epopoeia are strictly descriptive, and chiefly of the beauties' of Nature, for Joe thinks man, with all his passions and frailties, not a proper subject of the Drama. Joe's tragedy hath the following sur- passing 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 patheti- cally exclaims — " Twelve, dost thou say ? Curse on those dozen villains !'' D read two of the 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 who chooses to read out his own verses has but a limited power over you. There is a bound where his authority ceases. The following letter, written some time in 1801, shows that Lamb had succeeded in obtaining occasional employ- LETTERS TO MANNING. 95 ment as a writer of epigrams for newspapers, by which he added something to his slender income. The disparaging reference to Sir James Mackintosh must not be taken as ex- pressive of Lamb's deliberate opinion of that distinguished person. Mackintosh, at this time, was in great disfavor for his supposed apostacy from the principles of his youth, with Lamb's philosophic friends, whose minds were of tempera- ment less capable than that of the author of the VindicicB Gallicce of being diverted from abstract theories of liberty by the crimes and sufferings which then attended the great attempt to reduce them to practice. Lamb, through life utterly indifferent to politics, was always ready to take part with his friends, and probably scouted, with them. Mackintosh as a deserter. to mr. manning. Dear Manning, I have forborne writing so long (and so have you for the matter of that), until I am almost ashamed either to write or to forbear any longer. But as your silence may proceed from some worse cause than neglect — from illness, or some mishap which may have befallen you, I begin to be anxious. You may have been burnt out, or you may have married, or you may have broken a limb, or turned country parson ; any of these would be cause sufficient for not coming to my supper. I am not so unforgiving as the nobleman in Saint Mark. For me, nothing new has happened to me, unless that the poor Albion died last Saturday of the world's neglect, and with it the fountain of my puns is choked up for ever. All the Lloyds wonder that you do not write to them. They apply to me for the cause. Relieve me from this weight of ignorance, and enable me to give a truly oracular response. 96 FINAL MEMORIALS OF CHARLES LAMB, I have been confined some days with swelled cheek and rheumatism — they divide and govern me with a viceroy, headache in the middle. I can neither write nor read with- out great pain. It must be something like obstinacy that I choose this time to write to you after many months interrup- tion. I will close my letter of simple inquiry with an epigram on Mackintosh, the VindicicB GaZ/ic/c-man — who has got a place at last — oae of the last I did for the Albion : '' Though thou 'rt like Judas, an apostate black, In the resemblance one thing thou dost lack ; When he had gotten his ill-purchas'd pelf. He went away, and wisely hang'd himself: This thou may do at last, yet much I doubt If thou hast any Bowels to gush out !'* Yours, as ever, C. Lamb. Some sportive extravagance which, however inconsistent with Lamb's early sentiments of reverent piety, was very far from indicating an irreligious purpose, seems to have given offence to Mr. Walter Wilson, and to have induced the followino^ letter, illustrative of the writer's feelino;s at this time, on the most momentous of all subjects. to mr. walter wilson. Dear Wilson, I am extremely sorry that any serious difference should subsist between us, on account of some foolisli beha- vior of mine at Richmond ; you knew me well enough be- fore, that a very little liquor will cause a considerable alteration in me. • I beg you to impute my conduct solely to that, and not to / any deliberate intention of offending you, from whom I have LETTERS TO COLERIDGE. 97 received so many friendly attentions. I know that you think a very important difference in opinion with respect to some more serious subjects between us makes me a dangerous companion ; but do not rashly infer, from some slight and light expressions which I may have made use of in a moment of levity, in your presence, without sufficient regard to your feelings — do not, I pray you, conclude that I am an invete- rate enemy to all religion. I have had a time of seriousness, and 1 have known the importance and reality of a religious belief. Latterly, I acknowledge, much of my seriousness has gone off, whether from new company, or some other new asso- ciations ; but I still retain at bottom a conviction of the truth, and a certainty of the usefulness of religion. I will not pretend to more gravity or feeling than I at present possess ; my inten- tion is not to persuade you that any great alteration is pro- bable in me ; sudden converts are superficial and transitory ; I only want you to believe that I have stamina of seriousness within me, and that I desire nothing more than a return of that friendly intercourse which used to subsist between us, but which my folly has suspended. Believe me, very affectionately, yours, C. Lamb. Friday, I4th August, 1801. In 1803 Coleridge visited London, and at his departure left the superintendence of a new edition of his poems to Lamb. The following letter, written in reply to one of Coleridge's, p-iving a mournful account of his journey to the north with an old man and his influenza, refers to a splendid smoking, cap which Coleridge had worn at their evening meetings. TO MR. COLERIDGE^ My DEAR Coleridge, Things have gone on better with me since you left me. I expect to have my old housekeeper home again in a 5 98 FINAL MEMORIALS OF CHARLES LAMB. week or two. She has mended most rapidly. My health too has been better since you took away that Montero cap. I have left offcayenned eggs and such bolsters to discomfort. There was death in that cap. I mischievously wished that by some inauspicious jolt the whole contents might be shaken, and the coach set on fire ; for you said they had that proper- ty. How the old gentleman, who joined you at Grantham, would have clapt his hands to his knees, and not knowing but it was an immediate visitation of Heaven that burnt him, how pious it would have made him ; him, I mean, that brought the influenza with him, and only took places for one — an old sinner ; he must have known what he had got with him ! However, I wish the cap no harm for the sake of the head it Jits, and could be content to see it disfigure my healthy side-board again. What do you think of smoking? I want your sober, average, noon opinion of it. 1 generally am eating my din- ner about the time I should determine it. Morning is a girl, and can't smoke — she's no evidence one way or the other ; and Night is so honght over, that he can't be a very upright judge. May be the truth is, that one pipe is wholesome ; two pipes toothsome ; three pipes noisome ; four pipes fulsome, five pipes quarrelsome, and that's the su7n on't. But that is deciding rather upon rhyme than reason. . . . After all, our instincts may be best. Wine I am sure, good, mellow, generous Port, can hurt no- body, unless those who take it to excess, which they may easily avoid if they observe the rules of temperance. Bless you, old sophist, who next to human nature taught me all the corruption I was capable of knowing ! And bless your Montero cap, and your trail (which shall come after you whenever you appoint), and your wife and children— Pipos especially. Wh^n shall we two smoke again ? Last night I ha(J LETTERS TO COLERIDGE. 99 been in a sad quandary of spirits, in what they call the evening, but a pipe, and some generous Port, and King Lear (being alone), had their effects as solacers. I went to bed pot-valiant. By the way, may not the Ogles of Somerset- shire be remotely descended from King Lear ? C. L. The next letter is prefaced by happy news. TO MR. COLERIDGE. Mary sends love from home. Dear C, I do confess that I have not sent your books as I ought to have done ; but you know how the human free-will is tethered, and that we perform promises to ourselves no better than to our friends. A watch is come for you. Do you want it soon, or shall I wait till some one travels your way ? You, like me, reckon the lapse of time from the waste thereof, as boys let a cock run to waste ; too idle to stop it, and rather amused with seeing it dribble. Your poems have begun printing ; Longman sent to me to arrange them, the old and the new together. It seems you have left it to him ; so I classed them, as nearly as I could, accord- ing to dates. First, after the Dedication, (which must march first,) and which I have transplanted from before the Pre- face, (which stood like a dead wall of prose between,) to be the first Poem — then comes '' The Pixies,'^ and the things most juvenile — then on " To Chatterton," &c. — on, lastly, to the '' Ode on the Departing Year," and " Musings,'' — which finish. Longman wanted the Ode first, but the ar- rano-ement I have made is precisely that marked out in the Dedication, following the order of time. I told Longman I was sure that you would omit a good portion of the first edi- 100 FINAL MEMORIALS OF CHARLES LAMB tion. I instanced several sonnets, &c. — but that was not his plan, and, as you have done nothing in it, all I could do was to arrange them on the supposition that all were to be re- tained. A few I positively rejected; such as that of "The Thimble," and that of " Flicker and Flicker's wife," and that not in the manner of Spenser, which you yourself had stigmatized — and " The Man of Ross," — I doubt whether I should this last. It is not too late to save it. The first proof is only just come. I have been forced to call that Cupid's Elixer, " Kisses." It stands in your first volume, as an Ef- fusion, so that, instead of prefixing The Kiss to that of" One Kiss, dear Maid," &c., I have ventured to entitle it " To Sara." I am aware of the nicety of changing even so mere a trifle as a title to so short a piece, and subverting old asso- ciations ; but two called " Kisses" would have been abso- lutely ludicrous, and " Effusion" is no name, and these poems come close together. I promise you not to alter one word in any poem whatever, but to take your last text, where two are. Can you send any wishes about the book ? Longman, I think, should have settled with you ; but it seems you have left it to him. Write as soon as you possibly can ; for, with- out making myself responsible, I feel myself, in some sort, accessary to the selection, which I am to proof-correct ; but I decidedly said to Biggs that I was sure you would omit more. Those I have positively rubbed off*, I can swear to, individu- ally, (except the " Man of Ross," which is too familiar in Pope,) but no others, — you have your cue. For my part, I had rather all the Juveriilia were kept — memories causa. Robert Lloyd has written me a masterly letter, containing a character of his father ; — see how different from Charles he views the old man ! {Literatim.) " My father smokes, re- peats Homer in Greek, and Virgil, and is learning, when from business, with all the vigor of a young man, Italian. He is, really, a wonderful man. He mixes public and pri- LETTERS TO COLERIDGE. 101 vate business, the intricacies of disordering life with his reli- gion and devotion. No one more rationally enjoys the ro- mantic scenes of nature, and the chit-chat and little vagaries of his children ; and, though surrounded with an ocean of affairs, the very neatness of his most obscure cupboard in the house passes not unnoticed. I never knew any one view with such clearness, nor so well satisfied with things as ihey are, and make such allowance for things which must appear perfect Syriac to him." By the last he means the Lloydisms of the younger branches. His portrait of Charles, as far as he has had opportunities of noting him, is most exquisite. " Charles is become steady as a church, as straightforward as a Roman road. It would distract him to mention any thing that was as plain as sense ; he seems to have run the whole scenery of life, and now rests as the formal precisian of non-existence." Here is genius I think, and ^tis seldom a young man, a Lloyd, looks at a father (so differing) with such good nature while he is alive. Write — I am in post-haste, C. Lamb. Love, &c., to Sara, P. and H. The next letter, containing a further account of Lamb's superintendence of the new edition, bears the date of Satur- day, 27th May, 1803. TO MR. COLERIDGE. Saturday y 27th May, My DEAR Coleridge, The date of my last was one day prior to the re- ceipt of your letter, full of foul omens. I explain, lest you should have thought mine too light a reply to such sad mat- ter. I seriously hope by this time you have given up all 102 FINAL MEMORIALS OF CHARLES LAMB, thoughts of journeying to the green Islands of the Blest — voy- ages in time of war are very precarious — or at least, that you will take them in your way to the Azores. Pray be careful of this letter till it has done its duty, for it is to inform you that 1 have booked off* your watch (laid in cotton like an un- timely fruit), and with it Condillac, and all other books of yours which were left here. These will set out on Monday next, the 29th May, by Kendal, from White Horse, Cripple- gate. You will make seasonable inquiries, for a watch mayn't come your way again in a hurry. I have been re- peatedly after Tobin, and now hear that he is in the country, not to return till middle of June. I will take care and see him with the earliest. But cannot you write pathetically to Idm^ enforcing a speedy mission of your books for literary purposes ? He is too good a retainer to Literature, to let her interests suffer through his default. And why are your books to travel from Barnard's Inn to the Temple, and thence circuitously to Cripplegate, when their business is to take a short cut down Holborn-hill, up Snow do., on to Wood-street, &;c. ? The former mode seems a sad superstitious subdivision of labor. Well ! the " Man of Ross " is to stand ; Longman begs for it ; the printer stands with a wet sheet in one hand, and a useless Pica in the other, in tears, pleading for it ; I relent. Besides, it was a Salutation poem, and has the mark of the beast Tobacco upon it. Thus much I have done ; I have swept off* the lines about widoios and orphans in second edition, which (if you remember) you most awkwardly and illogically caused to be inserted between two Ifs^ to the great breach and disunion of said Ifs^ which now meet again (as in first edition), like two clever lawyers arguing a case. Another reason for subtracting the pathos was, that the '* Man of Ross" is too familiar, to need telling what he did, espe- cially in worse lines than Pope told it, and it now stands sim- ply as '' Reflections at an Inn about a known Character," LETTERS TO COLERIDGE. 103 and making an old story into an accommodation with present feelings. Here is no breaking spears with Pope, but a new, independent, and really a very pretty poem. In fact 'tis as I used to admire it in the first volume, and I have even dared to restore ^ If 'neath this roof thy wine-cheer' d moments pass," for *^ Beneath this roof if thy cheer'd moments pass." ^' CheerM'' is a sad general word, '^ wine-cheer^ d^^ I'm sure you'd give me, if I had a speaking-trumpet to sound to you 300 miles. But I am your factotum, and that save in this instance, which is a single case (and I can't get at you), shall be next to afac-nihil — at most, ^. facsimile. I have ordered ^'Imitation of Spenser'' to be restored on Wordsworth's au- thority ; and now, all that you will miss will be " Flicker and Flicker's Wife," " The Thimble," " Breathe dear har^ monies,^'^ and / believe, " The Child that was fed with Manna." Another volume will clear off all 3^our Anthologic Morning- Postian Epistolary Miscellanies ; but, pray, don't put " Chris- tabel " therein ; don't let that sweet maid come forth at- tended With Lady Holland's mob at her heels. Let there be a separate volume of Tales, Choice Tales, " Ancient Mariners," &c- C. Lamb. The following is the fragment of a letter (part being lost), on the re-appearance of the Lyrical Ballads, in two volumes, and addressed TO MR. V^ORDSWORTH- Thanks for your letter and present. I had already bor- rowed your second volume. What most please me are, 104 FINAL MEMORIALS OF CHARLES LAMB. ^' The Song of Lucy ;'' Simon^s sickly daughter, in " The Sexton," made me cry. Next to these are the description of the continuous echoes in the story of " Joanna's Laugh/' where the mountains, and all the scenery absolutely seem alive ; and that fine Shaksperian character of the " happy man/' in the " Brothers/' " that creeps about the fields. Following his fancies by the hour, to bring Tears down his cheek or solitary smiles Into his face, until the setting sun Write Fool upon his forehead !'* I will mention one more — the delicate and curious feeling in the wish for the " Cumberland Beggar/' that he may have about him the melody of birds, altho' he hear them nota Here the mind knowingly passes a fiction upon herself, first substituting her own feelings for the Beggar's, and in the same breath detecting the fallacy, will not part with the wishc The " Poet's Epitaph " is disfigured, to my taste, by the com- mon satire upon parsons and lawyers in the beginning, and the coarse epithet of " pinpoint," 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 in- structions conveyed in it are too direct, and like a lecture : they don't slide into the mind of the reader while he is imagining no such matter. An intelligent reader finds a sort of insult in being told, " I will teach you how to think upon this subject." This fault, if I am right, is in a ten-thousandth worse degree to be found in Sterne, and many novelists and modern poets, who continually put a sign-post up to show where you are to feel. They set out with assuming their readers to be stupid ; very different from " Robinson Cru- soe," the " Vicar of Wakefield," " Roderick Random," and other beautiful, bare narratives. There is implied an un- LETTERS TO WORDSWORTH. 105 written compact between author and reader : " I will tell you a story, and I suppose you will understand it." Modern novels, " St. Leon " and the like, are full of such flowers as these — " Let not my reader suppose," " Imagine, if you can, &c." — modest! 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 Mari- ner " " a Poet's Reverie ;" it is as bad as Bottom the Weav- er's declaration that he is not a lion, but only the scenical representation of a lion. What new idea is gained by his 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 feel- ings of the man under the operation of such scenery, dragged me along like Tom Pipe's magic whistle. I totally differ from the idea that the " Mariner" should have had a char- acter and profession. This is a beauty in '' Gulliver's Travels," where the mind is kept in a placid state of little wonderments ; but the " Ancient Mariner " undergoes such trials as overwhelm and bury all individuality or memory of what he was — like the state of a man in a bad dream, one terrible peculiarity of which is, that all consciousness of per- sonality is gone. Your other observation is, I think as well, a little unfounded : the " Mariner," from being conversant in supernatural events, has acquired a super^nature and strange cast of phrase, eye, appearance, &c., which frighten the ^^wedding-guest." You will excuse my remarks, be- cause I am hurt and vexed that you should think it neces- sary, with a prose apology, to open the eyes of dead men that cannot see. To sum up a general opinion of the second volume, I do not 5# 106 FINAL MEMORIALS OF CHARLES LAMB feel any one poem in it so forcibly as the " Ancient Mariner/' the " Mad Mother," and the " Lines at Tintern Abbey" in the first. The following letter was addressed, on 28th November, 1805, when Lamb was bidding his generous farewell to To- bacco, to Wordsworth, then living in noble poverty with his sister in a cottage by Grassmere, which is as sacred to some of his old admirers as even Shakspeare's House. TO MR. WORDSW^ORTH. My dear Wordsworth (or Dorothy rather, for to you ap- pertains the biggest part of this answer by right), I will not again deserve reproach by so long a silence. I have kept deluding myself with the idea that Mary would write to you, but she is so lazy, (or I believe the true state of the case, so diffident,) that it must I'evert to me as usual ; though she writes a pretty good style, and has some notion of the force of words, she is not always so certain of the true orthography of them ; that, and a poor handwriting (in this age of female calligraphy), often deters her, where no other reason does.* We have neither of us been very well for some w^eeks past. I am very nervous, and she most so at those times when I am ; so that a merry friend, adverting to the noble consolation we were able to afford each other, denominated us, not inaptly, Gum-Boil and Tooth-Ache, for they used to say that a gum-boil is a great relief to a tooth-ache. We have been two tiny excursions this summer for three or four days each, to a place near Harrow, and to Egham, where Cooper's Hill is ; and that is the total history of our rustications this year. Alas ! how poor a round to Skiddaw and Helvellyn and Borrowdale, and the magnificent sesqui- * This is mere banter ; Miss Lamb wrote a very good hand. LETTERS TO WORDSWORTH. 107 pedalia of the year 1802. Poor old Molly ! to have lost her pride, that " last infirmity of noble minds," and her cow. Fate need not have set her wits to such an old Molly. I am heartily sorry for her. Remember us lovingly to her ; and in particular remember us to Mrs. Clarkson in the most kind manner. I hope, by " southwards," you mean that she will be at or near London, for she is a great favorite of both of us, and we feel for her health as much as possible for any one to do. She is one of the friendliest, comfortablest women we know, and made our little stay at your cottage one of the pleasant- est times we ever past. We were quite strangers to her. Mr. C is with you too ; our kindest separate remembrances to him. As to our special affairs, 1 am looking about me. I have done nothing since the beginning of last year, when I lost my newspaper job, and having had a long idleness, I must do something, or we shall get very poor. Sometimes I think of a farce, but hitherto all schemes have gone off; an idle bray or two of an evening, vaporing out of a pipe, and going off in the morning ; but now I have bid farewell to my '' sweel enemy," Tobacco, as you will see in my next page,* I shall perhaps set nobly to work. Hang work ! I wish that all the year were holiday ; I am sure that indolence — indefeasible indolence — is the true state of man, and business the invention of the old Teazer, whose interfer- ence doomed Adam to an apron and set him a hoeing. Pen and ink, and clerks and desks, were the refinements of this old torturer some thousand years after, under pretence of ^^ Commerce allying distant shores, Promoting and diffusing knowledge, good," &c. &c. Yours, &c. C. Lamb. * The " Farewell to Tobacco*' was transcribed on the next page ; imt the actual sacrifice was not completed till some years after. CHAPTER V. LETTERS TO HAZLITT, ETC., FROM 1805 TO 1810- About the year 1805 Lamb was introduced to one, whose society through life was one of his chief pleasures — the great critic and thinker, William Hazlitt — who, at that time, scarcely conscious of his own literary powers, was striving hard to become a painter. At the period of the fol- lowing letter (which is dated 15th March, 1806,) Hazlitt was residing with his father, an Unitarian minister, at Wem. to mr. hazlitt. Dear H., I am a little surprised at no letter from you. This day week, to wit, Saturday, the 8th of March, 1806, I booked off by the AVem coach. Bull and Mouth Inn, directed to z/ow, at the Rev. Mr. Hazlitt's, Wem, Shropshire, a parcel con- taining, besides a book, &c., a rare print which I take to be a Titian ; begging the said W. H. to acknowledge the re- ceipt thereof; which he not having done, I conclude the said parcel to be lying at the inn, and may be lost ; for which reason, lest you may be a Wales-hunting at this instant, I have authorized any of your family, whosoever first gets this, to open it, that so precious a parcel may not moulder away for want of looking after. What do you in Shropshire when so many fine pictures are a-going a-going LETTER TO HAZLITT. 109 every day in London ? Monday I visit the Marquis of Lansdowne's, in Berkeley Square. Catalogue, 2^. 6cL Leonardos in plenty. Some other day this w^eek, I go to see Sir Wm. Young's, in Stratford Place. Hulse^s, of Black- heath, are also to be sold this month, and in May, the first private collection in Europe, Welbore Ellis Agar's. And there are you perverting Nature in lying landscapes, filched from old rusty Titians, such as I can scrape up here to send you, with an additament from Shropshire nature throv^n in to make the whole look unnatural. I am afraid of your mouth watering when I tell you that Manning and I got into An- gerstein's on Wednesday. Mon Dieu ! Such Claudes ! Four Claudes bought for more than 10,0007. (those who talk of Wilson being equal to Claude are either mainly ignorant or stupid); one of them was perfectly miraculous. What colors short of hond fide sunbeams it could be painted in, I am not earthly colorman enough to say ; but I did not think it had been in the possibility of things. Then, a music- piece of Titian — a thousand-pound picture — five figures standing behind a piano, the sixth playing ; none of the heads, M. observed, indicating great men, nor affecting it, but so sweetly disposed ; all leaning separate ways, but so easy, like a flock of some divine shepherd ; the coloring, like the economy of the picture, so sweet and harmonious — as good as Shakspeare's " Twelfth Night," — almost^ that is. It will give you a love of order, and cure you of restless, fidgety passions for a week after — more musical than the music which it would, but cannot, yet in a manner does^ show. I have no room for the rest. Let me say. Anger- stein sits in a room — his study, (only that and the library are shown,) when he writes a common letter as I am doing, surrounded with twenty pictures worth 60,000/. What a luxury ! Apicius and Heliogabalus, hide your diminished heads ! Yours, my dear painter, C. Lamb, 110 FINAL MEMORIALS OF CHARLES LAMB. Hazlitt married Miss Sarah Stoddart, sister of the pres- ent Sir John Stoddart, who became very intimate with Lamb and his sister. To her Lamb, on the 11th December, 1806, thus communicated the failure of " Mr. H." TO MRS. HAZLITT. 11 /A Dec, Don't mind this being a queer letter. I am in haste, and taken up by visitors, condolers, &sc. God bless you. 5 5) Dear Sarah Mary is a little cut at the ill success of " Mr. H. which came out last night, and failed. I know you'll be sorry, but never mind. We are determined not to be cast down. I am going to leave off tobacco, and then we must thrive. A smoking man must write smoky farces. Mary is pretty well, but I persuaded her to let me write. We did not apprise you of the coming out of'' Mr. H." for fear of ill-luck. You were better out of the house. If it had taken, your partaking of our good luck would have been one of our greatest joys. As it is, we shall expect you at the time you mentioned, but whenever you come, you shall be most welcome. God bless you, dear Sarah, Yours, most truly, C. L. Mary is by no means unwell, but I made her let me write. The following is Lamb's account of the same calamity, addressed LETTER TO WORDSWORTH. Ill TO MR. WORDSWORTH. Mary's love to all of you. I wouldn't let her write. Dear Wordsworth, llth Dec, " 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 re- ceived with such shouts as I never witnessed to a prologue. It was attempted to be encored. How hard ! — a thing I did merely as a task, because it was wanted, and set no great store by; and '^ Mr. H.'' !! A hundred hisses ! (Hang the word, I write it like kisses — how different!) a hundred hisses outweigh a thousand claps. The former come more directly from the heart. Well, 'tis withdraw^n, and there is an end. Better luck to us, [Turn over.] C. Lamb. P. S. Pray, when any of you write to the Clarksons, give our kind loves, and say we shall not be able to come and see them at Christmas, as I shall have but a day or two, and tell them w^e bear our mortification pretty well. Hazlitt, coming to reside in town, became a frequent guest of Lamb's, and a brilliant ornament of the parties which Lamb now began to collect on Wednesday evenings. He seems, in the beginning of 1808, to have sought solitude in a little inn on Salisbury Plain, to which he became deeply attached, and which he has associated with some of his pro- foundest meditations ; and some fantastic letter, in the nature of a hoax, having puzzled his father, who expected him at 112 FINaL memorials of CHARLES LAMB. Wem, caused some inquiries of Lamb respecting the painter's retreat, to which he thus replied in a letter to THE REV. MR. HAZLITT. Temple, I8th Feb., 1808. Sir, 1 am truly concerned that any mistake of mine should have caused you uneasiness, but I hope we have got a clue to William's absence, which may clear up all appre- hensions. The people where he lodges in town have received direction from him to forward some linen to a place called Winterslow, in the county of Wilts (not far from Salisbury), where the lady lives whose cottage, pictured upon a card, if you opened my letter, you have doubtless seen, and though we have had no explanation of the mystery since, we shrewd- ly suspect, that at the time of writing that letter which has given you all this trouble, a certain son of yours (who is both painter and author) was at her elbow, and did assist in fram- ing that very cartoon which was sent to amuse and mislead us in town as to the real place of his destination. And some words at the back of the said cartoon, which we had not marked so narrowly before, by the similarity of the handwriting to William's, do very much confirm the sus- picion. If our theory be right, they have had the pleasure of their jest, and I am afraid you have paid for it in anxiety. But I hope your uneasiness will now be removed, and you will pardon a suspense occasioned by Love, who does so many worse mischiefs every day. The letter to the people where William lodges, says, moreover, that he shall be in town in a fortnight. My sister joins in respect to you and Mrs. Hazlitt, and in our kindest remembrances and wishes for the restoration of Peggy's health. I am, sir, your humble servant, C. Lamb. MISS LAMB TO MRS. HAZLITT. 113 Mr. and Mrs. Hazlitt afterwards took up their temporary abode at Winterslow, to which place Miss Lamb addressed the following letter, containing interesting details of her own and her brother's life, and illustrating her own gentle character. to mrs. hazlitt. My dear Sarah, I hear of you from your brother ; but you do not write yourself, nor does Hazlitt. I beg that one or both of you will amend this fault as speedily as possible, for I am very anxious to hear of your health. I hope, as you say nothing about your fall to your brother, you are perfectly recovered from the effects of it. You cannot think how very much we miss you and H. of a Wednesday evening — all the glory of the night, I may say, is at an end. P makes his jokes, and there is no one to applaud him ; R argues, and there is no one to oppose him. The worst miss of all, to me, is, that when we are in the dismals there is now no hopeof relief from any quarter what- soever. Hazlitt was most brilliant, most ornamental, as a Wednesday man, but he was a more useful one on common days, when he dropt in after a fit of the glooms. The Shef- fington is quite out now, my brother having got merry with claret and Tom Sheridan. This visit, and the occasion of it, is a profound secret, and therefore I tell it to nobody but you and Mrs. Reynolds. Through the medium of Wroughton, there came an invitation and proposal from T. S., that C. L. should write some scenes in a speaking pantomime, the other parts of which Tom now, and his father formerly, have manu- factured between them. So in the Christmas holidays my brother, and his two great associates, we expect will be all 114 FINAL MEMORIALS OF CHARLES LAMB. three damned together ; that is, I mean if Charles's share, which is done and sent in, is accepted. I left this unfinished yesterday, in the hope that my brother would have done it for me. His reason for refusing me was ''no exquisite reason," for it was because he must write a letter to Manning in three or four weeks, and there- fore " he could not be always writing letters," he said. I wanted him to tell your husband about a great work which • Godwin is going to publish to enlighten the world once more, and I shall not be able to make out what it is. He (Godwin) took his usual walk one evening, a fortnight since, to the end of Hatton Garden and back again. During that walk a thought came into his mind, which he instantly sat down and improved upon, till he brought it, in seven or eight days, into the compass of a reasonable sized pamphlet. To propose a subscription to all well-disposed people to raise a certain sum of money, to be expended in the care of a cheap monument for the former and the future great dead men ; the monument to be a white cross, with a wooden slab at the end, telling their names and qualifications. This wooden slab and white cross to be perpetuated to the end of time ; to survive the fall of empires, and the destruction of cities, by means of a map, which, in case of an insurrection among the people, or any other cause by which a city or country may be destroyed, was to be carefully preserved ; and then, when things got again into their usual order, the white-cross-wooden-slab-makers were to go to work again and set the wooden slabs in their former places. This, as nearly as I can tell you, is the sum and substance of it ; but it is written remarkably well — in his very best manner — for the proposal (which seems to me very like throwing salt on a sparrow's tail to catch him) occupies but half a page, which is followed by very fine writing on the benefits he conjectures would follow if it were done ; very excellent MISS LAMB TO MRS. HAZLITT. 115 thoughts on death, and our feelings concerning dead friends, and the advantages an old country has over a new one, even in the slender memorials we have of great men who once flourished. Charles is come home and wants his dinner, and so the dead men must be no more thought of. Tell us how you go on, and how you like Winterslow and winter evenings. Knowles has not got back again, but he is in better spirits. John Hazlitt was here on Wednesday. Our love to Hazlitt. Yours, affectionately, M. Lamb. Saturday. To this letter Charles added the following postscript : — There came this morning a printed prospectus from '^S. T. Coleridge, Grasmere,'' of a weekly paper, to be called 'The Friend;' a flaming prospectus. I have no time to give the heads of it. To commence first Saturday in Janu- ary. There came, also, notice of a turkey from Mrs. Clark- son, which I am more sanguine in expecting the accomplish- ment of than I am of Coleridge's prophecy. C. Lamb. In the following summer. Lamb, with his sister, spent his holidays with Mr. and Mrs. Hazlitt, at Winterslow. Their feelings on returning home are developed in the following letter of MISS lamb to MRS. HAZLITT. My DEAR Sarah, The dear, quiet, lazy, delicious month we spent with you is remembered by me with such regret that I feel quite discontented, and Winterslow-sick. I assure you I never passed such a pleasant time in the country in my life, both in the house and out of it — the card-playing quarrels, and a few 116 FINAL MEMORIALS OF CHARLES LAMB. gaspings for breath, after your swift footsteps up the high hills, excepted ; and these draw-backs are not unpleasant in the recollection. We have got some salt butter, to make our toast seem like yours, and we have tried to eat meat suppers, but that would not do, for we left our appetites be- hind us, and the dry loaf, which offended you, now comes in at night unaccompanied ; but, sorry am I to add, it is soon followed by the pipe. We smoked the very first night of our arrival. Great news ! I have just been interrupted by Mr. Daw, who came to tell me he was yesterday elected a Royal Academician. He said none of his own friends voted for him ; he got it by strangers, who were pleased with his pic- ture of Mrs. White. Charles says he does not believe Northcote ever voted for the admission of any one. Though a very cold day. Daw was in a prodigious perspiration for joy at his good fortune. More great news ! My beautiful green curtains were put up yesterday, and all the doors listed with green baize, and four new boards put to the coal-hole, and fastening hasps put to the window, and my dyed Manning silk cut out. We had a good cheerful meeting on Wednesday, much talk of Winterslow, its woods and its sunflowers. I did not so much like P at Winterslow, as I now like him for having been with us at Winterslow. We roasted the last ^' Beech of oily nut prolific," on Friday, at the Captain's. Nurse is now established in Paradise, alias the Incurable ward of Westminster Hospital. I have seen her sitting in most superb state, surrounded by her seven incurable com- panions. They call each other ladies; nurse looks as if she would be considered as the first lady in the ward ; only one seemed at all to rival her in dignity. A man in the India House has resigned, by which Charles will get twenty pounds a year, and White has prevailed on LETTER TO HAZLITT. 117 him to write some more lottery puffs ; if that ends in smoke, the twenty pounds is a sure card, and has made us very joyful. I continue very well, and return you very sincere thanks for my good health and improved looks, which have almost made Mrs. die with envy. She longs to come to Winterslow as much as the spiteful elder sister did to go to the well for a gift to spit diamonds. Jane and I have agreed to boil a round of beef for your suppers when you come to town again. She (Jane) broke two of the Hogarth's glasses while we were away, whereat I made a great noise. Farewell. Love to William, and Charles's love and good wishes for the speedy arrival of the '' Life of Holcroft," and the bearer thereof Yours, most affectionately, M. Lamb. Tuesday. Charles told Mrs. , Hazlitt had found a well in his garden, which, water being scarce in your county, would bring him in two hundred a year ; and she came in great haste, the next morning, to ask me if it were true. Your brother and sister are quite well. The country excursions, with which Lamb sometimes occupied his weeks of vacation, were taken with fear and trembling, often foregone, and finally given up in conse- quence of the sad effects which the excitements of travel and change produced in his beloved companion. The following refers to one of these disasters : TO MR. HAZLITT. Dear H., Epistemon is not well. Our pleasant excursion has ended sadly for one of us. You will guess I mean my sis- 118 FINAL MEMORIALS OF CHARLES LAMB. ter. She got home very well (I was very ill on the journey) and continued so till Monday night, when her complaint came on, and she is now absent from home. I am glad to hear you are all well. I think I shall be mad if I take any more journeys with two experiences against it. I find all well here. Kind remembrances to Sarah, — have just got her letter. H. Robinson has been to Blenheim. He says you will be sorry to hear that we should not have asked for the Titian Gallery there. One of his friends knew of it, and asked to see it. It is never shown but to those who inquire for it. The pictures are all Titians, Jupiter and Ledas, Mars and Venuses, &c., all naked pictures, which may be a rea- son they don't show it to females. But he says they are very fine ; and perhaps it is shown separately to put another fee into the shower's pocket. Well, I shall never see it. I have lost all wish for sights. God bless you. I shall be glad to see you in London. Yours truly, C. Lamb. Thursday. About the year 1808, Miss Lamb sought to contribute to her brother's scanty income by presenting the plots of some of Shakspeare's plays in prose, with the spirit of the poet's genius interfused, and many of his happiest expressions pre- served, in which good work Lamb assisted her ; though he always insisted, as he did in reference to '' Mrs. Leicester's School," that her portions were the best. The following letter refers to some of those aids, and gives a pleasant in- stance of that shyness in Hazlitt, which he never quite over- came, and which afforded a striking contrast to the boldness of his published thoughts. LETTER TO WORDSWORTH. 119 TO MR. WORDSWORTH. Mary is just stuck fast in " All's well that Ends Well.'' She complains of having to set forth so many female charac- ters in boys' clothes. She begins to think .Shakspeare must have wanted — Imagination. I, to encourage her, for she often faints in the prosecution of her great work, flatter her with telling her how well such a play and such a play is done. But she is stuck fast. I have been obliged to promise to assist her. To do this, it will be necessary to leave off tobacco. But I had some thoughts of doing that before, for I sometimes think it does not agree with me. W. Hazlitt is in town. I took him to see a very pretty girl, professedly, where there were two young girls — the very head and sum of the girlery was two young girls — they neither laughed, nor sneered, nor giggled, nor whispered — but they were young girls — and he sat and frowned blacker and blacker, indignant that there should be such a thing as youth and beauty, till he tore me away before supper, in perfect misery, and owned he could not bear young girls ; they drove him mad. So I took him to my old nurse, where he recovered perfect tranquillity. Independent of this, and as I am not a young girl myself, he is a great acquisition to us. He is, rather imprudently I think, printing a political pamphlet on his own account, and will have to pay for the paper, &c. The first duty of an author, I take it, is never to pay any thing. But non cuivis contigit adire Corinthiim. The man- agers, I thank my stars, have settled that question for me. Yours truly, C. Lamb. In the following year. Lamb and his sister produced their charming little book of ^' Poetry for Children," and removed 120 FINAL MEMORIALS OF CHARLES LAMB. from Mitre Court to those rooms in Inner Temple Lane, — most dear of all their abodes to the memory of their ancient friends — where first I knew them. The change produced its natural and sad effect on Miss Lamb, during whose absence Lamb addressed the following various letter. to mr. coleridge. Dear Coleridge, I congratulate you on the appearance of The Friend. Your first number promises well, and I have no doubt the succeeding numbers will fulfill the promise. I had a kind letter from you some time since, which I have left unanswered. I am also obliged to you, I believe, for a review in the Annual, am I not ? The Monthly Review sneers at me, and asks " if Comus is not good enough for Mr. Lamb V^ because I have said no good serious dramas have been written since the death of Charles the First, except " Samson Agonistes ;" so because they do not know, or won't remember, that Comus was written long before, I am to be set down as an undervaluer of Milton. O, Coleridge, do kill those reviews, or they will kill us ; kill all w^e like ! Be a friend to all else, but their foe. I have been turned out of my chambers in the Temple by a landlord who wanted them for himself, but I have got other at No. 4, Inner Temple Lane, far more commodious and roomy. I have two rooms on third floor and five rooms above, with an inner staircase to myself, and all new painted, &c., for £30 a year ! I came into them on Saturday week ; alas ! on Monday follow- ing, Mary was taken ill with fatigue of moving, and affected, I believe, by the novelty of the home ; she could not sleep ; and I am left alone with a maid quite a stranger to me, and she has a month or two's sad distraction to go through. What sad large pieces it cuts out of life ; out of her life, who LETTERS TO COLERIDGE. 121 is getting rather old ; and we may not have many years to live together ! I am weaker, and bear it worse than I ever did. But I hope we shall be comfortable by and by. The rooms are delicious, and the best look backwards into Hare Court, where there is a pump always going. Just now it is dry. Hare Court's trees come in at the window, so that it's like living in a garden. I try to persuade myself it is much pleasanter than Mitre Court ; but, alas ! the household gods are slow to consecrate a new mansion. They are in their infancy to me ; I do not feel them yet ; no hearth has blazed to them yet. How I hate and dread new places ! I was very glad to see Wordsworth's book advertised ; I am to have it to-morrow lent me, and if Wordsworth don't send me an order for one upon Longman, I will buy it. It is greatly extolled and liked by all who have seen it. Let me hear from some of you, for I am desolate. I shall have to send you, in a week or two, two volumes of Juvenile Poetry, done by Mary and me within the last six months, and that tale in prose which Wordsworth so much liked, which was published at Christmas, with nine others, by us, and has reached a second edition. There's for you ! We have al- most worked ourselves out of child's work, and I don't know what to do. Sometimes I think of a drama, but 1 have no head for play-making; I can do the dialogue, and that's all. I am quite aground for a plan, and I must do something for money. Not that I have immediate wants, but I have pros- pective ones. O money, money, how blindly thou hast been worshiped, and how stupidly abused ! Thou art health and liberty, and strength, and he that has thee may rattle his pockets at the foul fiend ! Nevertheless, do not understand by this that I have not quite enough for my occasions for a year or two to come. While I think on it, Coleridge, I fetch'd away my books which vou had at the Courier Office, and I found all but a 6 122 FINAL MEMORIALS OF CHARLES LAMB, third volume of the old plays, containing " The White Devil/' Green's '' Tu Quoque," and the '^ Honest Whore," perhaps the most valuable volume of them all — that I could not find. Pray, if you can remember what you did with it, or where you took it with you a walking, perhaps ; send me word, for, to use the old plea, it spoils a set. I found two other volumes (you had three), the " Arcadia," and Daniel, enriched with manuscript notes. I wish every book I have were so noted. They have thoroughly converted me to relish Daniel, or to say I relish him, for, after all, I believe I did relish him. You well call him sober-minded. Your notes are excellent. Perhaps you've forgot them. I have read a review in the Quarterly, by Southey, on the Missionaries, which is most masterly. I only grudge it being there. It is quite beauti- ful. Do remember my Dodsley ; and, pray, do write, or let some of you write. Clarkson tells me you are in a smoky house. Have you cured it ? It is hard to cure any thing of smoking. Our little poems are but humble, but they have no name. You must read them, remembering they were task- work ; and perhaps you will admire the number of subjects, all of children, picked out by an old Bachelor and an old Maid. Many parents would not have found so many. Have you read '' Celebs ?" It has reached eight editions in so many weeks, yet literally it is one of the very poorest sort of common novels, with the draw-back of dull religion in it. Had the religion been high and flavored, it would have been something. I borrowed this " Celebs in Search of a Wife " of a very careful, neat lady, and returned it with this stuff -written in the beginning : — " If ever I marry a wife rd marry a landlord's daughter. For then I may sit in the bar, And drink cold brandy-and-water.** LETTERS TO COLERIDGE. 123 - I don't expect you can find time from your Friend to write to me much, but write something, for there has been a long silence. You know Holcroft is dead. Godwin is well. He has written a pretty, absurd book about sepulchres. He was affronted because I told him it was better than H^ervev, but not so good as Sir T. Browne. This letter is all about books ; but my head aches, and I hardly know what I write ; but I could not let The Friend pass without a congratulating epistle. I won't criticise till it comes to a volume. Tell me how I shall send my packet to you ? — by what convey- ance ? — by Longman, Short-man, or how ? Give my kind- est remembrances to the Wordsworths. Tell him he must give me a book. My kind love to Mrs. W. and to Dorothy separately and conjointly. I wish you could all come and see me in my new rooms. God bless you all. C. L. A journey into Wiltshire, to visit Hazlitt, followed Miss Lamb's recovery, and produced the following letter : — TO MR. COLERIDGE. Monday, 30th Oct. 1809. Dear Coleridge. I have but this moment received your letter, dated the 9th instant, having just come off a journey from Wilt- shire, where I have been with Mary on a vist to Hazlitt. The journey has been of infinite service to her. We have had nothing but sunshiny days, and daily walks from eight to twenty miles a-day ; have seen Wilton, Salisbury, Stone- henge, &c. Her illness lasted but six weeks ; it left her very weak, but the country has made us whole. We came back to our Hogarth Room. I have made several acquisi- tions since you saw them, and found Nos. 8, 9, 10 of The Friend. The account of Luther in the Warteburg is as fine 1'24 FINAL MEMORIALS OF CHARLES LAMB as any thing I ever read.* God forbid that a man who has such things to say should be silenced for want of lOOZ. This Custom-and-Duty-Age would have made the Preacher on the * The Warteburg is a Castle, standing on a lofty rock, about two miles from the city of Eisenach, in which Luther v/as confined, under the friendly arrest of the Elector of Saxony, after Charles V. had pro- nounced against him the Ban in the Imperial Diet ; where he composed some of his greatest works, and translated the New Testament ; and where he is recorded as engaged in the personal conflict with the Prince of Darkness, of which the vestiges are still shown in a black stain on the wall, from the inkstand hurled at the Enemy. In the Essay refer- red to Coleridge accounts for the story — depicting the state of the great prisoner's mind in most vivid colors — and then presenting the follow- ing picture, which so nobly justifies Lamb's eulogy, that I venture to gratify myself by inserting it here. " Methinks I see him sitting, the heroic student, in his chamber iu the Warteburg, with his midnight lamp before him, seen by the late traveler in the distant plain of Bischofsroda, as a star on the mountain ! Below it lies the Hebrew Bible open, on which he gazes ; his brow pressing on his palm, brooding over some obscure text, which he desires to make plain to the simple boor and to the humble artisan, and to trans- fer its whole force into their own natural and living tongue. And he himself does not understand it! Thick darkness lies on the original text ; he counts the letters, he calls up the roots of each sparate word, and questions them as the familiar Spirits of an Oracle. In vain ; thick darkness continues to cover it ; not a ray of meaning dawns through it. With sullen and angry hope he reaches for the Vulgate, his old and sworn enemy, the treacherous confederate of the Roman Antichrist, which he so gladly, when he can, rebukes for idolatrous falsehood, that had dared place ' Within the sancturay itself their shrines. Abominations' — Now — O thought of humiliation — he must entreat its aid. See ! there has the sly spirit of apostacy worked-in a phrase, which favors the doc- trine of purgatory, the intercession of saints, or the efficacy of prayers for the dead ; and what is worst of all, the interpretation is plausible. The original Hebrew might be forced into this meaning : and no other LETTERS TO COLERIDGE. 125 Mount take out a license, and St. Paul's Epistles not mis- sible without a stamp. O that you nnay find means to go on ! But alas ! where is Sir G. Beaumont ? — Sotheby ? meaning seems lo lie in it, none hover above it in the heights of alle- gory, none to lurk beneath it even in the depths of Cabala ! This is the work of the Tempter ; it is a cloud of darkness conjured up between the truth of the sacred letters and the eyes of his understanding, by the malice of the evil-one, and for a trial of his faith ! Must he then at length confess, must he subscribe the name of Luther to an exposition which consecrates a weapon for the hand of the idolatrous Hierarchy 1 Never ! Never ! " There still remains one auxiliary in reserve, the translation of the Seventy. The Alexandrine Greeks, anterior to the Church itself, could intend no support to its corruptions — the Septuagint will have profaned the Altar of Truth with no incense for the nostrils of the universal Bishop to snuff up. And here again his hopes are baffled! Exactly at this perplexed passage had the Greek translator given his understand- ing a holiday, and made his pen supply its place. O honored Luther ! as easily mightest thou convert the whole City of Rome, with the Pope and the conclave of Cardinals inclusively, as strike a spark of light from the words, and nothing but words, of the Alexandrine version. Disap- pointed, despondent, enraged, ceasing to think, yet continuing his brain on the stretch in solicitation of a thought ; and gradually giving him- self up to angry fancies, to recollections of past persecutions, to uneasy fears, and inward defiances, and floating images of the Evil Being, their supposed personal author ; he sinks, without perceiving it, into a trance of slumber ; during which his brain retains its waking energies, ex- cepting that what would have been mere thoughts before, now (the ac- tion and counterweight of his senses and of their impressions being withdrawn) shape and condense themselves into things, into realities ! Repeatedly half-wakening, and his eyelids as often re-closing, the ob- jects which really surround him form the place and scenery of his \ dream. All at once he sees the arch-fiend coming forth on the wall of the room, from the very spot, perhaps, on which his eyes had been fixed, vacantly, during the perplexed moments of his former meditation: the inkstand which he had at the same time been using, becomes associ- ated with it : and in that struggle of rage, which in these distempered dreams almost constantly precedes the helpless terror by the pain of 126 FINAL MEMORIALS OF CHARLES LAMB. What is become of the rich Auditors in Albemarle Street? Your letter has saddened me. I am so tired with my journey, being up all night, 1 have neither things nor words in my power. I believe I expressed my admiration of the pamphlet. Its power over me was like that which Milton's pamphlets must have had on his contemporaries, who were tuned to them. What a piece of prose ! Do you hear if it is read at all ? I am out of the world of readers. I hate all that do read, for they read nothing but reviews and new books. I gather myself up into the old things. I have put up shelves. You never saw a book-case in more true harmony with the contents, than what I have nailed up in a room, which, though new, has more aptitudes for growing old than you shall often see — as one sometimes gets a friend in the middle of life, who becomes an old friend in a short time. My rooms are luxurious ; one is for prints and one for books ; a summer and a winter parlor. When shall I ever see you in them ? Mr. Wordsworth's Essay on Epitaphs, afterwards ap- pended to " The Excursion,^' produced the following let- ter : — which we are finally awakened, he imagines that he hurls it at the in- truder, or not improbably in the first instant of awakening, while yet both his imagination and his eyes are possessed by the dream, he actu- ally hurls it. Some weeks after, perhaps, during which interval he had often mused on the incident, undetermined whether to deem it a visita- tion of Satan to him in the body or out of the body, he discovers for the first time the dark spot on his wall, and receives it as a sign and pledge vouchsafed to him of the event having actually taken place/' LETTERS TO WORDSWORTH. 127 TO MR. WORDSWORTHe Friday, 19th Oct. 1810. E. L Ho, 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-Tharnes has been blessed by the resi- dence of a poet, who, for love or money, I do not well know %vhich, has dignified every grave-stone, for the last few years with bran-new verses, all different, and all ingenious, with the author's name at the bottom of each. This sweet Swan of Thames has artfully diversified his strains and his rhymes ; the same thought never occurs twice ; more justly, perhaps, as no thought ever occurs at all, there was a physi- cal impossibility that the same thought should recur. It is lono' since I saw and read these inscriptions, but I remember the impression was of a smug usher at his desk in the inter- vals of instruction, leveling his pen. Of death, as it con- sists of dust and w^orms, and mourners and uncertainty, he had never thought ; but the word " death '' he had often seen separate and conjunct with other words, till he had learned to speak of all its attributes as glibly as Unitarian Belsham will discuss you the attributes of the word " God '^ in a pulpit ; and will talk of infinity with a tongue that dangles from a skull that never reached in thought and thorough 128 FINAL MEMORIALS OF CHARLES LAMB. imagination two inches, or further than from his hand to his mouth, or from the vestry to the sounding-board of the pulpit. But the epitaphs were trim, and sprag, and patent, and pleased the survivors of Thames Ditton above the old mump- simus of '^ Afflictions Sore.^' .... To do justice though, it must be owned that even the excellent feeling which dic- tated this dirge when new, must have suffered something in passing through so many thousand applications, many of them no doubt quite misplaced, as I have seen in Islington churchyard (I think) an Epitaph to an infant, who died " JEtatis four months,^' with this seasonable inscription ap- pended, '' Honor thy father and thy mother ; that thy days may be long in the land,'' &c. Sincerely wishing your children long life to honor^ &c. I remain, C. Lamb, CHAPTER VI. LETTERS TO WORDSWORTH, ETC., CHIEFLY RESPECTING WORDSWORTH'S poems; 1815 TO 1818. The admirers of Wordsworth — few, but energetic and hopeful — were delighted, and his opponents excited to the ex- pression of their utmost spleen, by the appearance, in 1814, of two volumes of poems, some new and some old, and subse- quently of "^ The Excursion,^' in the quarto form, marked by the bitter flippancy of Lord Byron. The following letters are chiefly expressive of Lamb's feelings respecting these remarkable works, and the treatment which his own Review of the latter received from Mr. Giflbrd, then the Editor of the Quarterly Review, for which it was written. The first, how- ever, to Mrs. Wordsworth's sister, who resided with the poet at Rydal, relates to matters of yet nearer interest. TO .Miss HUTCHINSON. Thursday, I9ih Oct 1815. Dear Miss H., I am forced to be the replier to your letter, for Mary has been ill, and gone from home these five 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 be- gun to show some favorable symptoms. The return of her 6* 130 FINAL MEMORIALS OF CHARLES LAMB. disorder has been frightfully soon this time, with scarce a six" months' interval. I am almost afraid my worry of spirits about the E. I. House was partly the cause of her illness, but one always imputes it to the cause next at hand ; more probably it comes from some cause we have no control over, or conjecture of. It cuts such great slices out of the time, the little time, we shall have to live together. I don't know but tlie 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 taking our meal together, or sitting in the front row of the Pit at Drury Lane, or taking our evening walk past the theatres, to look at the outside of them, at least, if not to be tempted in. Then we forget we are assailable ; we are strong for the time as rocks; — ^'the wind is temper- ed 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 folk's 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. The following three letters best speak for themselves : — to mr. wordsworth. 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 Po- litical Sonnets and Ode according to your suggestion. 1 have not bound the poems yet. I wait till people have done LETTERS TO WORDSWORTH. 131 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 nei- ther read nor mean to read, but borrow to leave you an opin- ion of their sagacity. I must do my money-borrowing friends the justice to say that there is nothing of this caprice or wan- tonness of alienation in them. When they borrow my money they never fail to make use of it. Coleridge has been here' about a fortnight. His health is tolerable at present, though beset with temptations. In the first place, the Covent Garden Manager has declined accepting his Tragedy, though (having read it) I see no reason upon earth why it might not have run a very fair chance, though it certainly wants a promi- nent part for a Miss O'Neil or a Mr. Kean. However, he is going to-day to write to Lord Byron to get it to Drury. Should you see Mrs. C, w^ho has just written to C. a letter, which I have given him, it will be as well to say nothing about its fate, till some answer is shaped from Drury. He has two volumes printing together at Bristol, both finished as far as the composition goes ; the latter containing his fugitive poems, the former his Literary Life. Nature, who conducts every creature, by instinct, to its best end, has skillfully directed C. to take up his abode at a Chymist's Laboratory in Norfolk- street. She might as well have sent a Helluo Librorum for cure to the Vatican. God keep him inviolate among the traps and pitfalls ! He has done pretty well as yet. Tell Miss H. my sister is every day wishing to be quietly sitting down to answer her very kind letter, but while C. stays she can hardly find a quiet time ; God bless him ! Tell Mrs. W. her postscripts are always agreeable. They are so legible too. Your manual-graphy is terrible, dark as Lycophron. '^Likelihood,'' for instance, is thus 132 FINAL MEMORIALS OF CHARLES LAMB. typified * I should not wonder if the constant ma- king out of such paragraphs is the cause of that weakness in Mrs. W.'s eyes, as she is tenderly pleased to express it. Dorothy, I hear, has mounted spectacles ; so you have deoc- ulated two of your dearest relations in life. Well, God bless you, and continue to give you power to write with a finger of power upon our hearts what you fail to impress, in corres- ponding lucidness, upon our outward eye-sight ! Mary's love to all ; she is quite well. I am called off to do the deposits in Cotton Wool — but why do I relate this to you, who want faculties to compre- hend the great mystery of deposits, of interest, of warehouse rent, and contingent fund ? Adieu ! C. Lamb. A longer letter when C. is gone back into the countiy, relating his success, &c. — my judgment of your new books, &c., &c. — I am scarce quiet enough while he stays. Yours again, C. L- TO MR. WORDSWORTH. The conclusion of this epistle getting gloomy, I have cho- sen this part to desire our kindest loves to Mrs. Words- worth and to Dorothea. Will none of you ever be in London again 1 Dear Wordsworth, You have made me very proud with your succes- sive book presents. I have been carefully through the two volumes, to see that nothing was omitted which used to be there. I think I miss nothing but a character in antithetic manner, which 1 do not know why you left out, — the moral * Here is a most inimitable scrawl. LETTERS TO WORDSWORTH. 133 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 de- mand these at your hand. I am glad that you have not sac- rificed a verse to those scoundrels. I would not have had you offer up the poorest rag that lingered upon the stript shoulders of little Alice Fell, to have atoned all their malice ; I would not have given 'em a red cloak to save their souls. I am afraid lest the substitution of a shell (a fiat falsification of the history) for the household implement, as it stood at first, was a kind of tub thrown out to the beast, or rather thrown out for him. The tub was a good honest tub in its place, and nothing could fairly be said against it. You said you made the alteration for the '' friendly reader," but the " malicious " will take it to himself. If you give 'em an inch, &c. The Preface is noble, and such as you should write. I wish I could set my name to it, Lnprirnatiir, — but you have set it there yourself, and I thank you. I had rather be a door-keeper in your margin, than have their proudest text swelling with my eulogies. The poems in the volumes, which are new to me, are so much in the old tone, that I hardly received them as novelties. Of those of which I had no previous knowledge, the '' Four Yew Trees,"'^ and the mysterious company which you have assembled there, most struck me — " Death the Skeleton and Time the Shadow." It is a sight not for every youthful poet to dream of; it is one of the last results he must have gone thinking on for years for. " Laodamia " is a very original poem ; I mean original with * The poem on the four great yew trees of Borrowdale, which the poet has, by the most potent magic of the imagination, converted into a temple for the ghastly forms of Death and Time " to meet at noon- tide/'— a passage surely not surpassed in any English poetry written since the days of Milton. 134 FINAL MEMORIALS OF CHARLES LAMB. reference to your own manner. You have nothing like it. I should have seen it in a strange place, and greatly admired it, but not suspected its derivation. Let me in this place, for I have w^rit you several letters naming it, mention that my brother, w^ho is a picture-col- lector, has picked up an undoubtable picture of Milton. He gave a few shillings for it, and could get no history with it, but that some old lady had had it for a great number of 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 peopIe^s rural extravaganzas. Why I mention him is, that your ^' Power of Music'^ reminded me of his poem of'* The Ballad-singer in the Seven Dials. '^ Do you remember his epigram on the old woman who taught Newton the 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 matter ! 1 don't stick at the madness of it, for that is only a consequence of shutting his eyes and thinking he is in the age of the old Elizabeth pools. From thence I turned to V. Bourne. What a sweet, unpretending, pretty-mannered, matter-ful creature ! sucking from every flower, making a flower of every thing; his diction all Latin, and his thoughts all English. Bless him ! Latin wasn't good enough for him. Why wasn't he content with the language which Gay and Prior wrote in ? /^ The following little passage about Vincent Bourne has been pre- viously printed. LETTERS TO WORDSWORTH. 135 I am almost sorry that you printed extracts from those first poems,* or that you did not print them at length. They do not read to me as they do all together. Resides, they have diminished the value of the original (which I possess) as a curiosity. I have hitherto kept them distinct in my mind as referring to a particular period of your life. All the rest of your poems are so much of a piece, they might have been written in the same week ; these decidedly speak of an earlier period. They tell more of what you had been reading. We were glad to see the poems '' by a female friend. ''f The one on the wind is masterly, but not new to us. Being only three> perhaps you mighl have clapt a D. at the corner, and let it have past as a printer's mark to the uninitiated, as a delightful hint to the better instructed. As it is, expect a formal criticism on the poems of your female friend, and she must expect it. I should have written before, but I am cruelly engaged, and like to be. On Friday I was at office from ten in the morning (two hours dinner except) to eleven at night ; last night till nine. My business and office business in general have increased so ; I don't mean I am there every night, but I must expect a great deal of it. I never leave till four, and do not keep a holiday now once in ten times, where I used to keep all red-letter days, and some five days besides, which I used to dub Nature's holidays. 1 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 calls his own is his life ; and hard work and thinking about it taint even the leisure hours — stain Sunday with work-day contemplations. This is Sunday ; and the head-ache I have is part late hours at work the two preced- ^ The '' Evening Walk/' and '' Descriptive Sketches among the /^Ips" — Wordsworth's earliest poems, nov^ happily restored in their en- tirety to their proper places in the poei's collected works. t By Miss Dorothea Wordsworth. 136 FINAL MEMORIALS OF CHARLES LAMB. ing nights, and part later hours over a consoling pipe after. But I find stupid acquiescence coming over nne. I bend to the yoke, and it is almost with me and my household as with the man and his consort. " To them each evening had its glittering star, and every sabbath-day its golden sun" — to such straits am I driven for the life of life. Time ! that from that superfluity of holiday leisure my youth wasted, " Age might but take some hours youth wanted not." N.B. — I have left off spirituous liquors for four or more months, with a moral certainty of its lasting.* Farewell, dear Wordsworth ! ml^ ^^ m^ •i^ ^* wn P^ ^^ ^^ ^^ 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. Earth- quakes swallow up this mercantile city and its '' gripple mer- chants," as Drayton hath it — '' born to be the curse of this brave isle !" I invoke this, not on account of any parsimo- nious habit the mercantile interest may have, but, to confess truth, because I am not fit for an office. Farewell, once more, from a head that is too ill to method- ize, a stomach to digest, and all out of tune. Better harmonies await you ! C. Lamb. TO MR. WORDSW^ORTH. Excuse this maddish letter ; I am too tired to write in forma. * Alas ! for moral certainty in this moral but mortal world ! Lamb*s resolution to leave off spirituous liquors was a brave one ; but he strengthened and rewarded it by such copious libations of porter, that his sister, for whose sake mainly he attempted the sacrifice, entreated him to '* live like himself,*' and in a few weeks after this assurance he obeyed her. LETTERS TO WORDSWORTH. 137 Dear Wordsworth, The more I read of your two last volumes, the more I feel it necessary to make my acknowledgments for them in more than one short letter. The " Night Piece/' to which you refer me, I meant fully to have noticed ; but, the fact is, I come so fluttering and languid from business, tired with thoughts of it, frightened with fears of it, that when I get a few minutes to sit down to scribble (an action of the hand now seldom natural to me — I mean voluntary pen- work) I lose all presential memory of what I had intended to say, and say what I can, talk about Vincent Bourne, or any casual image, instead of that which I had meditated, (by the way, I must look out V. B. for you.) So I had meant to have mentioned " Yarrow Visited,'^ with that stanza, " But thou, that didst appear so fair;"* than which I think no lovelier stanza can be found in the wide world of poetry ; — yet the poem, on the whole, seems condemned to leave be- hind it a melancholy of imperfect satisfaction, as if you had wronged the feeling with which, in what preceded it, you had resolved never to visit it, and as if the Muse had de- termined, in the most delicate manner, to make you, and scarce make you, feel it. Else, it is far superior to the other, which has but one exquisite verse in it, the last but one or the two last — this has all fine, except, perhaps, that that of '' studious ease and generous cares," has a little tinge of the less romantic about it. " The Farmer of Tilsbury Vale '' is a charming counterpart to " Poor Susan," with the addition of that delicacy towards aberrations from the strict path, which is so fine in the " Old Thief and the Boy by his side,'' which always brings water into my eyes. Perhaps it is the * " But thou, that didst appear so fair To fond imagination. Dost rival in the light of day Her delicate creation.'* 138 FINAL MEMORIALS OF CHARLES LAMB. worse for being a repetition; ''Susan" stood for the repre- sentative of poor Rus in Urbe. There was quite enough to stannp the moral of the thing never to be forgotten ; " bright volumes of vapor," &c. The last verse of Susan was to be got rid of, at all events. It tlirew a kind of dubiety upon Susan's moral conduct. Susan is a servant maid. I see her trundling her m ^p, and contemplating the whirh'ng phe- nomenon 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 with- out that stick of a moral which you have throvv^n away ; but how I can be brought in felo de omittendo for that ending to the Boy-builders is a mystery. I can't say positively now, — I only know that no line oftener or readier occurs than that ^^Light-hearted boys, I will build up a Giant with you." It comes naturally, with a warm holiday, and the freshness of the blood. It is a perfect summer amulet, that I tie round my legs to quicken their motion when I go out a maying. (N.B.) I don't ofren go out a maying ; — Must is the tense with me now. Do you take the pun ? Young Romilly is divine ;* the reasons of his mother's grief being remediless — I never saw parental love carried up so high, towering above * " The admirable little poem, entitled " The Force of Prayer," de- veloping the depths of a widowed mother's grief, whose oiily son has been drowned in attempting to leap over the precipice of the *' Wharf* at Bolton Abbey. The first line, printed in old English characters, from some old English ballad, '^ What is good for a bootless bene ?' suggests Miss Lamb's single pun. The following are the profoundest stanzas among those which excite her brother's most just admiration : — n If for a lover the lady wept, A solace she might borrow LETTERS TO WORDSWORTH. 139 the other loves — Shakspeare had done something for the filial, in Cordelia, and^ b}^ implication, for the fatherly, too, in Lear's resentment ; he left it for you to explore the depths of the maternal heart. I get stupid, and flat, and flattering; what's the use of telling you what good things you have written, or — I hope I may add — that I know them to be good ? Apropos — when I first opened upon the just-mentioned poem, in a careless tone, I said to Mary, as if putting a riddle, '' What is good for a bootless bene V^ To which, with in- finite preseijce of mind, (as the jest-book has it,) she answered, '^ a shoeless pea." It was the first she ever made. Joke the second I make. You distinguish well, in your old preface, between the verses of Dr. Johnson, of the '^ Man in the Strand," and that from '^ The Babes in the Wood." I was thinking, whether taking your own glorious lines — " And from the love which was in her soul For her youthful Romilly/* which, by the love I bear my own soul, I think have no par- allel in any, 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. Excuse my levity on such an occasion. I never felt deeply in my life if that poem die not make me, both lately and when I read it in MS. No alderman ever longed after a haur.ch of buck From death, and from the passion of death ;- Old Wharf might heal her sorrow. '' She weeps not for the wedding-day, Which was to be to-morrow : Her hope was a further-looking hope. And hers is a mother's sorrow." 140 FINAL MEMORIALS OF CHARLES LAMB. venison more than I for a spiritual taste of that " White Doe " you promise. I am sure it is superlative, or will be when drest, i, ^., printed. All things read raw to me in MS. ; to compare inagna 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 ac- count of what you mean by imagination is very valuable to me. It will help me to like some things in poetry better, which is a little humiliating in me to confess. I thought I could not be instructed in that science (I mean the critical), as I once heard old obscene, beastly Peter Pindar, in a dis- pute on Milton, say he thought that if he had reason to value himself upon one thing more than another, it was in knowing what good verse was. Who looked over your proof-sheets and left ordebo in that line of Virgil ? My brother's picture of Milton is very finely painted, that is, it might have been done by a hand next to Van- dyke's. It is the genuine Milton, and an object of quiet gaze for the half hour at a time. Yet though I am confident there is no better one of him, the face does not quite answer to Milton. There is a tinge of pelit (or petite, how do you spell it ?) querulousness about it ; yet, hang it ! now I remember bet- ter, there is not ; it is calm, melancholy and poetical. One of the copies of the poems you sent has precisely :he same pleasant blending of a sheet of second volume with a sheet of first. I think it was page 245 ; but I sent it and had it rectified. It gave me, in the first impetus of cutting the leaves, just such a cold squelch as going down a plausible turning and suddenly reading ''No thoroughfare." Robin- son's is entire : I wish you would write more criticism about Spenser, &c. I think I could say something about him LETTERS TO WORDSWORTH. 141 myself, but, 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 gt^nius ! I can^t even put a few thoughts on paper for a newspaper. I " engross " when I should ''pen " a paragraph. Confusion blast all mercantile transactions, all traffic, exchange of commodities, intercourse between na- tions, all the consequent civilization, and wealth, and amity, and link of society, and getting rid of prejudices, and know- ledge 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. The following letter is in acknowledgment of an early copy of " T* Excursion." to mr. wordsworth. Dear Wordsworth, I cannot tell you how pleased I was at the receipt of the great armful of poetry which you have sent me ; and to get it before the rest of the world too ! I have gone quite through with it, and was thinking to have accomplished that pleasure a second time before I wrote to thank you, but M. B. came (in 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 Church-yard ;-the only girl among seven brethren, born out of due time, and (not duly) 142 FINAL MEMORIALS OF CHARLES LAMB. taken away again ; — the deaf man and the bhnd man ; — the Jacobite and 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 gorgeous sunset is famous;* I think it must have been the identical one we saw on Salis- bury Plain five years ago, that drew P — — from the card- table, where he had sat from rise of that luminary to its une- qualed setting; but neither he nor I had gifted eyes to see those symbols of common things glorified, such as the pro- phets saw them in that sunset — the wheel, the potters clay, the washpot, the wine-press, the almond-tree rod, the baskets of figs, the fourfold visaged head, the throne, |^d Him that sat thereon. t One feeling I was particularly struck with, as what I re- cognized so very lately at Harrow Church on enterino- it after a hot and secular day's pleasure, the instantaneous coolness and calming, almost transforming properties of a country church just entered ; and 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 1 am* feeling that * The passage lo which the allusion applies does not picture a sun- set, but the effect of sunlight on a receding mist among the mountains, in the second book of " The Excursion." t *^ Fix'd resemblances were seen To implements of ordinary use. But vast in size, in substance glorified ; Such as by Hebrew Prophets were beheld In vision — forms uncouth of mightiest powers, For admiration and mysterious awe." LETTERS TO WORDSWORTH. 143 which I cannot express. The readmg your lines about it fixed nne for a time, a monument in Harrow Church ; do you know it ? with its fine long spire, white as washed marble, to be seen, by vantage of its high site, as far as Salisbury spire itself almost. I shall select a day or two very shortly, when I am coolest in brain, to have a steady second reading, which I feel will lead to many more, for it will be a slock book with me while eyes or spectacles shall be lent me. There is a great deal of noble matter about mountain scenery, yet not so much as to overpower and discountenance a poor Lon- doner 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 doubt- ful wliether a liver in towns had a soul to be saved. She almost trembled for that invisible part of us in her. Save for a late excursion to Harrow, and a day or two on the banks of the Thames this summer, rural images were fast fading from my mind, and by the wise provision of the Regent, all that was country-like in the Parks is all but obliterated. The very color of green is vanished ; the whole surface of Hyde Park is dry crumbling sand (Arabia 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 pro- visions, conquers the air, and we are stifled and suffocated in Hyde Park. Lamb was delighted with the proposition, made through Southey, that he should review '^ The Excursion" in the " Quarterly," though he had never before attempted con- temporaneous criticism, and cherished a dislike to it, which the event did not diminish. The ensuing letter was addressed 144 FINAL MEMORIALS OF CHARLES LAMB. while meditating on his office, and uneasy lest he should lose it for want of leisure. TO MR. WORDSWORTH. My DEAR W., I have scarce time or quiet to explain my present situation, how unquiet and distracted it is, owing to the ab- sence of some of my compeers, and to the deficient state of payments at E. I. H., owing to bad peace speculations in the calico market. (I write this to W. W., Esq., Collector oi Stamp Duties for the conjoint Northern Counties, not to W. W., Poet.) I go back, and have for these many days past, to evening work, generally at the rate of nine hours a day. The nature of my work, too, puzzling and hurrying, has so shaken my spirits, that my sleep is nothing but a suc- cession of dreams of business I cannot do, of assistants that give me no assistance, of terrible responsibilities. I re- claimed your book, which Hazlitt has mercilessly kept, only two days ago, and have made shift to read it again with shattered brain. It does not lose — rather, some parts have come out with a prominence I did not perceive before — but such was my aching head yesterday (Sunday), that the book was like a mountain landscape to one that should walk on the edge of a precipice — I perceived beauty dizzily. Now, what I would say is, that I see no prospect of a quiet half day, or hour even, till this week and the next are past. I then hope to get four weeks' absence, and if then is time enough to begin, I will most gladly do what is required, though I feel my inability, for my brain is always desultory, and snatches off hints from things, but can seldom follow a '' work" methodically. But that shall be no excuse. What I beg you to do is, to let me know from Southey, if that will be time enough for the '^Quarterly," i, INAL MEMORIALS OF CHAKLES LAMB, the charge of a revoke, which he declares impossible ; the old Captain's significant nod over the right shoulder* (was it not ?) ; Mrs. B 's determined questioning of the score, after the game was absolutely gone to the d — 1 ; the plain, but hospitable cold boiled-beef suppers at sideboard; all which fancies, redolent of middle age and strengthful spirits, comes across us ever and anon in this vale of deliberate senectitude, ycleped Enfield. You imagine a deep gulf between you and us ; and there is a pitiable hiatus in kind between St. James's Park and this extremity of Middlesex. But the mere distance in turnpike roads is a trifle. The roof of a coach swings you down in an hour or two. We have a sure hot joint on a Sunday, and when had we better ? I suppose you know that ill health has obliged us to give up housekeeping, but we have an asylum at the veiy next door — only twenty-four inches further from town, which is not material in a country expe- dition-— where a table dlwte is kept for us, without trouble on our parts, and we adjourn after dinner, when one of the old world (old friends) drops casually down among us. Come and find us out ; and seal our judicious change with your approbation, \vhenever the whim bites, or the sun prompts. No need of announcement for we are sure to be at home. I keep putting off the subject of my answer. In truth I am not in spirits at present to see Mr. Murray on such a business ; but pray offer him my acknowledgments, and an assurance that I should like at least one of his propositions, as I have so much additional matter for the Specimens, as might make two volumes in all ; or one, (new edition) omitting such better known authors as Beaumont and Fletcher, Jon- son, &c. frequently occurs in ihe Diary and Correspondence of her sister^ Madame D'Arblay. * Captain (afterwards Admiral) James Burney. LETTER TO MIIS. WILLIAMS. 201 But we are Ijpth in trouble at present. A very dear young friend of ours, who passed her Christmas holidays here, has been taken dangerously ill with a fever, from which she is very precariously recovering, and I expect a summons to fetch her when she is well enough to bear the journey from Bury. It is Emma Isola, with whom we got acquainted at our first visit to your sister, at Cambridge, and she has been an occasional inmate with us — and of late years much more frequently — ever since. While she is in this danger, and till she is out of it, and here in a probable way to recovery, I feel that I have no spirits for an engagement of any kind. It has been a terrible shock to us; therefore I beg that you will make my handsomest excuses to Mr. Murray. Our very kindest loves to Mrs. A. and the younger A.'s. ^ # * * H. * Your un forgotten, C. Lamb. Good tidings soon reached Lamb of Miss Isola's health, and he went to Farnham to bring her, for a month's visit, to Enfield. The following are portions of letters addressed to the lady from whose care he had removed her, after their arrival at home, other parts of which have been already published. TO MRS. WILLIAMS. Enfield, April 2nd, 1830. Dear Madam, I have great pleasure in letting you know Miss Isola has suffered very little from fatigue on her long jour- ney ; I am ashamed to say that I came home rather the more tired of the two. But I am a very unpractised traveler. We found my sister very well in health, only a little impa- 9* 202 FINAL MEMORIALS OF CHARLES LAMB. tient to see her ; and, after a few hysterioal tears for glad- ness, all was comfortable again. We arrived here from Epping between five and six. How I employed myself between Epping and Enfield, the poor verses in the front of my paper may inform you, which you may please to christen an " Acrostic in a cross- road," and which I wish were worthier of the lady they re- fer to, but trust you will plead my pardon to her on a sub- ject so delicate as a lady's good name. Your candor must acknowledge that they are written straight. And now, dear madam, I have left myself hardly space to express my sense of the friendly reception I found at Farnham. Mr. Williams will tell you that we had the pleasure of a slight meeting with him on the road, where I could almost have told him, but that it seemed ungracious, that such had been your hospi- tality, that I scarcely missed the good master of the family at Farnham, though heartily I should rejoice to have made a little longer acquaintance with him. I v/ill say nothing of our deeper obligations to both of you, because I think we agreed at Farnham that gratitude may be over-exacted on the part of the obliging, and over-expressed on the part of the obliged person. ****** Miss Isola is writing, and will tell you that we are going on very comfortably. Her sister is just come. She blames my last verses, as being more written on Mr. Wil- liams than yourself; but how should I have parted whom a Superior Power has brought together ? I beg you will joint- ly accept of all our best respects, and pardon your obsequi- ous, if not troublesome correspondent, C. L. P- S. — I am the worst folder-up of a letter in the world, except certain Hottentots, in the land of CafFre, who never fold up their letters at all, writing very badly upon skins, &c. LETTER TO MRS. HAZLITT. 203 The following contains Lamb's account of the same jour- iiey, addressed to Buxton : — TO MRS. HAZLITT. Enfield, Saturday. Mary's love ? Yes. Mary Lamb is quite well. Dear Sarah, I found my way to Northaw, on Thursday, and saw a very good woman behind a counter, who says also that you are a very good lady. I did not accept her offered glass of wine (home-made, I take it), but craved a cup of ale, with which I seasoned a slice of cold lamb, from a sand- wich box, which I ate in her back parlor, and proceeded for Berkhampstead, &c. ; lost myself over a heath, and had a day's pleasure. I wish you could walk as I do, and as you used to do. I am sorry to find you are so poorly ; and, now I have found my way, I wish you back at Goody Tom- linson's. What a pretty village 'tis. I should have come sooner, but was waiting a summons to Bury. Well, it came, and I found the good parson's lady (he was from home) ex- ceedingly hospitable. Poor Emma, the first moment we were alone, took me in- to a corner, and cried, '' Now pray don't (frm^ ; do check yourself after dinner for my sake, and when we get home to Enfield, you shall drink as much as ever you please, and I won't say a word about it." How I behaved, you may guess, when I tell you that Mrs. Williams and I have written acrostics on each other, and " she hoped that she should have no reason to regret Miss Isola's recovery, by its depriving her of our begun correspondence." Emma stayed a month with us, and has gone back (in tolerable health) to her long home, for she comes not again for a twelvemonth. I amused Mrs- 204 FINAL MEMORIALS OF CHARLES LAMB. Williams with an occurrence on our road to Enfield.* We travelled with one of those troublesome fellow-passengers in a stage-coach, that is called a well-informed man. For twenty miles, we discoursed about the properties of steam, probabilities of carriages by ditto, till all my science, and more than all was exhausted, and I was thinking of escaping my torment by getting up on the outside, when, getting into Bishops Stortford, my gentleman, spying some farming land, put an unlucky question to me : '' What sort of a crop of turnips I thought we should have this year ?'' Emma's eyes turned to me, to know what in the world I could have to say ; and she burst out into a violent fit of laughter, maugre her pale, serious cheeks, when, with the greatest gravity, I replied, that '^ it de- pended, I believed, upon boiled legs of mutton.^' This clench- ed our conversation, and my gentleman, with a face half wise, half in scorn, troubled us with no more conversation, scientific or philosophical, for the remainder of the journey. S was here yesterday, and as learned to the full as my fellow-trav- eler. What a pity that he will spoil a wit, and a most pleas- ant fellow (as he is) by wisdom. N. Y f is as good, and as odd as ever. We had a dispute about the word ''heir,'' which I contended was pronounced like " air;" he said that it might be in common parlance ; or that w^e 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 aspi- ration, and to say hayer; he thought it might even vitiate a cause, if a counsel pronounced it otherwise. In conclusion, he would consult Serjeant Wilde, who gave it against him. Sometimes he falleth into the water ; sometimes into the fire. He came down here, and insisted on reading Virgil's ^' Eneid'^ * This little anecdote was told by Lamb in a letter previously pub lished, but not quite so richly as here. t A very old and dear friend of Lamb who had just been called io the bar. LETTERS TO MOXON. 205 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 quotations are very emphatic in a court of jus- tice. A third time he would carve a fowl, which he did very ill-favoredly, because " we did not know how indispensable it was for a barrister to do all those sort of things well ? Those little things were of more consequence than we sup- posed." So he goes on harassing about the way to prosperi- ty, and losing it with a long head, but somewhat a wrong one — harum-scarum. Why does not his guardian angel look to him ? He deserves one : may be, he has tired him out. I am with this long scrawl, but I thought in your exile, you might like a letter. Commend me to all the wonders in Derbyshire, and tell the devil I humbly kiss my hand to him. Yours ever, C. Lamb. The esteem which Lamb had always cherished for Mr. Rogers, was quickened into a livelier feeling by the gener- ous interest which the poet took in the success of Mr. Moxon, who was starting as a publisher. The following little note shows the state of his feelings at this time towards two distin- guished persons. TO BIR. MOXON. Enfield, Tuesday. Dear M., I dined w^ith your and my Rogers, at Mr. Gary's^ yesterday. Gary consulted him on the proper bookseller to offer a lady's MS. novel to. I said 1 would write to you. But I wish you would call on the translator of Dante, at the 206 FINAL MEMORIALS OF CHARLES LAMB, British Museum, and talk with him. He is the pleasantest of clergymen. I told him of all Rogers's handsome behav- ior to you, and you are already no stranger. Go ! I made Rogers laugh about your Nightingale Sonnet, not having heard one. 'Tis a good sonnet, notwithstanding. You shall have the books shortly. Mr. Moxon, having become the publisher of " The En- glishman's Magazine," obtained Lamb's aid, as a contributor of miscellaneous articles, which were arranged to appear under the comprehensive title of " Peter's Net." The fol- lowing accompanied his first contribution, in which some reminiscences of the Royal Academy were enshrined. to mr. moxon. Dear M., The R. A. here memorized was George Dawe, whom I knew well, and heard many anecdotes of, from Daniels and Westall, at H. Rogers's ; to each of them it will be well to send a magazine in my name. It will fly like wildfire among the Royal Academicians and artists. Could you get hold of Proctor? — his chambers are in Lin- coln's Inn, at Montague's; or of Janus Weathercock? — both of their prose is capital. Don't encourage poetry. The " Peter's Net" does not intend funny things only. All is fish. And leave out the sickening " Elia " at the end. Then it may comprise letters and characters, addressed to Peter; but a signature forces it to be all characteristic of the one man, Elia, or the one man, Peter, which cramped me formerly. I have agreed not for my sister to know the sub- jects I choose, till the magazine comes out ; so beware of speaking of 'em, or writing about 'em, save generally. Be LETTERS TO MOXON. 207 particular about this warning. Can't you drop in some afternoon, and take a bed ? The Athenaeunn has been hoaxed with some exquisite poetry, that was, two or three months ago, in " Hone's Book." I like your first number capitally. But is not it small ? Come and see us, week-day if possi- sible. Send, or bring me Hone's number for August. The anecdotes of E. and of G. D. are substantially true ; what does Elia (or Peter) care for dates ? The poem I mean, is in '' Hone's Book," as far back as April. I do not know who wrote it ; but 'tis a poem I envy — that and Montgomery's '^ Last Man :" I envy the writers, because I feel I could have done something like them. C. L. The followinp; contains Lamb's characteristic acknow- ledgment of a payment on account of these contributions. to mr. moxon. Dear M., Your letter's contents pleased me. I am only afraid of taxing you. Yet I want a stimulus, or I think I should drag sadly. I shall keep the monies in trust, till I see you fairly over the next 1st January. Then I shall look upon 'em as earned. No part of your letter gave me more pleasure (no, not the lOZ., tho' you may grin) than that you will revisit old Enfield, which I hope will be always a pleas- ant idea to you. Yours, very faithfully, C. L. The magazine, although enriched with Lamb's articles, and some others of great merit, did not meet with a success 208 FINAL MEBIORIALS OF CHARLES LAMB SO rapid as to requite the proprietor for the labor and anxiety of its production. The following is Lamb's letter, in reply to one announcing a determination to discontinue its publica- tion : — TO MR. MOXON. To address an abdicated monarch is a nice point of breeding. To give him his lost titles is to mock him ; to withhold them is to wound him. But liis minister, who falls with him, may be gracefully sympathetic. I do honestly feel for your diminution of honors, and regret even the pleasing cares which are part and parcel of greatness. Your magnanimous submission, and the cheerful tone of your renunciation in a letter, (which, without flattery, would have made an '^ Article,'^ and which, rarely as I keep letters, shall be preserved,) comfort me a little. Will it please or plague you, to say that when your parcel came, I cursed it, for my pen was warming in my hand at a ludicrous descrip- tion of a Landscape of an R. A., which I calculated upon sending you to-morrow, the last day you gave me ? Now any one calling in, or a letter coming, puts an end to my writing for the day. Little did I think that the mandate had gone out, so destructive to my occupation, so relieving to the apprehensions of the whole body of R. A's. ; so you see I had not quitted the ship while a plank was remaining. To drop metaphors, I am sure you have done wisely. The very spiritof your epistle speaks that you have a weight off your mind. I have one on mine ; the cash in hand, which, as less truly says, burns in ni)^ pocket. I feel queer at returning it, (who does not ?) you feel awkward at retaking it, (who ought not ?) — is there no middle way of ad- justing this fine embarrassment ? I think I have hit upon a medium to skin the sore place over, if not quite to heal it. LETTERS TO MOXON. 209 You hinted that there might be something under 10/., by and by accruing to me — DeviVs money ;* (you are sanguine ; say 7/. 105. ;) that I entirely renounce, and abjure all future interest in : I insist upon it, and, " by him I will not name,'' I won't touch a penny of it. That will split your loss, one half, and leave me conscientious possessor of what I hold. Less than your assent to this, no proposal will I accept of. The Rev. Mr. , whose name you have left illegible (is it Seagull?) never sent me any book on Christ's Hospital, by which I could dream that I was indebted to him for a dedication. Did G. D. send his penny tract to me, to con- vert me to Unitarianism ? Dear, blundering soul ! why I am as old a Unitarian as himself. Or did bethink his cheap publication would bring over the Methodists over the way here ?f However, I'll give it to the pew-opener, in whom I have a little interest, to hand over to the clerk, whose wife she sometimes drinks tea with, for him to lay before the dea- con, who exchanges the civility of the hat with him, to trans- mit to the minister, who shakes hands with him out of chapel, and he, in all odds, will light his pipe with it. I wish very much to see you. I leave it to you to come how you will • we shall be very glad (we need not repeat) to see your sister, or sisters, with you ; but for you, indi- vidually, I will just hint that a dropping in to tea, unlooked for, about five, stopping bread-and-cheese and gin-and-water, is worth a thousand Sundays. I am naturally miserable on a Sunday ; but a week-day evening and supper is like old times. Set out iioio, and give no time to deliberation. P. S. The second volume of " Elia " is delightful ^ Alluding to a little extravagance of Lamb's — scarcely worth recol- lecting — in emulation of the " Devil's Walk" of Southey and Co. t Referring to a chapel opposite his lodging at Enfield. '^10 FINAL MEMORIALS OF CHARLES LAMB (ly bound, I mean,) and quite cheap. Why, man, 'tis a unique. If I write much more I shall expand into an article, which I cannot afford to let you have so cheap. By the by, to show the perverseness of human will, while I thought I must furnish one of those accursed things monthly, it seemed a labor above Hercules' '' Twelve " in a year, which were evidently monthly contributions. Now I am emancipated, I feel as if I had a thousand Essays swelling within me. False feelings both ! Your ex-Lampoonist, or Lamb-punnist, from Enfield, October 24, or '' last day but one for receiving articles that can be inserted." The following was addressed, soon after, to mr. moxon. Dear Moxon, The snows are ankle-deep, slush, and mire, that 'tis hard to get to the post-office, and cruel to send the maid out. ^Tis a slough of despair, or I should sooner have thanked you for your 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 confiinement within doors. I send you a curiosity of G. Dyer's tender conscience. Between thirty and forty years since, G. published the '' Poet's Fate," in which were two very harmless lines about Mr. Rogers, but Mr. R. not quite approving of them, they were left out in a subsequent edition, 1801. But G. has been worrying about them ever since ; if I have heard 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 LETTERS TO MOXON. 211 it, a man they call Barker, in his '' Parriana,'^ has quoted the identical two lines, as they stood in some obscure edition anterior to 1801, and the withers of poor G. are again wrung. His letter is a gem ; with his poor blind eyes it has been labored out at six sittings. The history of the couplet is in page 3 of this irregular production, in which every variety of shape and size that letters can be twisted into is to be found. Do show his part of it to Mr. R. some day. If he has bowels, they must melt at the contrition so queerly char- actered 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 face is insusceptible of the twist they call a sneer, yet he is appre- hensive of being suspected of that ugly appearance. When he makes a compliment he thinks he has given an affront — a name is personality. But show (no hurry) this unique recantation to Mr. R. ; ^tis like a dirty pocket-handkerchief mucked with tears of some indigent Magdalen. There is the impress of sincerity in every pot-hook and hanger ; and then the gilt frame to such a pauper picture ! — it should go into the Museum ! Come when the weather will possibly let you ; I want to see the Wordsworths, but I do not much like to be all night away. It is dull enough to be here together, but it is duller to leave Mary ; in short, it is painful, and in a flying visit I should hardlv catch them. I have no beds for them if they come down, and but a sort of a house to receive them in; yet I shall regret their departure unseen ; I feel cramped and straitened every way. Where are they ? We have heard from Emma but once, and that a month ago, and are very anxious for another letter. You say we have forgot your powers of being serviceable to us. That we never shall ; I do not know what I should do without you when I want a little commission. Now then : 212 FINAL MEMORIALS OF CHARLES LAMB. there are left at Miss Buffon's, the '' Tales of the Castle/' and certain volumes of the " Retrospective Review/' The first should be conveyed to Novello's, and the Reviews should be taken to Talfourd's office, ground-floor, east side. Elm Court, Middle Temple, to whom I should have w^ritten, but my spirits are wretched ; it is quite an effort to write this. So with the '' Life,^^ I have cut you out three pieces of ser- vice. What can I do for you here, but hope to see you very soon, and think of you with most kindness? I fear to-mor- row, between rains and snows, it would be impossible to ex- pect you ; but do not let a practicable Sunday pass. We are always at home. Mary joins in remembrances to your sister, whom we hope to see in any fineish weather, when she'll venture. Remember us to Allsop, and all the dead people ; to whom, and to London, we seem dead. In February, 1833, the following letter was addressed by Lamb to the editor, on his being made Serjeant : — to mr. serjeant talfourd. My dear T., Now cannot I call him Serjeant? what is there in a coif? Those canvas sleeves, protective from ink,* when he was a law-chit — a ChittyVmg^ (let the leathern apron be apocryphal) do more 'specially plead to the Jury Court of old memory. The costume (will he agnize it ?) was as of a desk-fellow, or Socius Plutei. Methought I spied a brother ! That familiarity is extinct for ever. Curse me if I can * Mr. Lamb always insisted that the costume referred to was worn when he first gladdened his young friend by a call at Mr. Chitty's cham- bers. I am afraid it is all apocryphal. LETTER TO TALFOURD. 213 call him Mr. Serjeant — except, mark me, in company. Ho- nor where honor is due ; but should he ever visit us, (do you think he ever will, Mary ?) what a distinction should I keep up between him and our less fortunate friend, H. C. R. ! Decent respect shall always be the Crabb's — but, somehow, * short of reverence. Well, of my old friends, I have lived to see two knight- ed, one made a judge, another in a fair way to it. Why am I restive ? why stands my sun upon Gibeah ? Variously, my dear Mrs. Talfourd, [I can be more fami- liar with her !] Mrs, Serjeant Talfourd^ — my sister prompts me — (these ladies stand upon ceremonies) — has the congra- tualable news affected the members of our small commuity. Mary comprehended it at once, and entered into it heartily. Mrs. W w^as, as usual, perverse ; wouldn't, or couldn't, understand it. A Serjeant ? She thought Mr. T. was in the law. Didn't know that he ever 'listed. Emma alone truly sympathized. She had a silk gown come home that very day, and has precedence before her learned sisters accordingly. We are going to drink the health of Mr. and Mrs. Ser- jeant, with all the young serjeantry — and that is all that I can see that I shall get by the promotion. Valete, et mementote amici quondam verstri humillimi, C. L. In the Spring of 1833, Lamb made his last removal from Enfield to Edmonton. He was about to lose the society of Miss Isola, on the eve of marriage, and determined to live altogether with his sister, whether in her sanity or her mad- ness. This change was announced in the following letter. 214 FINAL BIEMORIALS OF CHARLES LAMB. TO MR. WORDSWORTH. End of May nearly. Dear Wordsworth, Your letter, save in what respects your dear sister's health, cheered me in my new solitude. Mary is ill again. Her illnesses encroach yearly. The last was three months, followed by two of depression most dreadful. I look back upon her earlier attacks with longing. Nice little durations of six weeks or so, followed by complete restoration, — shock- ing as they were to me then. In short, half her life she is dead to me, and the other half is made anxious with fears and lookings forward to the next shock. With such pros- pects, it seemed to be necessary that she should no longer live with me, and be flustered with continual removals ; so I am come to live with her, at a Mr. Walden's, and his wife, who take in patients, and have arranged to lodge and board us only. They have had the care of her before. Sunt lachrymse rerum ! and you and I must bear it. To lay a little more load on it, a circumstance has hap- pened, cujus pars magna fui, and which, at another crisis, I should have more rejoiced in. I am about to lose my old and only walk-companion, whose mirthful spirits were the '^ youth of our house,'^ Emma Isola. 1 have been here now for a little while, but she is too nervous, properly to be under such a roof, so she will make short visits, — be no more an inmate. With my perfect approval, and more than concur- rence, she is to be wedded to Moxon, at the end of August — so '' perish the roses and the flowers" — how is it ? Now to the brighter side. I am emancipated from Enfield. I am with attentive people, and younger. I am three or four miles nearer the great city ; coaches half-price less, and go- ing always, of which I will avail myself. I have few friends left there, one or two though, most beloved. But Lon- LETTER TO WORDSWORTH. 215 don streets and faces cheer me inexpressibly, though of the latter, there should be not a known one remaining. Thank you for your cordial reception of " Elia/^ Inter nos, the " Ariadne" is not a darling with me ; several incon- gruous things are in it, but in the composition it served me as illustration. I want you in the " Popular Fallacies"* to like the " Home that is no home," and the " Rising with the lark." I am feeble, but cheerful in this my genial hot weather. Walked sixteen miles yesterday. I can't read much in sum- mer time. With my kindest love to all, and prayers for dear Dorothy, I remain, most affectionately, yours, C. Lamb. At Mr. Walden's, Church Street, Edmonton, Middlesex. Moxon has introduced Emma to Rogers, and he smiles upon the project. I have given E. my Milton, (will you pardon me ? f) in part of a portion. It hangs famously in his Murray-like shop. On the approach of the wedding-day, fixed for 30th July, Lamb turned to the account of a half-tearful merriment, the gift of a watch to the young lady whom he was about to lose. * A series of articles contributed, under this title, by Lamb, to the " New Monthly Magazine." t It had been proposed by Lamb that Mr. W. should be the possessor of the portrait if he outlived his friend, and that afterwards it was to be bequeathed to Christ's College, Cambridge. 216 FINAL MEMORIALS OF CHARLES LAMB. TO MR. MOXON. i For God's sake give Emma no more watches ; one has turned her head. She is arrogant and insulting. She said something very unpleasant to our old clock in the passage, as if he did not keep time, and yet he had made her no ap- pointment. She takes it out every instant to look at the mo- ment hand. She lugs us out into the fields, because there the bird-boys ask you, " Pray, sir, can you tell us what's o'clock?" and she answers them punctually. She loses all her time looking to see '' what the time is." I overheard her whispering, " Just so many hours, minutes, &c., to Tuesday ; I think St. George's goes too slow." This little present of time ! — why, — 'tis Eternity to her ! What can make her so fond of a gingerbread watch ? She has spoiled some of the movements. Between our- selves, she has kissed away '' half-past twelve," which I sup- pose to be the canonical hour in Hanover Square. Well, if 'Move 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, a festival, gloriously. Yours, ever, Elia. We have not heard from Cambrido;e. I will write the moment we do. Edmonton, 24th July, twenty minutes past three by Emma's watch. * Written on the opposite page to that in which the previous affection- ate banter appears. LETTER TO MR. AND MRS. MOXON, 217 Miss Lamb was in a state of mental estrangement up to the day of the wedding ; but then in the constant companion- ship of her brother at Edmonton. The following cluster of little letters to the new married pair — the first from Charles, introducing one from Mary — shows the happy effect of the news on her mental health. to mr. and mrs. moxon. Dear Mr. and Mrs. Moxon, Time very short. I wrote to Miss Fryer, and had the sweetest letter about you, Emma, that ever friendship dictated. " I am full of good wishes, I am crying with good wishes," she says ; but you shall see it. Dear Moxon, I take your writing most kindly, and shall most kindly your writing from Paris. I want to crowd another letter to Miss Fryer into the little time after dinner, before post time. So with twenty thou- sand congratulations, Yours, U. JLi. I am calm, sober, happy. Turn over for the reason- I got home from Dover Street, by Evans, half as sober as a judge. I am turning over a new leaf, as I hope you will now. The turn of the leaf presented the following from Miss Lamb : — My dear Emma and Edv^ard Moxon, Accept my sincere congratulations, and imagine more good wishes than my weak nerves will let me put into 10 218 FINAL MEMORIALS OF CHARLES LAMB. good set words. The dreary blank of unanswered questions which I ventured to ask in vain, was cleared up on the wed- ding day by Mrs. W.* taking a glass of wine, and, with a total change of countenance, begging leave to drink Mr. and Mrs. Moxon's good health. It restored me from that mo- ment, as if by an electrical shock, to the entire possession of my senses. I never felt so calm and quiet after a similar illness as I do now. I feel as if all tears were wiped from my eyes, and all care from my heart. Mary Lamb. At the foot of this letter is the following by Charles : — Wednesday, Dears, again, Your letter interrupted a seventh game at piquet which we were having, after walking to Wright's and pur- chasing shoes. We pass our time in cards, walks, and read- ing. We attack Tasso soon. C. L. Never was such a calm, or such a recovery. 'Tis her ow^n words, undictated. Miss Lamb did not escape all the cares of housekeeping by the new arrangement ; the following little note shows the grotesque uses to which Lamb turned the smaller household anxieties : — to mr. moxon. Dear M., Mary and I are very poorly. We have had a sick child, who, sleeping or not sleeping, next me, with a paste- board partition between, killed my sleep. The little bastard * The wife of the landlord of the house at Edmonton. LETTERS TO MOXON. 219 IS gone. My bedfellows are cough and cran^ip ; we sleep three in a bed. Domestic arrangements (baker, butcher, and all) devolve on Mary. Don't come yet to this house of pest and age ! We propose, when you and E. agree for the time, to come up and meet you at the B 's, say a week hence, but do you make the appointment. Mind, our spirits are good, and we are happy in your happinesses. C. L. Our old and ever new loves to dear Emma. The following is Lamb's reply to a welcome communica- tion of Sonnets, addressed by the bridegroom to the fair ob- ject of Lamb's regard — beautiful in themselves — and endear- ed to Lamb by honored memories and generous hopes : — TO MR. MOXON. Mary is of opinion with me, that two of these Sonnets are of a higher grade than any poetry you have done yet. The one to Emma is so pretty ! I have only allowed myself to transpose a word in the third line. Sacred shall it be from any intermeddling of mine. But we jointly beg that you will make four lines in the room of the four last. Read " Darby and Joan," in Mrs. Moxon's first album. There you'll see how beautiful in age the looking back to youthful years in an old couple is. But it is a violence to the feelings to anticipate that time in youth. 1 hope you and Emma will have many a quarrel, and many a make-up (and she is beautiful in reconciliation !) before the dark days shall come, in which ye shall say '^ there is small comfort in them." You have begun a sort of character of Emma in them, very sweetly ; carry it on, if you can, through the last lines. 220 FINAL MEMORIALS OF CHARLES LAMB. I love th^ sonnet to my heart, and you shall finish it, and ni be hanged if I furnish a line towards it. So much for that. The next best is the Ocean : — " Ye gallant winds, if e'er your lusty cheeks Blew longing lover to his mistress' side, O, puff your loudest, spread the canvas wide/' is spirited. The last line I altered, and have re-altered it as it stood. It is closer. These two are your best. But take a good deal of time in finishing the first. How proud should Emma be of her poets ! Perhaps " O Ocean^' (though I like it) is too much of the open vowels, which Pope objects to. " Great Ocean [" is obvious. To save sad thoughts I think is better (though not good) than for the mind to save herself. But 'tis a noble Sonnet. '' St. Cloud'' I have no fault to find with. If I return the Sonnets, think it no disrespect, for I look for a printed copy. You have done better than ever. And now for a reason I did not notice them earlier. On Wednes- day they came, and on Wednesday I was a-gadding. Mary gave me a holiday, and I set off to Snow Hill. From Snow Hill I deliberately was marching down, w4th noble Holborn before me, framing in mental agitation a map of the dear London in prospect, thinking to traverse Wardour Street, &c., when, diabolically, I was interrupted by a too hospitable friend, and prevailed on to spend the day at his friendly house, where was an album, and (O, march of intellect !) plenty of literary conversation, and more acquaintance with the state of modern poetry than I could keep up with. 1 was positively distanced. Knowles' play, which, epilogued by me, lay on the Piano, alone made me hold up my head. When 1 came home, I read your letter, and glimpsed at your beautiful sonnet, " Fair art thou as the morning, my young bride/' LETTER TO GARY. 221 and dwelt upon it in a confused brain, but determined not to open them till next day, being in a state not to be told of at Chatteris. Tell it not in Gath, Emma, lest the daughters triumph ! I am at the end of my tether. I wish you could come on Tuesday with your fair bride. Why can't you ? Do. We are thankful to your sister for being of the party. Come, and Iring a sonnet on Mary's birthday. Love to the whole Moxonry, and tell E. I every day love her more, and miss her less. Tell her so from her loving uncle, as she has let me call her. I bought a fine embossed card yesterday, and wrote for a fair lady's album. She is a Miss Brown, engaged to a Mr. White. One of the lines was (I forgot the rest — but she had them at twenty-four hours' notice; she is going out to India with her husband) :• — " May your fame, And fortune, Frances, Whiten with your name !'' Not bad as a pun. I loill expect you before two on Tues- day. I am well and happy, tell E. Lamb's latter days were brightened by the frequent — latterly periodical — hospitality of the admirable translator of Dante, at the British Museum. The following was addressed to this new friend lately acquired, but who became an old friend at once, while Mr. and Mrs. Moxon were on their wedding tour : — to rev. h. f. gary. Dear Sir, Your packet I have only just received, owing, I suppose, to the absence of Moxon, who is flaunting it about a la Parisieime, with his new bride our Emma, much to his satisfaction, and not a little to our dullness. We shall be 222 FINAL MEMORIALS OF CHARLES LAMB quite well by the time you return from Worcestershire, and most, most (observe the repetition) glad to see you here, or anywhere. I will take my time with D 's act. I wish poets would write a little plainer ; he begins some of his words with a letter which is unknown to the typography. Yours, most truly, C. Lamb. P. S. — Pray let me know when you return. We are at Mr. Walden's, Church Street, Edmonton; no longer at En- field. You will be amused to hear that my sister and I have, with the aid of Emma, scrambled through the '^ Inferno,^' by the blessed furtherance of your polar star translation. I think we scarce left anything unmadeout. But our partner has left us, and we have not yet resumed. Mary's chief pride in it was that she should some day brag of it to you. Your " Dante'' and Sandys' '' Ovid" are the only helpmates of translations. Neither of you shirk a word. Fairfax's '^ Tasso" is no translation at all. It is better in some places, but it merely observes the number of stan- zas ; as for images, similes, &c., he finds 'em himself, and never 'troubles Peter for the matter." In haste, dear Gary, Yours ever, C. Lamb. Has M. sent you '' Elia," second volume ? if not, he shall. Sept. 9,1833. The following is Lamb's letter of acknowledgment to the author of the '' Pleasures of Memory," for an early copy of his '^ Illustrated Poems," of a share in the publication of which, Mr. Moxon was '^justly vain." The artistical allu- sions are to Stothard ; the allusions to the poet's own kind- LETTER TO ROGERS. 223 nesses need no explanation to those who have been enabled by circumstances, which now and then transpire, to guess at the generous course of his life. TO MR. ROGERSc Saturday. My dear S1R5 Your book, by the unremitting punctuality of your publisher, has reached me thus early. I have not opened it, nor will till to-morrow, when I promise myself a thorough read- ing of it. The '' Pleasures of Memory ^' was the fii*st school- present I made to Mrs. Moxon ; it has those nice woodcuts, and I believe she keeps it still. Believe me, all the kindness you have shown to the husband of that excellent person seems done unto myself. I have tried my hand at a sonnet, in the Times. But the turn I gave it, though I hoped it would not displease you, I thought might not be equally agreeable to your artist. I met that dear old man at poor Henry's, with you, and again at Gary's, and it was sublime to see him sit, deaf, and enjoy all that was going on in mirth with the com- pany. He reposed upon the many graceful, many fantastic images he had created ; with them he dined, and took wine^ I have ventured at an antagonist copy of verses, in the Athe- nseum, to liiin^ in which he is as every thing, and you as no- thinir. He is no lawyer who cannot take two sides. But I am jealous of the combination of the sister arts. Let them sparkle apart. What injury (short of theatres) did not Boy- dell's Shakspeare Gallery do me with Shakspeare ? to have Opie's Shakspeare, Northcote's Shakspeare, wooden-headed West's Shakspeare, (though he did the best in Lear), deaf- headed Reynolds' Shakspeare, instead of any and every body's Shakspeare ; to be tied down to an authentic face of Juliet ! to have Imogen's portrait! to confine the illimitable ! I like you and Stothard, (you best) but '' out upon this half-faced 224 FINAL MEMORIALS OF CHARLES LAMB. fellowship !" Sir, when I have read the book, I may trouble you, through Moxon, with some faint criticisms. It is not the flatteringest compliment in a letter to an author to say^ you have not read his book yet. But the devil of a reader he must be, who prances through it in five minutes ; and no longer have I received the parcel. It was a little tantalizing to me to receive a letter from Landor, Gelir Landor, fi'om Florence, to say he was just sitting down to read my " Elia,*' just received ; but the letter was to go out before the reading. There are calamities in authorship, which only authors know. Fam going to call on Moxon, on Monday, if the throng of carriages in Dover Street, on the morn of publica- tion, do not barricade me out. With many thanks, and most respectful remembrances to your sister, Yours, C. Lamb. Have you seen Coleridge^s happy exemplification in Eng-^ lish of the Ovidian Elegiac metre ? In the Hexameter rises the fountain's silvery current, In the Pentameter aye falling in melody down. My sister is papering up the book — careful soul ! Lamb and his sister were now, for the last year of their united lives, always together. What his feelings were in this companionship, when his beloved associate was deprived of reason, will be seen in the following most affecting letter, to an old schoolfellow and very dear friend of Mrs. Moxon^s ■ — since dead — who took an earnest interest in their welfare. LETTER TO MISS FRYER. 225 TO MISS FRYER. Feh. 14, 1834. Dear Miss Fryer, Your letter found me just returned from keeping my birthday (pretty innocent !) at Dover Street. I see them pretty often. I have since had letters of business to write, or should have replied earlier. In one word, be less uneasy about me ; 1 bear my privations very well ; I am not in the depths of desolation, as heretofore. Your admonitions are not lost upon me. Your kindness has sunk into my heart. Have faith in me ! It is no new thing for me to be left to my sister. When she is not violent, her rambling chat is better to me than the sense and sanity of this world. Her heart is obscured, not buried ; it breaks out occasionally ; and one can discern a strong mind struggling with the billows that have gone over it. I could be nowhere happier than under the same roof with her. Her memory is unnaturally strong ; and from ages past, if we may so call the earliest records of our poor life, she fetches thousands of names and things that never would have dawned upon me again, and thousands from the ten years she lived before me. What took place from early girlhood to her coming of age princi- pally, live again (every important thing and every trifle) in her brain, with the vividness of real presence. For twelve hours incessantly she will pour out without intermission, all her past life, forgetting nothing, pouring out name after name to the Waldens, as a dream ; sense and nonsense ; truths and errors huddled together ; a medley between inspiration and possession. What things we are ! I know you will bear with me talking of these things. It seems to ease me, for I have nobody to tell these things to now. Emma, I see, has got a harp, and is learning to play. She has framed her three Walton pictures, and pretty they look. That is a book you should read; such sweet religion in it, next to Wool- 10* '^26 FINAL MEMORIALS OF CHARLES LAMB, man's; though the subject be baits, and hooks, and worms, and fishes. She has my copy at present, to do two more from. Very, very tired I began this epistle, having been epis- tolizing all the morning, and very kindly would I end it, could I find adequate expressions to your kindness. We did set our nainds on seeing you in spring. One of us will indubitably. But I am not skilled in almanac learning, to know when spring precisely begins and ends. Pardon my blots ; I am glad you like your book. I wish it had been half as worthy of your acceptance as John Woolman. But 'tis a good-natured book. A few days afterwards Lamb's passionate desire to serve a most deserving friend broke out in the following earnest little letter. TO MR. WORDSWORTH. Church Street, Edmonton, February 22. Dear Wordsworth, I write from a house of mourninor. The oldest and best friends I have left are in trouble. A branch of them (and they of the best stock of God's creatures, I be- lieve) is establishing a school at Carlisle ; her name is L M ; her address, 75 Castle Street, Carlisle ; her qualities (and her motives for this exertion) are the most amiable, most upright. For thirty years she has been tried by me, and, on her behavior, I would stake my soul. O, if you could re- commend her, how would I love you — if I could love you better ! Pray, pray, recommend her. She is as good a human creature, — next to my sister, perhaps, the most ex- emplary female I ever knew. Moxon tells me you would LETTER TO GARY. 227 like a letter from me ; you shall have one. This I cannot mingle up with any nonsense which you usually tolerate from C- Lamb. Need he add loves to wife, sister, and all ? Poor Mary is ill again, after a short lucid interval of four or five months. In short I may call her half dead to me. How good you are to me ! Yours with fervor of friendship for ever, C. L. If you want references, the Bishop of Carlisle may be one. L — — 's sister (as good as she, she can't be better though she tries) educated the daughters of the late Earl of Carnarvon, and he settled a handsome annuity on her for life. In short, all the family are a sound rock. A quiet dinner at the British Museum with Mr. Cary vonce a-month, to which Lamb looked forward with almost boyish eagerness, was now almost his only festival. In a Httle note to his host about this time, he hints at one of his few physical tastes. — '' We are thinking,'' he says, '' of roast shoulder of mutton with onion sauce, but I scorn to prescribe to the hospitalities of mine host." The following, after these festivities had been interrupted by Mr. Cary's visit to the Continent^ is their last memorial : — TO MR GARY. Sept, 12, 1834. -' By Cot\s plessing we will not be absence at the grace.'' Dear C, We long to see you, and hear account of your peregrinations, of the Tun at Heidelburg, the Clock at Strasburg, the statue at Rotterdam^ the dainty Rhenish^ and 228 FINAL MEMORIALS OF CHARLES LAMB poignant Moselle wines, Westphalian liams, and Botargoes of Altona. But perhaps you have seen, not tasted any of these things. Yours, very glad to chain you back again to your proper centre, books, and Bibliothecse. C. and M. Lamb. I have only got your note just now per negligentiain periU" qui Moxoni. The following little note has a mournful interest, as Lamb's last scrap of wi'iting. It is dated on the very day on which erysipelas followed the accident, apparently trifling, which, five days after, terminated in his death. It is ad- dressed to the wife of his oldest surviving friend : — to mrs. dyer. Dear Mrs. Dyer, I am very uneasy about a Book which I either have lost, or left at your house on Thursday. It was the book I went out to fetch from Miss BufFam's, while the tripe was frying. It is called " Phillips's Theatrum Poetarum," but it is an English book. I think I left it in the parlor. It is Mr. Gary's book, and I would not lose it for the world. Pray if you find it, book it at the Swan, Snow Hill, by an Edmonton stage immediately, directed to Mr. Lamb, Church Street, Edmonton, or write to say you cannot find it. I am quite anxious about it. If it is lost, I shall never like tripe again. With kindest love to Mr. Dyer and all. Yours truly, C. Lamb, Dec. 22, 1834. CHAPTER THE LAST. lamb's WEDNESDAY NIGHTS COMPAKED WITH THE EVENINGS OF HOLLAND HOUSE HIS DEAD COMPANIONS, DYER, GODWIN, THELWALL, HAZLITT, BARNES, HAYDON, COLERIDGE, AND OTHERS LAST GLIMPSES OF CHARLES AND MARY LAMB. '' GONE ; ALL ARE GONE, THE OLD FAMILIAR FACES !" Two circles of rare social enjoyment — differing as widely as possible in all external circumstances — but each superior in its kind to all others, were at the same time generously opened to men of letters — now existing only in the memories of those who are fast departing from us — may, without of- fence, be placed side by side in grateful recollection ; they are the dinners at Holland House and the suppers of 'Uhe Lambs" at the Temple, Great Russell Street, and Islington. Strange, at first, as this juxtaposition may seem, a little re- flection will convince the few survivors who have enjoyed both, that it involves no injustice to either; while with those who are too young to have been admitted to these old fes- tivities, we may exercise the privilege of age by boasting what good fellowship was once enjoyed, and what " good talk'' there was once in the world ! But let us call to mind the aspects of each scene, before we attempt to tell of the conversation, which will be harder to recall and impossible to characterize. And first, let us invite the reader to assist at a dinner at Holland House in 230 FINAL MEMORIALS OF CHARLES LAMB. the height of the London and Parlianrientaiy season, say a Saturday in June. It is scarcely seven — for the luxuries of the house are enhanced by a punctuality in the main object of the day, which yields to no dilatory guest of whatever pretension — and you are seated in an oblong room, rich in old gilding, opposite a deep recess, pierced by large old win- dows through which the rich branches of trees bathed in golden light, just admit the faint outline of the Surrey Hills. Among the guests are some perhaps of the highest rank, al- ways some of high political importance, about whom the in- terest of busy life gathers, intermixed with others eminent already in literature or art, or of that dawning promise which the hostess delights to discover and the host to smile on. All are assembled for the purpose of enjoyment ; the anxieties of the minister, the feverish struggles of the partisan, the silent toils of the artist or critic, are finished for the week ; professional and literary jealousies are hushed ; sickness, decrepitude and death, are silently voted shadows ; and the brilliant assemblage is prepared to exercise to the highest de- gree the extraordinary privilege of mortals to live in the knowledge of mortality without its consciousness, and to people the present hour with delights, as if a man lived and laughed and enjoyed in this world for ever. Every appli- ance of physical luxury which the most delicate art can supply, attends on each ; every faint wish which luxury creates is anticipated ; the noblest and most gracious coun- tenance in the world smiles over the happiness it is diffusing, and redoubles it by cordial invitations and encouraging words, which set the humblest stranger guest at perfect ease. As the dinner merges into the dessert, and the sunset casts a richer glow on the branches, still, or lightly waving in the evening light, and on the scene within, the harmony of all sensations becomes more perfect; a delighted and delighting chuckle invites attention to some joyous sally of the richest SOCIAL COMPARISON. 231 intellectual wit reflected in the faces of all, even to the fa- vorite page in green, who attends his mistress with duty like that of the antique world ; the choicest wines are enhanced in their liberal but temperate use by the vista opened in Lord Holland's tales of bacchanalian evenings at Brookes's, with Fox and Sheridan, when potations deeper and more serious rewarded the Statesman's toils and shortened his days; until at length the serener pleasure of conversation, of the now carelessly scattered groups, is enjoyed in that old, long, un- rivaled library in which Addison drank, and mused, and wrote ; where every living grace attends ; '' and more than echoes talk along the walls." One happy peculiarity of these assemblies was, the number of persons in different stations and of various celebrity, who were gratified by see- ing, still more, in hearing and knowing each other ; the statesman was relieved by association with the poet of whom he had heard and partially read ; and the poet was elevated by the courtesy which ^' bared the great heart" which '' beats beneath a star;" and each felt, not rarely, the true dignity of the other, modestly expanding under the most genial aus- pices. Now turn to No. 4, Inner Temple Lane, at ten o'clock, when the sedater part of the company are assembled, and the happier stragglers are dropping in from the play. Let it be any autumn or winter month, when the fire is blazing steadily, and the clean-swept hearth and whist-tables speak of the spirit of Mrs. Battle, and serious looks require " the rigor of the game." The furniture is old-fashioned and worn ; the ceiling low, and not wholly unstained by traces of " the great plant," though now virtuously forborne ; but the Hoo-arths, in narrow black frames, abounding in infinite thought, humor and pathos, enrich the walls ; and all things wear an air of comfort and hearty English welcome. Lamb himself, yet unrelaxed by the glass, is sitting with a sort of Qua- 232 FINAL MEMORIALS OF CHARLES LAMB. ker primness at the whist.table, the gentleness of his nielan- choly smile half lost in his intentness on the game ; his partner, the author of " Political Justice," (the majestic ex- pression of his large head not disturbed by disproportion of his comparatively diminutive stature,) is regarding his hand with a philosophic but not a careless eye ; Captain Burney, only not venerable because so young in spirit, sits between them ; and H. C. R., who alone now and then breaks the proper silence, to welcome some incoming guest, is his happy partner — true winner in the game of life, whose leisure achieved early, is devoted to his friends. At another table, just beyond the circle which extends from the jfire, sit another four. The broad, burly, jovial bulk of John Lamb, the Ajax Telamon of the slender clerks of the old South Sea House, whom he sometimes introduces to the ri;oms of his younger brother, surprised to learn from them that he is growing fa- mous, confronts the stately but courteous Alsager ; while P., '^his few hairs bristling" at gentle objurgation, watches his partner M. B., dealing, with " soul more white "* than the hands of which Lamb once said, " M., if dirt was trumps, what hands you would hold !" In one corner of the room, you may see the pale earnest countenance of Charles Lloyd, who is discoursing " of fate, free-will, foreknowledge abso- lute," with Leigh Hunt ; and, if you choose to listen, you will scarcely know which most to admire — the severe logic of the melancholy reasoner, or its graceful evasion by the tricksome fantasy of the joyous poet. Basil Montague, gentle enthusiast in the cause of humanity, wdiich he has lived to see triumphant, is pouring into the outstretched ear of George Dyer some tale of legalized injustice, which the recipient is * Lamb's Sonnet, dedicatory of his first volume of prose to this cherished friend, thus concludes : — " Free from self-seeking, envy, low design, I have not found a whiter soul than thine." SOCIAL COMPARISON. 233 vainly endeavoring to comprehend. Soon the room fills ; in slouches Hazliit from the theatre, where his stubborn anger for Napoleon's defeat at Waterloo has been softened by Miss Stephens's angelic notes, which might '' chase anger, and grief, and fear, and sorrow, and pain from mortal or immor- tal minds;" Kenney, with a tremulous pleasure, announces that there is a crowded house to the ninth representation of his new comedy, of which Lamb lays down his cards to in- quire ; or Ayrton, mildly radiant, whispers the continual tri- umph of '' Don Giovanni," for which Lamb, incapable of opera, is happy to take his word. Now and then an actor glances on us from " the rich Cathay " of the world behind the scenes, with news of its brighter human-kind, and with looks reflecting the public favor — Listen, grave beneath the weight of the tow^n's regards — or Miss Kelly, unexhausted in spirit by alternating the drolleries of high farce with the ter- rible pathos of melodrama, — or Charles Kemble mirrors the chivalry of thought, and ennobles the party by bending on them looks beaming with the aristocracy of nature. Mean- while Becky lays the cloth on the side-table, under the di- rection of the most quiet, sensible, and kind of women — who soon compels the younger and more hungry of the guests to partake largely of the cold roast lamb or boiled beef, the heaps of smoking roasted potatoes, and the vast jug of porter, often replenished from the foaming pots, which the best tap of Fleet Street supplies. Perfect freedom prevails, save when the hospitable pressure of the mistress excuses excess ; and perhaps, the physical enjoyment of the play-goer exhausted with pleasure, or of the author jaded with the labor of the brain, is not less than that of the guests at the most charm- ing of aristocratic banquets. As the hot water and its ac- companiments appear, and the severities of whist relax, the light of conversation thickens : Hazlitt, catching the influence of the spirit from which he has just begun to abstain, utters 234 FINAL MEMORIALS OF CHARLES LAMB some fine criticism with struggling emphasis ; Lamb stam- mers out puns suggestive of wisdom, for happy Barron Field to admire and echo ; the various driblets of talk combine into a stream, while Miss Lamb moves gently about to see that each modest stranger is duly served ; turning, now and then, an anxious loving eye on Charles, which is softened into a half-humorous expression of resignation to inevitable fate, as he mixes his second tumbler ! This is on ordinary nights, when the accustomed Wednesday-men assemble ; but there is a difference on great extra nights, gladdened by " the bright visitations " of Wordsworth or Coleridge: — the cor- diality of the welcome is the same, but a sedater wisdom prevails. Happy hours were they for the young disciple of the then desperate, now triumphant cause of Wordsworth's genius, to be admitted to the presence of the poet who had •opened a new world for him in the undiscovered riches of his own nature, and its affinities with the outer universe ; whom he worshiped the more devoutly for the world's scorn; for whom he felt the future in the instant, and anticipated the '' All hail hereafter !" which the great poet has lived to en- joy ! To win him to speak of his own poetry — to hear him recite its noblest passages — and to join in his brave defiance of the fashion of the age — w^as the solemn pleasure oi^ such a season ; and, of course, superseded all minor disquisitions. So, when Coleridge came, ai'gument, wit, humor, criticism were hushed ; the pertest, smartest, and the cleverest felt that all were assembled to listen : and if a card-table had been filled, or a dispute begun before he was excited to continuous speech, his gentle voice, undulating in music, soon " Suspended whist, and took with ravishment The thronging audience." The conversation which animated each of these memor- able circles, approximated, in essence, much more nearly SOCIAL COMPARISON. 235 than might be surmised from the difference in station of the principal talkers, and the contrast in physical appliances ; that of the bowered saloon of Holland House having more of earnestness and depth, and that of the Temple-attic more of airy grace than would be predicated by a superficial observer. The former possessed the peculiar interest of directly bor- dering on the scene of political conflict — gathering together the most eloquent leaders of the Whig party, whose eager repose from energetic action spoke of the week's conflict, and in wliom the moment's enjoyment derived a peculiar charm from the perilous glories of the struggle which the morrow was to renew — when power was just within reach, or held with a convulsive grasp — like the eager and solemn pleasure of the soldiers^ banquet in the pause of victory. The pervading spirit of Lamb's parties was also that of social progress ; but it was the spirit of the dreamers and thinkers, not of the combatants of the world — men who, it may be, drew their theories from a deeper range of meditation, and embraced the future with more comprehensive hope — but about whom the immediate interest of party did not gather; whose victories were all within; whose rewards were visions of blessings for their species in the furthest horizon of hope. If a profounder thought was sometimes dragged to light in the dim circle of Lamb's companions than was native to the brio-hter sphere, it was still a rare felicity to watch there the union of elegance with purpose in some leader of party — the delicate, almost fragile grace of illustration, in some one, perhaps destined to lead advancing multitudes or to withstand their rashness ; — to observe the growth of strength in the midst of beauty, expanding from the sense of the heroic past, as the famed Basil tree of Boccaccio grew from the immo- lated relic beneath it. If the alternations in the former oscil- lated between wider extremes, touching on the wildest farce and most earnest tragedy of life ; the rich space of brilliant 236 FINAL MEMORIALS OF CHARLES LAMB. comedy which lived ever between them in the latter, was diversified by serious interests and heroic allusions. Sydney Smith's wit — not so wild, so grotesque, so deep-searching as Lamb's — had even more quickness of intellectual demonstra- tion ; wedded moral and political wisdom to happiest lan- guage, with a more rapid perception of secret affinities; was capable of producing epigrammatic splendor reflected more permanently in the mind, than the fantastic brilliancy of those rich conceits which Lamb stammered out with his painful smile. Mackintosh might vie with Coleridge in vast and various knowledge ; but there the competition between these great talkers would end, and the contrast begin ; the contrast between facility and inspiration ; between the ready access to each ticketed and labeled compartment of history, science, art, criticism, and the genius that fused and reno- vated all. But then a younger spirit appeared at Lord Hol- land's table to redress the balance — not so poetical as Cole- ridge, but more lucid — in whose vast and joyous memory all the mighty past lived and glowed anew ; whose declamations presented, not groups tinged with distant light, like those of Coleridge, but a series of historical figures in relief, pre- sented in bright succession — the embossed surfaces of heroic life.^ Rogers too, was there — connecting the literature of * I take leave to copy the glowing picture of the evenin^^s of Holland House and of its admirable master, drawn by this favorite guest himself from an article which adorned ihe*' Edinburgh Review/' just after Lord Holland's death. '^ The time is coming when, perhaps, a few old men, the last sur- vivors of our generation, will in vain seek, amidst new streets, and squares, and railway stations, for the site of that dwelling which was in their youth the favorite resort of wits and beauties — of painters and poets — of scholars, philosophers, and statesmen. They will then re- member, with strange tenderness, many objects once familiar to them — the avenue and the terrace, the busts and the paintings ; the carving^ the grotesque gilding, and the enigmatical mottoes. With peculiar SOCIAL COMPARISON. 237 the last age with this, partaking of some of the best charac- teristics of both — whose first poem sparkled in the closing darkness of the last century " like a rich jewel in an Ethiop's fondness, they will recall that venerable chamber, in which all the antique gravity of a college library was so singularly blended with all that female grace and wit could devise to embellish a drawing-room. They will recollect, not unmoved, those shelves loaded with the varied learning of many lands and many ages ; those portraits in which were preserved the features of the best and wisest Englishmen of two genera- tions. They will recollect how many men who have guided the politics of Europe — who have moved great assemblies by reason and eloquence — who have put life into bronze and canvas, or who have left to pos- terity things so written as it shall not willingly let them die — were there mixed with all that was loveliest and gayest in the society of the most splendid of capitals. They will remember the singular character which belonged to that circle, in which every talent and accomplishment, every art and science, had its place. They will remember how the last debate was discussed in one corner, and the last comedy of Scribe in another ; while Wilkie gazed with modest admiration on Reynolds' Baretti ; while Mackintosh turned over Thomas Aquinas to verify a quotation ; while Talleyrand related his conversations with Barras at the Luxemburg, or his ride with Lannes over the field of Austerlitz. They will remember, above all, the grace — and the kindness, far more admirable than grace — with which the princely hospitality of that ancient mansion was dis- pensed. They will remember the venerable and benignant countenance, and the cordial voice of him who bade them welcome. They will re- member that temper which years of pain, of sickness, of lameness, of confinement, seemed only to make sweeter and sweeter ; and that frank politeness, which at once relieved all the embarrassment of the youngesj; and most timid writer or artist, who found himself for the first time among Ambassadors and Earls. They will remember that constant flow of conversation, so natural, so animated, so various, so rich with observation and anecdote ; that wit which never gave a wound ; that exquisite mimicry which ennobled, instead of degrading ; that goodness of heart which appeared in every look and accent, and gave additionaj value to every talent and acquirement. They will remember, too, that he whose name they hold in reverence was not less distinguished by the inflexible uprightness of his political conduct, than by his loving dis- 238 FINAL MEMORIALS OF CHARLES LAMB. ear,'^ and who was advancing from a youth which had antici- pated memory, to an age of kindness and hope ; and Moore, who paused in the fluttering expression of graceful trifles, to whisper some deep-toned thought of Ireland's wrongs and sorrows. Literature and Art supplied the favorite topics to each of these assemblies, — both discussed with earnest admiration, but surveyed in diflferent aspects. The conversation at Lord Holland's was wont to mirror the happiest aspects of the living mind ; to celebrate the latest discoveries in science ; to echo the quarterly decisions of imperial criticism ; to reflect the modest glow of young reputations ; — all was gay, graceful, decisive, as if the pen of Jeff^rey could have spoken ; or, if it reverted to old times, it rejoiced in those classical associa- tions which are ever young. At Lamb's, on the other hand, the topics were chiefly sought among the obscure and remote ; the odd, the quaint, the fantastic were drawn out from their dusty recesses ; nothing could be more foreign to its embrace than the modern circulating library, even when it teemed with the Scotch novels. Whatever the subject was, however, in the more aristocratic, or the humbler sphere, it was always discussed by those best entitled to talk on it ; no others had a chance of being heard. This remarka- ble freedom from lores was produced in Lamb's circle by the authoritative texture of its commanding minds ; in Lord Holland's, by the more direct, and more genial influence of the hostess, which checked that tenacity of subject and opin- ion which sometimes broke the charm of Lamb's parties by position and his winning manners. They will remember that, in the last lines which he traced, he expressed his joy that he had done nothing unworthy of the friend of Fox and Grey ; and they will have reason to feel similar joy, if, in looking back on many troubled years, they cannot accuse themselves of having done anything unworthy of men who were distinguished by the friendship of Lord Holland." SOCIAL COMPARISON. 239 " a duel in the form of a debate/' Perhaps beyond any- other hostess, — certainly far beyond any host. Lady HoUand possessed the tact of perceiving, and the power of evoking the various capacities which lurked in every part of the brilliant circles over which she presided, and restrained each to its appropriate sphere, and portion of the evening. To enkindle the enthusiasm of an artist on the theme over which he had achieved the most facile mastery ; to set loose the heart of the rustic poet, and imbue his speech with the free- dom of his native hills ; to draw from the adventurous trav- eler a breathing picture of his most imminent danger ; or to embolden the bashful soldier to disclose his own share in the perils and glories of some famous battle-field ; to encourage the generous praise of friendship when the speaker and the subject reflected interest on each other ; or win from an awkward man of science the secret history of a discovery w^hich had astonished the world ; to conduct these brilliant developments to the height of satisfliction, and then to shift the scene by the magic of a word, were among her nightly successes. And if this extraordinary power over the ele- ments of social enjoyment was sometimes wielded without the entire concealment of its despotism ; if a decisive check sometimes rebuked a speaker who might intercept the varie- gated beauty of Jeffrey's indulgent criticism, or the jest an- nounced and self-rewarded in Sydney Smith's cordial and triumphant laugh, the authority was too clearly exerted for the evening's prosperity, and too manifestly impelled by an urgent consciousness of the value of these golden hours which were fleeting within its confines, to sadden the enforced silence with more than a momentary regret. If ever her prohibition, — clear, abrupt, and decisive, — indicated more than a preferable regard for livelier discourse, it was when a depreciatory tone was adopted towards genius, or goodness, or honest endeavor, or when some friend, personal or intel- 240 FINAL MEMORIALS OF CHARLES LAMB. lectual, was mentioned in slighting phrase. Habituated to generous partizanship, by strong sympathy with a great political cause, she carried the fidelity of her devotion to that cause into her social relations, and was ever the truest and the fastest of friends. The tendency, often more idle than malicious, to soften down the intellectual claims of the absent, which so insidiously besets literary conversation, and teaches a superficial insincerity, even to substantial esteem and regard, and which was sometimes insinuated into the conversation of Lamb's friends, though never into his own, found no favor in her presence ; and hence the conversations over which she presided, perhaps beyond all that ever flashed with a kindred splendor, were marked by that integrity of good nature which might admit of their exact repetition to every living individual whose merits were discussed, without the danger of inflicting pain. Under her auspices, not only all critical, but all personal talk was tinged with kindness ; the strong interest which she took in the happiness of her friends, shed a peculiar sunniness over the aspects of life presented by the common topics of alliances, and marriages, and promotions ; and there was not a hopeful engagement, or a happy wedding, or a promotion of a friend's son, or a new intellectual triumph of any youth with whose name and history she was familiar, but became an event on which she expected and required congratulation as on a part of her own fortune. Although there was necessarily a preponder- ance in her societj^ of the sentiment of popular progress, which once was cherished almost exclusively by the party to whom Lord Holland was united by sacred ties, no ex- pression of triumph in success, no virulence in sudden dis- appointment, was ever permitted to wound the most sensitive ears of her conservative guests. It might be that some placid comparison of I'ecent with former times, spoke a sense of freedom's peaceful victory ; or that, on the giddy edge of GEORGE DYER. 241 some great party struggle, the festivities of the evening might take a more serious cast, as news arrived from the scene of contest, and the pleasure might be deepened by the peril ; but the feeling was always restrained by the supremacy given to those permanent solaces for the mind, in the beauti- ful and the great, which no political changes could disturb. Although the death of the noble master of the venerated mansion closed its portals for ever on the exquisite enjoy- ments to which they had been so generously expanded, the art of conversation lived a little longer in the smaller circle which Lady Holland still drew almost daily around her ; honoring his memory by following his example, and strug- gling against the perpetual sense of unutterable bereavement, by rendering to literature that honor, and those reliefs, which English aristocracy has too often denied it ; and seeking con- solation in making others proud and happy. That lingering happiness is extinct now ; Lamb's kindred circle — kindred, though so different — dispersed almost before he died ; the '^ thoughts that wandered through eternity,'' are no longer expressed in time ; the fancies and conceits, " gay creatures of the element " of social delight, '' that in the colors of the rainbow lived, and played in the plighted clouds," flicker only in the backward perspective of waning years ; and for the survivors, I may venture to affirm, no such conversation as they have shared in either circle will ever be theirs again in this world. Before closing these last memorials of Charles and Mary Lamb, it may not be unfitting to glance separately at some of the friends who are grouped around them in memory, and who, like them, live only in recollection, and in the works they have left behind them. George Dyer was one of the first objects of Lamb's youthful reverence, for he had attained the stately rank of 11 242 FINAL MEMORIALS OF CHARLES LAMB. Grecian in the venerable school of Christ's Hospital, when Charles entered it, a little, timid, affectionate child; but this boyish respect, once amounting to awe, gave place to a fami- liar habit of loving banter, which, springing from the depths of old regard, approximated to school-boy roguery, and, now and then, though very rarely, gleamed on the consciousness of the ripe scholar. No contrast could be more vivid than that presented by the relations of each to the literature they both loved ; one divining its inmost essences, plucking out the heart of its mysteries, shedding light on its dimmest re- cesses ; the other devoted, with equal assiduity, to its exter- nals. Books, to Dyer, '' were a real world, both pure and good;" among them he passed, unconscious of time, from youth to extreme age, vegetating on their dates and forms, and '' trivial fond records,'^ in the learned air of great libra- ries, or the dusty confusion of his own, with the least possible apprehension of any human interest vital in their pages, or of any spirit of wit or fancy glancing across them. His life was an Academic Pastoral. Methinks I see his gaunt, awk- ward form, set off by trousers too short, like those outgrown by a gawky lad, and a rusty coat as much too large for the wearer, hanging about him like those garments which the aristocratic Milesian peasantry prefer to the most comfortable rustic dress ; his long head silvered over with short yet straggling hair, and his dark gray eyes glistening with faith and wonder, as Lamb satisfies the curiosity which has gently disturbi d his studies as to the authorship of the Waverly Novels, by telling him, in the strictest confidence, that they are the works of Lord Castlereagh, just returned from the Congress of Sovereigns at Vienna ! Ofi^ he runs, with ani- mated stride and shambling enthusiasm, nor stops till he reaches Maida Hill, and breathes his news into the startled ear of Leigh Hunt, who, '^ as a public writer,'' ought to be possessed of the great fact with which George is laden ! GEORGE DYER. 243 Or shall I endeavor to revive the bewildered look with which, just after he had been announced as one of Lord Stanhope's executors and residuary legatees, he received Lamb's grave inquiry, " Whether it was true, as commonly reported, that he was to be made a Lord ?" '^ O dear no ! Mr. Lam.b," responded he with earnest seriousness, but not without a moment's quivering vanity, " I could not think of such a thing; it is not true, I assure you." ^' I thought not," said Lamb, '' and I contradict it wherever I go ; but the government will not ask your consent ; they may raise you to the peerage without your even knowing it." '' I hope not, Mr. Lamb ; indeed, indeed, I hope not ; it would not suit me at all," responded Dyer, and went his way, musing on the possibility of a strange honor descending on his reluc- tant brow. Or shall I recall the visible presentiment of his bland unconsciousness of evil when his sportive friend taxed it to the utmost, by suddenly asking what he thought of the murderer Williams, who, after destroying two families in RatclifFe Highway, had broken prison by suicide, and whose body had just before been conveyed in shocking procession to its cross-road grave ! The desperate attempt to compel the gentle optimist to speak ill of a mortal creature produced no happier success than the answer, '^ Why, I should think, Mr. Lamb, he must have been rather an eccentric charac- ter." This simplicity of a nature not only unspotted by the world, but almost abstracted from it, will seem the more remarkable, when it is known that it was subjected, at the entrance of life, to a hard battle with fortune. Dyer was the son of very poor parents, residing in an easteru suburb of London, Stepney or Bethnal-greenward, where he attract- ed the attention of two elderly ladies as a serious child, with an extraordinary love for books. They obtained for him a presentation to Christ's Hospital, which he entered at seven years of age ; fought his way through its sturdy ranks to its 244 FINAL MEMORIALS OF CHARLES LAMB. head ; and, at nineteen, quitted it for Cambridge, with only an exhibition and his scholarly accomplishments to help him. On he went, however, placid if not rejoicing, through the difficulties of a life illustrated only by scholarship ; encoun- tering tremendous labors ; unresting yet serene ; until at eighty-five he breathed out the most blameless of lives, which began in a struggle to end in a learned dream ! Mr. Godwin, who during the happiest period of Lamb's weekly parties, was a constant assistant at his whist-table, resembled Dyer in simplicity of manner and devotion to letters ; but the simplicity was more superficial, and the devotion more profound than the kindred qualities in the guileless scholar ; and, instead of forming the entire being, only marked the surface of a nature beneath which extraordi- nary power lay hidden. As the absence of worldly wisdom subjected Dyer to the sportive sallies of Lamb, so a like de- ficiency in Godwin exposed him to the coarser mirth of Mr. Home Tooke, who was sometimes inclined to seek relaxation for the iron muscles of his imperturbable mind in trying to make a philosopher look foolish. To a stranger's gaze the author of the " Political Justice" and " Caleb Williams," as he appeared in the Temple, always an object of curiosity except to his familiars, presented none of those characteris- tics with which fancy had invested the daring speculator and relentless novelist ; nor, when he broke silence, did his Ian- guage tend to reconcile the reality with the expectation. The disproportion of a frame which, low of stature, was sur- mounted by a massive head which might befit a present- able giant, was rendered almost imperceptible, not by any vivacity of expression, (for his countenance was rarely light- ed up by the deep-seated genius within,) but by a gracious suavity of manner which many " a fine old English gentle- man" might envy. His voice was small ; the topics of his WILLIAM GODWIN. 245 ordinary conversation trivial, and discussed with a delicacy and precision which might almost be mistaken for finical ; and the presence of the most interesting persons in literary society, of which he had enjoyed the best, would not prevent him from falling after dinner into the most profound sleep. This gentle, drowsy, spiritless demeanor, presents a striking contrast to a reputation which once filled Europe with its echoes ; but it was, in truths when rightly understood, per- fectly consistent with those intellectual elements which in some raised the most enthusiastic admiration, and from others elicited the wildest denunciations of visionary terror. In Mr. Godwin's mind, the faculty of abstract reason so predominated over all others, as practically to extinguish them ; and his taste, akin to this faculty, sought only for its development through the medium of composition for the press. He had no imagination, no fancy, no wit, no humor ; or, if he possessed any of those faculties, they were obscured by that of pure reason ; and being wholly devoid of the quick sensi- bility which irritates speech into eloquence, and of the pas- sion for immediate excitement and applause, which tends to its presentment before admiring assemblies, he desired no other audience than that which he could silently address, and learned to regard all things through a contemplative me- dium. In this sense, far more than the extravagant applica- tion of his wildest theories, he leveled all around him ; ad- mitted no greatness but that of literature ; and neither de- sired nor revered any triumphs but those of thought. If such a reasoning faculty, guided by such a disposition, had been applied to abstract sciences, no eflfect remarkable be- yond that of rare excellence, would have been produced; but the apparent anomalies of Mr. Godwin's intellectual his- tory arose from the application of his power to the passions, the interests, and the hopes of mankind, at a time when they enkindled into frightful action, and when he calmly worked 246 FINAL MEMORIALS OF CHARLES LAMB. out his problems among their burning elements with the '^ice- brook's temper," and the severest logic. And if some ex- treme conclusions were inconsistent with the faith and the duty which alone can sustain and regulate our nature, there was no small compensation in the severity of the process to which the student was impelled, for the slender peril which might remain lest the results should be practically adopted. A system founded on pure reason, which rejected the im- pulses of natural affection, the delights of gratitude, the influ- ences of prejudice, the bondage of custom, the animation of per- sonal hope ; which appealed to no passion — which suggested no luxury — which excited no animosities — and which offered no prize for the observance of its laws, except a participation in the expanding glories of progressive humanity, was little calculated to allure from the accustomed paths of ancient ordinance, any man disposed to walk in them by the lights from heaven. On the other hand, it was a healthful diver- sion from those seductions in which the heart secretly ener- vates and infects the understanding, to invite the revolution- ary speculator to the contemplation of the distant and the refined ; by the pursuit of impracticable error to brace the mind for the achievement of everlasting truth ; and on the " heat and flame of the distemper" of an impassioned demo- cracy to ''sprinkle cool patience." The idol, Political Jus- tice, of which he was the slow and laborious architect, if it for a while enchanted, did not long enthral or ever debase its worshipers ; " its bones were marrowless, its blood was cold," — but there was surely " speculation in its eyes" which "glared withall" into the future. Such high casuistry as it evoked has always an ennobling tendency, even when it dallies with error ; the direction of thought in youth is of less consequence than the mode of its exercise ; and it is only when the base interests and sensual passions of mortality pander to the understanding that truth may fear for the issue. WILLIAM GODWIN. 247 The author of this cold and passionless intellectual phan- tasy looked out upon the world he hoped to inform from recesses of contemplation which the outward incidents of life did not disturb^ and which, when closed, left him a common man, appearing to superficial observers rather below than above the level of ordinary talkers. To his inward gaze the stupendous changes which agitated Europe, at the time he wrote, were silent as a picture. The pleasure of his life was to think ; its business was to write ; all else in it was vanity. Regarding his own being through the same spirit- ualizing medium, he saw no reason why the springs of its existence should wear out, and, in the spring-time of his spe- culation, held that man might become immortal on earth by the effort of the vv^ill. His style partook of the quality of his intellect and the character of its purposes — it was pure, simple, colorless. His most imaginative passages are in- spired only by a logic quickened into enthusiasm by the anti- cipation of the approaching discovery of truth — the dawning Eureka of the reasoner ; they are usually composed of '^ line upon line, precept upon precept,'^ without an involution of style or an eddy in the thought. He sometimes complained, though with the benignity that always marked his estimate of his opponents, that Mr. Malthus's style was too richly or- namented for argument ; and certainly, with all its vivacity of illustration, it lacks the transparent simplicity of his own* The most probable result v/hich he ever produced by his writings was the dark theory of the first edition of the work on Population, which was presented as an answer to his rea- soning on behalf of the perfectibility of man ; and he used to smile at his ultimate triumph, when the writer, who had only intended a striking parados, tamed it down to the wis- dom of economy, and adapted it to Poor-law uses ; neutralized his giant spectres of Vice and Misery by the practical inter- vention of Moral Restraint ; and left the optimist, Godwin, 248 FINAL MEMORIALS OF CHARLES LAMB. still in unclouded possession of the hope of universal peace and happiness, postponed only to that time when passion shall be subjected to reason, and population, no more rising like a resistless tide, between adamantine barriers to submero^e the renovated earth, shall obey the commands of wisdom ; rise and fall as the means of subsistence expand or contract ; and only contribute an impulse to the universal harmony. The persons of Mr. Godwin's romances — stranger still — are the naked creations of the same intellectual power^ mar- velously endowed with galvanic life. Though with happier symmetry, they are as much made out of chains and links of reasoning, as the monster was fashioned by the chemistry of the student, in the celebrated novel of his gifted daughter, Falkland, and Caleb Williams, are the mere impersonations of the unbounded, love of reputation, and resistless curiosity ; these ideas are developed in each with masterly iteration — to the two ideas all causes give way ; and materials are sub- jected, often of remarkable coarseness, to the refinement of the conception. Hazlitt used to observe of these two charac- ters, that the manner they are played into each other, was equal to any thing of the kind in the Drama ; and there is no doubt that the opposition, though at the cost of probability, is most powerfully maintained : but the effect is partly owing to the absence of all extrinsic interest which could interfere with the main purpose ; the beatings of the heart become audible, not only from their own intensity, but from the deso- lation which the author has expanded around them. The consistency in each is that of an idea, not of a character ; and if the effect of form and color is produced, it is, as in line engraving, by the infinite minuteness and delicacy of the single strokes. In like manner, the incidents by which the author seeks to exemplify the wrongs inflicted by power on goodness in civilized society, are utterly fantastical ; nothing can be more minute, nothing more unreal ; the youth being WILLIAM GODWIN. 249 involved by a web of circumstances woven to immesh him, which the condition of society that the author intends to re- pudiate, renders impossible ; and which, if true, would prove not that the framework of law is tyrannous, but that the will of a single oppressor may elude it. The subject of '^ St. Leon" is more congenial to the author's power ; but it is, in like manner, a logical development of the consequences of a being prolonged on earth through ages ; and, as the dismal vista expands, the skeleton speculators crowd in to mock and sadden us ! Mr. Godwin was thus a man of two beings, which held little discourse with each other — the daring inventor of theories constructed of air-drawn diagrams, and the simple gentleman, who suffered nothing to disturb or excite him be- yond his study. He loved to walk in the crowded streets of London, not like Lamb, enjoying the infinite varieties of many-colored life around him, but because he felt, amidst the noise, and crowd, and glare, more intensely the imper- turbable stillness of his own contemplations. His means of comfortable support were mainly supplied by a shop in Skinner Street, where, under the auspices of '' M. J. God- win & Co.," the prettiest and wisest books for children issued, which old-fashioned parents presented to their chil- dren, without suspecting that the graceful lessons of piety and goodness which charmed away the selfishness of infancy, were published, and sometimes revised, and now and then written, by a philosopher whom they would scarcely venture to name ! He met the exigencies which the vicissitudes of business sometimes caused, with the trusting simplicity which marked his course ; he asked his friends for aid with- out scruple, considering that their means were justly the due of one who toiled in thought for their inward life, and had little time to provide for his own outward existence, and took their excuses, when offered, without doubt or offence. The 11* 250 FINAL MEMORIALS OF CHARLES LAMB. very next day after I had been honored and delighted by an introduction to him at Lamb's chambers, I was made still more proud and happy by his appearance at my own on such an errand — which my poverty, not my will, rendered abor- tive. After some pleasant chat on indifferent matters, he carelessly observed that he had a little bill for 150/. falling due on the morrow, which he had forgotten till that morning, and ^desired the loan of the necessary amount for a few • weeks. At first, in eager hope of being able thus to oblige one whom I regarded with admiration akin to awe, I began to consider whether it was possible for me to raise such a sum ; but, alas ! a moment's reflection sufficed to convince me that the hope was vain, and I was obliged, with much confusion, to assure my distinguished visitor how glad I should have been to serve him, but that I was only just start- ing as a special pleader, was obliged to write for magazines to help me on, and had not such a sum in the world. " Oh dear," said the philosopher, ^' I thought you were a young gentleman of fortune — don't mention it — don't mention it ; I shall do very well elsewhere :" — and then, in the most gra- cious manner, reverted to our former topics, and sat in my small room for half an hour, as if to. convince me that my want of fortune made no difference in his esteem. A slen- der tribute to the literature he had loved and served so well, was accorded to him in the old age to which he attained, by the gift of a sinecure in the Exchequer of about 200Z. a year, connected with the custody of the Records ; and the last time I saw him he was heaving an immense key to un- lock the musty treasures of which he was guardian — how unlike those he had unlocked, with finer talisman, for the astonishment and alarm of one generation, and the delight of all others ! John Thelwall, who had once exulted in the appellation of Citizen Thelwall, having been associated with Coleridge JOHN THELWALLf 251 and Southey in their days of enthusiastical dreaming, though a more precise and practical reformer than either, was introduced by them to Lamb, and was welcomed to his cir- cle, in the true Catholicism of its spirit, although its master cared nothing for the Roman virtue which Thelwall devot- edly cherished, and which Home Tooke kept in uncertain vibration between a rebellion and a hoax. Lamb justly esteemed Thelwall as a thoroughly honest man; — not honest merely in reference to the moral relations of life, but to the processes of thought ; one whose mind, acute and vigorouSj but narrow, perceived only the object directly before it, and, undisturbed by collateral circumstances, reflected, with literal fidelity, the impression it received, and maintained it as sturdily against the beauty that might soften it, or the wis- dom that might mould it, as against the tyranny that would stifle its expression. '-If to be honest as the world goes, is to be one man picked out of ten thousand, '' to be honest as the mind works is to be one man of a million ; and such a man was Thelwall. Starting with imperfect education from the thraldom of domestic oppression, with slender knowledge, but with fiery zeal, into the dangers of political enterprise, and treading fearlessly on tlie verge of sedition, he saw nothing before him but powers which he assumed to be despotism and vice, and rushed headlong to crush them. The point of time — ^just that when the accumulated force of public opinion had obtained a virtual mastery over the accumulated corruptions of ages, but when power, still un- convinced of its danger, presented its boldest front to oppos- ing intellect, or strove to crush it in the cruelt}^ of awaking fear — gave scope for the ardent temperament of an orator almost as poor in scholastic cultivation as in external fortune, but strong in integrity and rich in burning words. Thus passionate, Thelwall spoke boldly and vehemently — at a time when indignation was thought to be virtue ; but 252 FINAL MEMORIALS OF CHARLES LAMB. there is no reason to believe he ever meditated any treason except that accumulated in the architectural sophistry of Lord Eldon, by which he proved a person who desired to awe the Government into a change of policy to be guilty of compassing the king's death — as thus ; — that the king must resist the proposed alteration in his measures — that resisting he must be deposed — and that being deposed, he must neces- sarily die ; — though his boldness of speech placed him in jeopardy even after the acquittals of his simple-minded asso- ciate Hardy, and his enigmatical instructor, Tooke, who for- sook him, and left him, when acquitted, to the mercy of the world. His life, which before this event had been one of self-denial and purity remarkable in a young man who had imbibed the impulses of revolutionary France, partook of considerable vicissitude. At one time, he was raised by his skill in correcting impediments of speech, and teaching elo- cution as a science, into elegant competence — at other times saddened by the difficulties of poorly requited literary toil and wholly unrequited patriotism ; but he preserved his integrity and his cheerfulness — " a man of hope and forward-looking mind even to the last." Unlike Godwin, whose profound thoughts slowly struggled into form, and seldom found utterance in con- versation, — speech was, in him, all in all, his delight, his pro- fession, his triumph, with little else than passion to inspire or color it. The flaming orations of his " Tribune," rendered more piquant by the transparent masquerade of ancient his- tory, which, in his youth, " touched monied worldlings with dismay," and infected the poor with dangerous anger, seemed vapid, spiritless, and shallow when addressed through the press to the leisure of the thoughtful. The light which glowed with so formidable a lustre before the evening audi- ence, vanished on closer examination, and proved to be only a harmless phantom-vapor, which left no traces of destructive energy behind it. JOHN THELWALL. 253 Thelwall, in person small, compact, muscular — with a head denoting indomitable resolution, and features deeply furrowed by the ardent workings of the mind, — was as ener- getic in all his pursuits and enjoyments as in political action. He was earnestly devoted to the Drama, and enjoyed its greatest representations with the freshness of a boy who sees a play for the first time. He hailed the kindred energy of Kean w^ith enthusiastic praise ; but abjuring the narrowness of his political vision in matters of taste, did justice to the nobler qualities of Mrs. Siddons and her brothers. In literature and art, also, he relaxed the bigotry of his liberal intolerance, and expatiated in their wider fields with a taste more catho- lic. Here Lamb was ready with his sympathy, which in- deed even the political zeal, that he did not share, was too hearted to repel. Although generally detesting lectures on literature as superficial and vapid substitutes for quiet read- ing, and recitations as unreal mockeries of the true Drama, he sometimes attended the entertainments composed of both, which Thelwall, in the palmy days of his prosperity, gave at his house in Lincoln's Inn Fields, not on politics, which he had then forsaken for elocutionary science, though maintain- ing the principles of his youth, but partly on elocution, and partly on poetry and acting, into which he infused the fiery enthusiasm of his nature. Sometimes, indeed, his fervor animated his disquisitions on the philosophy of speech with o-reater warmtli than he reserved for more attractive themes ; the melted vowels were blended into a rainbow, or dispersed like fleecy clouds ; and the theory of language was made interesting by the honesty and vigor of the speaker. Like all men who have been chiefly self-taught, he sometimes pre- sented common-places as original discoveries, with an air which strangers mistook for quackery ; but they were un- just; to the speaker these were the product of his own medi- tation, though familiar to many, and not rarely possessed the 254 FINAL MEMOKIALS OF CHARLES LAMB. charm of originality in their freshness. Lamb, at least, felt that it was good, among other companions of far richer and more comprehensive intelligence, to have one friend who was undisturbed by misgiving either for himself or his cause ; who enunciated wild paradox and worn-out common-place with equal confidence ; and who was ready to sacrifice ease, fortune, fame — every thing but speech, and, if it had been possible, even that — to the cause of truth or friendship. William Hazlitt was, for many years, one of the bright- est and most constant ornaments of Lamb's parties ; linked to him in the firm bond of intellectual friendship — which re- mained unshaken in spite of some superficial difTerences, " short and far between,'' arising from Lamb's insensibility to Hazlitt's political animosities and his adherence to Southey, Wordsworth, and Coleridge, who shared them. Hazlitt in his boyhood had derived from his father that attachment to abstract truth for its own sake, and that inflexible determina- tion to cherish it, which naturally predominated in the being of the minister of a small rural congregation, who cherished religious opinions adverse to those of the great body of his countrymen, and waged a spiritual warfare throughout his peaceful course. Thus disciplined, he was introduced to the friendship of youthful poets, in whom the dawn of the French Revolution had enkindled hope, and passion, and opinions tinctured with hope and passion, which he eagerly embraced ; and when changes passed over the prospects of mankind, which induced them, in maturer years, to modify the doc- trines the)^ had taught, he resented these defections almost as personal wrongs, and, when his pen found scope, and his tongue utterance, wrote and spoke of them with such bitter- ness as can only spring from the depths of old affection. No writer, however, except Wilson, did such noble justice to the poetry of Wordsworth, when most despised, and to the genius WILLIAM HAZLITT. 255 of Coleridge, when most obscured; he cherished a true ad- miration for each in " the last recesses of the mind/^ and de- fended them with do2:2:ed resolution acrainst the scorns and slights of the world. Still the superficial difference was, or seemed, too wide to admit of personal intercourse ; and I do not think that during the many years which elapsed between my introduction to Lamb* and Hazlitt's death, he ever met either of the poets at the rooms of the man they united in lov- ing. Although Mr. Hazlitt was thus staunch in his attachment to principles which he reverenced as true, he was by no means rigid in his mode of maintaining and illustrating them ; but, on the contrary, frequently diminished the immediate effect of his reasonings by the prodigality and richness of the allusions with which he embossed them. He had as un- quenchable a desire for truth as others have for wealth, or power, or fame ; he pursued it with sturdy singleness of pur- pose ; and enunciated it without favor or fear. But, besides that love of truth, that sincerity in pursuing it, and that bold- ness in telling it, he had also a fervent aspiration after the beautiful ; a vivid sense of pleasure, and an intense con- sciousness of his own individual being, which sometimes pro- duced obstacles to the current of speculation, by which it was broken into dazzling eddies or urged into devious wind- ings. Acute, fervid, vigorous, as his mind was, it wanted the one great central power of Imagination, which brings all the other faculties into harmonious action ; multiplies them in- to each other ; makes truth visible in the forms of beauty, and substitutes intellectual vision for proof. Thus, in him, truth and beauty held divided empire. In him the spirit was willing, but the flesh was strong ; and, when these contend, it is not difficult to anticipate the result ; " for the power of beauty shall sooner transform honesty from what it is into a bawd, than the person of honesty shall transform beauty into 256 FINAL MEMORIALS OF CHARLES LAMB. its likeness." This '^sometime paradox" was vividly ex- emplified in Hazlitt's personal history, his conversation, and his writings. To the solitudes of the country in which he mused on '' fate, free-will, foreknowledge absolute," a tem- perament of unusual ardor had given an intense interest, akin to that with which Rosseau has animated and oppressed the details of his early years. He had not then, nor did he find till long afterwards, power to embody his meditations and feelings in words. The consciousness of thoughts which he could not hope adequately to express, increased his natural reserve, and he turned for relief to the art of painting, in which he might silently re- alize his dreams of beauty, and repay the loveliness of na- ture by fixing some of its fleeting aspects in immortal tints. A few old prints from the old masters awakened the spirit of emulation within him ; the sense of beauty became identi- fied in his mind with that of glory and duration ; while the peaceful labor he enjoyed calmed the tumult in his veins, and gave steadiness to his pure and distant aim. He pur- sued ihe art with an earnestness and patience which he vividly describes in his essay, '' On the Pleasure of Paint- ing;" and to which he frequently reverted in the happiest moods of his conversation ; and, although in this, his chosen pursuit, he failed, the passionate desire for success, and the long struggle to attain it, left deep traces in his mind, height- ening his keen perception of external things, and mingling with all his speculations airy shapes and hues which he had vainly striven to transfer to canvas. A painter may acquire a fine insight into the nice distinctions of character, — he may copy manners in words as he does in colors, — but it may be apprehended that his course as a severe reasoner will be somewhat '' troubled with thick coming fancies." And if the successful pursuit of art may thus disturb the process of abstract contemplation, how much more may an unsatisfied WILLIAM HAZLITT. 257 ambition ruffle it ; bid the dark threads of thought glitter with radiant fancies unrealized, and clothe the diagrams of speculation with the fragments of picture which the mind cherishes the more fondly, because the hand refused to real- ize ? What wonder, if, in the mind of an ardent youth, thus struggling in vain to give palpable existence to the shapes of loveliness which haunted bim, " the homely beauty of the good old cause" should assume the fascinations not properly its own ? This association of beauty with reason diminished the immediate effect of Mr. Hazlitt's political essays, while it enhanced their permanent value. It was the fashion, in his life-time, to denounce him as a sour Jacobin ; but no descrip- tion could be more unjust. Under the influence of some bitter feeling, or some wayward fancy, he occasionally poured out a furious invective against those whom he re- garded as the enemies of liberty, or as apostates from her cause ; but, in general, the force of his expostulation, or his reasoning, was diverted (unconsciously to himself) by figures and phantasies, by fine and quaint allusions, by quotations from his favorite authors, introduced with singular felicity, as respects the direct link of association, but tending, by their very beauty, to unnerve the mind of the reader, and substi- tute the sense of luxury for clear conviction, or noble anger. In some of his essays, when the reasoning is most cogent, every other sentence contains some exquisite passage from Shakspeare, or Fletcher, or Wordsworth, trailing after it a line of golden associations ; or some reference to a novel, over which we have a thousand times forgotten the wrongs of mankind ; till, in the recurring shocks of pleasurable sur- prise, the main argument is forgotten. When, for example, he compares the position of certain political waverers to that of Clarissa Harlowe confronting the ravisher who would re- peat his outrage, with the penknife pointed to her breast, and 258 final memorials of charles lamb. her eyes uplifted to Heaven, and describes them as having been, like her, trepanned into a house of ill-fame, near Pall Mall, and there defending their soiled virtue with their pen- knives ; what reader, at the suggestion of the stupendous scene which the allusion directly revives, can think or care about the renegade of yesterday ? Here, again, is felt the want of that Imagination which brings all things into one, tinges all our thoughts and sympathies with one hue, and re- jects every ornament which does not heighten or prolong the feeling which it seeks to embody. Even when he retaliates on Southey for attacking his old co-patriots, the poetical associations which bitter remem- brance suggests, almost neutralize the vituperation ; he brings every " flower which sad embroidery wears to strew the laureate hearse," where ancient regards are interred ; and merges all the censure of the changed politician in praise of the simple dignity, and the generous labors of a singularly noble and unsullied life. So little does he regard the unity of sentiment in his compositions, that in his " Letter to Gif- ford,'' after a series of just and bitter retorts on his maligner as '^the fine link which connects literature with the police," he takes a fancy to teach that ultra-crepidarian critic" his own theorv of the natural disinterestedness of the human mind, and develops it, not in the dry, hard, mathematical style in which it was first enunciated, but ^' o'er informed" with the glow of sentiment, and terminating in an eloquent rhapsody. This latter portion of the letter is one of the noblest of his effusions, but it entirely destroys the first in the mind of the reader ; for who, when thus contemplating the livins; wheels on which human benevolence is borne on- wards in its triumphant career, and the spirit with which they are instinct, can think of the literary wasp which had settled for a moment upon them, and who had just before been mercilessly transfixed with minikin arrows ? WILLIAM HAZLITT. 259 But the most signal example of the influences whicli ^^ the shows of things" exercised over Mr. Hazlitt's mind was his setting up the Emperor Napoleon as his idol. He strove to justify this predilection to himself by referring it to the revolutionary origin of his hero, and the contempt with which he trampled upon the claims of legitimacy, and humbled the pride of kings. But if his "- only love" thus sprung '' from his only hate," it was not cherished in its blos- som by antipathies. If there had been nothing in his mind which tended to aggrandizement and glory, and which would fain reconcile the principles of freedom with the lavish accu- mulation of power, he might have desired the triumph of young tyranny over legitimate thrones ; but he would scarce- ly have Vv^atched its progress and its fall '' like a lover and a child." His feeling for Bonaparte in exile was not a senti- ment of respect for fallen greatness ; not a desire to trace '' the soul of goodness in things evil ;" not a loathing of the treatment the Emperor received from '' his cousin kings" in the day of adversity ; but entire affection mingling with the current of the blood, and pervading the moral and intellec- tual being. Nothing less than this strong attachment, at once personal and refined, would have enabled him to en- counter the toil of collecting and arranging facts and dates for four volumes of narrative, which constitute his Life of Napoleon ; — a drudgery too abhorrent to his habits of mind as a thinker, to be sustained by any stimulus which the pros- pect of remuneration or the hope of applause could supply. It is not so much in the ingenius excuses which he discovers for the worst acts of his hero — offered even for the midnight execution of the Duke d'Enghein and the invasion of Spain — that the stamp of personal devotion is obvious, as in the graphic force with which he has delineated the short-lived splendors of the Imperial Court, and '' the trivial fond records" he has gathered of every vestige of human feeling 260 FINAL MEMORIALS OF CHARLES LAMB. by which he could reconcile the Imperial Cynic to the species he scorned. The first two volumes of his work, although redeemed by scattered thoughts of true originality and depth, are often confused and spiritless ; the characters of the prin- cipal revolutionists are drawn too much in the style of awk- ward, sprawling caricatures ; but when the hero casts all his rivals into the distance, erects himself the individual enemy of England, consecrates his power by religious ceremonies, and defines it by the circle of a crown, the author's strength becomes concentrated ; his narrative assumes an epic dignity and fervor ; dallies with the flowers of usurped prerogative, and glows with " the long-resounding march and energy di- vine." How happy and proud is he to picture the meeting of the Emperor with the Pope, and the grandeurs of the co- ronation ! How he grows wanton in celebrating the fetes of the Tuileries, as " presenting all the elegance of enchanted pageants," and laments them as " gone like a fairy revel !" How he 'Mives along the line" of Austerlitz, and rejoices in its thunder, and hails its setting sun, and exults in the minu- test details of the subsequent meeting of the conquered sovereigns at the feet of the conqueror ! How he expatiates on the fatal marriage with " the deadly Austrian," (as Mr. Cobbett justly called Maria Louisa,) as though it were a chapter in romance, and sheds the grace of beauty on the imperial picture ! How he kindles with martial ardor as he describes the preparations against Russia ; musters the myriads of barbarians with a show of dramatic justice ; and fondly lingers among the brief triumphs of Moskowa on the verge of the terrible catastrophe ! The narrative of that dis- astrous expedition is, indeed, written with a master's hand ; we see the " grand army" marching to its destruction through the immense perspective ; the wild hordes flying before the terror of its " coming ;" the barbaric magnificence of Mos- cow towering in the remote distance ; and when we gaze WILLIAM HAZLITT. 261 upon the sacrificial conflagration of the Kremlin, we feel that it is worthy to become the funeral pile of the conqueror's glories. It is well for the readers of this splendid work, that there is more in it of the painter than of the metaphysi- cian ; that its style glows with the fervor of battle, or stiffens with the spoils of victory ; yet we wonder that this monu- ment to imperial grandeur should be raised from the dead level of jacobinism by an honest and profound thinker. The solution is, that although he was this, he was also more — that, in opinion, he was devoted to the cause of the people ; but that, in feeling, he required some individual object of worship ; that he selected Napoleon as one in whose origin and career he might at once impersonate his principles and gratify his affections ; and that he adhered to his own idea with heroic obstinacy, when the '' child and champion of the Republic" openly sought to repress all feeling and thought, but such as he could cast in his own iron moulds, and scoffed at popular enthusiasm even while it bore him to the accom- plishment of his loftiest desires. Mr. Hazlitt had little inclination to talk or write about contemporary authors, and still less to read them. He was with difficulty persuaded to look into the Scotch novels, but when he did so, he found them old in substance thou2:h new in form, read them with as much avidity as the rest of the world, and expressed better than any one else what all the world felt about them. His hearty love of them, however, did not diminish, but aggravate his dislike of the political opinions so zealously and consistently maintained, of their great author ; and yet the strength of his hatred towards that which was accidental and transitory only set off* the unabated power of his regard for the great and the lasting. Coleridge and Wordsworth were not moderns to him, for they were the inspirers of his youth, which was his own antiquity, and the feelings which were the germ of their poetry 262 FINAL MEMORIALS OF CHARLES LAMB. had sunk deep into his heart. With the exception of the works of these, and of his friends Barry Cornwall and Sheri- dan Knowles, in whose successes he rejoiced, he held modern literature in slight esteem, and regarded the discoveries of science and the visions of optimism with an undazzled eye. His '' large discourse of reason '' looked not before, but after. He felt it a sacred duty, as a lover of genius and art, to defend the fame of the mighty dead. When the old paint- ers were assailed in '' The Catalogue Raisonnee of the British Institution," he was '^ touched with noble anger." All his own vain longings after the immortality of the works which were libelled ; — all the tranquillity and beauty they had shed into his soul, — all his comprehension of the sympathy and delight of thousands, which, accumulating through longtime, had attested their worth — were fused together to dazzle and to subdue the daring critic who would disturb the judgment of ages. So, when a popular poet assailed the fame of Rous- seau, seeking to reverse the decision of posterity on what that great though unhappy writer had achieved by suggest- ing the opinion of people of condition in his neighborhood on the figure he made to their apprehensions while in the ser- vice of Madame de Warrens, he vindicated the prerogatives of genius with the true logic of passion. Few things irri- tated him more than the claims set up for the present genera- tion to be wiser and better than those which had gone before it. He had no power of imagination to embrace the golden clouds which hung over the Future, but he rested and expa- tiated in the Past. To his apprehension human good did not appear a slender shoot of yesterday, like the bean-stalk in the fairy tale, aspiring to the skies, and leading to an en- chanted caslle, but a huge growth of intertwisted fibres, grasping the earth by numberless roots of custom, habit, and affection, and bearing vestiges of " a thousand storms, a thousand thunders." WILLIAM HAZLITT. 263 When I first met Hazlitt, in the year 1815, he was stag- gering under the blow of Waterloo. The re-appearance of his imperial idol on the coast of France, and his triumphant march to Paris, like a fairy vision, had excited his admira- tion and sympathy to the utmost pitch ; and though in many respects sturdily English in feeling, he could scarcely for- give the valor of the conquerors ; and bitterly resented the captivity of the Emperor in St. Helena, which followed it, as if he had sustained a personal wrong. On this subject only, he was " eaten up with passion ;" on all others, he was the fairest, the most candid of reasoners. His countenance was then handsome, but marked by a painful expression ; his black hair, which had curled stifly over his temples had scarcely received its first tints of grey ; his gait was awk- ward ; his dress was neglected; and, in the company of strangers, his bashfulness was almost painful — but, when, in the society of Lamb and one or two others, he talked on his favorite themes of old English books, or old Italian pictures, no one's conversation could be more delightful. The poets, from intercourse with whom he had drawn so much of his taste, and who had contributed to shed the noble infection of beauty through his reasoning faculties, had scarcely the op- portunity of appreciating their progress. It was, in after years, by the fire-side of " the Lambs,'' that his tongue was gradually loosened, and his passionate thoughts found appro- priate words. There, his struggles to express the fine con- ceptions with which his mind was filled, were encouraged by entire sympathy ; there he began to stammer out his just and original conceptions of Chaucer and Spenser, and other English poets and prose writers, more talked of, though not better known, by their countrymen ; there he was thoroughly understood, and dexterously cheered by Miss Lamb, whose nice discernment of his first efforts in conversation, were dwelt upon by him with affectionate gratitude, even when 264 FINAL MEMORIALS OF CHARLES LAMB, most out of humor with tlie world. When he mastered his diffidence, he did not talk for effect, to dazzle, or surprise, or annoy, but, with the most simple and honest desire to make his views of the subject in hand entirely apprehended by his hearer. There was sometimes an obvious struggle to do this to his own satisfaction ; he seemed laboring to drag his thought to light from its deep lurking-place ; and, with timid distrust of that power of expression which he had found so late in life, he often betrayed a fear lest he had failed to make himself understood, and recurred to the subject again and again, that he might be assured he had succeeded. With a certain doggedness of manner, he showed nothing pragmatical or exclusive ; he never drove a principle to its ut- most possible consequences, but, like Locksley, '^ allowed for the wind.'' For some years previous to his death, he observed an entire abstinence from fermented liquors, which he had once quaffed with the proper relish he had for all the good things of this life, but which he courageously resigned when he found the indulgence perilous to his health and faculties. The cheerfulness with which he made this sacrifice, was one of the most amiable traits of his character. He had no censure for others, who, in the same dangers, were less wise or less resolute ; nor did he think he had earned, by his own con- stancy, any right to intrude advice which he knew, if want- ed, must be unavailing. Nor did he profess to be a con- vert to the general system of abstinence, which was advanced by one of his kindest and staunchest friends ; he vowed that he yielded to necessity ; and, instead of avoiding the sight of that which he could no lonsrer taste, he was seldom so happy as when he sat with friends at their wine, participa- ting the sociality of the time ; and renewing his own past enjoyment in that of his companions, without regret and with- out envy. Like Dr. Johnson, he made himself poor amends for the loss of wine by drinking tea, not so largely, indeed, WILLIAM HAZLITT. 265 as the hero of Boswell, but at least of equal potency ; for he might have challenged Mrs. Thrale, and all her sex, to make stronger tea than his own. In society, as in politics, he was no flincher. He loved '' to hear the chimes at midnight," without considering them as a summons to rise. At these seasons, when in his happiest mood, he used to dwell on the conversational powers of his friends, and live over again the delightful hours he had passed with them ; repeat the preg- nant puns that one had made ; tell over again a story with which another had convulsed the room ; or expatiate on the eloquence of a third ; always best pleased when he could detect some talent which was unregarded by the world, and giving alike, to the celebrated and the unknown, due honor. Mr. Hazlitt delivered three courses of lectures at the Sur- rey Institution, on The English Poets ; on The English Comic Writers ; and on The Age of Elizabeth ; which Lamb (un- der protest against lectures in general) regularly attended, an earnest admirer, amidst crowds with whom the lecturer had " an imperfect sympathy." They consisted chiefly of Dissenters, who agreed with him in bis hatred of Lord Cas- tlereagh, and his love of religious freedom, but who ^Moved no plays ;" of Quakers, who approved him as the earnest opponent of slavery and capital punishment, but who " heard no music ;" of citizens, devoted to the main chance, who had a hankering after 'Hhe improvement of the mind;" but to whom his favorite doctrine of its natural disinterestedness was a riddle ; of a few enemies who came to sneer ; and a few friends, who were eager to learn, and to admire. The comparative insensibility of the bulk of his audience to his finest passages, sometimes provoked him to awaken their at- tention by points which broke the train of his discourse; after which, he could make himself amends by some abrupt paradox which might set their prejudices on edge, and make 12 266 FINAL MEMORIALS OF CHARLES LAMB. them fancy they were shocked. He startled many of them at the onset, by observing, that, since Jacob's dream, '' the heavens have gone farther off, and became astronomical;'^ a fine extravagance, which the ladies and gentlemen, who had grown astronomical themselves under the preceding lecturer, felt called on to resent as an attack on their severer -studies. When he read a well-known extract from Cowper, compar- ing a poor cottager with Voltaire, and had pronounced the line : '' A truth the brilliant Frenchman never knew,'' they broke into a joyous shout of self-gratulation, that they were so much wiser than the scornful Frenchman. When he passed by Mrs. Hannah Moore with observing that '^she had written a great deal which he had never read," a voice gave expression to the general commiseration and surprise, by calling out " More pity for you !" They were confounded at his reading with more emphasis, perhaps, than discretion, Gay's epigrammatic lines on Sir Richard Blackstone, in which scriptural persons are too freely hitched into rhyme ; but he went doggedly on to the end, and, by his perseverance, baffled those w4io, if he had acknowledged himself wrong, by stopping, would have visited him with an outburst of displea- sure which he felt to be gathering. He once had a more edifying advantage over them. He was enumerating the humanities which endeared Dr. Johnson to his mind, and at the close of an agreeable catalogue, mentioned, as last and noblest, ''his carrying the poor victim of disease and dissipa- tion on his back, through Fleet Street," at which a titter arose from some, who were struck by the picture, as ludicrous, and a murmur from others, who deemed the allusion unfit for ears polite : he paused for an instant, and then added, in his stur- diest and most impressive manner,—" an act which realizes the parable of the Good Samaritan;" at which his moral and his delicate hearers shrunk, rebuked, into deep silence. He was not eloquent, in the true sense of the term : for his WILLIAM HAZLITT. 267 thoughts were too weighty to be moved along by the shallow stream of feeling which an evening's excitement can rouse. He wrote all his lectures, and read them as they were writ- ten ; but his deep voice and earnest manner suited his mat- ter well. He seemed to dig into his subject, and not in vain. In delivering his long quotations, he had scarcely continuity enough for the versification of Shakspeare and Milton, " with linked sweetness long drawn out ;" but he gave Pope's bril- liant satire and delightful compliments, which are usually complete within the couplet, with an elegance and point which the poet himself, could he have heard, would have felt as indicating their highest praise. Mr. Hazlitt, having suffered, for many years, from de- rangement of the digestive organs, for which perhaps a mode- rate use of fermented liquors would have been preferable to abstinence, solaced only by the intense tincture of tea, in which he found refuge, worn out at last, died on 18th Sept. 1830, at the age of fifty-two. Lamb frequently visited him during his sufferings, which were not, as has been erroneously suggested, aggravated by the want of needful comforts ; for although his careless habits had left no provision for sickness, his friends gladly acknowledged, by their united aid, the deep intellectual obligations due to the great thinker. In a moment of acute pain, when the needless apprehension for the future rushed upon him, he dictated a brief and peremptory letter to the editor of the '' Edinburgh Review," requiring a considerable remittance, to which he had no claim but that of former remunerated services, which the friend, who obeyed his bidding, feared might excite displeasure ; but he mistook Francis Jeffrey ; the sum demanded was received by return of post, with the most anxious wishes for Hazlitt's recovery — just too late for him to understand his error. Lamb joined a few friends in attending his funeral in the church-yard of St. Anne's Soho, where he was interred, and felt his loss — 268 FINAL MEMORIALS OF CHARLES LAMB, not SO violently at the time, as mournfully in the frequent recurrence of the sense that a chief source of intellectual pleasure was stopped. His personal frailties are nothing to us now ; his thoughts survive ; in them we have his better part entire, and in them must be traced his true history. The real events of his life are not to be traced in its external changes ; as his engagement by the Morning Chronicle, or his transfer of his services to the Times, or his introduction to the Edinburgh Review ; but in the progress and develop- ment of his fine understanding as nurtured and checked and swayed by his' affections. His warfare was within; its spoils are ours ! One of the soundest and most elegant scholars whom the school of Christ's Hospital ever produced, Mr. Thomas Barnes, was a frequent guest at Lamb's chambers in the Temple ; and though the responsibilities he undertook, before Lamb quitted that, his happiest abode, prevented him from visiting often at Great Russell Street, at Islington, or Enfield, he was always ready to assist, by the kind word of the power- ful journal in which he became most potent, the expanding reputation of his school-mate and friend. After establishing a high social and intellectual character at Cambridge, he had entered the legal profession as a special pleader, but was prevented from applying the needful devotion to that laborious pursuit, by violent rheumatic affections, which he solaced by writing critiques and essays of rare merit. So shattered did he appear in health, that when his friends learned that he had accepted the editorship of the Times newspaper, they almost shuddered at the attempt as suicidal, and anticipated a speedy ruin to his constitution from the pressure of constant labor and anxiety, on the least healthful hours of toil. But he had judged better than they of his own physical and intel- lectual resources, and the mode in which the grave responsi- THOMAS BARNES. 269 bility and constant exertion of his office would affect both ; for the regular effort consolidated his feverish strength^ gave evenness and tranquillity to a life of serious exertion, and supplied, for many years, power equal to the perpetual de- mand ; affording a striking example how, when finely attuned, the mind can influence the body to its uses. The facile adaptation of his intellect to his new duties, was scarcely less remarkable than the mastery it achieved over his desul- tory habits and physical infirmities ; for, until then, it had seemed more refined than vigorous — more elegant than weighty — too fastidious to endure the supervision and ar- rangement of innumerable reports, paragraphs, and essays ; but, while a scholarly grace was shed by him through all he wrote or moulded, the needful vigor was never wanting to the high office of superintending the great daily miracle ; to the discipline of its various contributors ; or to the com- position of articles which he was always ready, on the instant of emergency, to supply. Mr. Barnes, linked by school associations with Leigh Hunt, filled the theatrical department of criticism in the Examiner during the period when the Editor's imprisonment for alleged libel on the Prince Regent precluded his attendance on the theatres. It was no easy office of friendship to supply the place of Hunt in the department of criticism he may be almost said to have invented ; but Mr. Barnes, though in a different style, well sustained the attractions of the '' The- atrical Examiner.'^ Fortunately the appearance of Mr. Kean during this interval enabled him to gratify the pro- found enthusiasm of his nature, without doing violence to the fastidious taste to which it was usually subjected. He per- ceived at once the vivid energy of the new actor; understood his faults to be better than the excellencies of ordinary aspi- rants, and hailed him with the most generous praise — the more valuable as it proceeded from one rarely induced to 270 FINAL MEMORIALS OF CHARLES LAMB. render applause, and never yielding it except on the convic- tion of true excellence. Hazlitt, who contributed theatrical criticism, at the same time, to the " Morning Chronicle," and who astounded the tame mediocrity of Mr. Perry's sub- ordinates by his earnest eulogy, and Barnes, had the satis- faction of first appreciating this unfriended performer, and, while many were offended by the daring novelty of his style, and more stood aloof with fashionable indifference from a deserted theatre, of awakening that spirit which retrieved the fortunes of Old Drury — which revived, for a brilliant inter- val, the interest of the English stage — and which bore the actor on a tide of intoxicating success that " knew no retiring ebb'^ till it was unhappily checked by his own lamentable frailties.* * As the Essays of Mr. Barnes have never been collected, I take leave to present to the reader the conclusion of his article in the Examiner of February 27, 1814, on the first appearance of Mr. Kean in Richard : — *^ In the heroic parts, he animated every spectator with his own feel- ings ; when he exclaimed ' that a thousand hearts were swelling in his bosom,* the house shouted to express their accordance to a truth so nobly exemplified by the energy of his voice, by the grandeur of his mien. His death-scene was the grandest conception, and executed in the most impressive manner ; it was a piece of noble poetry, expressed by action instead of language. He fights desperately : he is disarmed and exhausted of all bodily strength : he disdains to fall, and his strong volition keeps him standing: he fixes that head, full of intellectual and heroic power, directly on the enemy : he bears up his chest with an ex- pansion which seems swelling with more than human spirit : he holds his uplifted arm in calm but dreadful defiance of his conqueror. But he is but man, and he falls, after this sublime efl^ort, senseless to the ground. We have felt our eyes gush on reading a passage of exquisite poetry. We have been ready to leap at sight of a noble picture, but we never felt stronger emotion, more overpowering sensations, than were kindled by the novel sublimity of this catastrophe. In matters of mere taste, there will be a difference of opinion ; but here there was no room to doubt, no reason could be imprudent enough to hesitate. Every heart beat an echo responsive to this call of elevated nature, and yearned THOMAS BARNES. 271 'The manners of Mr. Barnes, though extremely courteous, were so reserved as to seem cold to strangers ; but they were changed, as by magic, by the contemplation of moral or in- tellectual beauty, awakened in a small circle. I well re- member him, late one evening, in the year 1816, when only two or three friends remained with Lamb and his sister, long after "we had heard the chimes at midnight,'^ holding in j veterate but delighted controversy with Lamb, respecting the tragic power of Dante as compared with that of Shakspeare. Dante was scarcely known to Lamb ; for he was unable to read the original, and Gary's noble translation was not then known to him ; and Barnes aspired to the glory of affording him a glimpse of a kindred greatness in the mighty Italian with that which he had conceived incapable of human rivalry. The face of the advocate of Dante, heavy when in repose, grew bright with earnest admiration as he quoted images, sentiments, dialogues, against Lamb, who had taken his own immortal stand on Lear, and urged the supremacy of the child-changed father against all the possible Ugolinos of the world. Some reference having been made by Lamb to his own exposition of Lear, which had been recently published in a magazine, edited by Leigh Hunt, under the title of " The Reflector," touched another and a tenderer string of feeling, turned a little the course of his enthusiasm the more to in- flame it, and brought out a burst of affectionate admiration for his friend, then scarcely known to the world, which was the more striking for its contrast with his usually sedate de- meanor. I think I see him now, leaning forward upon the little table on which the candles were just expiring in their sockets, his fists clenched, his eyes flashing, and his face with fondness towards the man who, while he excited admiration for himself, made also his admirers glow with a warmth of conscious superiority, because they were able to appreciate such an exalted degree of excellence." 272 FINAL MEMORIALS OF CHARLES LAMB. bathed in perspiration, exclaiming to Lamb, '' And do I not know, my boy, that you have written about Shakspeare, and Shakspeare's own Lear, finer than any one ever did in the world, and won't I let the world know it ?" He was right; there is no criticism in the world more worthy of the genius it estimates than that little passage referred to on Lear ; few felt it then like Barnes ; thousands have read it since, here, and tens of thousands in America ; and have felt as he did ; and will answer for the truth of that excited hour. Mr. Barnes combined singular acuteness of understand- ing with remarkable simplicity of character. If he was skillful in finding out those who duped others, he made some amends to the world of shai^pers by being abundantly duped himself. He might caution the public to be on their guard against impostors of every kind, but his heart was open to every species of delusion which came in the shape of misery. Poles — real and theatrical — refugees, pretenders of all kinds, found their way to the Times' inner office, and though the inexorable editor excluded their lucubrations from the pre- cious space of its columns, he rarely omitted to make them amends by large contributions from his purse. The intimate acquaintance with all the varieties of life forced on him by his position in the midst of a moving epitome of the world, which vividly reflected them all, failed to teach him distrust or discretion. He was a child in the centre of the most fe- verish agitations ; a dupe in the midst of the quickest appre- hensions ; and while, with unbending pride, he repelled the slightest interference with his high functions from the great- est quarters, he was open to every tale from the lowest which could win from him personal aid. Rarely as he was seen in his later years in Lamb's circle, he is indestructibly as- sociated with it in the recollection of the few survivors of its elder days ; and they will lament with me that the influences for good which he shed largely on all the departments of BENJAMIN ROBERT HAYDON. 273 busy life, should have necessarily left behind them such slender memorials of one of the kindest, the wisest, and the best of men who have ever enjoyed signal opportunities of moulding public opinion, and who have turned them to the noblest and purest uses. Among Lamb's early acquaintances and constant admir- ers was an artist whose chequered career and melancholy death give an interest to the recollections with which he is linked independent of that which belongs to his pictures — Benjamin Robert Haydon. The ruling misfortune of his life was somewhat akin to that disproportion in Hazlitt's mind to which I have adverted, but productive in his case of more disastrous results — the possession of two different fac- ulties not harmonized into one, and struggling for mastery — in that disarrangement of the faculties in which the unpro- ductive talent becomes not a mere negative, but neutralizes the other, and even turns its good into evil. Haydon, the son of a respectable tradesman at Plymouth, was endowed with two capacities, either of which, exclusively cultivated with the energy of his disposition, might have led to fortune — the genius of a painter, and the passionate logic of a con- troversialist ; talents scarcely capable of being blended in harmonious action except under the auspices of prosperity such as should satisfy the artist by fame, and apppease the literary combatant by triumph. The combination of a turbulent vivacity of mind with a fine aptitude for the most serene of arts was rendered more infelicitous by the circumstances of the young painter's early career. He was destined painfully to work his way at once through the lower elements of his art and the difficulties of adverse fortune ; and though by indomitable courage and unwearied industry he became master of anatomic science, of coloring, and of perspective, and achieved a position in 12* 274 FINAL MEMORIALS OF CHARLES LAMB. which his efforts might be fairly presented to the notice of the world, his impetuous temperament was yet further ruffled by the arduous and complicated struggle. With boundless intellectual ambition, he sought to excel in the loftiest de- partment of his art ; and undertook the double responsibility of painting great pictures and of creating the taste which should appreciate, and enforcing the patronage which should reward them. The patronage of high art, not then adopted by the gov- ernment, and far beyond the means of individuals of the middle class, necessarily appertained to a few members of the aristocracy, who alone could encourage and remunerate the painters of history. Although the beginning of Mr. Haydon's career was not uncheered by aristocratic favor, the contrast between the greatness of his own conceptions and the humility of the course which prudence suggested as ne- cessary to obtain for himself the means of developing them on canvas, fevered his nature, which, ardent in gratitude for the appreciation and assistance of the wealthy to a degree which might even be mistaken for servility, was also impa- tient of the general indifference to the cause of which he sought to be, not only the ornament, but, unhappily for him, also the champion. Alas! he there ''perceived a divided duty." Had he been contented silently to paint — to endure obscurity and privation for a while, gradually to mature his powers of execution and soften the rigor of his style and of his virtue, he might have achieved works, not only as vast in outline and as beautiful in portions as those which he exhib- ited, but so harmonious in their excellencies as to charm away opposition, and insure speedy reputation, moderate for- tune, and lasting fame. But resolved to battle for that which he believed to be " the right," he rushed into a life-long con- test with the Royal Academy ; frequently suspended the gentle labors of the pencil for the vehement use of the pen ; BENJAMIN ROBERT HAYDON. 275 and thus gave to his course an air of defiance which pre- vented the calm appreciation of his nobler v^orks, and in- creased the mischief by reaction. Indignant of the scorns '' that patient merit of the unworthy takes/' he sometimes fancied scorns which impatient merit in return imputes to the worthy ; and thus instead of enjoying the most tranquil of lives (which a painter's should be), led one of the most ani- mated, restless, and broken. The necessary consequence of this disproportion was a series of pecuniary embarrass- ments, the direct result of his struggle with fortune ; a suc- cession of feverish triumphs and disappointments, the fruits of his contest with power ; and worse perhaps than either, the frequent diversion of his own genius from its natural course, and the hurried and imperfect development of its most majestic conceptions. To paint as finely as he sometimes did in the ruffled pauses of his passionate controversy, and amidst the terrors of impending want, was to display large innate resources of skill and high energy of mind ; but how much more unquestionable fame might he have attained if his disposition had permitted him to be content with charming the world of art, instead of attempting also to intruct or re- form it ! Mr. Hay don's course, though thus troubled, was one of constant animation, and illustrated by hours of triumph, the more radiant because they were snatched from adverse for- tune and a reluctant people- The exhibition of a single picture by an artist at war with the Academy which exhibit- ed a thousand pictures at the same price — creating a sensa- tion not only among artists and patrons of art, but among the most secluded literary circles — and engaging the highest powers of criticism — was, itself, a splendid occurrence in jife ; — and, twice at least, in the instance of the Entry into Jerusalem, and the Lazarus, was crowned with signal suc- cess- It was a proud moment for the daring painter, when, 276 FINAL MEMORIALS OF CHARLES LAMB. at the opening of the first of these Exhibitions, while the crowd of visitors, distinguished in rank or talent, stood doubt- ing whether in the countenance of the chief figure the daring attempt to present an aspect differing from that which had enkindled the devotion of ages — to mingle the human with the Divine, resolution with sweetness, dignified composure with the anticipation of mighty suffering — had not failed, Mrs, Siddons walked slowly up to the centre of the room, surveyed it in silence for a minute or two, and then ejacula- ted, in her deep, low, thrilling voice, " It is perfect ;" quelled all opposition, and removed the doubt, from his own mind at least, for ever. Although the great body of artists to whose corporate power Mr. Haydon was so passionately opposed, naturally stood aside from his path, it was cheered by the attention and often by the applause of the chief literary spirits of the age, who were attracted by a fierce intellectual struggle. Sir Walter Scott, Wordsworth, Hazlitt, Godwin, Shelley, Hunt, Coleridge, Lamb, Keats — and many young writers for peri- odical works, in the freshness of unhacknied authorship — took an interest in a course so gallant though so troublous^ which excited their sympathy yet did not force them to the irksome duty of unqualified praise. Almost in the outset of his career, Wordsworth addressed to him a sonnet in heroic strain, associating the artist's calling with his own ; making common cause with him, '^ while the whole world seems adverse to desert ;'^ admonishing him '' still to be strenuous for the bright reward, and in the soul admit of no decay ;'^ and, long after, when the poet had, by a wiser perseverance^ gradually created the taste which appreciated his works, he celebrated, in another sonnet, the fine autumnal conception in the picture of Napoleon on the rock of St. Helena, with his back to the spectator, contemplating the blank sea, left desolate by the sunken sun. The Conqueror of Napoleon BENJAMIN ROBERT HAYDON. 277 also recognized the artist's claims, and supplied him with another great subject, in the contemplation of the solitude of Waterloo by its hero, ten years after the victory. Mr. Haydon's vividness of mind burst out in his conver- sation ; which though somewhat broken and rugged, like his career, had also, like that, a vein of beauty streaking it. Having associated with most of the remarkable persons of his time, and seen strange varieties of " many-colored life" — gifted with a rapid perception of character and a painter's eye for effect, — he was able to hit off, with startling facility, sketches in words which lived before the hearer. His anx- ieties and sorrows did not destroy the buoyancy of his spirits or rob the convivial moment of its prosperity ; so that he struggled, and toiled, and laughed, and triumphed, and failed, and hoped on, till the waning of life approached and found him still in opposition to the world, and far from the threshold of fortune. The object of his literary exertions was partially attained : the national attention had been directed to high art; but he did not personally share in the benefits he had greatly contributed to win. Even his cartoon of the Curse in Para- dise failed to obtain a prize, when he entered the arena with unfledged youths for competitors ; and the desertion of the exhibition of his two pictures of Aristides and Nero, at the Egyptian Hall, by the public, for the neighboring exposure of the clever manikin, General Tom Thumb, quite vanquished him. It was indeed a melancholy contrast; — the unending succession of bright crowds thronging the levees of the small abortion, and the dim and dusty room in which the two latest historical pictures of the veteran hung for hours without a visitor. Opposition, abuse, even neglect he could have borne, but the sense of ridicule involved in such a juxtaposition drove him to despair. No one who knew him ever appre- hended from his disasters such a catastrophe as that which closed them. He had always cherished a belief in the reli- 278 FINAL MEMORIALS OF CHARLES LAMB. gion of our Church, and avowed it among scoffing unbelievers; and that belief he asserted even in the wild fragments he penned in his last terrible hour. His friends thought that even the sense of the injustice of the world would have con- tributed with his undimmed consciousness of his own powers to enable him to endure. In his domestic relations also he was happy, blessed in the affection of a wife of great beauty and equal discretion, who, by gentler temper and serener wis- dom than his own, had assisted and soothed him in all his anxieties and griefs, and whose image was so identified in his mind with the beautiful as to impress its character on all the forms of female loveliness he has created. Those who knew him best feel the strongest assurance, that notwithstanding the appearances of preparation which attended his extraordi- nary suicide, his mind was shattered to pieces — all distorted and broken — with only one feeling left entire, the perversion of which led to the deed, a hope to awaken sympathy in death for those whom living he could not shelter. The last hurried lines he wrote, entitled " Haydon's last Thoughts,'^ consisted of a fevered comparison between the Duke of Wel- lington and Napoleon, in which he seemed to wish to repair some supposed injustice which in speech or writing he had done to the Conqueror. It was enclosed in a letter addressed to three friends, written in the hour of his death, and contain- ing sad fragmental memorials of those passionate hopes, fierce struggles, and bitter disappointments which brought him through distraction to the grave ! A visit of Coleridge was always regarded by Lamb as an opportunity to afford a rare gratification to a few friends, who, he knew, would prize it; and I well remember the flush of prideful pleasure which came over his face as he would hurry, on his way to the India House, into the office in which I was a pupil, and stammer out the welcome invi- SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. 279 tation for the evening. This was true self-sacrifice ; for Lamb would have infinitely preferred having his inspired friend to himself and his sister, for a brief renewal of the old Salutation delights; but, I believe, he never permitted him- self to enjoy this exclusive treat. The pleasure he conferred was great ; for of all celebrated persons I ever saw, Cole- ridge alone surpassed the expectation created by his writings ; for he not only was, but appeared to be, greater than the no- blest things he had written. Lamb used to speak, sometimes with a moistened eye and quivering lip, of Coleridge when young, and wish that we could have seen him in the spring-time of his genius, at a supper in the little sanded parlor of the old Salutation hostel. The promise of those days was never realized, by the execu- tion of any of the mighty works he planned ; but the very failure gave a sort of mournful interest to the " large dis- course, looking before and after," to which we were en- chanted listeners ; to the wisdom which lives only in our memories, and must perish with them. From Coleridge's early works, some notion may be glean- ed of what he was ; when the steep ascent of fame rose di- rectly before him, while he might loiter to dally with the ex- pectation of its summit, without ignobly shrinking from its labors. His endowments at that time — the close of the last century — when literature had faded into a fashion of poor language, must have seemed, to a mind and heart like Lamb's, no less than miraculous. A rich store of classical knowledge — a sense of the beautiful, almost verging on the effeminate — a facile power of melody, varying from the solemn stops of the organ to a bird-like flutter of airy sound — the glorious faculty of poetic hope, exerted on human prospects, and presenting its results with the vividness of prophecy ; a power of imaginative rea- soning which peopled the nearer ground of contemplation with thoughts 280 FINAL MEMORIALS OF CHARLES LAMB. '' All plumed like estriches, like eagles bathed, As full of spirit as the month of May, And gorgeous as the sun at Midsummer/* endowed the author^of ^' The Ancient Mariner/' and ^'Chris- tabel." Thus gifted, he glided from youth into manhood, as a fairy voyager on a summer sea, to eddy round and round in dazzling circles, and to make little progress, at last, to- wards any of those thousand mountain summits which, glori- fied by aerial tints, rose before him at the extreme verge of the vast horizon of his genius. ^' The Ancient Mariner,'' printed with the ''Lyrical Ballads," one of his earliest works, is still his finest poem — at once the most vigorous in design and the most chaste in execution — developing the intensest human affection, amidst the wildest scenery of a poet's dream. Nothing was too bright to hope from such a dawn. The mind of Coleridge seemed the harbinger of the golden years his enthusiasm predicted and painted : of those days of peace on earth and good will among men, w^hich the best and greatest minds have rejoiced to anticipate — and the earn- est belief in which is better than all frivolous enjoyments, all worldly wisdom, all worldly success. And if the noontide of his genius did not fulfill his youth's promise of manly vigor, nor the setting of his earthly life honor it by an an- swering serenity of greatness — they still have left us abun- dant reason to be grateful that the glorious fragments of his mighty and imperfect being were ours. Cloud after cloud of German metaphysics rolled before his imagination — which it had power to irradiate with fantastic beauty, and to break into a thousand shifting forms of grandeur, though not to conquer ; mist after mist ascended from those streams where earth and sky should have blended in one imagery, and were turned by its obscure glory to radiant haze ; indulgence in the fearful luxury of that talismanic drug, which opens glit- tering scenes of fantastic beauty on the waking soul to leave SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. 281 it in arid desolation, too often veiled it in partial eclipse, and blended fitful light with melancholy blackness over its vast domain ; but the great central light remained unquenched, and cast its gleams through every department of human knowledge. A boundless capacity to receive and retain intellectual treasure made him the possessor of vaster stores of lore, classical, antiquarian, historical, biblical, and miscel- laneous, than were ever vouchsafed, at least in our time, to a mortal being ; goodly structures of divine philosophy rose before him like exhalations on the table-land of that his prodi- gious knowledge ; but, alas ! there was a deficiency of the power of voluntary action which would have left him unable to embody the shapes of a shepherd's dreams, and made him feeble as an infant before the overpowering majesty of his own ! Hence his literary life became one splendid and sad prospectus — resembling only the portal of a mighty temple which it was forbidden us to enter — but whence strains of rich music issuing '' took the prisoned soul and lapped it in Elysium," and fragments of oracular wisdom startled the thought they could not satisfy. Hence the riches of his mind were developed, not in writ- ing, but in his speech — conversation I can scarcely call it — which no one who once heard can ever forget. Unable to work in solitude, he sought the gentle stimulus of social ad- miration, and under its influence poured forth, without stint, the marvelous resources of a mind rich in the spoils of time — richer — richer far in its own glorious imagination and delicate fancy ! There was a noble prodigality in these out- pourings; a generous disdain of self; an earnest desire to scatter abroad the seeds of wisdom and beauty, to take root wherever they might fall, and spring up without bearing his name or impress, which might remind the listener of the first days of poetry before it became individualized by the press, when the Homeric rhapsodist wandered through new-born cities 282 FINAL MEMORIALS OF CHARLES LAMB. and scattered hovels, flashing upon the minds of the wonder- ing audience the bright train of heroic shapes, the series of godlike exploits, and sought no record more enduring than the fleshly tablets of his hearers' hearts ; no memory but that of genial tradition ; when copy-right did not ascertain the reciter's property, nor marble at once perpetuate and shed chillness on his fame — " His bounty was as boundless as the sea. His love as deep." Like the ocean, in all its variety of gentle moods, his dis- course perpetually ebbed and flowed, — nothing in it angular, nothing of set purpose, but now trembling as the voice of divine philosophy, '' not harsh nor crabbed, as dull fools sup- pose, but musical as is Apollo's lute," was wafted over the summer wave ; now glistening in long line of light over some obscure subject, like the path of moonlight on the black water; and, if ever receding from the shore, driven by some sudden gust of inspiration, disclosing the treasures of the deep, like the rich strond in Spenser, " far sunken in their sunless treasuries," to be covered anon bv the foam of the same immortal tide. The benignity of his manner befitted the beauty of his disquisitions ; his voice rose from the gen- tlest pitch of conversation to the height of impassioned elo- quence without effort, as his language expanded from some common topic of the day to the loftiest abstractions; ascend- ing by a winding track of spiral glory to the highest truths which the naked eye could discern, and suggesting starry regions beyond, which his own telescopic gaze might possi- bly decipher. If his entranced hearers often were unable to perceive the bearings of his argument — too mighty for any grasp but his own — and sometimes reaching beyond his own — they understood " a beauty in the words, if not the words;" and a wisdom and piety in the illustrations, even when unable SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. 283 to connect them with the idea which he desired to illustrate. If an entire scheme of moral philosophy was never developed by him either in speaking or writing, all the parts were great : vast biblical knowledge, though sometimes eddying in splendid conjecture, was always employed with pious rever- ence ; the morality suggested was at once elevated and ge- nial ; the charity hoped all things; and the mighty imagina- tive reasoner, seemed almost to realize the condition sug- gested by the great Apostle, '' that he understood all myste- ries and all knowledge, and spake with the tongues both of men and angels !" After Coleridge had found his last earthly refuge, under the wise and generous care of Mr. Oilman, at Highgate, he rarely visited Lamb, and my opportunities of observing him ceased. From those who were more favored, as well as from the fragments I have seen of his last effusions, I know thai, amidst suffering and weakness, his mighty mind con- centrated its energies on the highest subjects which had ever kindled them ; that the speculations, which sometimes seemed like paradox, because their extent was too vast to be comprehended in a single grasp of intellectual vision, were informed by a serener wisdom ; that his perceptions of the central truth became more undivided, and his piety more profound and humble. His love for Charles and Mary Lamb continued, to the last, one of the strongest of his human af- fections — of which, by the kindness of a friend,* I possess an affecting memorial under his hand, written in the margin of a volume of his ^-Sybilline Leaves," which — after his life- long habit — he has enriched by manuscript annotations. The poem, beside which it is inscribed, is entitled, '• The Lime-Tree Bower my Prison," composed by the poet in June, 1796, when Charles and Mary Lamb, who were visit- * Mr, Richard Welch, of Reading, editor of the Berkshire Chroni- cle — one of the ablest productions of the Conservative Periodical Press, 284 FINAL MEMORIALS OF CHARLES LAMB. ing at his cottage near Bristol, left him for a walk, which an accidental lameness prevented him from sharing. The vi- sitors are not indicated by the poem, except that Charles is designated by the epithet, against which he jestingly remon- strated, as '' gentle-hearted Charles;'^ and is represented as " winning his way, with sad and patient soul, through evil and pain, and strange calamity." Against the title is writ- ten as follows : — CH. & MARY LAMB, dear to my heart, yea, as it were, my hearty S. T. C. Mi. 63. 1834 1797 1834. 37 years ! This memorandum, which is penned with remarkable neatness, must have been made in Coleridge's last illness, as he suffered acutely for several months before he died, in July of this same year, 1834. What a space did that thirty-seven years of fond regard for the brother and sister occupy in a mind like Coleridge's, peopled with immortal thoughts which might multiply in the true lime, dialed in heaven, its minutes into years ! These friends of Lamb's whom 1 have ventured to sketch in companionship with him, and Southey also, whom I only once saw, are all gone ; — and others of less note in the world's eye have followed them. Among those of the old set who are gone, is Manning, perhaps, next to Coleridge, the dearest of them, whom Lamb used to speak of as marvelous in a iete-d'tete, but who, in company, seemed only a courteous gentleman, more disposed to listen than to talk. In good old lamb's dead companions. 285 age, departed Admiral Burney, frank-hearted voyager with Captain Cook round the world, who seemed to unite our so- ciety with the circle over which Dr. Johnson reigned ; who used to tell of school-days under the tutelage of Eugene Aram ; how he remembered the gentle usher pacing the play-ground, arm-in-arm w^th some one of the elder boys, and seeking relief from the unsuspected burthen of his con- science by talking of strange murders, and how he, a child, had shuddered at the handcuffs on his teacher's hands when taken away in the post-chaise to prison ; — the Admiral being himself the centre of a little circle which his sister, the fa- mous authoress of '' Evelina,'' '' Cecelia," and ^'Camilla," sometimes graced. John Lamb, the jovial and burly, who dared to argue with Hazlitt on questions of art ; Barron Field, who with veneration enough to feel all the despised greatness of Wordsworth, had a sparkling vivacity, and, con- nected with Lamb by the link of Christ's Hospital associa- tions, shared largely in his regard ; Rickman, the sturdiest of jovial companions, severe in the discipline of whist as at the table of the House of Commons, of which he was the principal clerk; andAlsager, so calm, so bland, so consider- ate — all are gone. These were all Temple-guests — friends of Lamb's early days ; but the companions of a later time, who first met in Great Russell Street, or Dalston, or Isling- ton, or Enfield, have been wofully thinned ; Allan Cunning- ham, stalwart of form and stout of heart and verse, a ruder Burns ; Cary, Lamb's '' pleasantest of clergymen," whose sweetness of disposition and manner would have prevented a stranger from guessing that he was the poet who had ren- dered the adamantine poetry of Dante into English with kin- dred power ; Hood, so grave and sad and silent, that you were astonished to recognize in him the outpourer of a thou- sand wild fancies, the detecter of the inmost springs of pa- thos, and the powerful vindicator of poverty and toil before 286 FINAL MEMORIALS OF CHARLES LAMB. the hearts of the prosperous; the Reverend Edward Irving, who, after fulfilling an old prophecy he made in Scotland to Hazlitt that he would astonish and shake the world by his preaching, sat humbly at the feet of Coleridge to listen to wisdom, — are all gone ; the forms of others associated with Lamb's circle by more accidental links (also dead) come thronging on the memory from the mist of years — Alas ; it is easier to count those that are left of the old familiar faces ! The story of the lives of Charles and Mary Lamb is now told ; nothing more remains to be learned respecting it. The known collateral branches of their stock are extinct, and their upward pedigree lost in those humble tracks on which the steps of Time leave so light an impress, that the dust of a few years obliterates all trace, and affords no clue to search collaterally for surviving relatives. The world has, there- fore, all the materials forjudging of them which can be pos- sessed by those who, not remembering the delightful pecu- liarities of their daily manners, can only form imperfect ideas of what they were. Before bidding them a last adieu, we may be permitted to linger a little longer to survey their characters by the new and solemn lights which are now, for the first time, fully cast upon them. Except to the few who were acquainted with the tragical occurrences of Lamb's early life, some of his peculiarities seemed strange — to be forgiven, indeed, to the excellencies of his nature, and the delicacy of his genius — but still, in them- selves, as much to be wondered at as deplored. The sweet- ness of his character, breathed through his writings, was felt even by strangers ; but its heroic aspect was unguessed, even by many of his friends. Let them now consider it, and ask if the annals of self-sacrifice can show any thing in human action and endurance, more lovely than its self-devo- tion exhibits ! It was not merely that he saw (which his LAMB FULLY KNOWN. 287 elder brother cannot be blamed for not immediately perceiv- ing) through the ensanguined cloud of misfortune which had fallen upon his family, the unstained excellence of his sister, whose madness had caused it ; that he was ready to take her to his own home with reverential affection, and cherish her through life ; that he gave up, for her sake, all meaner and more selfish love, and all the hopes which youth blends with the passion which disturbs and ennobles it ; not even that he did all this cheerfully, and without pluming himself upon his brotherly nobleness as a virtue, or seeking to repay himself (as some uneasy martyrs do) by small in- stalments of long repining, — but that he carried the spirit of the hour in which he first knew and took his course, to his last. So far from thinking that his sacrifice of youth and love to his sister, gave him a license to follow his own ca- price at the expense of her feelings, even in the lightest mat- ters, he always wrote and spoke of her as his wiser self; his generous benefactress, of whose protecting care he was scarcely worthy. How his pen almost grew wanton in her praise, even when she was a prisoner in the Asylum after the fatal attack of lunacy, his letters of the time to Coleridge show ; but that might have been a mere temporary exalta- tion — the attendant fervor of a great exigency and a great resolution. It was not so ; nine years afterwards (1805), in a letter to Miss Wordsworth, he thus dilates on his sister^s excellencies, and exaggerates his own frailties : — " To say all that I know of her would be more than I think anybody could believe or even understand ; and when I hope to have her well again with me, it would be sinning against her feelings to go about to praise her ; for I can con- ceal nothing that I do from her. She is older, and wiser, and better than I, and all my wretched imperfections I cover to myself by resolutely thinking on her goodness. She would 288 FINAL MEMORIALS OF CHARLES LAMB. share life and death, heaven and hell, with me. She lives but for me ; and 1 know I have been wasting and teasing her life for five years past incessantly with my cursed ways of going on. But even in this upbraiding of myself, I am offending against her, for I know that she has cleaved to me for better, for worse ; and if the balance has been against her hitherto, it ' was a noble trade. ? yy Let it also be remembered that this devotion of the entire nature was not exercised merely in the consciousness of a past tragedy ; but during the frequent recurrences of the calamity which caused it, and the constant apprehension of its terrors ; and this for a large portion of life, in poor lodg- ings, where the brother and sister were, or fancied them- selves, '^marked people ;'' where from an income incapable of meeting the expense of the sorrow without sedulous pri- vations, he contrived to hoard, not for holiday enjoyment, or future solace, but to provide for expected distress. Of the misery attendant on this anticipation, aggravated by jealous fears lest some imprudence or error of his own should have hastened the inevitable evil, we have a glimpse in the letter to Miss Wordsworth above quoted, and w^hich seems to have been written in reply to one which that excellent lady had addressed to Miss Lamb, and which had fallen into the bro- ther's care during one of her sad absences. ^' Your kind letter has not been thrown away, but poor Mary, to whom it is addressed, cannot yet relish it. She has been attacked by one of her severe illnesses, and is at present from home. Last Monday week was the day she left me ; and I hope I may calculate upon having her again in a month or little more. I am rather afraid late hours have, in this case, contributed to her indisposition. But when she begins to discover symptoms of approaching ill- LAMB FULLY KNOWN. 289 ness, it is not easy to say what is best to do. Being by our. selves is bad, and going out is bad. I get so irritable and wretched with fear, that I constantly hasten on the disorder. You cannot conceive the misery of such a foresight. I am sure that, for the week before she left me, I was little better than light-headed. I now am calm, but sadly taken down and flat. I have every reason to suppose that this illness, like all her former ones, will be but temporary. But 1 can- not always feel so. Meantime she is dead to me !" The constant impendency of this giant sorrow saddened to " the Lambs" even their holidays ; as the journey which they both regarded as the relief and charm of the year was frequently followed by a seizure ; and, when they ventured to take it, a strait-waistcoast, carefully packed by Miss Lamb herself, was their constant companion. Sad experience, at last, induced the abandonment of the annual excursion, and Lamb was contented with walks in and near London, during the interval of labor. Miss Lamb experienced, and full well understood the premonitory symptoms of the attack, in restlessness, low fever, and the inability to sleep ; and, as gently as possible, prepared her brother for the duty he must soon perform ; and thus, unless he could stave off the terri- ble separation till Sunday, obliged him to ask leave of ab- sence from the office as if for a day's pleasure— a bitter mockery ! On one occasion Mr. Charles Lloyd met them, slowly pacing together a little footpath in Hoxton fields, both weeping bitterly, and found on joining them, that they were taking their solemn way to the accustomed Asylum ! Will any one, acquainted with these secret passages of Lamb's history, wonder that, with a strong physical inclina- tion for the stimulus and support of strong drinks— which man is framed moderately to rejoice in-he should snatch some wild pleasure - between the acts" (as he called them) 13 290 FINAL MEMORIALS OF CHARLES LAMB. '' of his distressful drama/^ and that, still more, during the loneliness of the solitude created by his sister's absences, he should obtain the solace of an hour's feverish dream ? That, notwithstanding that frailty, he performed the duties of his hard lot with exemplary steadiness and discretion is indeed wonderful — especially when it is recollected that he had himself been visited, when in the dawn of manhood, with his sister's malady, the seeds of which were doubtless in his frame. While that natural predisposition may explain some occasional flightiness of expression on serious matters, fruit of some wayward fancy, which flitted through his brain, without disturbing his constant reason or reaching his heart, and some little extravagances of fitful mirth, how does it heighten the moral courage by which the disease was con- trolled and the severest duties performed ! Never surely was there a more striking example of the power of a vir- tuous, rather say, of a pious, wish to conquer the fiery sug- gestions of latent insanity than that presented by Lamb's history. Nervous, tremulous, as he seemed — so slight of frame that he looked only fit for the most placid fortune — when the dismal emergencies which checkered his life arose, he acted with as much promptitude and vigor as if he had never penned a stanza nor taken a glass too much, or was strung with herculean sinew^s. None of those temptations, in which misery is the most potent, to hazard a lavish expen- diture for an enjoyment to be secured against fate and for- tune, ever tempted him to exceed his income, when scantiest, by a shilling. He had always a reserve for poor Mary's periods of seclusion, and something in hand besides for a friend in need ; — and on his retirement from the India House, he had amassed, by annual savings, a sufficient sum (invest- ed, after the prudent and classical taste of Lord Stowell, in '' the elegant simplicity of the Three per Cents.") to secure comfort to Miss Lamb, w^hen his pension should cease with LAMB FULLY KNOWN. 291 him, even if the India Company, his great employers, had not acted nobly by the memory of their inspired clerk as they did — and gave her the annuity to which a wife would have been entitled — but of which he could not feel assured. Living cmong literary men, some less distinguished and less discreet than those whom we have mentioned, he was constantly importuned to relieve distresses which an improvident specu- lation in literature produced, and which the recklessness at- tendant on the empty vanity of self-exaggerated talent ren- ders desperate and merciless ; — and to the importunities of such hopeless petitioners he gave too largely — though he used sometimes express a painful sense that he was diminish- ing his own store without conferring any real benefit. '' Heaven, '' he used to say, " does not owe me sixpence for all I have given, or lent (as they call it) to such importunity ; I only gave it because I could not bear to refuse it ; and 1 have done good by my weakness." On the other hand, he used to seek out occasions of devoting a part of his surplus to those of his friends whom he believed it w^ould really serve, and almost forced loans, or gifts in the disguise of loans, upon them. If he thought one, in such a position, would be the happier for 50/. or 100/., he would carefully procure a note for the sum, and, perhaps, for days before he might meet the object of his friendly purpose, keep the note in his w^aistcoat pocket, burning in it to be produced, and, when the occasion arrived — " in the sweet of the night'' — he would crumple it up in his hand and stammer out his diffi- culty of disposing of a little money ; " I don't know what to do with it— pray take it— pray use it— you will do me a kind- ness if you will" — he would say ; and it was hard to diso- blige him ! Let any one who has been induced to regard Lamb as a poor, slight, excitable, and excited being, consider that such acts as these were not infrequent— that he exercised hospitality of a substantial kind, w^ithout stint, all 292 FINAL MEMORIALS OF CHARLES LAMB. his life — that he spared no expense for the comfort of his sis- ter, there only lavish — and that he died leaving sufficient to accomplish all his wishes for survivors — and think what the sturdy quality of his goodness must have been amidst all the heart-aches and head-aches of his life — and ask the virtue which has been supported by strong nerves, whether it has often produced any good to match it 1 The influence of the events now disclosed may be traced in the development and direction of Lamb's faculties and tastes, and in the wild contrasts of expression which some- times startled strangers. The literary preferences disclosed in his early letters, are often inclined to the superficial in poetry and thought — the theology of Priestly, though em- braced with pious earnestness — the '^ divine chit-chat" of Cowper — the melodious sadness of Bowles ; and his own style, breathing a graceful and modest sweetness, is without any decided character. But by the terrible idealities of his experience, he was turned to seek a kindred interest in the ^^ sterner stuff'' of old tragedy — to catastrophes more fearful even than his own — to the aspects of " pale passion" — to shapes of heroic daring and more heroic suffering — to the agonizing contests of opposing affections, and the victories of the soul over calamity and death, wiiich the old English drama discloses, and in the contemplation of which he saw his own suffering nature at once mirrored and exalted. Thus, instead of admiring, as he once admired, Rowe and Otway, even Massinger seemed too declamatory to satisfy him ; in Ford, Decker, Marlowe, and Webster, he found the most awful struggles of affection, and the '' sad embroidery" of fancy-streaked grief, and expressed his kindred feelings in those little quintessences of criticism which are appended to the noblest scenes in his " Specimens;" and, seeking amidst the sunnier and more varied world of Shakspeare for the pro- foundest and most earnest passion developed there, obtained LABIB FULLY KNOWN. 293 that marvelous insight into the soul of Lear which gives to his presentment of its riches almost the character of creation. On the other hand, it was congenial pastime with him to revel in the opposite excellencies of Beaumont and Fletcher, who changed the domain of tragedy into fairy-land ; turned all its terror and its sorrow '' to favor and to prettiness ;" shed the rainbow hues of sportive fancy with equal hand among tyrants and victims, the devoted and the faithless, suffering and joy ; represented the beauty of goodness as a happy accident, vice as a wayward aberration, and invoked the remorse of a moment to change them as with a harle- quin's wand ; unrealized the terrible, and left '^ nothing serious in mortality,*' but reduced the struggle of life to a glittering and heroic game, to be played splendidly out, and quitted without a sigh. But neither Lamb's own secret griefs, nor the tastes which they nurtured, ever shook his faith in the requisitions of duty, or induced him to dally with that moral paradox to which near acquaintance with the great errors of mighty natures is sometimes a temptation. Never, either in writing or in speech, did he purposely con- found good with evil. For the new theories of morals which gleamed out in the conversation of some of his friends, he had no sympathy ; and though, in his boundless indulgence to the perversities and faults of those whom long familiarity had endeared to him, he did not suffer their frailties to impair his attachment to the individuals, he never palliated the frail- ties themselves ; still less did he emblazon them as virtues. No one, acquainted with Lamb's story, will wonder at the eccentric wildness of his mirth— his violent changes from the serious to the farcical— the sudden reliefs of the " heat- oppressed brain," and heart weighed down by the sense of ever-impendino; sorrow. His whim, however, almost always TT 1 • bordered on wisdom. It was justly said of him by Hazlitt, " his serious conversation, like his serious writing, is his 294 FINAL MEMORIALS OF CHARLES LAMB. best. No one ever stammered out such fine, piquant, deep, eloquent things in half-a-dozen half sentences ; his jests scald like tears, and he probes a question with a play on words.'' Althou«:h Lamb's conversation vibrated between the in- tense and the grotesque, his writings are replete with quiet pictures of the humbler scenery of middle life, touched with a graceful and loving hand. We may trace in them the experience of a nature bred up in slender circumstances, but imbued with a certain innate spirit of gentility, suggest- ing a respect for all its moderate appliances and unambitious pleasures. The same spirit pervaded all his own domestic arrangements, so that the intensity of his affliction was ameliorated by as much comfort as satisfaction in the out- ward furniture of life can give to slender fortune. The most important light, however, shed on Lamb's intellectual life by a knowledge of his true history, is that which elucidates the change from vivid religious impressions, manifested in his earlier letters, to an apparent indifference towards immortal interests and celestial relations, which he confesses in a letter to Mr. Walter Wilson.* The truth is, not that he became an unbeliever, or even a skeptic, but that the peculiar disasters in which he was plunged, and the ten- dency of his nature to seek immediate solaces, induced an habitual reluctance to look boldly out into futurity. That conjugal love, which anticipates with far-looking eye pro- longed existence in posterity, was denied to his self-sacrifice ; irksome labor wearied out the heart of his days; and over his small household. Madness, like Death in the vision of Milton, continually " shook its dart," and only, at the best, '' delayed to strike." Not daring to look onward, even for a little month, he acquired the habitual sense of living entirely in the present ; enjoying with tremulous zest the * Page 96. LAMB FULLY KNOWN. 295 security of the moment, and making some genial, but sad, amends for the want of all the perspective of life^ by cleaving, with fondness, to its nearest objects, and becoming attached to them, even when least interesting in themselves. This perpetual grasping at transient relief from the minute and vivid present, associated Lamb's affections intimately and closely with the small details of daily existence ; these became to him the '^jutting frieze '' and '^ coigne of vantage ^' in which his homebred fancy '' made its bed and procreant cradle ;" these became imbued with his thoughts, and echoed back to him old feelings and old loves, till his inmost soul shivered at the prospect of being finally wrenched from them. Enthralled thus in the prison of an earthly home, he became perplexed and bewildered at the idea of an existence, which, though holier and happier, would doubtless be entirely different from that to which he was bound by so many deli» cate films of custom. '' Ah !" he would say, " we shall have none of these little passages of this life hereafter — none of our little quarrels and makings-up — no questionings about sixpence at whist f and, thus repelled, he clung more closely to '' the bright minutes " which he strung " on the thread of keen domestic anguish V " It is this intense feel- ing of the " nice regards of flesh and blood;'' this dwelling in petty felicities; which makes us, apart from religious fears, unwilling to die. Small associations make death ter- rible, because we know, that parting with this life, we part from their company ; whereas great thoughts make death less fearful, because we feel that they will be our companions in all worlds, and link our future to our present being in all ages. Such thoughts assuredly were not dead in a heart like Lamb's : they were only veiled by the nearer presences of familiar objects, and sometimes, perhaps, bursting in upon him in all their majesty, produced those startling references 296 FINAL MEMORIALS OF CHARLES LAMB. to sacred things, in which, though not to be quoted with ap- proval, thefte was no profaneness, but rather a wayward? fitful, disturbed piety. If, indeed, when borne beyond the present, he sought to linger in the past ; to detect among the dust and cobwebs of antiquity, beauty which had lurked there from old time, than to '' rest and expatiate in a life to come," no anti-christian sentiment spread its chillness over his spirit. The shrinking into mortal life was but the weak- ness of a nature which shed the sweetness of the religion of its youth through the sorrows and the snatches of enjoyment which crowded his after years, and only feebly perceived its final glories, which, we may humbly hope, its immortal part is now enjoying. Shortly before his death, Lamb had borrowed of Mr. Cary^ Phillips's '' Theatrum Poetarum Anglicanorum," which, when returned by Mr. Moxon, after the event, was found with the leaf folded down at the account of Sir Philip Sydney. Its receipt was acknowledged by the following lines : — " So should it be, my gentle friend ; Thy leaf last closed at Sydney's end. Thou, too^ like Sydney, wouldst have given The water, thirsting and near heaven ; Nay, were it wine, filFd to the brim, Thou hadst lookM hard, but given, like him. And art thou mingled then among Those famous sons of ancient song ? And do they gather round, and praise Thy relish of their nobler lays ? Waxing in mirth to hear thee tell With what strange mortals thou didst dwell ; At thy quaint sallies more delighted. Than any's long among them lighted \ 'Tis done : and thou hast joined a crew.^ To whom thy soul was justly due ; MARY LAMB. 297 And yet I think, where'er thou be. They'll scarcely love thee more than we."* Little could any one, observing Miss Lamb in the habitual serenity of her demeanor, guess the calamity in which she had partaken, or the malady which frightfully chequered her life. From Mr. Lloyd, who, although saddened by im- pending delusion, was always found accurate in his recollec- tion of long past events and conversations, I learned that she had described herself, on her recovery from the fatal attack, as having experienced, while it was subsiding, such a con- viction, that she was absolved in heaven from all taint of the deed in which she had been the accent — such an assurance, that it was a dispensation of Providence for good, though so terrible — such a sense, that her mother knew her entire in- nocence, and shed down blessings upon her, as though she had seen the reconcilement in solemn vision — that she was not sorely afflicted by the recollection. It was as if the old Greek notion, of the necessity for the unconscious shedder of blood, else polluted though guiltless, to pass through a re- ligious purification, had, in her case, been happily accom- plished ; so that, not only was she without remorse, but without other sorrow than attends on the death of an infirm parent in a good old age. She never shrank from alluding to her mother, when any topic connected with her own youth made such a reference, in ordinary respects, natural ; but spoke of her as though no fearful remembrance was asso- ciated with the image ; so that some of her most intimate friends who knew of the disaster, believed that she had never become aware of her own share in its horrors. It is still * These lin^^s, characteristic both of the writer and the subject, are copied from the Memoir of the translator of Dante, by his son, the Rev. Henry Gary, which, enriched by many interesting memorials of contem- poraries, presents as valuable a picture of rare ability and excellence as ever was traced by the fine observation of filial love. 298 FINAL MEMORIALS OF CHARLES LAMB. more singular that, in the wanderings of her insanity, annidst all the vast throngs of imagery she presented of her early days, this picture never recurred, or, if ever, not associated with shapes of terror. Miss Lamb would have been remarkable for the sweet- ness of her disposition, the clearness of her understanding, and the gentle wisdom of all her acts and words, even if these qualities had not been presented in marvelous contrast with the distraction under v/hich she suffered for weeks, lat- terly for months, in every year. There was no tinge of in- sanity discernible in her manner to the most observant eye; not even in those distressful periods when the premonitory symptoms had apprised her of its approach, and she was making preparations for seclusion. In all its essential sweet- ness, her character was like her brother's ; w^hile, by a temper more placid, a spirit of enjoyment more serene, she was enabled to guide, to counsel, to cheer him ; and to pro- tect him on the verge of the mysterious calamity, from the depths of which she rose so often unruffled to his side. To a friend in any difficulty she was the most comfortable of ad- visers, the wisest of consolers. Hazlitt used to say, that he never met with a woman who could reason, and had met with only one thoroughly reasonable — the sole exception being Mary Lamb. She did not wish, however, to be made an exception, to a general disparagement of her sex ; for in all her thoughts and feelings she was most womanly — keep- ing, under even undue subordination, to her notion of a wo- man's province, intellect of rare excellence, which flashed out when the restraints of gentle habit and humble manner were withdrawn by the terrible force of disease. Though her conversation in sanity was never marked by smartness or repartee ; seldom rising beyond that of a sensible quiet gentlewoman appreciating and enjoying the talents of her friends, it was otherwise in her madness. Lamb, in his letter MARY LAMB. 299 to a female fnend, announcing his determination to be entirely with her, speaks of her pouring out memories of all the events and persons of her younger days ; — but he does not mention, what I am able from repeated experiences to add, that her ramblings often sparkled with brilliant description and shattered beauty. She would fancy herself in the days of Queen Anne or George the First ; and describe the bro- caded dames and courtly manners, as though she had been bred among them, in the best style of the old comedy. It was all broken and disjointed, so that the hearer could re- member little oi' her discourse ; but the fragments were like the jeweled speeches of CongreA^e, only shaken from their setting. There was sometimes even a vain of crazy logic running through them, associating things essentially most dissimilar, but connecting them by a verbal association in strange order. As a mere physical instance of deranged intellect, her condition was, I believe, extraordinary ; it was as if the finest elements of mind had been shaken into fan- tastic combinations like those of a kaleidoscope ; — but not for the purpose of exhibiting a curious phenomenon of mental aberration are the aspects of her insanity unveiled, but to illustrate the moral force of gentleness by which the facul- ties that thus sparkled when restraining wisdom was with- drawn, were subjected to its sway, in her periods of reason. The followino; letter from Miss Lamb to Miss Wordsworth, on one of the chief external events of Lamb's history, the re- moval from the Temple to Covent Garden, will illustrate the cordial and womanly strain of her observation on the occur- rences of daily life, and afford a good idea of her habitual conversation among her friends. My dear Miss Wordsworth, Your kind letter has given us very great pleasure, the sio-ht of your handwriting was a most welcome surprise 300 FINAL MEMORIALS OF CHARLES LAMB. to US. We have heard good tidings of you by all our friends who were so fortunate as to visit you this summer, and re- joice to see it confirmed by yourself. You have quite the advantage, in volunteering a letter; there is no merit in re- plying to so welcome a stranger. We have left the Temple. I think you will be sorry to hear this. I know 1 have never been so well satisfied with thinking of you at Rydal Mount, as when 1 could connect the idea of you with your own Grasmere Cottage. Our rooms were dirty, and out of repair, and the inconveniences of living in chambers became every year more irksome, and so, at last, we mustered up resolution enough to leave the good old place that so long had sheltered us, and here we are, living at a brazier's shop, No. 20 in Russell Street, Covent Garden, a place all alive with noise and bustle ; Drury Lane Theatre in sight from our front, and Covent Garden from our back windows. The hubbub of the carriai^es returnino; from the play does not annoy me in the least ; strange that it does not, for it is quite tremendous. I quite enjoy looking out of the window, and listening to the calling up of the carriages, and the squabbles of the coachmen and linkboys. It is the oddest scene to look down upon ; I am sure you would be amused with it. It is well I am in a cheerful place, or I should have many misgivings about leaving the Temple. I look forward with great pleasure to the prospect of seeing my good friend, Miss Hutchinson. I wish Rydal Mount, with all its inhabit- ants inclosed, were to be transplanted wuth her, and to re- main stationary in the midst of Covent Garden. Charles has had all liis Hogarths bound in a book ; they were sent home yesterday; and now that I have them alto- gether, and perceive the advantage of peeping close at them through my spectacles, I am reconciled to the loss of them MARY LAMB. 301 hanging round the room, which has been a great mortifica- tion to me — in vain I tried to console myself with looking at our new chairs and carpets, for we have got new chairs, and carpets covering all over our two sitting-rooms ; I missed my old friends, and could not be comforted — then 1 would resolve to learn to look out of the window, a habit I never could attain in my life, and I have given it up as a thing quite impracticable — yet when I was at Brighton, last summer, the first week I never took my eyes off from the sea, not even to look in a book : I had not seen the sea for sixteen years. Mrs. M , who was with us, kept her lik- ing, and continued her seat in the window till the very last, while Charles and I played truants, and wandered among the hills, which we magnified into little mountains, and alrftost a5 ^00^ a5 Westmoreland scenery : certainly we made dis- coveries of many pleasant walks, which few of the Brighton visitors have ever dreamed of — for like as is the case in the neighborhood of London, after the first two or three miles we were sure to find ourselves in a perfect solitude. I hope we shall meet before the walking faculties of either of us fail ; you say you can walk fifteen miles with ease, that is exactly my stint, and more fatigues me ; four or five miles every third or fourth day, keeping very quiet between, was all Mrs. M could accomplish, God bless you and yours. Love to all and each one. I am ever yours most aflfectionately, M. Lamb. Of that deeper vein of sentiment in Mary Lamb, seldom revealed, the following passages, from a letter to the same lady, referring to the death of a brother of her beloved cor- respondent, may be oflTered as a companion specimen. 302 FINAL MEMORIALS OF CHARLES LAMB. My dear Miss Wordsworth, I thtink you, my kind friend, for your most com- fortable letter ; till I saw your own handwriting, I could not persuade myself that I should do well to write to you, though I have often attempted it ; but I always left off, dissatisfied with what I had written, and feeling that I was doing an improper thing to intrude upon your sorrow. I wished to tell you that you w^ould one day feel the kind of peaceful state of mind and sweet memory of the dead, which you so happily describe, as now almost begun ; but I felt that it was improper, and most grating to the feelings of the afflicted, to say to ihem that the memory of their affection would in time become a constant part, not only of their dream, but of their most wakeful sense of happiness. That you would see every object with, and through your lost brother, and that that would at last become a real and everlasting source of com- fort to you, I felt, and well knew, from my own experience in sorrow ; but till you yourself began to feel this, I did not dare tell you so ; but I send you some poor lines, which I wrote under this conviction of mind, and before I heard Cole- ridge was returning home. I will transcribe them now, be- fore I finish my letter, lest a false shame prevent me then, for I know they are much worse than they ought to be, writ- ten, as they were, with strong feeling, and on such a subject, every line seems to me to be borrowed, but I had no better way of expressing my thoughts, and I never have the power of altering or amending anything I have once laid aside with dissatisfaction. Why is he wandering on the sea? — Coleridge should now with Wordsworth be. By slow degrees he'd steal away Their woe, and gently bring a ray (So happily he'd time relief,) Of comfort from their very grief. MARY LAMB. 303 He'd tell them that their brother dead, When years have passed o'er their head, Will be remembered with such holy, True, and perfect melancholy, That ever this lost brother John Will be their heart's companion. His voice they'll always hear. His face they'll always see ; There's nought in life so sweet As such a memory. The excellence of Mary Lamb's nature was happily de- veloped in her portion of those books for children — '*' wisest, virtuousest, discreetest, best/' — which she wrote in conjunc- tion with her brother, the " Poetry for Children," the '' Tales from Shakspeare," and " Mrs. Leicester's School." How different from the stony nutriment provided for those delicate, apprehensive, affectionate creatures, in the utilitarian books, which starve their little hearts, and stuff their little heads with shallow science, and impertinent facts, and selfish mor- als ! One verse, which she did not print — the conclusion of a little poem supposed to be expressed in a letter by the son of a family who, when expecting the return of its father from sea, received news of his death,— recited by her to Mr. Martin Burney, and retained in his fond recollection, may afford a concluding example of the healthful wisdom of her lessons :— ** I can no longer feign to be A thoughtless child in infancy ; I tried to write like young Marie, But I am James, her brother ; And I can feel— but she's too young- Yet blessings on her prattling tongue, She sweetly soothes my mother." Contrary to Lamb's expectation, who feared (as also his friends feared with him) the desolation of his own survivor- ship, which the difference of age rendered probable, Miss 304 FINAL MEMORIALS OF CHARLES LAMB. Lamb survived him for nearly eleven years. When he died, she was mercifully in a state of partial estrangement, which, while it did not wholly obscure her mind, deadened her feel- ings, so that as she gradually regained her perfect senses, she felt as gradually the full force of the blow, and was the better able calmly to bear it. For awhile she declined the importunities of her friends that she would leave Edmonton for a residence nearei London, where they might more fre- quently visit her. He was there, asleep in the old church- yard, beneath the turf near which they had stood together, and had selected for a resting-place ; to this spot she used, when well, to stroll out mournfully in the evening, and to this spot she would contrive to lead any friend who came in the summer evenings to drink tea and went out with her afterwards for a walk.* At length, as her illness became more frequent, and her frame much weaker, she was induced * The following Sonnet, by Mr. Moxon, written at this period of tranquil sadness in Miss Lamb's life, so beautifully embodies the rever- ential love with which the sleeping and the mourning were regarded by one of their nearest friends, that I gratify myself by extracting it from the charming little volume of his Sonnets, which it adorns: Here sleeps, beneath this bank, where daisies grow, The kindliest sprite earth holds within her breast ; In such a spot I would this frame should rest, When I to join my friend far hence shall go. His only mate is now the minstrel lark, Who chants her morning music o'er his bed, Save she who comes each evening, ere the bark Of watch-dog gathers drowsy folds, to shed A sister's tears. Kind Heaven, upon her head, Do thou in dove-like guise thy spirit pour. And in her aged path some flowrets spread Of earthly joy, should Time for her in store Have weary days and nights, ere she shall greet Him whom she longs in Paradise to meet. MARY LAMB. 305 to take up her abode under genial care, at a pleasant house in St. John's Wood, where she was surrounded by the old books and prints, and was frequently visited by her reduced nunaber of surviving friends. Repeated attacks of her mal- ady weakened her mind, but she retained to the last her sweetness of disposition unimpaired, and gently sunk into death on the 20th May, 1847. A few survivors of the old circle, now sadly thinned, at- tended her remains to the spot in Edmonton church-yard, where they were laid above those of her brother. With them was one friend of latter days — but who had become to Lamb as one of his oldest companions, and for whom Miss Lamb cherished a strong regard — Mr. John Forster, the author of " The Life of Goldsmith," in which Lamb would have re- joiced, as written in a spirit congenial with his own. In ac- cordance with Lamb's own feeling, so far as it could be ga- thered 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 af- fectation of stone or brickwork to keep the human dust from its kindred earth. 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PAGET 'S Tales of the Village. 3 vols. 16mo. $1 75 ; reduced to $1 25 SPENCER'S Christian Instructed. 16mo. $1 25 ; reduced to 75 cU. SHERLOCK'S Practical Christian. l6mo. $1 ; reduced to 75 cts. SPINCKE'S Manual of Private Devotion. 16mo. $1 ; reduced to 75 cts SUTTON'S Disce Vivere, Learn to Live. 16mo. $1 ; reduced to 75 cU. Disce Mori, Learn to Die. 16mo. $1 ; reduced to 75 cts. TAYLOR'S Golden Grove. 16mo. 50 cents. ■ Holy Living and Dying. 12mo. $1. Episcopacy Asserted and Maintained. 16mo. $1 ; reduced to 75 cti, WILSON'S Sacra Privata. Complete, 16mo. $1 ; reduced to 75 cts. WILSON'S Lectures on the Colossians. 12mo. $1 25 ; reduced to 75 cts. %* As the quantities on hand are limited, early orders are respeotfollF iolicited.